Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

He hadn’t drank or drugged in forty-eight hours, a goosey sobriety summoned out of respect for what was required of his bizarre, puzzling, fearsome mission. ( Mission was the precise word that floated to his foggy surface.) Yet amid the chaos of his emotions, he felt deeply connected. It wasn’t until somewhere between Marlette and the outskirts of Armada Township that Willow realized he had somehow managed to conjure his childhood self, that preternatural boy who misguidedly thwarted his own eerie gifts for fear of hurting others. As he raced to the terminus on 32 Mile Road, he felt like his mother was riding shotgun and Nana was in the backseat, the aroma of their beings banishing the funk smell of month-old fast-food detritus. The two matriarchs were content. They seemed to approve of the journey their Wylde-child had embarked on…

They approved of his mission.

He switched off the radio and listened to choral works on his iPhone playlist. Awash in the sixteenth-century harmonies of Duarte Lobo, he began to weep with the notion that whatever he was doing was either crazy or holy. And for the first time, he understood they were two sides of the same coin.

At seven in the morning, when the first light went on—was it the kitchen?—Willow left his car. He stood on the porch a few minutes, frozen and vacant. He tried to feel his mother and grandmother’s presence but could no longer. He looked back at the Pontiac, as if he might see them there, but the vibe was gone.

Should he ring the bell or knock?

He did both.

In a panic, Willow realized he hadn’t done an iota of preparation for what was imminent. Suddenly he was ashamed of the arrogance that had propelled him to this freakish endgame—as if not even the simplest plan was needed because it was all just another part of his recurring dream. To save himself and buy time, he thought: When they answer, I’ll just say my name . But say it to whom? Everything was too real now, grossly undreamlike, and he became so shaken by his quixotic act that even his sobriety sobered up. He almost sprinted back to the car, where two options would present themselves: either drive to a bar or drive to a psych ward. Both seemed preferable to the mess he’d gotten himself into.

The porch light went on and the door opened. A man glared at him, his face a grimace of puzzlement.

“Willow?”

The uninvited visitor stared back, his mouth agape. “Owen?”

He almost fainted from the shock.

A woman in a robe appeared behind Owen Caplan, with a look of terror. What was Willow doing here? He looked so strange and awful—it could only mean one thing. “Is it Pace?” she said, heart pounding furiously. Her carotid looked like it swallowed a tiny frenzied animal. “Willow! Did something happen to Pace ?”

“No! No, no, no—”

“Is it Larkin? Did something happen to Larkin…”

The blood had drained from her face.

“No, they’re fine,” he said definitively. “Everyone’s fine.”

“Then what is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

Husband and wife waited for him to speak. When it became obvious no explanation was forthcoming, Owen took the path of grace and said, “Come in. We just put some coffee on.”

1.

They poured him a cup and Adelaide asked if he was hungry. His arrival had been so rash that any pertinent discussion was politely suspended. They’d only moved in a few days ago and the place was a mess, filled with boxes and old and new furniture. She assumed Pace had given him their new address; he must have pried it out of her, because their daughter knew Adelaide didn’t want that information “out there” just yet. It wasn’t that she had a problem with her ex knowing where they lived. It was more about her growing accustomed to controlling her space, the small and large details of her private life.

She was crawling out of her skin from the effort to keep her mouth shut but followed her husband’s gentle lead. She’d leave the interrogation to him. After all, Owen was the professional in the family. Thoughts swirled amid the silences and small talk: Maybe he’s here to get help. Maybe he wants us to check him into rehab. I hope he’s not here for money—

After an awkward twenty minutes, Owen said, “Honey, let me and Willow talk awhile.”

The toast popped up and she set it on the table with a rectangle of butter from the fridge. On the way out, she touched Willow’s shoulder, and it was a comfort to him.

“Are you in trouble?” said Owen, after she left.

“I—I don’t know,” said Willow.

He felt better having shakily declared the truth.

“Are you sober?” The guest nodded, eschewing a timeline. “Because you don’t seem sober. You look hungover.”

“I am,” he laughed, uncomfortably. “But not from booze.”

“Okay,” said Owen, staying neutral.

His demeanor reminded Willow of the caring, nonjudgmental counselors at the Meadows.

“Is there something I can do, Dubya—that we can do to help?”

Willow hadn’t seen the man since the Rummer kids disappeared. (Owen and Adelaide had been hooked up awhile by then.) He’d seen pictures of his old partner on Facebook and whatnot—he wasn’t on Facebook himself but had Pace’s password—but hadn’t gone snooping in a while. And now, sitting in the kitchen like Mr. Vulnerable Hot Mess, with hat, heart and shrinking cock in hand, being stared at like some homeless person trying to wrangle a bed at the Salvation Army (which was pretty much how he felt), Willow held no resentment or animosity. At least he didn’t think he did but was too blown out to feel much of anything. Owen Caplan had stolen his wife—well, not really, but that was the spin Willow promoted during the divorce and for years after. He’d managed to make some sort of peace with it.

Twenty-five years or so before, he was an out-of-control Chicago cop who thought the move to Nowhereville would be the solution—what AA calls a “geographic”—so they packed up the debris of their lives and shipped out to Saggerty Falls. Quaint and quiet, the semirural village was free of the corrupting hubbub of the Windy City, and seemed as good a place as any to lose control again. A little more slowly this time, at least. But slow got fast and the Falls became one more place to burn down. As a card-carrying member of the Victims of America Society, he eventually blamed the arson on “the dynamic duo”—his scabrous term of endearment for Adelaide and Owen. To his reckoning, they were even the cause of his estrangement from Pace, which was only another pile of victim horseshit. It was funny but as the years went by he actually became grateful that Adelaide and Owen found each other. Their union saved a lot more grief than everyone had signed up for.

His head began to clear. He knew there was no way he could reveal the weird truth behind his visit. I’ve been having a recurring dream that I’m on a train. A lady wrote an address down and told me to memorize it. It turned out to be your house. Willow thought it outlandish that he’d actually been entertaining such a confessional, right up to the point when Addie left the kitchen.

No, that just wouldn’t do…

He let his liar’s instinct take over instead.

“This isn’t easy for me, Owen.” He did a little squirming, though most of it wasn’t an act. “This is—this is tough. But the reason I came… well—I just… I really wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done. Not just for Adelaide but for my daughter. For Pace. And… even the way you welcomed me into your house this morning—it’s just—it was kind. Very, very kind. And I appreciate it. If I was sitting where you were, I don’t know if I’d have done the same—probably not! I’da kicked my sorry ass to the curb. So I just wanted… I’m here to apologize. To make amends.” He emphasized the word, as if putting a tiara on his bogus brainstorm, fully aware that Owen might recognize it as one of the muddy jewels of AA’s sunken treasure chest. “I wanted to make amends for all the ways I mistreated you. Both of you. I spent a lot of years getting high. I was a terrible husband, a terrible father and a terrible cop.”