Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

Suddenly, he became wary. What if walking out on his Portership duties delivered the coup de grâce?

The same group was there, the ones he had met at his inaugural Meeting. There were no new landlords and he was certain that was a direct result of his no longer dreaming about the train. Willow was still the Porter, nominally anyway, and came to understand that he was the portal as well—without his soothing of the fresh arrivals in their cabins, without his instructions to carefully memorize the Meeting’s locale, it was impossible for the children to cross over.

Everyone seemed to be doing just fine. No one really needed the proactive hand-holding that Troy and Maya had required. “Grounded and purposeful” was how Annie had described the fresh batch of immigrants, attributing their simple, clear-eyed confidence to Willow’s “healing” presence. He maintained decorum, answering their questions and orienting them, with the help of the Guide , in how they should behave in the world. (It felt like he was teaching basic English to foreign exchange students.) Occasionally, when they grew agitated, he soothed them as a father would. Without much help, it looked as if one of them, a delivery driver for Amazon, was already getting close to her moment of balance . Willow was gratified and thought maybe that was all that was required of him—to sit there with his healing presence like a factotum, a figurehead, a straw boss. At the end of each Meeting, Bumble the sentry said, “Damn good, Porter. Damn good job.”

But what did he know?

I’ll ride it out till they’re done… one by one they’ll have their moments of balance— and when I’m the last man standing, I’ll burn the Guide s and close up shop. “End of an era,” he said aloud. Annie’s words about the Eskimo still haunted and burned—“I pray that it won’t be a child”—but now he had an ace in the hole. The detective was in the process of extricating himself from her world, and when he finally did, her cryptic rules and morbid prognostications would no longer apply.

Dixie had been distancing herself and that troubled him, especially since he couldn’t be certain that his impressions reflected reality. Willow theorized it was entirely possible that everything he was going through, everything he’d been through, had grossly distorted the way he perceived the world. But he needed to stay cool. He didn’t want to crowd her; it was too soon to have a “conversation.” Though maybe not having a conversation was distancing her further.

In his struggle to identify the source of her detachment, he kept circling back to Daniel’s funeral. He’d been through it a hundred times. It would have been impossible to ask her to accompany him—it was Lydia’s day, a day of goodbyes—yet more and more the rebuff presented itself as the fatal blow. Women were a riddle that could never be solved by the brick and mortar reasoning of men. In an instant, the consequences of large or trivial actions wrought by male rationale could handcuff love and prefigure its death. In its natural fealty to forgiveness and renewal, the beaten heart of a woman often resuscitated with more devotion than ever. But there came a time—an unpredictable time, cunning, baffling and powerful!—when the heart would not return. The worst thing about love dying in a woman was her ability to stay. It had happened to Willow once before; the woman stayed and it was like living with a ghost. She still smiled, still cooked, still managed to be “fun.” He played along, in childish hopes that her mood would pass, because the truth hurt too much. He couldn’t admit to himself that it was over until one afternoon he heard her crying behind the bathroom door.

He refused to let that happen with Dixie.

The perfect panacea was the Sunday barbecue at Owen and Adelaide’s. He was deliberately casual about the invite, hoping she would appreciate what a big deal it was that he’d asked. He told her that his daughter and grandson were coming, the implication being that the party wouldn’t just be their coming-out, but Dixie’s unapologetic introduction to his world—his warts and errors, loyalties and elisions. It was only after she said that she’d love to go that he realized what a number it would have done on him if she had declined.

He would buy her that ring—today. Desperate times required desperate measures. He wanted to marry this girl. He didn’t know how Dixie would feel about that but it was worth the risk. Maybe she’d come back to him from wherever it was she had gone.

He would ask her to be his wife and it would be the proposal of a good man, a vulnerable man, a battered and loving man who wanted her above all else.

2.

It was a spectacular day. The windswept sky ruffled the meadow that abutted the yard, its cool breezes and sporadic gusts cueing the grasses and leaves to shimmer in applause of the sun. The Caplans’ home in Armada was close enough to where Lydia had left the world that Willow felt her presence with an adhesion of sadness and sacred delight.

Willow had prepped the crew that he was bringing “a gal I’ve been seeing,” and to his relief, Dixie was treated with great warmth. She rallied, reveling in the mixed company. Maybe some old-fashioned socializing was all that was needed— that’s right. We never go anywhere, see anyone… get too insular and the soil starts to dry up. Add a little sun, water and burgers and we’re good to go. As she spoke to various members of the tribe, Dixie made sure to find his eye, smiling that sly, coyote smile. It was the best medicine for both of them.

He was thrilled to see Larkin. His grandson had already had his first surgery (wielding an aluminum tripod cane with a superhero’s panache), with another scheduled not too far off. Their daughter ran the whole saga down to Addie a few days before coming to the barbecue, and Mom was chill when Pace informed that Dad was helping on the financial side. Adelaide even took Willow aside at the party and thanked him for making that happen. “I’m glad she has a father she can turn to.” Her flattery was of course accompanied by the Look, appreciably more withering than Owen’s: You better not start drinking, because your daughter really needs you now. Don’t you dare leave her again! Addie’s Look had layers to it and a measure of oomph, due to a bonus subtext of betrayal—when she learned he was quitting Cold Case, she was sorely pissed. Adelaide took it personally, finally admitting what Willow already knew: it was she who had promoted him to her husband for the job in the first place.

Pace cornered him at the edge of the yard.

“We haven’t talked about Troy and Maya.”

He nodded and said, “It was heavy.”

“I can’t even imagine. It’s so weird that you were the one who found their killer.”

“Well it wasn’t just me, babe. I had a lot of help.”

“Dad, you don’t need to be so humble.”

“It’s true. We had some amazing people working on that.”

“The one who died…”

“Daniel. Yeah. Daniel Doheny. Brilliant.”

“It’s so awful how he died. Those motherfucking Eakinses! I still can’t even believe it.”

“Oh, believe it. Believe it.”

“I loved those kids so much.”

“And they loved you. They told me they did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not told me,” he amended, with a throat-clear. “I mean, it was obvious. Are you going to go to the memorial?”

“When is it?”

“I want to say the twenty-eighth?”

“We’ll see,” she said ambivalently. “I’d love to but Larkin may have a doctor thingie that day.”