Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

“I’m so, so proud of you, Dub-Daddy.”

“All right,” he said modestly. “Come on, now.”

“I’m serious.”

“Don’t blow too much smoke at me, it’s bad for my recovery.”

“It’s such a big thing that you did. And I know how hard it is. How hard it’s been.”

Her words made him feel good— right-sized was the term they used in the Program.

“Thank you, darlin’. It was pretty harsh there for a while. I spent two weeks plotting my escape.”

“I’ll bet you did,” she laughed.

“Then something kind of happens and you start to ease into it. You stop fighting. And you look around and see a whole bunch of other people who blew up their lives and it’s comforting somehow. I guess they call that surrender.” He smiled at his beloved. “And hey, I should be thanking you . For finding a place for your crazy old man to dry out.”

Pace touched his hand before worry clouded her face. “Are there AA meetings in Port Hope? Or anywhere close to where you live?”

“Oh, sure. AA’s everywhere.”

“Okay,” she said, tentatively. He knew where her head was going. “Have you thought about going back to work?”

“Not really,” sighed Willow. “Not yet.”

“Well, give yourself a moment,” she said, with can-do resoluteness. Then she wavered. “But don’t you think maybe it’d be a good thing? To go back to work?”

“Market’s tough out there for an ex-cop. An old ex-cop. They’re giving all the high-paying jobs to wounded vets—you know, graveyard security at tow yards, that sort of thing. Most of the really prestigious jobs are taken. Like guard positions in parking lots at Walmart.”

“Very funny. Don’t be so cynical. Why don’t you raise the bar? You could open up a private-detective agency.”

“Maybe I could,” he said. “Hire myself to find myself.”

He was trying to keep it light.

“I think part of the problem,” said Pace, “ might be that you’re not—you need to keep your mind active.”

“It sure was active at the Meadows. They saw to that. There was the journaling class, painting therapy, movie night…”

“You know what I mean, Daddy. Now that you’re out, it’s important to use that head of yours. Because you’re brilliant. Have you called any of your old contacts in New York?”

He shook his head. “The only so-called contacts I didn’t burn are the bartenders, and I burned quite a few of those.” Pace’s face darkened as she stared at the floor. “Hey now, it’s all gonna be okay, Baby Girl. I’ll find something, don’t you worry. Okay?”

“I do worry. I worry about you.”

“Well, I’m fine and I’m going to be fine.” He waited for her to eke out a smile. “Talked to your mother?”

She knew what he meant. “I don’t tell her stuff about you, Dad.”

“I didn’t mean that—though maybe I did. I guess I was a little curious about how much she knew.”

“Nothing from me . Not that she wouldn’t be happy to hear you’re sober. She’d be thrilled.”

“Whatever. I just want to be the one to tell her.”

“And why would you do that ? It’s not like you give her regular updates. When’s the last time the two of you even spoke?”

“I guess it’s been awhile. She doing okay?”

“She’s good—they’re good. They just moved.”

“Oh boy. Adelaide hates to move.”

“I know, but they got a bigger house so I think she’s okay with it.”

“A bigger mousetrap,” he said cryptically.

Father and daughter grew quiet. Pace’s brow furrowed and Willow thought she was going to yap again about worrying over him. Then he realized her thoughts were elsewhere. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to tell you… about Larkin’s leg.”

Willow stiffened. “Did Geoff do something to him, Pace?”

“Are you serious? Fuck no.” She shook her head in chagrin at Dark Cop, Dark Dad. “Larkin has a little problem with his hip, that’s all.”

“What kind of a problem?”

“Apparently, he’s had it from birth. They didn’t think it was serious.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. You’ve kind of had a lot going on. If you haven’t noticed. I didn’t want you to freak out but Geoff told me you wouldn’t and that I was being dumb.”

“Is it serious?”

“Not serious- serious. Kind of, I guess. They say if he doesn’t have surgery, he might have trouble walking.”

“He already has fucking trouble walking!”

“Don’t yell at me!”

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely.

“I mean as he grows, it’s going to get worse. They said it’s probably best not to wait.”

“It’s not a cancer or anything?”

“No!”

“Okay,” he nodded. “So we’re talking when. For the surgery.”

“Soon. Sometime soon, I guess. They say it’s not that big a deal. I mean the actual operation—that it’s kind of basic. The doctor says he does them all the time. I mean, if it needs to wait, they said that’s okay too. But the sooner the better.”

“How much do you need, Pace?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. It embarrassed her to talk about money with her father. “Geoff’s group plan is supposedly going to cover some of it—why does anyone even have insurance if it always only covers some of something, and, like, the smallest part?” She scowled in exasperation. “But it’s going to be okay. I’m in the middle of hassling with them.” She sighed. “The doctor needs fifteen thousand off the top. I’m pretty sure we’ll get most of that back. But I don’t trust the insurance companies for shit.”

“I’ll give you ten tomorrow.”

“Dad, you don’t have that kind of money.”

“You don’t know what I have.”

“I didn’t go to Mom yet because—she gets so flipped.”

“You don’t need to. You let me handle it.”

She came and sat next to him on the bed and Willow held her like he used to when she was small, when she got a booboo or had a bad dream and cried in his arms, before the divorce, before he moved away.

Years later, when Pace visited him in New York, he tried holding her but she’d squirm away. She never forgave him for leaving her and Adelaide, never knew or understood the reasons why. She could never understand—how could she?—and he resented her for that until he came to know that wanting a child to understand was the most selfish and grievous of sins.

Port Hope—could the name of where he lived (he thought to himself) be any more magnificent, more ironic, more absurd? Detective Willow Millard Wylde—tired, retired, refried and broken—was actually living, in what felt like the end of days, end of his days, in Port Hope! He’d been there since his forced retreat from the NYPD and the world… On arrival home from his sojourn to his daughter’s, Dubya had his ashes hauled—what could have been more hopeful? Miranda, an overweight “bodyworker” who worked at Menard’s Home Improvement, made nighttime house calls until she built “a full-time massage therapy practice.” She gave a pretty good half-hour rub before improving his home by jerking him off sans oil. Miss Miranda had beaucoup cleavage and let him touch her fat thighs, which the recovering cop kneaded with the rough fingers of his still-healing hand—way better than doing those P.T. exercises with Silly Putty the doctor at the Mayo suggested. (No amount of Miranda or putty would make his bullet-shattered leg right again.)

After the transaction, she used a warm washrag to clean him up, like the gals in places he used to frequent as a Cold Case cop in the Big Apple. He wondered where she learned the technique. Maybe it was just a universal hospitality thing, like stewardesses handing you the hot towel.