A Guide for Murdered Children

by Sarah Sparrow

  The detective let the attempt at wit slide. “And what about your parents?” he asked.

  “What about them?” said Daniel.

  “Don’t you have the desire to see them?”

  “But see who?” said Lydia. “I mean, which parents?”

  “Whomever!” said Willow, exasperated.

  “Well, if you’re talking about Daniel,” he said, “we weren’t all that close. I barely saw my folks before I died,”

  “And if you’re talking about Lydia, I still talk to Mom a couple times a week.”

  “And Elaine and Ronnie?” To make himself clear he needed to break his own rule, but at that point didn’t really give a shit. “What about Troy and Maya’s parents. Didn’t you both want—don’t you want to see them?”

  “Not really,” said Daniel, shrugging.

  “We’ve talked about going by the old house,” said Lydia, answering for Maya. “In Saggerty Falls. But it feels somehow we’d be more like tourists or lookie-loos . . . I know it doesn’t sound logical but I guess we just haven’t had the urge. Annie said we probably wouldn’t, at least not until our moment of balance. She said that’s the way it works. The trouble is, once you’ve had your moment, there usually isn’t any time left. You know, for a visit.”

  “And what about—didn’t Lydia and Daniel have boyfriends, girlfriends? Lovers?”

  Lydia blushed. “Well, I don’t know how the others handled it—the landlords at the Meeting—but we lucked out. The word kind of spread that we were an item, so people left us alone.”

  “That is so creepy,” said Daniel, in his high voice.

  “And how do you feel?” said Willow, trying to get a grip—and failing. “I mean, physically.”

  “I guess sex is no longer a priority,” said Daniel.

  “Gross!” said Lydia.

  “But the Porter told us that’s kind of par for the course.”

  “No, I meant physically, in general,” said Willow. “I mean, your bodies . . . how do they maintain—”

  “I see what you mean,” said Daniel. “You’d think it would be the opposite but we’re actually stronger. In some ways. Right, Lydia?”

  “Yeah, it’s weird. I stopped getting my periods—”

  “Yuck,” said Daniel.

  “—and Maya didn’t even know what that was. I only had it once, then it stopped. Thank God.”

  Daniel sat up straight. “Annie said that the closer you get to the moment of balance, the tougher your body becomes. She said she didn’t know why.”

  “That’s just the way it works,” said Lydia.

  “Like you get . . . fierce,” he said. “Like Rhonda did, right?”

  “Yeah, whoa!” said Lydia. “That was crazy. Rhonda was totally like the Terminator.”

  “Who’s Rhonda?”

  “Just a guy who used to come to the Meeting,” she said.

  They told him about the events at Jacobs Prairie and for the thousandth time that night he was pole-axed. The detective in him (or was it the Porter?) wanted to know if they’d left any prints or evidence behind. They said they’d been careful about that because the Guide stressed the importance of not leaving clues at the scene of a moment of balance.

  He excused himself to the men’s room.

  Willow splashed water on his face and stared at the haggard, blown-out man in the mirror. He went into the stall, sat on the toilet and phoned Dixie. She was expecting him but there was no way he was in any shape to go home. He told her that he was “into it” at work and that she shouldn’t wait up. Dixie said okay but that she probably wasn’t going to sleep until whenever, and if he saw her light on he should just come over.

  When he returned, they were tucking into cheeseburgers and milkshakes—like hungry kids, he thought.

  “I think I’m gonna take off,” said Willow.

  “Okay,” said Daniel. “And thank you.”

  “Thank me for what?”

  “For helping us,” said Lydia. “Annie said that you’re really, really special. We need help, sir! We’ve been having a lot of—problems.”

  “Give the man a moment,” said Daniel to his partner. “Let him integrate.”

  “See you at work tomorrow,” said Willow, standing to leave. The humdrum remark was meant to mimic normalcy. “Oh: I did want to ask you about Honeychile. What was that all about? Why did you try to go see her?”

  They suddenly realized he had no idea that Honeychile was a landlord, just like them. The only person who could have provided him with that information was Annie—and apparently, she hadn’t. Lydia and Daniel were seized by the same troublesome thought: What if Annie didn’t know that Honeychile had stopped coming to the Meeting because she’d been arrested for murder? Could it even be possible that Annie wouldn’t know? Because didn’t she know everything? Another thought followed: Why hadn’t they shared with her what they knew about the crime? (Both of them were aware something had gone wrong—that the death of the football player had nothing to do with “Winston’s” moment of balance.) It was a strange and unaccountable oversight on their part, indeed, and each felt a shiver of guilt at the omission—made somehow worse by their clandestine visit to Dabba Doo’s.

  Lydia decided to blurt the whole thing out. But as she began, Daniel gave her an elbow, forcing her to amend. “Uhm, I don’t know—it was just a feeling I had,” she said, improvising a dumbed-down version. “Like when we flew to St. Cloud to look for Rhonda.”

  “Right—just a feeling,” said Daniel. “We got it into our heads that Honeychile might know something about how Troy and Maya died.”

  Only a short while ago they were crying in Willow’s arms, so it felt odd to still be lying to him about certain things. The detective was too beat-up to explore any further.

  “I understand you wore your old uniforms when you stopped by at the hospital.”

  “Sorry about the boner,” said Daniel, snickering at the word in spite of himself.

  Willow’s irritation at their antics gave him a second wind. “Well, do you think she knows something? About who killed you—I mean, your tenants?” The one who was asking was half detective, half Porter, and Willow was startled by his commitment to the new reality that lay behind his words.

  “Mayyy-beee,” said Lydia. “I think maybe she does.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Daniel. “There’s something there, mos’ def. We can feel it.”

  “The sheriff’s interviewing the girl tomorrow,” said Willow.

  He had nothing more to add. Shattered by the night’s events, he was only able to spit out a bullet point.

  “It’d be really good if we could talk to her. I mean if that’s at all possible.” Lydia said it offhandedly, not wanting to press her luck. “Because we’ve kind of been chasing our tails. But Annie said that was going to change, now that you’re here.”

  “You said you had a ‘feeling,’” said Willow. “Did you even know that girl? I checked with the family and that story of yours about the veterans’ group was complete bullshit.”

  Their hand had been forced. So be it—they would have told him tomorrow anyway. Probably.

  “I guess Annie isn’t all that well,” said Daniel, speaking more to Lydia than to Willow. “She’s been really sick. Maybe that’s why she didn’t know about Honeychile’s arrest. Because it’s definitely something the Porter should have already known about—she’d have felt it.”

  “What are you talking about?” said the detective.

  “What I mean is that it would have been up to her to tell you, not to us.”

  “We were just being respectful,” said Lydia. “By not telling you. Respectful to Annie.”

  “Tell me what?” It was maddening.

  “Honeychile is a landlord,” said Daniel. “She used to come to our Meeting.”

  “Only for a few times,”
said Lydia. “That’s how we know her.”

  “Do you mean,” said Willow, “that killing the boy at school was part of her moment of balance?”

  “Nope,” said Daniel. “And that’s the problem.”

  “We think she killed the wrong one,” said Lydia.

  “Yup. I kinda think that when she took out Mr. Letter Jacket Asshole, she made a total raging boner.”

  He started giggling again.

  “But we didn’t call her Honeychile,” said Lydia. “I knew that was her name from when she tried to break into the Meeting that time—but it’s not what we called her. You never use landlord names in a Meeting.”

  “That’s a total no-no,” said Daniel.

  “Everyone called her Winston.”

  3.

  Eleven P.M. now.

  He was drinking.

  The bar on North Avenue had an unfortunate name:

  Dickweeds.

  It was empty—just him, the barkeep and some other drunk in a booth. He was on his fourth Tom Collins but didn’t feel it. There was a phrase in Alcoholics Anonymous that applied to the experience of someone who tried boozing again after being exposed to 12-Step work: “AA ruined my drinking.”

  Willow thought that’s what had happened to him, but with a caveat: Dead children ruined my drinking.

  The bombshell that Renée “Honeychile” Devonshire was a player in Annie’s permanent floating ghost dance was disturbing but presented itself (to the part of him that was a detective) as a puzzle—perhaps the puzzle that needed to be solved. The old, familiar feeling of being “in the zone,” that smell of cracking a stubborn case, had returned with a delicious vengeance. Under the radical new circumstances, Willow wasn’t really sure what that feeling meant, he didn’t know what anything meant, yet the rookies’ revelation reflexively stirred the thing that had always protected and served him: the sleeping giant called Hope.

  The story they recounted about Rhonda and the murders at Jacobs Prairie aroused an entirely different emotion. Willow had a toe in both worlds, but the toe in Annie’s world was badly stubbed. The panic that caused him to hoist a drink at Dickweeds wasn’t merely rooted in the abrupt and phantasmagoric upheaval of his life—it was more prosaic. Simply put, if he didn’t tell Owen what he was now privy to, he would technically become a coconspirator, an obstructer of justice at the very least. Because not only did Willow know the identity of the killer (the name of “Rhonda’s” landlord could be uncovered easily enough), but he knew the witnesses as well—Cold Case deputies who worked directly under him! By not intervening in a murder they could easily have prevented, they were as guilty as the perpetrator himself.

  Yet Willow the inchoate Porter understood everything, or at least was beginning to. While the Porter had no allegiance to the traditional, so-called truth and its attendant morals and jurisprudence, the detective—the veteran cop and professional, the provider for hearth and home (Pace, Larkin)—bridled at the potential consequences of criminal malfeasance that went along with a course of nonaction, nudging him toward accountability and the fantasy of telling his superior all. But what would he confess? That he’d become a sorcerer’s apprentice? That he was communing with the dead? It was a conundrum that he knew had no resolution.

  And what about Grundy Eakins? Willow hadn’t even been able to summon the energy to drive out to Wolcott Mills, which (as a detective) was unforgivable . . .

  There were so many things to drink about that selecting merely one seemed the greatest of luxuries.

  Deep in his cups now, he meditated on karma. He used to talk about the concept with Renata, the opinionated Buddhist; they spent many an hour in the smoke pit at the Meadows, inhaling nicotine and confabbing in the 110-degree heat. She believed karma didn’t exist, “because there is no ‘you’ and there is no ‘me.’ How can there be retribution when there’s no ‘doer’ of the deed or crime? What they call karma is just more sisboombah Catholic bullshit.” For him, the dialectic was a little rarefied. He was old-school and believed there was balance and symmetry to the universe, call it what you will. She scoffed and said that was just a pretty way of saying “eye for an eye.” Maybe she was right.

  He was about to order another drink when the man in the booth got up. Instead of passing Willow, he stopped right beside him—it was Charles in Charge. The detective felt a shudder of shame and paranoia. Charlie of course knew that he was sober. After an awkward hello, Willow decided the best defense was a strong offense. He pointed to his glass and said, by way of explanation, “I just got a piece of very bad news.”

  “Awfully sorry, Dubya.” He put a hand on his old friend’s shoulder and warmly said, “Take good care now.”

  It was just like Charlie not to pry. He was about to leave when Willow gripped his arm.

  “Charlie, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to the sheriff.”

  “No worries.” The man’s word was gold. “Hope it’s nothing with Adelaide or the family.”

  “No,” said Willow. He at least had to disabuse him of that. “Nothing like that. A friend of mine passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear.”

  “It’s all good,” said Willow, world-weary.

  Charlie patted the detective’s shoulder again. “You good to drive?”

  “Yeah, I’m good,” he said, then touched his arm and smiled. “I love you, buddy.” And he really did. As Charlie left, Willow said, “Charles in Charge,” like he always had when they parted, as if in benediction.

  * * *

  • • •

  The detective did what he told himself he wouldn’t.

  He knocked on Dixie’s door.

  And her light wasn’t even on.

  She was pleasantly surprised and literally pulled him over the threshold by his lapels. She smelled the liquor and said “Oh” but kissed him anyway. She didn’t have it in her to be judgey, even if she knew how serious the situation might be. All she said was “You okay?” as she helped strip off his clothes. His pants got caught around his legs and he stumbled like a cartoon drunk, bracing his fall against the couch. Dixie laughed, saying, “Whoa there!” and he blurted out, I love you. “That’s what they all say after last call,” she said.

  He came on like a lion in bed but that didn’t last. Inside five minutes he was cradled in her arms, his body convulsing in tears. She let him do that while she stroked and shushed.

  “Talk to me, baby. What’s going on?”

  “It’s—those kids. The Rummer kids, Maya and Troy.”

  Saying their names out loud, saying anything about them, ambushed him. He had mentioned the case to her weeks ago in the most impersonal way, without naming names, and now he felt immense shame at pimping the innocents as an excuse for his relapse, much like he’d summoned the “death of a friend” with Charles in Charge. The horror and sadness of it tore through Willow’s very soul.

  “How they must have suffered—” he said, in agony.

  “I know, I know . . .”

  “I knew them, Dixie! I never told you that, but I knew those kids, I knew their folks—who are destroyed, by the way. I went to see them and they are completely destroyed. My daughter babysat those children!” He closed his eyes. “When I think of what happened to them—that it could have happened to Pace . . .”

  “But it didn’t, sweetheart. It didn’t. And I’m glad you’re letting this shit out. It’s okay to cry, babe, you have to, you need to. We need to cry! And I know how you hold that in, I know it’s part of your job not to show how much you hurt. You’ve been holding so much in for so long—your whole life. So let it out, babe, just let it out. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here . . .”

  As he nodded out on the bed, he prayed he wouldn’t dream of the train. Leave me in peace, he thought. When Dixie solicitously asked if he wanted to sleep alone, Willow realized he’d said those words out loud, and
it stabbed at him that he might have wounded her. “I didn’t mean that for you, babe . . . No, I want you here. I need you here.” She smiled, quizzically, as if she didn’t quite believe him. “Okay,” she said.

  “I’m a hot mess, huh,” he said.

  “Yeah, but you’re my hot mess. At least tonight you are.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Dixie.”

  “We aim to please.”

  “Watch your aim, babe. Wouldn’t want any more casualties.”

  “Too late for that,” she said.

  DECOMPENSATION

  1.

  While a small part of him yearned to go back to the Meeting, Roy Eakins knew that he was done—with the Porter and the landlords and the whole deal. It was the “residual” of his child-tenant that tugged at him to return, because he missed his playmates.

  But Dabba Doo was gone forever.

  It would be challenging now to make the journey to the Cross of Glory Lutheran Church even if he wanted to. The drive would be too rough. He wasn’t physically well and his weakness surprised him, because of late he’d experienced a cascade of strength and well-being that he attributed to the killing of Violet and her landlord, Sarabeth. He still had power surges—moments when he felt almost superhuman—but the “hangovers” that followed were getting worse. He wet his bed every night and lately the sheets were stained by his stool. When Roy used the machine at CVS, he thought it was broken; he had no blood pressure at all. His urine was black and he had episodes of blindness in alternating eyes; except for the beloved, dreaded gummy bears (he was even losing his taste for those), he could hold down only broth. His skin was splotched by purple starbursts. He thought of seeing a doctor and then laughed when he imagined the fellow entering the examination room to tell him the test results came back, revealing that he was dead. Like one of those good news–bad news jokes.

  With careful thought and determination, he’d traced back the moment when Dabba Doo moved in, nearly ten months ago to the day, after a lethal heart attack. How and why his ruined body continued to function was a thing that he ceded to Annie and her Mystery talk: there are more things in heaven and Earth, and all that. But now he felt as if he were dying again. That excited him because he couldn’t help believing that if he could fool death once, he might do it twice. Perhaps he was meant for bigger things.