He wondered how much time they had. She said he was the “only one”—she was the only one for him too—but he’d already lost her. He knew it was dumb, but he hoped Lacey Beth would take her sweet time finding the one who had murdered her. As a Porter, he realized the selfishness of such a desire. But still . . .
Wouldn’t that be grand?
He looked to the second floor. He could see the tops of the heads of the landlords who sat in the Meeting. Then Dixie appeared at the window, searching for him below. When she found him, she waved excitedly, then vanished a moment before returning with an older woman. Lacey Beth pointed Willow out to her and waved frenetically. Willow waved back.
The woman didn’t wave but she smiled and nodded.
That must be Lisbeth.
3.
The room was full.
On top of the old group, there were ten new guests.
Ten!
All sat petrified on folding chairs with their Guides.
He remembered asking Annie about what struck him as the improbable numbers—how could it be that so many child-killers lived in this general area? She told him “the ‘area’ can be rather large,” giving the example of Rhonda, who’d traveled all the way to Minnesota for her moment. “That was unusual, but not unheard of—one goes where one needs to go. One of my kids wound up in Vancouver! All in all, though, the system seems engineered for geographical convenience.” She also reminded him that homicides spanned decades (“one of the train children hadn’t been back for sixty years”) and that in most cases, the young ones’ lives came to a close “far, far away from our little Meeting in Detroit. So when you say ‘general area,’ you see, it’s a bit more complicated.” The spectral dragnet was drawn over a diaspora of perpetrators from the scenes of their crimes, some who fled to escape arrest, others because it was simply their nature to be itinerant. “Of course, Troy and Maya were an exception to that rule. They really pinpointed it. Because it’s rare that a landlord happens to be employed in the very community where his tenants were killed.”
For the benefit of the newcomers, Willow paraphrased from the Guide, putting it in his own words.
“A few of you are veterans—but most are here tonight for the very first time. Welcome and well done! You found us and that’s the hardest part. It’s my privilege to help in any way I can while you’re here. You’ll have lots of questions and I’ll do my best to answer them. And I won’t have answers for everything . . . but what’s most important—and probably the toughest—is that you need to trust. There’s another word for that: surrender. Now, surrender doesn’t mean what it does in a war, when an army ‘surrenders’ and gives up. No. Surrender here means that you trust and let go. You surrender to the idea that all of you are here for a purpose. If you can do that, then you won’t be afraid. There’s a phrase we like to use in this room: ‘More shall be revealed.’ And it’s true. If you don’t understand something today, it’s quite likely you’ll understand it tomorrow. Just don’t try and make sense of it all. If you trust, you’ll be way ahead of the game. You’ll be halfway home.”
An Asian woman in her forties raised her hand.
“Yes, Scooby?” said Willow.
“Will there be refreshments? Like we had on the train? Will there be cookies?”
Everyone tittered and Willow shouted toward the door in mock anger. “Bumble? Bumble!” The faithful sentry sheepishly appeared from the hall. “What on Earth happened to the refreshments?” Willow posed the question in a dreadful English accent, like a demented aristocrat in mid-tantrum.
“I was running late, sir—they’re in my car. I was just going to get them.”
“Chop chop!” said the Porter, clapping his hands. All of them laughed again. “Now,” he said to the group, “open your Guides and we’ll begin. For those already familiar with the material, it’s good to listen. Because in the Guide, you’ll find everything you need to help you achieve your moment of balance.”
One of the newbies, a twenty-something with a weight lifter’s body, raised his hand.
“Sir? May I ask a question, sir?”
“Go ahead, Marie-Claude,” said Willow.
“What is a ‘moment of balance’?”
“A-ha,” said Willow. “The question of the hour. Don’t worry, we’ll get to it. But first, let’s read from the Guide. Would someone like to start? Who’d like to read?”
Britney diffidently raised her hand. She was about thirty, with green hair and a pierced nose. She worked for a CPA. “‘Rule Number One,’” she said, holding the Guide in her quivering hand. “‘Be good to your new body. Treat it with respect and it will return the favor.’”
“We’ll have lots to talk about when it comes to your bodies,” said Willow. “Because they’ll behave in ways that you never had a chance to experience. You’ll get some help with that—in Meetings we sometimes say, ‘Leave your landlords at the door,’ but once you leave this room, it’s important to listen to them. They had their bodies a long, long time and can show you everything you need to know.” He nodded to a sweaty, overweight woman. “Abigail? Why don’t you read next?”
They went on like that and the mood grew less heavy, the child-tenants less frightened. When he saw that too many legs were tapping and glances were being stolen toward the table where Bumble was busy arranging things, he decided that a break would do them good. He rubbed his hands together and said, “Refreshment time!” They mad-dashed for the table and there was much hilarity as they jockeyed for sweets.
Clutching glazed donuts in both hands, Abigail got the courage to approach him.
“What’s your name?” she shyly asked.
“My name?” he said blankly, as if he’d forgotten it. “Good Lord, my name . . .”
He clapped his hands again, startling them. Everyone turned and froze.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please! I have been very rude and I beg your forgiveness.” The awful accent was back with a vengeance. “This audacious young lady”—Abigail smiled bashfully—“just asked me the most extraordinary question. She asked me my name! Abigail, I cannot thank you enough . . . And I hang my head in shame before you all. I’m appalled that I didn’t properly introduce myself at the beginning of our Meeting.” They stared at him in awed anticipation. “My name is Willow Millard Wylde.” The empty expressions of the more fragile newcomers persuaded him to add, “And I am the Porter.”
After a moment of utter silence, Abigail repeated, in a gently mocking baritone (with an accent equally bad, if not worse), “And I am the Porter!” Another said it—then another—then another—as if giddily passing a hot potato. When Marie-Claude burst out with “My name is Willow Millard Wylde,” the other men frenziedly joined the catharsis in a mass breakout of silliness. Willow let the rambunctious chorus go on for a minute, knowing the value of burning off nervous energy. With a little encouragement, they eventually stopped the horseplay and took their seats. Suddenly they looked wary, as if they’d be punished.
But Willow only smiled, resuming the lesson in his normal voice.
About the Author
Sarah Sparrow lives in Los Angeles.
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A Guide for Murdered Children Page 38
