It went better than he thought.
Then why did he feel worse when it was done?
He wondered if bailing from the task force was a blunder. Yet each time he had such doubts, the detective realized it was a symptom of his general confusion—a mélange of money worries combined with a shudder of foreboding. The awkward part came at the end, when Owen gave him the Look—the one Willow knew he’d be getting from friends and family over the next few weeks and months, even years—the one that said, Hope you stay sober! The Look had nuances akin to regional accents. In the sheriff’s, he heard this one: Bet you’ve already started—you probably never stopped. Prolly faked your piss test too.
He painted over the mural of the train with primer, praying the blank space might lend itself to a new chapter. But resigning from Cold Case was one thing; resigning from Annie’s Meetings was something else. When he first joined AA, hadn’t his sponsor suggested not making any big moves for at least a year? Don’t try to quit smoking. Don’t get married. Don’t quit your day job. Drama and instability always got you drunk.
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 Guides 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.
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.”
“I know Ronnie and Elaine would love to see you.”
He could tell she wasn’t up for it, and respected that.
“I should call them,” she said, chastising herself. “Poor Elaine! Mom said that you went to see them?”
“I did.”
“How are they? I mean, now. How are they doing?”
“Better. I think they’re better.”
“When they disappeared . . . I never really talked to you about it. It was like—like nothing made sense anymore. That’s when I got into drugs, I mean heavily. I couldn’t handle it.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“There wasn’t anything you could have done, Dad. I was totally shut off. And it’s okay. Sometimes shit just gets fixed by itself—or not. I had to go through what I had to go through.”
“Glad you made it out the other side, kid,” he said, aware that he was echoing Roy Eakins’s words to him about Grundy. They hugged. When she responded with “I’m glad we all did,” he thought he detected the Look: I still need you so don’t go and do something stupid now that you don’t have a fucking job. Maybe he was just reading into it.
“The one who died—” she said again.
“Deputy Doheny.”
“Owen said that his girlfriend disappeared? The other cop?”
“She did. Lydia Molloy.”
“What happened?”
“We still don’t know. She’s AWOL. The media doesn’t know that yet, by the way.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Personally? I think she was so busted up about Danny that she may have . . . gone off somewhere to self-harm.”
“Oh my God. It’s like some horrible Greek tragedy, right? Someone needs to make a movie about it.”
“Too soon,” he said, with a smile.
“Who do you think should play you?”
“Well, I love Tommy Lee Jones.”
“Tommy Lee Jones is like a hundred years old.”
“Bradley Cooper? It’s been said there’s a very close resemblance.”
That made her laugh and she hugged him again—the best medicine.
They sat around the picnic table and dug into their lunches.
His ex put his girlfriend right beside her and Willow appreciated the gesture. Dixie talked to all comers, sharing funny RN anecdotes. (Addie had a few of her own.) She was good at listening too.
“I wish we could delete the last few weeks,” sighed Adelaide during a lull. “We just lost someone dear to us at the hospital—a volunteer. As if the month hadn’t been shitty enough.”
“Oh?” said Willow.
“Annie Ballendine. I introduced you at the fund-raiser.”
“Was she the one,” said Willow, playing dumb, “you called the World’s Greatest Volunteer?”
“That’s right. And she was.”
“Helluva lady,” said Owen. It occurred to him to share the moment he had with Ms. Ballendine at the SRO—and the odd coincidence of her intersection with Honeychile—but thought it best not to revisit. “Annie the Unforgettable. A kind and selfless woman.”
“Oh, but I didn’t tell you!” said Adelaide, in a burst of enthusiasm. “I think we actually may have a challenger.”
“To the World’s Greatest?” said Willow.
“Uh huh,” she said, smiling cryptically.
“I strongly doubt that,” said Owen. “Unless ol’ Dubya’s planning to join up. Now that he’s got some time on his hands.”
“Very funny,” said Willow.
“Don’t go all sensitive, Dub,” winked the sheriff.
“You will not believe who I’m talking about,” said Adelaide.
“A celebrity?” said Pace. “They’re always volunteering at hospitals, right? For, like, ten seconds?”
“Nope—not a celeb. Though actually kind of, I take that back!” She paused for dramatic flair. “Elaine Rummer.”
“No!” said Pace.
“Elaine?” said Willow.
“That’s right. She came to see me and it was a complete surprise. Said she didn’t want to stay at home anymore stewing in her juices. Said she wanted to work with troubled teens in lockdown—kids who had tried to kill themselves. ‘As you may know, that’s my specialty.’ That’s word for word what she said. I forgot how sweet and funny Elaine is. And it was so touching because she said that her biggest concern was how she looked—the scars on her face. Which really aren’t so bad. I mean, they’re not great but it’s not as bad as they were in my head. She said she’d understand if I had to turn her down because she didn’t want to frighten the kids. I signed her up on the spot.”
“Wow. Wow. That’s great, Addie,” said Willow.
“Mom, that is so amazing,” said Pace.
“That certainly is an interesting turn of events,” said Owen.
“You know,” said Adelaide. “They always talk about closure, how there never can be ‘closure’—you guys always talk about it. You’re always saying you don’t believe in it, that closure doesn’t exist. And maybe it doesn’t . . . But I want to tell you, there was something about Elaine that I still can’t put my finger on.”
“I heard they got religion,” said Owen.
“It’s more than that. You’ve seen her, Willow. Do you know what I’m saying? Did you notice anything different?”
“Not really.”
“It was like she was glowing, from the inside. That make any sense? Oh, I know she’s had her ‘problems,’ her mental issues—who wouldn’t have. But this wasn’t that, you know, it wasn’t mania, or whatever. It was something else. I felt different just being in her presence. Maybe finally finding out what happened to her kids gave her that. Maybe closure is real.”
When they were leaving, Adelaide held him back while Dixie said her goodbyes. She squeezed his arm.
“I absolutely didn’t think I’d be saying this,” she said, “but your girlfriend’s kinda awesome.”
“Glad you approve,” he said.
“Try not to fuck it up, Dubya. That one’s a keeper.”
It was dusk when they got back. Dixie briefly came over, then wanted to go home and change. She left her purse.
He couldn’t describe the unwelcome shift in her mood but felt the darkness descend in more ways than one. He remembered having the same feeling at the end of certain love affairs, when both parties had the terrible realization that they only came alive for show, around other people. It spooked him, but he powered through—too late to change course.
When she returned, he sat her down on the sofa and told her he had something important to say. Instead of waiting for him to speak, she looked at the wall and said, “You painted it over . . . how come?”
He shrugged and said, “Guess it’s time for something new.”
“But I liked it,” she said petulantly.
“You might like what’s coming better.”
The innuendo didn’t register. “I really had fun today. Your wife and daughter are so smart! And so gorgeous—they don’t look anything like you,” she said drolly.
“She’s not my wife, Dix.”
“Oops! I guess what I meant was, once you have a kid together you’re kind of in it for life.”
“Dixie—” He knew it was going to come out a mess but none of that mattered. “Look, what I want to say—what I wanted to tell you is that I love you and care about you—”
“I know that. Love you too, Willow.”
“—and I know I’m an old guy, but what I wanted to say is . . . that I want to be with you until the lights go out.”
“The lights?”
“For the rest of my life.”
“‘Until the lights go out’!” she said exuberantly. “That is so corny.”
He knew she wasn’t being mean, and soldiered on.
“I want to marry you. Will you be my wife?”
He handed her the little box. She opened it and went wild, squealing and shouting, “It sparkles, it sparkles! It’s so beautiful.” He was delighted with her response but she wouldn’t take it out. When he told her to try on the ring, she kept saying, “Put it on? Put it on?”—as if it were the silliest, craziest idea in the world.
“I can’t put that on!”
His heart sunk. “Why not?”
She burst into tears.
“Baby, Dixie, what’s wrong? What is it?”
He prayed it was nothing more than an endearing hysteria—her engines flooded by the prospect of being Mrs. Dixie Rose Wylde.
“I have to go home now. I have a headache.”
She kissed him on the cheek and was gone.
He sat there with the ring staring at him from the coffee table like a Jack-in-the-box, trying not to feel like a fool. He quickly did the ameliorative math: She didn’t actually say no, she just said she couldn’t put the ring on. (It’ll be a funny story we tell our kids.) And: If she does say no, that’s fine—she’ll probably say yes later. And: If she says no and it never ever happens, that’ll be fine too. Plenty of fish in the sea. And: It just wasn’t meant to be. And: Maybe she’s seeing someone else. Maybe she even has a husband. Maybe she has two husbands. And: I’ll move away. Go wherever. Fly out to Hollywood and get a glamour job consulting on CSI. Fuck a few starlets. Hell, fuck Amy Adams, Jessica Chastain and Angelina, now that she’s available. And: Get a place somewhere in Holland or Panama City or Bali or friggin’ New Zealand where I can live on the cheap. Some place with six-dollar massages. Someplace whores and hash are legal.
His eyes landed on her purse and the old habit seized him. He picked it up and set it on his knees. No reason to be furtive anymore—not when your bride runs from the altar.
That’s when he saw the Guide and blacked out.
Lacey Beth was written on its cover.