Epilogue: 1922

The headline read: CHURCH OF ABRABOCA GOES DOWN IN FLAMES. As soon as I got to the part about secular arsonists, I almost threw the thing away out of spite. The article went on to say that the only human remains found in the church were two burnt chunks that had once been bodies, the larger coiled over another half its size. I figured I’d read enough after that.

     There had been a report about the Lawsons, too, and the missing girl named Darcy. It was Naomi, part two, only Darcy never washed up on a beach with burnt skin, so she had that going for her. I made a habit of calling her Margaret, hoping it would catch on in her head. It did, eventually, and more often than not, I hate myself for it.

     We went west, mostly. At first, Margaret made a habit of asking after her parents. When would they be back? Where would they meet us? How long until we could go home? I didn’t have any answers for her, and after a while she stopped asking. I started introducing myself as her father (Daniel Hartford, a writer; the pilot John Swansea died at Abraboca in a hail of fire and glass) and Margaret learned to play along. After a few months, she was calling me father without a second thought. I hate myself for it.

     We were in Washington when 1922 arrived in a flurry of snow. We’d rented a little apartment at the edge of Seattle, cozy and warm and pleasant enough. Margaret had even convinced me to put up a Christmas tree with all the fixings: ornaments, tinsel, the works. It took forever, because even after months of cold water and ointments, my back was never what it used to be. The glass had cut through the skin, turning my back into a patchwork of scars and stretches of pink tissue. But I was alive, so I topped off the tree with a star, because it’s the kind of thing you do when you’re alive.

     “Looks good,” I said as I straightened it out.

     “You dropped your voice again, daddy.”

   “Good catch,” I said, fighting the urge to swear. I corrected myself when I said, “It does look nice, though.”

     I’ve been off the drink since Abraboca, and few things in my life have been so hard. If I had to cash in one of those few things, it’d be the accent. I was a pilot, not an actor. Cutting the crown and queen out of my voice is a twenty-four hour occupation, and I’m always afraid that a “mate” or a “cheers” will slip out and ruin everyone’s day.

     We spent Christmas and New Years the same way we do all the other days: inside, blinds turned down and noise at a low. I keep a pistol on me at all times now. Not because I’m prepping to fire off a hail of bullets at Bernie Lutz and his hellfire brigade. If the day ever comes with Fthaggua’s dogs come knocking at my door, I’ll find the coward again and do what has to be done. Daniel Hartford could never find it in himself to hurt Margaret, who was his daughter and the only thing that kept him breathing. John Swansea was a coward. He would do it if he had to.

     I spent the first hours of 1922 alone, eyes fixed out the window, out into the gaping maw of snow-drenched Seattle. Every once in a while a light would flicker in the distance and my heart would stop. They’re coming, I thought. One more. Just one more.

      She found me like that, in the wee hours of the morning with a half-emptied mug of coffee cupped in my hands. Margaret crawled in my lap and curled up without a word. When I thought she was finally asleep, she said: “Daddy, do you know any good stories?”

     “No, pumpkin.”

     “Not even one?”

     I thought about it. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

    “Oh.” She scratched her head. It was quiet again, and when I felt myself falling asleep, she stirred me. “Daddy, are you afraid sometimes?”

    “Never, pumpkin.” I nudged her and made myself smile. “What would I have to be scared of?”

     “Monsters.”

     “There’s no such thing as monsters, Margaret. We talked about this.”

   “What are you afraid of, then?” She pouted. “Everybody’s afraid of something.” When I didn’t answer, she went on, lips a-pout. “I’m afraid of being alone. Sometimes I dream that I’ll wake up and they’ll be no one left in the whole wide world. It’ll be all empty, and I’ll be all alone.”

     I didn’t know what to say to that, so I settled for this: “You’re not alone, Darcy. You have me. I’ll never leave you.”

     “Never?”

     “I promise.”

     My so-called daughter smiled at that, for the first time in a long time. She yawned, curled back up in my lap, and whispered, “You’re not alone, either.”