Chapter Sixteen Sad Willy
SIXTEEN SAD WILLY
Sad Willy, they all called him.
“Hi, Sad Willy,” the kids chimed. “Give me a high five, Sad Willy.”
And he did. Some of the kids thought it was good luck to be touched by Sad Willy. Some thought it was a curse.
“Show us your trick, Sad Willy,” they sang.
And he’d shake his head, “No, not today.” Then he’d take a good slug of bourbon from his bottle in the sack.
“Please, Sad Willy. Please, please! We’ll give you a dollar.”
Eventually they’d wear him down. Or offer him something he couldn’t refuse. And he’d show them.
He’d unlace his boot, pull off his sock, roll up his filthy pants, and undo the straps, pull back the rubber sleeve that ran up his calf, and take off his left foot.
Some kids would squeal, some would just stare wide-eyed and silent.
“How’d you lose your foot, Willy?” they’d ask.
And each time, he’d tell them a different story.
“It got bit off by a crocodile.”
“Stepped on a land mine.”
“I got friendly with the wrong man’s lady and he come after me with a sharp ax.”
And then, sometimes, if he’d had enough drink to loosen his tongue, he’d tell their favorite story of all.
The true one.
“ ’Twas the knackerman that took my foot. So you better take heed, you dirty little buggers. You better not mess with that old knackerman.” And the children would run off, terrified.
Now, as he shuffled past the Fitzpatricks’ house—saw Mini watching from the window and the red mark on the door—Willy felt dread down deep in his bones, all the way down to the phantom limb pain he sometimes felt in that old foot.
It had been just about two years ago when someone last got the mark.
The day was seared in his brain.
Because before then, he wasn’t Sad Willy. Before then, he was just plain Will, with two good feet, a wife he loved with his whole heart, and a good job at the clothespin factory.
Anna, her name was. His wife.
They had a white house over on Tamarack Lane.
A garden out front where Anna grew climbing roses, delphiniums, peonies, asters.
She delighted in telling him the names of each flower, heirloom varieties that had survived for decades.
Anna believed that Boone’s Ferry was alive with history, that the place itself, even the plants and trees that grew there, held memories.
The town clerk and record keeper, she was an expert on the history of Boone’s Ferry, going all the way back to the old trapper, Franklin Boone, who founded the town.
At the time, the road through the mountains didn’t exist and the easiest way into town was across the river, and Boone had built a small ferry to get people and supplies across.
It was a flat rectangle of boards, big enough for a horse and cart, maybe six men, and he used a long pole to propel the ferry across the shallow Bloodroot River.
Willy continued his walk, getting to Main Street now, thinking about little Mini Fitzpatrick, how she was the only child who was always kind to him. Whenever she skipped by him, she called out, “How are you doing today, Mr. Willy, sir?”
“Sad as always,” he’d say, giving her a wink.
And he’d take off his hat and give her a proper bow, and if she had coins in her pockets, she’d drop one into his hat.
Sometimes she’d bring him a piece of candy from Pops’s store: bubble gum, a licorice pipe, a round lollipop.
She was the only child who gave him gifts like this.
Thoughtful she was. Quiet. Not like the other kids, who stuck their tongues out behind his back, called him names, dared each other to ask him to take off his foot.
He’d heard Mini’s older brother, Finn, chide her for it. Finn, who had a funny cowlick that he was always trying to straighten. “You shouldn’t give him stuff like that. Shouldn’t even talk to him. If Papa finds out, you’ll be sorry.”
Willy was under the bridge, listening, but they had no idea he was there.
That was the thing about Willy, he was nearly invisible.
Even when he was right there in front of them, people tended not to notice him.
But Willy, he noticed everything, was always listening: from his stool in the corner of Loon’s Call Pub, from his camp under the bridge, from the periodicals area of the library where he went on cold and rainy days, from the chicken coops and barns he sometimes slept in.
Willy knew more about the goings-on of Boone’s Ferry than any other resident, he was sure.
“Sad Willy can’t help the way he is,” Mini had defended him from up on top of the bridge. She was dropping little flowers down into the water: forget-me-nots.
“Sure,” Finn said. “But what you’ve gotta understand is that you can’t help him either.”
They were quiet a second, and Willy could picture little Mini thinking, her face all scrunched up in concentration.
“Yeah, but maybe I can make him a little less sad.”
Willy’s heart felt heavy and warm when he heard this. And he was surprised to feel tears prick his eyes.
Finn cleared his throat. “Maybe he’s got a good reason to be sad.”
“Yeah,” Mini said. They were quiet. Another stem of blue forget-me-nots fell, hitting the water, floating right by Willy under the bridge. “Bea says he’s real lucky all he lost was his foot,” Mini continued, voice low, serious.
“I guess,” Finn said.
She went on, “Why do you think he let Willy get away?”
“I guess ’cause it wasn’t Willy he wanted,” Finn said.
“Maybe the knackerman had some other reason, maybe—”
“God, Mini, could you just shut up about the knackerman. We gotta get home.”
Willy knew the knackerman was everywhere, whether you talked about him or not—watching from every window, from behind every tree.
Each time the children teased him: Hey, Sad Willy, where’d you sleep last night?
The knackerman was there each time Willy pulled on his prosthetic foot.
Each time he finished a bottle of bourbon and put his eye against the neck, looking down like he couldn’t believe it was really all gone.
As Willy walked, he thought about the mark on the Fitzpatricks’ door, about the candy and coins Mini always offered him, the way she called him “Mr. Willy.”
And an idea began to form in his mind.
A clever idea.
An idea the old Will might have had. Old Will, husband of Anna.
He could feel her, his wife, standing behind him, watching him. He could smell the smoke, the charred flesh.
“You think if you do this you’ll be forgiven?” she whispered.
He turned, but saw only the empty street.
But it wasn’t empty, not quite.
There was a crow perched on the mailbox behind him, its feathers black and oily.
It watched him with dark eyes, waiting. For half a second, Sad Willy was sure the crow was going to open its shiny black beak and speak, not caw, but speak actual words in a hoarse, gravelly voice.
Willy, he heard it say. What are you going to do?
He thought of his wife. Of how he’d failed her in the worst possible way.
He knew saving Mini Fitzpatrick couldn’t undo the terrible things he’d done. But he had to try. Had to do his best to put an end to this madness, once and for all.
“I can save her,” he told the crow, knowing that if he formed the words into a sentence and said them aloud to this bird, that made it real. And it was real. Because, of all the people in Boone’s Ferry, Willy was the only one who just might know a way to stop the knackerman.
The crow made a little clicking sound. Yes. That’s right, you can.
And Sad Willy believed it then. That it just might be possible. But he needed to think about it some more. To let the plan crystallize.
And a drink. Just one little drink to take the edge off, to keep the shakes away, to help lubricate his muscles and mind.
The crow seemed to nod in agreement with a slight tilt of its head, then flew off across the street, disappearing behind the trees.
Willy waved good-bye, then headed for the tavern, knowing someone there would buy him a bourbon.
There was always a drink for Sad Willy.