Gone for Good (6 page)

When
I stepped back inside the house, every eye in the room turned to me. I felt like the anticipated guest of honour at a surprise party, except no one cheered. No one said anything. Paul waited in the living room, sitting in Mom's chair.

‘Can we talk for a minute?' I said to him.

He answered by standing up, his face nervous with anticipation about whatever I had learned, and followed me down the hallway to Mom's bedroom. I closed the door.

Paul stood in the centre of the room, his hands resting on his hips. His lips were parted, ready with questions, but he didn't say anything yet.

I didn't sit either. ‘It's worse than I could have thought,' I said. Then I realized where we were standing again: the room where Mom died. It had happened right there. Someone had killed her. My mind raced with the most awful thoughts: How badly did she suffer? What was it like to have a monster of some kind standing over her, squeezing the life out of her? And the police thought that monster was my own brother.

Finally, Paul spoke. ‘What is it, Elizabeth?'

‘They say Mom was murdered,' I said. ‘Strangled.'

Paul raised his fist and placed it over his mouth, as though stifling a cough. Or a cry. But no sound emerged.

‘It's
worse,' I said. ‘They think Ronnie … he's really a suspect.' My hands fluttered uselessly in the air around my body. I must have looked like Richland. ‘It looks like they want to take him with them. They want a shrink to talk to him, someone who knows about Down syndrome, I guess, in order to determine if he did it or not.'

Once the words were out – the awful words and the awful truth of what the police had told me – I understood with great clarity what I wanted from Paul. With Mom gone, he became the adult. The rock. He needed to put a stop to all the foolishness and restore order. I needed him to back me up and tell the police to take a walk.

‘That's just so … goddamn terrible,' he said.

‘I know.' A bad taste entered my mouth, something bitter, as if I'd eaten poison or rotten fruit. I thought I might vomit. ‘I don't know what to do. Should I call a lawyer?'

He took a step back and sat down on the end of the neatly made bed. He hadn't been sleeping there, I knew; he slept on the couch every night. He looked thoughtful, calm. He said, ‘I'm not sure what a lawyer could do for us.'

‘Stop them,' I said. ‘They want to take Ronnie away.'

‘I told you I was afraid of this,' he said. His voice remained calm, and while he spoke I saw the remnants of his career as a high-school English teacher in the wise, instructive way he spoke. ‘But, look, maybe this isn't as bad as we think it is. Maybe we're all in over our heads here. Do you believe Ronnie could do this to your mom?' he asked.

‘No,' I said. ‘I mean … no is what I mean. They put doubts in my head, if I'm honest. And that story you told me –'

‘Ronnie
hasn't been himself the last few days,' he said. ‘Understandably so. He suffered a horrible loss just like all of us. But haven't you been thinking already that we might have to get Ronnie some counselling or something?'

I nodded. I had been thinking that. I just didn't know where or when to turn to it.

‘Maybe this is what he needs,' Paul said. ‘Let him speak to a professional, let him work through his feelings.' He sighed. ‘Hell, we all probably need it now. Some help.'

‘Fuck,' I said. My eyes burned, the hot tears rising again. ‘This is so fucking rotten. It's all just rotten.'

‘I know,' Paul said.

‘You asked me a question before,' I said. ‘You asked me if I thought Ronnie could have done what they say he might have done. Let me ask you the same thing. Do you think it's possible?'

I knew what I wanted his answer to be, no matter what he thought. I wanted him to reassure me.

‘I can't even go there,' he said. ‘It's just too far to go.'

Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but I took it. I wiped at my eyes and managed not to lose it.

I stepped out into the hallway and stood in the background while Paul gently started explaining to Ronnie about the police and why they needed to talk to him. After just a few minutes of watching that, I decided I might be more useful dealing with the detectives, who I assumed were still waiting on the front porch.

Except they weren't. When I came out of the hallway I saw the last few guests leaving the house. As they went out the door, Richland and Post were coming in, apparently
having seen the breakup of the reception as an invitation to come back inside.

‘Can you give us a minute?' I asked, trying to speak to the police the way I sometimes spoke to my students: firm, in charge. ‘We're trying to get Ronnie ready. To explain to him what's happening. We just buried our mother today, for Christ's sake.'

But my words failed to intimidate or even sway the police officers. They both looked at me, their faces professionally stoic. They didn't offer to move, and Richland looked around the room as if he were thinking of buying the house.

But I wouldn't be deterred. I pushed more.

‘Why don't you two just leave?' I said. ‘We can bring Ronnie to the hospital or doctor or wherever you want him to go. You don't have to hover around here. We're not criminals.'

‘Ms Hampton,' Richland said, focusing his attention on me, ‘we need to escort your brother. It's just the standard procedure.'

‘Can one of us ride with him?' I asked. ‘Me or my uncle?'

‘You can come along in a little bit,' Post said. ‘And you can see your brother and visit with him once he's been processed.'

‘Processed?' I asked, nearly spitting the word. ‘What is he? A cow?'

‘Easy now,' Richland said.

‘Easy? You show up here telling me my mother was murdered and you want to take my brother away and you say
easy
?'

Neither of them looked at me. Their eyes drifted over
my head and past me to the hallway. I turned. Paul and Ronnie came out of Ronnie's bedroom. Ronnie carried his sketch pad in his left hand, and Paul walked by his side, holding on to Ronnie's arm like an escort. Ronnie wore the same impassive look on his face, but his eyes betrayed him. They flickered back and forth, giving Ronnie the look of a skittish child.

‘Oh, Ronnie,' I said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘He's fine,' Paul said. ‘We talked about it.'

But I knew Ronnie wasn't fine, and so did Paul. They reached the police, and Paul let go, his hand slipping off Ronnie's arm and falling back to his own side.

Post stepped forward and smiled. ‘Ronnie, you know you're going to take a little ride with us?'

‘Don't talk to him like he's six,' I said.

Post ignored me, and Richland opened the door. ‘We'll be at Dover Community Hospital,' he said.

‘Dover Community?' I said.

‘Yes,' Post said.

‘The loony bin?' I said.

‘It's a mental-health facility,' Post said. ‘It's an excellent hospital.'

Post guided Ronnie to the door, and I allowed myself to think that Paul was right, that this was for the best and Ronnie needed the extra attention and counselling a professional could give him. And just as the thought crossed my mind, Ronnie's body froze. Every muscle grew rigid, and if I didn't know any better, I would have thought he was suffering a seizure of some kind. He locked up, refusing to move past the doorjamb.

‘Paul!' he cried. ‘Elizabeth! No. No no no no no no.'

‘Oh,
Jesus, Ronnie,' I said.

Paul stepped in. He went to Ronnie and placed his hands on Ronnie's shoulders. ‘It's okay, bud,' he said. ‘We'll see you real soon. Remember what we talked about? Remember?'

‘Elizabeth,' Ronnie said, his voice lower and weaker.

‘Ronnie?' Paul said. ‘Remember.'

As the words came out of Paul's mouth, the resistance seemed to drain from Ronnie. His body sagged; his shoulders slumped. He allowed Richland to place a hand on his arm and guide him through the door and onto the porch. Richland towered over my brother, practically casting him in shadow. When they were out of sight, I went to the door myself, with Paul right beside me.

Ronnie shuffled down the walk with the detectives on either side of him. A couple of the mourners, Mrs Porter included, still lingered on the sidewalk, chatting before they headed in their separate directions. They stopped their talk and watched as the police placed Ronnie in the back of the cruiser, which remained parked beneath the trees on Mom's street.

If I'd cared more about what other people thought in that moment, I would have been mortified, knowing the way gossip and rumour and misunderstanding spread in a town like Dover. But none of that mattered to me. All I heard in my own head was the sound of my brother's voice calling my name, saying to me,
How could you let this happen? How?

Paul
and I waited for close to an hour when we reached Dover Community. Before we were allowed to see Ronnie we were given a number of forms to sign. Since I was his next of kin, the admitting nurse told me I was able to sign them. I asked what they were for, and she said they gave the hospital and doctors permission to provide care for Ronnie. Medication, counselling, food, everything.

‘Medication?' I asked. ‘Do you mean sedation?'

‘Possibly.'

I looked at Paul, who shrugged. I turned back to the nurse. ‘I don't want him zonked out like some zombie.'

‘I doubt that will be an issue,' she said.

I looked at Paul again, and he nodded. So I signed.

When we were finally allowed into his room, we found Ronnie sleepy. He looked as if he'd been sedated. His eyes fluttered and then closed as we talked to him. Paul could tell I was angry, and he told me to trust the professionals.

‘Mom would hate this,' I muttered. ‘She'd hate it if they put him on drugs. She'd hate him being in the crazy hospital.'

Paul and I decided to leave. Before we did, I bent down and kissed Ronnie on the forehead. He didn't stir.

In the hallway, we ran into Detective Richland. He held a cell phone to his ear, but put it away – somewhat reluctantly – when he saw us coming. I didn't bother with
formalities or greetings. I simply asked, ‘How long is all of this going to take?'

He cleared his throat. ‘The doctor should be by sometime tomorrow to get the ball rolling,' he said.

‘I don't want anyone coming by and asking him questions without one of us being here,' I said. ‘What time?'

‘I can't predict what time,' he said. ‘The doctor has a lot of patients to cover.'

‘Call us then,' I said.

‘Don't you have to go back to school tomorrow?' Paul asked me.

‘Yes.'

He turned to Richland. ‘Why don't I give you my cell number? You can let me know when something happens. I may be here anyway just visiting Ronnie.'

Richland made an elaborate display of taking out his phone and then entering Paul's number into it. When he was finished, he nodded. ‘You know, Ms Hampton,' he said.

I noticed that his hands had stopped fluttering. The tall detective seemed grounded and centred for a moment, leading me once again to wonder whether the whole thing was an act, a put-on to lull people into a false sense of comfort and security.

‘What?' I said.

‘I'm sorry about earlier, taking your brother from the house that way. We thought everyone would be gone and … we just thought it would be easier.'

I knew what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to accept the apology, to see Richland as a well-meaning, overworked public servant, trying to do his best in difficult circumstances. Like all of us.

But
I couldn't.

‘I guess that can't be undone, can it?' I said.

I walked away with Paul following me.

We stopped next to Paul's car in the parking lot. The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees, and for the first time since Detective Richland called my apartment on Saturday night, no immediate, pressing concerns weighed on me. Mom had been buried. Ronnie was in custody. Paul had his own life to return to – card games with former colleagues, the harvesting of his summer garden, his books, his friends. I expected to feel some measure of relief at that moment, but I didn't. How could I?

‘I know I should have just accepted his apology like a nice little girl,' I said.

‘It doesn't do any good to antagonize the police,' Paul said.

‘Any other advice?' I asked.

Paul didn't say anything. A sound, something between a deep breath and a hiccup, came out of his mouth, and when I turned to look at him more fully, I saw that he was crying. He raised his fist to his mouth, and his chest shook with a couple of deep sobs.

‘Oh, Jesus. Paul? Are you okay?'

And that was enough to start me again. The tears welled up in my eyes, burning them, and I felt them spilling over and stinging my cheeks. But I tried to focus on Paul.

He wiped tears off his cheeks. ‘I want you to know something,' he said when some of his composure returned.

‘What?' I asked, struggling to keep my own emotions in check. I wiped my tears away with the backs of my hands, making a smeared mess across my face.

‘I'm
not going to let anything happen to Ronnie,' he said. He swallowed and coughed. A siren sounded and then wound down on the far side of the hospital. A new tragedy arriving. Some disturbed soul who had had enough of the world and flipped out. He said, ‘I'll be here. Nothing bad's going to happen to him.'

‘I know you'll look out for him,' I said. ‘We both will.'

He brought out a handkerchief and wiped his cheeks and eyes some more. ‘We're all on the ropes here, I guess.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Are you sure you're okay? Do you want to go get something to eat?'

‘I'm okay,' he said. ‘I'm tired. I'm a tired old man. I need to go home and take a nap. The next couple of days could get kind of crazy.'

‘Are you sure?'

He put the handkerchief away and nodded, regaining his usual certainty. ‘I should be worried about you,' he said. ‘Are you taking care of yourself?'

‘I'm trying to.'

‘You should take a nap.'

‘Maybe I will. I have to get back to campus tomorrow. I was going to deal with the will, but it doesn't seem that important now.'

‘That's good.'

‘Unless you think the lawyer can help with Ronnie,' I said. ‘Are we being idiots here, Paul? Are we just going to let them put him in there and examine him?'

‘Who drew up the will? Frank Allison?'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't know how much criminal law he does in a town like this,' Paul said. ‘If that's what you're thinking. Beyond
that, I guess we're all in over our heads. Look, he's more in the care of the doctors than the police now. That might change if the police get more serious, but I take some comfort in thinking about the doctors more.'

‘Sure,' I said, not wholly convinced. ‘But if more trouble comes down, I'm calling a lawyer. I might do it anyway.'

‘That's fine,' Paul said. ‘Do what you think is best.'

He held out his arms, and we hugged. We held each other a long time. I didn't want to let go. When we finally did, I stepped back and looked up at him.

‘Tell me this is all going to be okay,' I said.

He didn't hesitate. ‘Sorry, kiddo, but I just can't do that.'