“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 counseling 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 rumor 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?
Chapter Ten
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, counseling, 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 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 centered 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.”