Gone for Good Read online

I thought about asking more, then remembered my own awkward encounter with the past in the cemetery. I decided not to press it. Some things were better left alone.

  About fifteen people came back to the house after the graveside service. The die-hards, I supposed. They were waiting politely on the porch when we pulled up. The gathering passed with a lot of muted small talk. Comments about the weather were popular, as were compliments about the food. I realized an eternal truth: death makes people hungry. Either because they’ve decided to embrace life to the fullest in the wake of another’s death, or maybe because they don’t know what to talk about at such an event. In any case, the guests made a nice dent in the food. No one held back.

  Paul seemed distracted during the gathering. When I was a kid, he would glide from group to group at family functions, talking to everyone with equal enthusiasm and energy. A funeral didn’t compare to a Christmas party, and I attributed his lack of energy to the accumulated toll of the previous days’ events. He sat on the couch, an empty paper plate balanced on his knee, and nodded thanks to the people who came by to talk to him.

  I tried to play hostess. I made sure the bucket was full of ice, that enough napkins and plasticware sat on the small kitchen table. Some of the ladies helped as well, and they never failed to give me a gentle pat on the arm or back. I didn’t thank them for the kindness, but I appreciated it more than they could know.

  Mrs Porter came up to me again, and rather than let her dictate the subject of the conversation, I decided to initiate.

  ‘Did my mom say anything to you about her health?’ I asked. ‘Any complaints or worries?’

  Mrs Porter scrunched up her face, as though giving the question a good thinking over. I knew Mom had spent a lot of time at the library, checking out books for both herself and Ronnie. I wondered if she had said something to Mrs Porter that she hadn’t said to anyone else. Something that would make the possibility of murder less real.

  ‘You know, it’s been a month since I’ve seen her,’ Mrs Porter said. She was wearing a floral dress with a lot of purple in it. She raised her hand to her chest and said, ‘I had to read about this in the paper.’

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘Had she said anything to you about her health?’ Mrs Porter asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But she liked to play things close to the chest, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘The last time she came into the library she came alone,’ Mrs Porter said. ‘That was unusual. She always brought Ronnie with her. I asked about it because I thought maybe Ronnie was sick.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I know his disability can cause other complications. But she said he was fine. She said she had an appointment downtown.’ Mrs Porter nodded her head to emphasize the last point. ‘She seemed to be in a hurry.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’ I asked.

  ‘I said a month,’ Mrs Porter replied.

  A month. Shortly after our fight. ‘And you didn’t know where she was going?’

  ‘I didn’t ask,’ she said. ‘I’m a live-and-let-live kind of person. I figure most things are none of my business.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This whole thing is terrible. Just terrible.’

  Yet neither of us had any idea how much worse it would become.

  8

  After an hour, the guests started to leave. They made their excuses and offered their final condolences. A couple of the ladies, including Mrs Porter, began to clean up the kitchen. I offered a mild protest, but they ignored me and went about wrapping the remaining food and putting it away. I decided to accept their help and went off in search of Ronnie.

  He was sitting on his bed, still wearing his coat and tie. He held an object in his hand, a picture frame or something, but when he saw me coming into his room, he slid the object beneath his pillow.

  ‘Hi, Ronnie,’ I said.

  He didn’t answer me, but folded his hands and remained still, staring at the floor. I came into the room the rest of the way and sat on the bed next to him. He had stayed out of the way during the little gathering at the house. I wasn’t even sure he had eaten anything.

  ‘What did you have there?’ I asked.

  No response.

  ‘Was it a picture of Mom?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  Maybe? Clearly he wasn’t up for interrogation, and I couldn’t blame him.

  ‘People are starting to leave,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay. Do you need anything?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I know you’re sad about Mom,’ I said. ‘I am too. I know I haven’t been around much lately.’

  ‘It’s because you had that fight with her,’ he said.

  This surprised me, although it shouldn’t have. Ronnie knew everything that went on in the house, and even though he was at work when Mom and I had had it out the last time, he would have picked up on Mom’s mood and behaviour. He would have known something was wrong.

  ‘We did have a fight,’ I said. ‘Did she say anything about it?’

  He shook his head. ‘I could tell she was mad.’

  ‘Yes, she was. But I don’t want you to be scared by any of this. Paul and I are going to figure out where you’re going to live now. We were thinking you could either move in with Paul, at his house, or he could move in here and live with you. Paul’s okay with either of those.’

  Ronnie remained silent for a few moments, then asked, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll still live in my apartment,’ I said. ‘It’s close to school, and all my things are there. But I’ll come stay here sometimes.’ His face showed nothing, so I upped the ante. ‘In fact, I promise I’ll come around more. It won’t be like the last six weeks or even the last year when you didn’t see as much of me. I promise.’

  His facial muscles relaxed a little. He almost smiled, and I took that as a moral victory.

  ‘Promise?’ he said.

  Before I could repeat the word, Paul appeared in the doorway, his face still drawn and tired-looking. ‘There are people here who want to see you,’ he said. ‘You should come talk to them.’

  The little crowd in Mom’s house had moved beyond hushed to dead silent. The appearance of two police detectives at the front door tended to have that effect. And make no mistake – even though Richland and Post wore plain clothes, their badges and guns hidden, everyone there knew they were cops. And if the guests weren’t fascinated by the fact that they were police, they could have just as easily been entranced by the physical differences between the odd couple at the door.

  Richland spoke first when he saw me. ‘Ms Hampton. Sorry to intrude, but we have some matters to follow up on.’

  ‘Now?’ I asked.

  ‘Is there someplace we could speak?’ Richland asked. He waved his hand at the perimeter of the room, a gesture that made sense for a change.

  I looked around. Everyone except Paul pretended they weren’t eavesdropping. Even Mrs Porter busied herself with wrapping a pie in cellophane. I lowered my voice. ‘Couldn’t this wait?’ I asked. ‘I can come talk to you later this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m not sure it can wait,’ Richland said.

  ‘Maybe you’d like to step onto the porch with us?’ Detective Post said, nodding towards the door. Before I answered, she opened it and started to go outside. I felt I had no choice but to follow.

  On the front porch, Richland stood to my left and Post to my right, leaving me in between them like a child. My eyes were level with the pocket protector Richland wore on his shirt. I noticed that, in addition to the dark sedan that I assumed belonged to the detectives, a Dover police cruiser was parked on the street. Two uniformed officers sat inside it with the windows rolled down, their faces obscured by the shade of the trees.

  Richland said, ‘We wanted to let you know that the medical examiner’s office has reached a preliminary conclusion concerning your mother’s death. It looks as though our initial concerns were correct – your mother died as the result of m
anual strangulation.’

  At first the words didn’t make sense to me. Richland might as well have been speaking to me in another language, and those two words – ‘manual strangulation’ – were some kind of incantation I simply couldn’t understand. But they rattled around in my brain and finally came to rest someplace where I could understand them. Reflexively, I lifted my right hand to my own throat.

  ‘Someone killed her,’ I said. ‘Mom.’

  ‘We’re sorry to have to bring you this kind of news,’ Richland said. ‘We were hoping to move ahead with some things relating to the case.’

  ‘Did someone rob her?’ I asked. My mind drifted away from the reality of what they had told me to speculation about why it had happened. ‘The house didn’t look like it had been broken into. She didn’t have anything worth stealing really.’ I tried to think of another explanation besides robbery, but I couldn’t. Mom didn’t do anything. She didn’t know anyone. She didn’t owe money or deal drugs. Why would someone come into her house and kill her?

  ‘We were hoping we could spend a little more time speaking to your brother,’ Richland said.

  His words brought me back to the present. And to the conversation from the other night when Richland seemed to be dancing around the edges of accusing Ronnie. No more dancing.

  ‘He wouldn’t hurt Mom,’ I said. ‘She was practically his whole life.’

  Post spoke up. ‘We don’t want you to think we’re going to be interrogating your brother. We really can’t do that if someone has any kind of disability. What we want to do is have him examined by a psychologist, someone who understands these issues.’

  ‘What issues?’ I asked.

  ‘We need to know if your brother is capable of hurting your mother,’ Richland said. ‘And then we need to know if he understands what that even means.’

  ‘He’s not an idiot,’ I said.

  ‘No one said he was,’ Post said. ‘But it’s best for everyone if we let professionals intervene at this stage.’

  ‘And what if I say no? What if I don’t let you near him?’

  Richland and Post exchanged a look. They’d already discussed this.

  Richland’s hands fluttered, but it was Post who answered the question. ‘It’s within your rights to deny us access to your brother, especially if you’re his legal guardian in the wake of your mother’s death. Are you?’

  ‘I think it’s my uncle,’ I said. ‘We haven’t gotten into all of that.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Post said, ‘we would then have to go to court and get an order allowing your brother to be turned over to our custody. It’s a lot easier this way.’

  ‘Easier for who?’ I asked. No one bothered to answer my question, so I said, ‘I want to talk to my uncle about this. He’s right inside, and I think he’d want to understand what’s going on.’

  Post and Richland exchanged the look again, and they both nodded.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Richland said, his eyes averted, ‘try not to take too long.’

  I stopped. ‘Maybe I need to call a lawyer,’ I said. ‘Is that what I should be doing? Calling a lawyer to protect my brother?’

  ‘That’s certainly your right,’ Post said. ‘Although no one is being charged here. But you do have the right to talk to a lawyer. Of course.’

  Richland nodded in agreement. Then he tapped the face of his watch.

  I wanted to ask him – and his pocket protector – what the damn rush was, but I kept my mouth shut and went inside.

  9

  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.