Ajar (4 page)

“You little son-of-a-bitch,” he spat into
the phone, “don’t you ever call here again, do you hear me? And
don’t you ever come near my daughter, do you understand me? I’ll
kill you if I catch you anywhere near her. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mr. Hollinder,” I said to the dial
tone.

I also called the A&P. I wanted to tell
them I still wanted the job when I came back.

“I’m sorry, Gus,” Mr. Whitley, the manager,
said to me. “We’ve hired someone else.”

So, this was my summer. My life had become a
suspended animation. We sat in that motel room and did nothing. And
I mean nothing. Mom and I only said one syllable words to each
other. She’d watch TV but nothing I wanted to watch. She’d put on
soap operas about people I didn’t know or care about or, worse yet,
she’d watch game shows with people jumping all around and excited
over winning something stupid. Mom would fall asleep, sometimes in
the middle of the day, with the TV on. Sometimes I’d switch it off
but I didn’t want the silence either. Mom stopped getting dressed
and sat on the bed all day in her bathrobe. I wanted to ask my
mother about Dan, about how something like this could happen. But I
couldn’t formulate the words and she wouldn’t have been able to
answer. She was dazed, stunned, and motionless. I would go for long
walks, forays into the unknown neighborhoods. I liked walking in
neighborhoods where no one knew me. It made me feel normal, if just
only for an hour or two. Mom would say, “Don’t be out too long.”
But she would always be asleep when I returned, usually with a
bottle of whiskey, opened, beside the bed.

Chapter
Six

A week later, Uncle Elliot came back to get
us. He was as silent as we were. We put our suitcases into the
trunk of his car. My mother had aged a decade in a week. Her skin
looked wrinkled and sallow. Her hair hung limp. She shuffled when
she walked and her shoulders sagged. Mom had never been much of a
talker but now she was mute. I felt like I was living someone
else’s life. I knew what Danny had done. I had seen the newscasts
and read the papers but somehow these events didn’t seem to be
happening to me, to my family. It was as if I were reading about
someone else’s family. My life was crazy, out of control,
irrevocably changed and I had not done one blessed thing.

When we arrived back at 35 Mill Street,
there was a black car in the driveway. A man with a briefcase and a
suit stepped out as we pulled in. I was glad to see all the media
was gone. I also noticed our front window was smashed. My mother
didn’t seem to notice anything.

“Hello,” the man introduced himself, “I’m
Mark Richards, Daniel’s public defender.”

My mother took his hand limply. Uncle Elliot
grabbed it firmly grunted like he usually does. Mr. Richards turned
to me.

“Hi” he said, “you must be Daniel’s
brother.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“This is Agustin,” my mother said, putting
her hand on my shoulder. She smiled but it wasn’t a real smile, it
was an attempt at a smile.

“Hello, Agustin.” He extended his hand. I
took it. It felt clammy and slightly sticky.

He looked very young, even to me. He didn’t
look any older than Dan. He had smooth, creamy skin and short brown
hair. He looked a little awkward in his suit, a little nerdy as if
the suit didn’t quite fit right. He had a red and blue striped tie
and I noticed a stain just above the tie tack.

“May I come in and speak to you about
Daniel?” His voice was cheery and bright as if he were here to sell
us insurance.

“Please, come in,” mom said taking on a tone
of hospitality. But she did not sound warm. She sounded
mechanical.

We all walked into the house like we were
mourners following pallbearers on the way to the cemetery. There
was glass strewn across the living room floor and a brick in the
middle of the mess.

“Oh my,” Mom said absently and went to the
kitchen to get a broom and dustpan. Uncle Elliot showed Mr.
Richards a chair. He sat down and we all waited for my mother to
clean up the glass. It seemed to take a very long time as she
hunted for each shard. The silence between us all was heavy and
awkward.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Mom
asked Mr. Richards like he was a houseguest or something, “Tea?
Coffee?”

“Oh, no thank you, Mrs. Woodard. I’m fine. I
just had lunch,” he said smiling up at her.

Mom looked around to see if Uncle Elliot or
I wanted anything. I don’t know if my mom was so out of it she
didn’t know what was going on or she didn’t want to hear what Mr.
Richards had to say. Either way, she was stalling.

Uncle Elliot ordered, “Sit down, Helen,” and
she did.

Mr. Richards put the briefcase on top of the
coffee table. He pulled out some manila files. He cleared his
throat.

“I have been assigned your son’s case,” he
said.

“How is Daniel?” Mom gushed.

“Please, Helen, let the man speak,” Uncle
Elliot barked.

“He is being held in solitary confinement.”
Mr. Richards tried to take on a professional tone, but something
about him made it sound like he was playing at being a grownup. “He
is on 24-hour suicide watch...”

“Oh my,” gasped my mother, her hands flying
up to her throat.

I had read that in the paper, the fact that
Daniel was on suicide watch. I hadn’t believed it. I thought it
just had been media hype. Danny? Suicide? Why would Danny want to
kill himself? Then I thought about Naomi’s teeth and blood and
brains splattered on the wall of the pharmacy.

Mr. Richards was still speaking, “...and we
have had him evaluated, several times, by a doctor.”

“When can I see him?” Mom blurted.

“Helen, be quiet,” Uncle Elliot grunted at
her.

“Mrs. Woodard, you won’t be able to see him
as long as he is still in solitary confinement. I can take messages
for you to him. But for your safety, and his, you won’t be able to
see him until after the hearing.”

“What hearing?”

“I have requested a competency hearing.”

My mother nodded, closed her eyes.

“What is that? What’s a competency hearing?”
I asked.

Uncle Elliot was about to quiet me but Mr.
Richards began before Uncle Elliot could say anything, “It’s a
hearing to determine if Daniel can stand trial, if he is well
enough to aid in his defense.”

I nodded, but I didn’t fully understand.
What did that mean “to aid in his defense”?

“After his hearing,” Mr. Richards went on,
“I suspect he will be transferred to Riverview Psychiatric in
Hutton because I don’t believe he will be found competent. Do you
know where that is?”

Mom nodded her head. Even I had heard of
Riverview Psychiatric. Riverview Psychiatric Hospital was the huge
state hospital for the mentally ill—the crazies—on the other side
of the Hudson River. “You belong in Riverview”, kids would taunt
each other. Even I’d said once or twice, “You should be in
Riverview” in jest. Now my brother was going to really be in
Riverview. Crazy people went to Riverview. Was Danny crazy?

“After he is settled there, we can arrange
for a visit.”

Everyone sat quietly for a long while. My
mother’s head bobbed up and down.

“How is he doing?” my mother finally asked,
her voice barely above a whisper, “I mean, how is he
really
doing? Can you tell me anything?”

Mr. Richards cleared his throat, fidgeted a
little in his chair, “I’m not going to lie to you. He’s not doing
very well. He’s delusional. He’s hearing voices. He believes that
he’s killed some sort of demon. He has been very uncooperative. He
refuses to attend to his own hygiene. He’s been aggressive. He has
refused to speak with me. Even when I am allowed visits, he doesn’t
speak. I’m not a doctor, but it seems fairly clear that Daniel is
having some sort of psychotic break. This is why it is very
important to have him evaluated by a psychiatrist. I believe only a
doctor can help Daniel at this point.”

My mother’s eyes were filling with
tears.

My brother, Danny? Aggressive? He killed a
demon? I was in some sort of horrible nightmare. Something was
wrong, terribly wrong. My brother would never do anything like
this. It had to be a mistake, a misunderstanding. They must have
the wrong guy. Then I thought of my brother, shuffling down the
hallway, his hair matted, his face gray from being unwashed,
mumbling.

Uncle Elliot grunted and then asked, “What
about legally? What’s going to happen to him?”

“He’s already had a preliminary hearing.
That’s where the charges are read to him and he pleads. He was
unable to attend that hearing because he was uncooperative. I
entered a plea of not guilty on his behalf. He’s been charged with
multiple offences, the most serious being first-degree murder and
second-degree manslaughter. I suspect that at tomorrow’s hearing he
will be found incompetent and he will be sent to Riverview
Psychiatric until he is found competent to stand trial.”

“When will that be?” my uncle asked.

“I don’t know. That will be up to a doctor.”
There was a long pause and then Mr. Richards went on, “You
understand that he has killed two people. Incompetent or not, he
probably is looking at a very long confinement, either in a
psychiatric facility or a prison.”

“How long?” Uncle Elliot’s eyes bore
straight into Mr. Richards.

“Most likely, the rest of his life.”

All the air was suddenly sucked out of the
room. My mother began to weep softly, and Uncle Elliot grunted. I
stood up.

“He didn’t mean to do this!” I was shouting.
“It was an accident. There is something wrong with my brother.
Can’t they see that? He didn’t mean to kill anyone. Dan wouldn’t
kill anyone. You have to do something!”

I was looking around the room from face to
face. No one would look at me except Mr. Richards.

“Sit down,” Uncle Elliot commanded.

“No, it’s all right,” Mr. Richards said and
raised his hand to silence my uncle. He looked up at me. “I’m very
sorry but whether your brother did this “on purpose” or because he
is very ill, he is still responsible for the death of two innocent
people. If the court finds him incompetent to stand trial, he will
have to get treatment until he is able to stand trial. At that
time, his guilt or innocence will be determined by a jury. If a
court finds that he is not responsible for his actions because of
his illness, commonly called the “insanity defense” then he will
have to go to a facility where he can receive supervision and
treatment. He will have to remain in that facility until it’s
determined that he will never again harm another person.”

“He must be insane,” I said speaking to no
one in particular. Of course he had to be insane. There could be no
other possible reason for my brother to have done this.

“I have spoken informally with a doctor.
Right now, it looks like he will get a diagnosis of paranoid
schizophrenia.” He turned back to my mother. “Do you know what that
is? Have your heard of it before?”

“I’ve heard of it.” My mother’s voice was
barely above a whisper. She lit a cigarette and as her hand moved
the smoke curled around in the space in front of her. “I don’t know
what it is but...” she trailed off.

“I will try to make arrangements for you to
speak to his court-appointed doctor.” He made a notation in one of
the folders, “Now, while I’m here, I will need the names of his
family physician and any other doctors or therapists he might have
seen. Anything like that.”

I turned away from everyone and walked out
on the front porch while my mother rooted around for papers to give
the lawyer. I just couldn’t take that room anymore with the lawyer
saying all those things about my brother. I needed air. There was
some broken glass on the porch and I pushed it with my toe until it
fell down between the boards on the porch. A car drove by, and the
horn blasted. I couldn’t hear all the words but I saw the gesture,
the middle finger, and heard the word, “Murderer.” I went back
inside. Mr. Richards was getting ready to leave. The phone rang.
Uncle Elliot picked it up.

“Fuck you, you bastards,” he growled into
the phone.

“Change your number,” Mr. Richards said.
“Get an unlisted one. It’s going to be a rough ride for a
while.”

Mr. Richards pulled out of the driveway.
Before he left us, Uncle Elliot fixed the front window with some
spare glass and putty from the shed. My mother pulled all the
drapes and, there we were, alone in an empty house.

Chapter
Seven

I woke suddenly. I was coughing. It was dark
and I couldn’t see anything. I could smell the smoke though. It was
thick and heavy in my throat. I reached for the light next to my
bed but it wouldn’t come on. I stood, and staggered to the bedroom
door. I wrenched it open. Outside in the hall, orange flames were
working their way up the stairway. The air was hot and burned my
throat.

“Mom!” I screamed, “Mom!”

The floor was hot on my bare feet. I ran to
her room, and pushed the door open.

“Mom!” I screamed at her sleeping form. She
rolled over, still sleepy, uncomprehending.

“Mom, the house is on fire! C’mon.”

I went to her, pulling her from the bed. She
rose in a daze, her hair wild around her head.

“My God” she gasped. I pulled her into the
hall. The air was acrid, thick and hot. I coughed uncontrollably. I
felt lightheaded. My mother, in her daze, turned to the stairs.

“No!” I cried grabbing her. We wouldn’t be
able to get down the stairs. I pushed her into my brother’s room,
slamming the door behind us. The room was barren, empty, even the
mattress was bare. The police had taken everything. I raced to the
window. I fumbled with the lock before I could get it open. I
lifted the sash. Our house was old and the windows were wide. We’d
be able to climb out onto the porch roof.