Now, I wasn’t sure what to think. Had he left us here because he cared for us, because he wanted to get us out of the way of the media? Was he concerned about our safety? Or was there another reason?
The stay at the motel was a disaster. OK, so it wasn’t quite a disaster. To be a disaster something has to happen. Nothing happened at the motel. We left that all behind. What made the motel a disaster was that nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.
My mother sat in the motel, chain smoking, staring at the wall. When she wasn’t staring at the wall, she was watching TV or huddled at the pay phone in front of the lobby. I wouldn’t find out until we got home that during one of those calls my mother’s employer told her that her services would no longer be needed. The days at the motel were just one big boring routine. I would go each day to the corner store and get food and the newspaper. I would read the newspaper on a bench on the way back to the motel and then throw it away. I didn’t want my mother reading it. It was bad enough that she watched the news each night. The papers had dubbed my brother the “Sawyer Shooter”. My brother was putting Sawyer on the map but not the way it wanted to be put on the map, I was sure of that. Headlines read things like, “Witnesses Say Sawyer Shooter Silent During Attack” and “Police Find Ammunition and Guns in Sawyer Shooter’s Home.” An editorial title read, “Sawyer Shooter: Crazy or Evil?” I read the letters to the editors. They called for New York to bring back the death penalty. Later in the week, when Naomi Tillson was buried, the headline read, “Sawyer Sweetheart Laid to Rest.” The paper showed her father, on crutches, weeping at the graveside. Her mother veiled, Roddy staring straight ahead, granite-faced. For Mr. Moretti’s funeral, the entire football team came out and wore their jerseys. The picture showed them, I recognized most of them, huddled with drawn faces. Janet Turback was recovering at home. Craig Freehold, while they were able to save his hand, would most likely never be able to use that hand for anything ever again. He, too, was recovering at home, though he was pictured at Mr. Moretti’s funeral with a cast and sling. The end of the newspaper article said, “Calls to the Woodard home go unanswered.”
It had always been my brother, not my mother, who would tell me, “Gus, you gotta let them go,” when I brought home fireflies or pollywogs. If I found a spider or a wasp in the house, Danny got a paper cup and took them outside and freed them. When I was scared at night, and I think I was scared a lot after my father died, I’d go to Dan’s room. He would give me a flashlight and I would look at his comic books under the blanket. We didn’t talk much, Dan and me, but Dan had been there for me, quietly, making me feel safe. I tried to reconcile my brother, the Danny I knew, with the newspaper’s Sawyer Shooter. I couldn’t. They had to be two different people.
I tried to call Stacey to tell her we wouldn’t be going to the movies on Friday.
“May I please speak to Stacey,” I said politely when her father picked up the phone.
“Who is this?” he barked.
“It’s Gus.” There was a long silence and I added, “Gus Woodard.”
“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.
“C’mon, Mom, c’mon,” I urged.
My mother bent, and curled herself into a ball. I helped her out the window. As I followed her out onto the porch roof, I glanced back and could see the smoke begin to rush under the door, quickly filling the room. The porch roof was not hot, though smoke was rising rapidly to where we were. The night was warm. We could hear the sound of the night insects mixed with the crackling of the fire.
“I can’t do it,” Mom whispered.
“Yes, you can.” I grabbed her arm.
We scooted on our butts over to the edge of the porch roof. Luckily, the pitch of the front porch was not steep.
“I’m going to help you,” I tried to sound even, “I’m going to hold onto you. It’s not really that far of a drop. When you hit the ground, roll.”
“I...” she started.
“Turn around, lie on your stomach,” I ordered like Uncle Elliot. Somehow, I knew she'd listen.
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