Page 10 of Unhinged

I nod toward the hallway. “I’ll see he gets to bed. Which one is his room?”

His mood swings to petulance. “You will not, and none of your damn business, Vaughn!”

“It’s the first door on the right.”

Rod bobs his head as if he’s also getting directions. He then goes without prompting, albeit slow as rush hour traffic. I follow him down the hallway filled on one side with pictures of Greg Rodwell throughout various times of his life, from chubby baby to rail-thin man in college. The other side is a pale blonde girl, often displaying colorful streaks in her hair, which I know is Eden. Even sick, she was a striking young lady.

Rod stomps into the room, swiping his hand on the wall but missing the light switch four or five times before I reach in, flipping it on. He snaps, “I had it.”

“I see that.” I shut the door, and he staggers around like a newly caged bird. However, doing so, he falls to the bed. Lying there, he pries off his sneakers, using the opposite foot as leverage. He then moves up the bed until his head lands on a pillow.

Seeing a chair in the corner, I sit and watch him for several minutes. As he silently lays there, most likely near sleep, I observe his room. Music posters, an old tube TV on a dresser, suitcases and duffel bags, and the bed with the blue plaid comforter complete his vagabond style.

Dr. Abramson peeks into the doorway. Worry traces her face, and it’s obvious Rod got his dark hair and eyes from her. She whispers, “This isn’t like him. He doesn’t drink like this.”

I shake my head, at a loss, as well. However, I’m inclined to think it has everything to do with the party and a certain married woman. “I wish I knew,” I tell her, omitting those details. They’re his to tell, and I don’t know the facts. Yet.

“Thank you for bringing him home.”

“Of course.” Rod stirs on the bed, and I move his shoes so he doesn’t trip over them in the morning.

Rod mumbles, “The fucking light.”

Dr. Abramson sighs from his language but turns off the light, and Rod says more incoherently.

I ask, “What is it, Rod?”

He slurs, “It’s all shit. Why?”

I look toward his mother’s quizzical expression and smiling, I nod for her to leave me with him. She glances at Rod before backing out of the room and closing the door. Removing my coat, I deposit it over the end of his dresser, next to the TV. Leaning against the wall, I cross my arms. The movement rouses Rod, and he blinks, looking at me as if I’m a stranger. “Why are you in my room still, Mr. Peanut? You can tap dance right the fuck out of here. Don’t forget your baton.”

“It’s a cane.”

“Fuck you and the cane.”

“No, thank you.”

Rod fidgets frustrated and restless, but instead of yelling at me, he shakes his head against the pillow. “Go back to Richmond. I’m beyond help.”

“I don’t believe that statement. You shouldn’t either.”

“You weren’t there.”

“Where?” He doesn’t elaborate, so I ask, “Did something occur at the Halloween party?”

“No. Almost.” He sighs, and his blinking eyes water as he whispers, “Yes.”

I nod to keep him going, but he doesn’t. I must tread lightly, or he’ll shut down. I abhor that I’m having this conversation with him. He’s inebriated, but he’ll never share the truth sober, and it’s imperative I know what I’m up against in my quest to help him. Despite his boorish exterior, Greg Rodwell is a brilliant young man with analytical thinking and reading people. He’s destined for greatness if he gets out of his own way. I have plans for him.

“I saw you dancing. Is that what you’re referencing?”

Rod laughs, but it turns into moaning. “Dancing. If only.”

“You danced with Ali. Did things go further?”

“A little. But she made me do it.” His face and voice harden. “I’m used to that.”

“You did something you didn’t want to do?”

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