A Misfit’s Vision

Within a few minutes, I’m home and I dial my mom. To my surprise, she drops everything and promises to meet me at the police station. By the time we meet at the police station, they have already “processed” Rodney. One thing I must say about my mom: She goes right at the source. My mom walks right up to the receptionist’s window and peers around the office, tapping her foot impatiently. Finally, a portly, middle-aged cop comes to the window. “Can I help you, Ma’am?” My mom doesn’t mince words. “What are you doing with Rodney?” “He’s safe,” the officer says. “I’m not asking if he’s safe,” my mom says. “I assume he’s safe because that’s your job—public safety. I’m asking where he is so we can extract him from this . . . place.” Right now I am as proud of my mom as I have ever been. I have never seen her look so feisty. If the officer is offended, he certainly doesn’t show it. “He’s at Hillcrest. We’re waiting for one of his relatives to step forward.” “Hillcrest!” I blurt out. “That’s for retards!” I know I shouldn’t call them that, but somehow, all of a sudden, I put people with intellectual disabilities in a category different than Rodney’s. The officer just looks at me like: And your point is . . .? “Well,” my mom intervenes, “I’m, as you put it, I’m ‘stepping forward.’” The officer nods. “Wait here a second, Ma’am, while I go get the Captain.” My mom doesn’t say a word. I’ve known her long enough to know that she is fuming though. A few moments later, the officer returns and says we can go up to Hillcrest and talk to them up there. “Oh really?” my mom sneers. “I’ll be sure to stop by for your permission to go to Hillcrest again sometime.” And she stomps out. I’m right behind her . . . in every way. When we get to Hillcrest we get the same runaround, but my mom seems to be very comfortable in this kind of situation. “Where’s Rodney?” she demands of the woman at the desk, whoever she is, since my mom didn’t give her the opportunity to introduce herself. “You’re talking about the young man the police brought in just a minute ago?” My mom rolls her eyes. The woman at the desk grunts. “Well, we’re just getting him checked in.” “Checked in! This is not where he is staying.” Now, my mom’s face is red. The woman at the desk chuckles. “I assure you, he’s at the right place. He’s retarded, you know.” “How do you know he’s retarded? You have test scores?” The woman at the desk looks confused. Now, I can see my mom is gaining momentum. “Must I bring my lawyer? Rodney is an adult. He can stay anywhere he wants. And he doesn’t have to stay where he doesn’t want to.” The woman at the desk doesn’t budge. “Listen,” my mom says, “I know what you’re doing. This is nothing but an opportunity for you to fill a bed and make some money. My next stop is the newspaper and from there, my legislator. And I’ll make those stops only if I need to after I call my attorney.” I don’t know about you, but I’d really hate to be that poor woman right now. “Wait ‘til I get my supervisor, Ma’am,” she says. My mom looks triumphant. And I am feeling quite confident, myself. “Can’t anyone make a decision on their own?” I ask. My mom just looks at me as though she is saying: “Why do you think we’re here, Billy Boy?” I decide to keep my mouth shut and let the professional handle the situation. Before you know it, a couple of big fellows dressed in white uniforms appear with Rodney in tow. When Rodney sees us, he lights up. “Bill!” He runs to me and throws his arms around me. “I came to take care of you, Rodney, just like I promised,” I say. Then I look at my mom because I should have said, “We came to take care of you.” Once again, my mom surprises me. Her eyes are moist. I turn my attention to Rodney. I don’t want my mom to think I caught her in a moment of weakness. Neither do I want her to see me in a moment of weakness, to tell you the truth. “Do you want to sign yourself out and stay with us for a while, Rodney?” my mom says. Rodney looks at me. “We got an extra bedroom,” I say just as though I’m the man of the house. Rodney rubs the back of his neck vigorously. “What if the b-bad m-man comes b-back?” “What bad man, Rodney?” I ask. “The one that k-k-k—“ “Did you see him, Rodney?” “I heard him, and I heard the g-g-gun shots.” I have a number of questions, now! “Rodney, how did you . . . what did you do?” Rodney hangs his head. I see tears run down his cheeks. “It’s okay, Rodney,” I tell him. It takes a while but finally Rodney gets it out. “I . . . I . . . I ran. I ran, Bill.” I guess Rodney must have felt that I was telling him that whatever he did was okay when what I really meant was it was okay not to tell me what he did. My mom intervenes. “You won’t have to worry about the bad man, Rodney.” I don’t know how she can say that. I guess she is going with the murder-suicide theory. I, on the other hand, have a little more confidence in Rodney’s version of the event. But I am gaining confidence in my mom too. So, I let it go at that. Rodney seems reassured, which is a surprise to me. I thought that I was the only one who could have that effect on him.