Page 14 of The Happy Month

“I killed her,” he said, as though that was apparent.

Sheila sighed, frustrated and upset. “I’m going to step out for another cigarette. I’ll be on the front steps when you’re finished.” She kissed Patrick on his forehead, saying, “Goodbye Patrick. I’ll be back soon.”

I waited until she left the room, then I said, “You haven’t touched your lunch.”

He gave his lunch the raspberry. It looked like meatloaf with gravy, mashed potatoes and green beans. On the side was a Jell-O cup and a tiny milk carton. His review might be deserved.

“Do you like Mexican?”

His eyes lit up.

“If I come again, I’ll bring you tacos.”

“Come back.”

He stared at me for a long moment. For a moment I felt like he really saw me, though I wasn’t sure what he saw. He licked his lips.

“I want Ivan. Where is he?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

That made me wonder if Ronnie’s gaydar had been on point. And if he and Ivan were lovers, well, what would that have to do with Vera’s death? And Patrick thinking he was the one who killed her?

Now he was looking at the television again. It was obvious he couldn’t follow whichever soap opera it was. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could. I decided I’d gotten as far as I could. Which was not very far. I tried one more question. “Patrick, how did you kill Vera?”

That seemed to confuse him. Then he said, “It was my fault.”

And there it was. Something a little bit different. It was his fault Vera was dead. He killed her. But did he murder her? Or did he just feel responsible for her death?

“Why was it your fault?”

“I killed Vera.”

“But you didn’t. You just said it was your fault. That’s different.”

“I did it. I killed her.”

“It was your fault. But you didn’t actually kill her, did you?”

More confusion.

“Who actually killed her?”

He flinched, as though I might hit him, and said, “Me. It was me.”

I thought about asking more questions but, honestly, I wasn’t getting anywhere. I said good-bye and left the room.

Working my way back to the lobby, I found Sheila standing near the receptionist’s desk with a short, wide woman holding a clipboard. Sheila was a bit red in the face. She was saying, “I don’t know what I can do about it. He barely knows who I am. I don’t think I can influence his behavior.” She glanced at me and said to the woman, “Mrs. Carper, this is Dominick Reilly.”

“Hello,” she said.

“Apparently, Patrick has been touching the nurses inappropriately. They want us to do something about it, but… he doesn’t listen to me. I don’t know what I’d say if he could understand what I was saying. Do you think if a man said something…”

It took me a moment to realize she meant me. “Oh.” I thought about it, I didn’t really want to walk all the way back there. Then I had a hunch. To Sheila I said, “Do you mind if speak with Mrs. Carper alone?”

“Please. I’ll be outside.” She walked away.

“So, Mrs. Carper, can you tell me, are we talking about the female nurses or the male?”