The Last September: A Novel

“All right.”


“He’s got to be a threat,” Charlie said. “To himself or others. That’s the only way to get him into the hospital.”

“Okay,” I said again, not caring that Charlie didn’t seem to be factoring my safety into the equation, let alone his own. Charlie was never afraid of his brother, only for him. As he walked forward, up the hill toward Eli, I followed him.

Something had come over Charlie. A new energy, like an actor who’d stepped into character. “Eli,” he said. His voice was hard and loud enough to break through the monologue and cut it short. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“Home,” Eli said. “To see Mom.”

“You can’t see Mom anymore.”

By now I had stopped walking, standing back—close enough to see everything, but far enough to keep myself out of the way. Eli stood there, peering through the dark at Charlie. Silence for a moment, then a burst of laughter over something nobody had said.

“What’s so funny?” Charlie said.

Eli sidestepped to get around him. Charlie blocked his way.

“I need to see Mom,” Eli said. “You need to understand, it’s very important that I be there.”

The sentences sounded reasonable but not the tone, words bleeding together at first and then separate, staccato. Still, I saw Charlie falter, his demeanor slip just the barest bit toward normal. But when Eli started to walk forward, Charlie again gathered up his resolve.

“You can’t be there,” Charlie said. “No entrance for you, Eli. She doesn’t want you there.”

Eli didn’t respond. He just stood there, his brow furrowed. I couldn’t tell if the words had angered him, or he couldn’t understand what they meant. Charlie stepped forward. He reached out and pushed Eli, first on one shoulder, then the next. Eli backed up a pace or two, then turned and started to walk away, back up the steep road.

Charlie ran after him, catching up easily. I stood there, not moving, watching as Charlie shoved him again, a sharp and instigating jab at the shoulder. Eli didn’t respond, just kept walking, head down. Charlie stopped a moment, watching him go, then ran again. He jumped onto his back, placing his hands over Eli’s eyes. For a moment, Eli concentrated on trying to take those hands away; then he shrugged Charlie off, a hard movement. Charlie fell backward—no attempt to brace his own fall, no tension in his body. He just let himself slam to the pavement. I could hear the thwack of his head hitting blacktop.

All the houses around us were dark, stars obscured by low-hanging clouds. I stepped forward, not nearly fast enough, as Eli turned to see Charlie, there on the ground. He sunk down over him, straddling his body, and for a moment I thought he would start pummeling him. But he didn’t, he just sat there, with his arms outstretched, covering Charlie’s face with his hands, his fingers spread out so that Charlie could breathe.

“Eli,” I yelled, hoping somebody, somewhere, was close enough to hear. “Eli, get off him. Let him go.”

He didn’t say anything for a minute, didn’t move. Then he withdrew one hand and with the other stroked Charlie’s head, as if he could erase the damage. I knew Charlie was conscious because he lifted his hands and closed them around Eli’s arms, but he didn’t try to push him off. He didn’t try to fight him. Eli started speaking again, muttering, indecipherable words running into each other. The only ones I could make out were “Charlie” and “Mom.”