His Name Is Ron Read Free

fell into shock, stunned by a blast of disbelief and pain so great that the only thing I could do was push it down and bury it somewhere deep inside. I could not face this reality.
    â€œHow do you know?” I asked quickly. “Oh my God! Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
    â€œYes, we’re sure.”
    â€œHow do you know? Maybe it isn’t him.”
    â€œNo, we’re sure.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œBecause of his driver’s license.”
    Patti gripped my shoulder and held her other arm around my waist. She was leaning against me, shaking. I felt the blood rush from my face and my body go rigid. A question stumbled out of my mouth: “Do I need to be there? Do you need me there?”
    â€œNo.”
    The moment blurred. I was numb. Everything was going blank. Suddenly the receiver was back in its place on the kitchen wall. Patti and I held on to one another, quivering. Muffled screams came from places deep inside of us, places that were totally alien and uncomprehending.
    â€œWhat happened?” Patti asked.
    â€œRon’s been killed,” I said, the words choking in my throat.
    â€œAre they sure? Oh my God. I can’t believe it. What happened?”
    â€œThey’re sure,” I said.
    It was final exam week, so when Michael had come home from school about 12:30, he was tired and had taken a long nap. It was about five o’clock when he woke up and hopped into the shower.
    He had just gotten back to his room, wrapped in a towel, when he heard a knock on the door. He thought that he heard weird, hysterical laughter coming from the hallway.
    The door opened. Patti stood there, her face ashen. Tear-drenched mascara tracked down her cheeks. Michael had never, ever, seen his mother look so shaken.
    â€œMom, what’s the matter?” he asked.
    Patti put her arms around her son and worked hard to get the words out. “Ron was murdered,” she said.
    Michael’s face stiffened. His brain could not accept the words that his ears had just heard. “Ron who?” he asked.
    â€œRon! Your brother!”
    A car accident? Michael wondered. No, Mom had said he was “murdered.” Michael could not comprehend that. Who would want to kill his brother? No one. “There’s no way Ron was murdered!” he yelled.
    But Patti just sobbed on Michael’s shoulder and nodded her head.
    Michael lost control. He pulled away and threw himself onto his bed and began to weep. Patti tried to embrace him, but he pushed her aside. He leaped from the bed and ran from the room. He found himself in the bedroom immediately at the top of the curving staircase, the room that had once belonged to Ron. He slammed the door and sat on the edge of Ron’s bed. All he could do was cry. And cry. And cry.
    Patti decided, for the moment, to leave Michael alone. Grasping the railing, she stumbled down the stairs to rejoin me.
    I was in the family room, pacing. Patti noticed that my face was as stone, cold white as the shirt I was wearing. She pulled me down onto the large, beige sectional sofa, and we held tightly to one another. Both of us were suspended in a state of total horror and disbelief.
    I had turned on the television. A still photograph of my son filled the screen. It was taken from his photo ID. Ron? Murdered? The words screamed, then echoed and reverberated in my head.
    We could not be sure, but Patti mentally scrambled to put together the sequence of events. Obviously the media had been waiting for word that we had been notified. The authorities could have been trying to contact us all day, but did not know how. Had they asked John DuBello at Mezzaluna to leave a message for us? After speaking with Patti, DuBello must have reported to the coroner’s office that someone was home because now, only moments after the cold, cursory notification was made, an onslaught of media attention began.
    â€œOh my God,” Patti whispered suddenly, “Kim!