Disturbed

by Kevin O'Brien

  Molly shook her head. “Oh, that sneaky son of a. .”

  She stood up and peered out the window. She could see Chris at the end of the cul-de-sac, near the NO OUTLET sign. Molly felt a little sad pang in her stomach as she watched him. His head down as he walked, Chris pulled a tie from his jacket pocket and started to fix it around his neck.

  The bus was late.

  Chris stood at the stop, by the pole with the route table listed on a small placard. It was a chilly, overcast afternoon, but he wore his sunglasses anyway. He hiked up the collar of his jacket, and then felt his tie knot again. He figured it was crooked, but he could always straighten it out when he got to the funeral home.

  He wondered if he’d read the bus schedule wrong when he’d checked it online. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out the piece of scrap paper on which he’d written the bus numbers and pickup times. On the back of the scrap paper was a MapQuest printout to someplace in Mountlake Terrace. He turned it over and glanced at his notes. He had to make three transfers, and it would be a ninety-minute trip each way.

  He wondered if attending this wake was such a good idea. He didn’t want to upset Mr. Corson’s family, and chances were good he’d upset them — big-time. But he had to make amends and apologize to someone.

  He remembered trying to get ahold of Mr. Corson after he left school in December. But his guidance counselor, who had always been there for him, changed his cell phone number and e-mail address. Chris used to run the high school track alone late afternoons, hoping against hope that Mr. C would surprise him and show up. He knew it was a crazy notion.

  Mr. Corson once mentioned he sometimes ran on the Burke-Gilman Trail along north Lake Union in Seattle. So for three nights in mid-February, Chris took two buses to the University Bridge and then strolled along the trail in search of Mr. Corson. He didn’t spot him until the fourth trip.

  It was unseasonably warm, and the setting sun marked the sky with streaks of red, orange, and plum. The colors glistened off the lightly rippling water of Lake Union. The trail had a steady stream of people running, walking, and riding their bikes. Chris was momentarily distracted by a pretty blonde in a clingy black jogging suit, and he almost missed Mr. Corson — jogging a few feet behind her.

  “Chris?” he said, slowing to a stop.

  Chris gaped at him. He looked so different. He had a heavy five o’clock shadow, and his hair was longer. He appeared tired — and older, somehow. He wore a Huskies sweatshirt and black knee-length workout shorts.

  “Um, hi, Mr. C,” Chris murmured.

  Mr. Corson wiped the sweat from his brow. “What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to find you,” Chris admitted. “I–I feel awful about everything that happened.”

  Mr. Corson nodded. “So do I, Chris.” Frowning, he glanced over at the sunset and then sighed. “The big difference is you’re still in school and you still have a future — and me, well, I doubt I’ll be able to get a job in any school again. That’s a done deal.”

  Chris shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Mr. C,” he said meekly.

  Mr. Corson nodded toward a nearby park bench that faced the water. “C’mon, I need to sit down and take a break anyway. I’m so out of shape lately, it’s not even funny.”

  He lumbered toward the bench, and Chris walked alongside him. Mr. Corson brought his hand up toward Chris’s shoulder, but then he hesitated. Chris noticed him pull away slightly. They sat down — with a gap between them, big enough for another person.

  “I don’t really blame you for anything, Chris,” Mr. Corson said, staring out at the water. “It’s just that Courtney Hahn and her pals made all those accusations about me on Facebook and Rate-a-teacher-dot-com. So many parents — especially the Willow Tree Court group — they got all stirred up, and it was over absolutely nothing.”

  He leaned forward and ran a hand through his brown hair. “You know, there’s a big difference between folks who look out for the welfare of their kids, and the ones that spoil them rotten and let them get away with anything, simply because they’re their kids.” He let out a defeated laugh and shook his head. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is for teachers nowadays? We have to put up with kids texting and Twittering during class and then rating us online. We have these self-righteous parents calling us up and screaming at us about why their kid didn’t get a better grade or more time playing in a varsity game or more pages in the yearbook. Shit, I should be glad they fired me. I guess I’ll survive this. But your neighbors on Willow Tree Court and the ones like them, they’ll have to pay. They’ve raised a bunch of coddled, selfish brats who have an overblown sense of entitlement and absolutely no accountability. It’s going to bite them on the ass eventually. It reminds me of this saying my wife has: ‘Time wounds all heels.’”

  Dumbfounded, Chris just stared at him. He wasn’t quite sure what Mr. Corson meant. He’d never seen him this upset and angry before. Did Mr. Corson consider him a selfish, coddled brat?

  It turned darker — and colder — in a matter of minutes. Chris shivered and rubbed his arms to fight off the chill. “Is there anything I can do — anybody I can talk to — that will help you get your job back?”

  “No, it’s too late for that,” Mr. Corson sighed. “The damage has been done. When I think of poor Ian Scholl. .” He rubbed his eyes. “No, Chris, you can’t fix it. All the gossip and lies have taken their toll. My marriage is pretty much a shambles now — along with my finances. Plus my daughter, Tracy, this has really hurt her, and she’s been acting out in all sorts of — disturbing ways. I’m really worried about her. Fortunately, Todd is too young to understand what’s happening. I think maybe we’ll sell our home here and move to the East Coast, try to start over. . ”

  Biting his lip, Chris tried to think of something he could say to make Mr. Corson feel better — the way Mr. Corson had always seemed to know exactly what to say to him. The only thing that came to mind was one of Molly’s expressions: This too shall pass. But he was worried he might sound like a smart-ass. And besides, it hardly seemed true in this case.

  “You didn’t come here to listen to how shitty my life has become,” Mr. Corson said. “You came here because you feel bad and don’t want me blaming you. Well, I don’t blame you, Chris.”

  “But you got such a raw deal, Mr. C, and I feel like—”

  “You saw something that confused and disturbed you, so you went to your stepmother about it, and things just got out of hand. It wasn’t your fault, Chris.” He gave him a sad smile. “Even if I was mad at you for a while, I couldn’t stay angry at you. It sounds corny, but you’ve been like a son to me — and I’ll always think of you that way.”

  Chris could see the tears in his eyes. Mr. Corson cleared his throat and then suddenly stood up. “Listen, I should go. Obviously, your mom and dad don’t know you’re here meeting with me. If it ever got back to them — well, there’d be hell to pay for both of us.”

  Chris quickly got to his feet. “Can I get your new e-mail address or — or — or phone number? I don’t want this to be—”

  “No,” Mr. Corson said, cutting him off. “That’s a bad idea. Your parents wouldn’t want you communicating with me, Chris.” As he spoke, he kept glancing down at the ground — and not at him. “I don’t want it, either. I don’t think we should see each other again. . ”

  “Oh, c’mon, Mr. C, you can’t mean that.”

  But Chris saw the tired, defeated look on Mr. Corson’s face — and he knew his beloved guidance counselor meant every word.

  Chris’s heart sank. He went to hug him.

  “Don’t,” Mr. Corson muttered, backing away. “That’s what got me into trouble in the first place. You should know better than anybody.” He took a deep breath, then grabbed Chris’s hand and shook it. “Good-bye, Chris. Good luck.”

  “Bye,” Chris murmured. Dazed, he watched him turn and start toward the trail. “Mr. C!” he called, his voice cracking. “Mr. C, if it weren’t for you, I never would
have made it through the last year! Mr. Corson?”

  A few people on the track stared at him. But Mr. Corson didn’t even turn around. He started running down the trail, and never looked back.

  That was the last time Chris saw him.

  And now he was going to his wake.

  At least, he hoped to go — if the bus ever showed up. With a lump in his throat, Chris glanced at his wristwatch: 1:35. The bus was fifteen minutes late. He felt so lonely and lost. He hated going to this wake alone — and facing all those people who might hate him. He should have asked Elvis to come with him.

  He took off his sunglasses and anxiously peered down the street. No sign of the bus. But he recognized Molly’s dark green Saturn coming up the street. It was close enough that she probably saw him. And from what he could tell, she was alone in the car.

  His mouth open, he watched her pull over to the stop. With a hum, the front passenger window descended. Chris leaned toward the car and suddenly remembered he was wearing a tie. His hand came up to cover it, but too late. “Um, what’s going on?” he asked.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Molly said with a wry smile. “I like your tie.”

  Mortified, he took his hand away. He noticed she was wearing a dark, formal coat and a black dress. Her blond hair was all done up.

  “Where’s Erin?” he asked, still hovering close to the car.

  “I called Marlys Bourm to see if Erin could get a ride with Allyse. They just picked her up five minutes ago. She’s a little disappointed I’m not going to the recital, but she’ll survive. Besides, your mother will be there.”

  “So — where are you going?”

  “To a wake — with you,” Molly said. “C’mon, get in.”

  Chris stared at her and blinked. “How did you—”

  “I’ll tell you on the way,” she said, cutting him off. “Get in — before we cause a traffic jam.”

  Chris quickly opened the passenger door and climbed inside.

  “If you’re so determined to go to this wake, despite everything your father told you and all his warnings,” Molly said, glancing in the side mirror, “well, honey, you shouldn’t have to face that crowd all by yourself.”

  Chris felt the lump in his throat return. He was so grateful for the company, for the ride, and for her uncanny intuition. He almost went to hug her. But he held back and strapped himself in with the seat belt.

  “Thanks, Molly,” was all he said.

  “Okay, here’s what I think we should do,” Molly whispered to Chris as they stepped into Bonney-Watson Funeral Home’s elegant lobby. It resembled the foyer of a rich, old estate. Vases of flowers and Kleenex boxes were strategically placed on mahogany tables between cushioned chairs and love seats. “Once you see Mrs. Corson,” Molly continued, “we’ll wait until she’s alone or down to just one person talking to her — and then we’ll make our approach. Say what you need to say, and then let’s beat a hasty retreat.”

  Chris looked nervous. “Um, Molly, I–I don’t know what Mrs. Corson looks like. I’ve never met her.”

  She was thrown for a loop for a moment, but then she nodded and straightened his tie. “Well, okay, we’ll just figure it out. You look nice.”

  By a double doorway at their right, a small placard on the wall had CORSON spelled out in white plastic letters on a ribbed black velvet background. Molly and Chris stepped into the crowded room and made their way toward the closed bronze casket at the far end. Molly guessed there were about a hundred people attending the wake. She stopped and asked a skinny, twentysomething woman if she could point out Mrs. Corson for them.

  The woman nodded in the direction of the casket. “Mrs. Corson’s over there in the black dress.” she said. Then she moved on.

  “Well, that narrows it down to about twelve women in the general vicinity,” Molly muttered to Chris. “C’mon, let’s see if we can weed her out.”

  Hesitating, he glanced around the room. “I’m not so sure about this now.”

  “Well, personally, I agree with your dad,” Molly whispered. “It’s a bad idea, Chris. You have no idea how she’s going to react. My guess is we won’t be welcomed with open arms. So just say the word and we’re out of here. If you’re so determined to apologize to her, you can always do it in a sympathy card.”

  Biting his lip, he stood there for a few moments. He shifted his weight on one foot and then the other.

  Molly remembered over a year ago, going to that woman’s front door on Gunnison Street in Chicago and trying to apologize to her — only to end up with a face full of spittle for her efforts.

  “I vote we leave,” Molly said.

  But Chris shook his head. “No, I need to do this.” He started toward the casket.

  Molly followed him. She spotted a pale, dowdy, brown-haired woman in an unflattering wrap-around black dress. Two people were talking to her — and one of them was holding her hand in a consoling way. Beside her stood a bored-looking teenage girl with heavy Goth eye makeup and stringy black hair. She had on a black skirt and a ratty, black sweater with sleeves that came down to her fingers.

  “Do you think that might be her?” Molly whispered.

  “I–I guess,” Chris replied under his breath. “It sounds mean, but I always thought Mr. Corson’s wife would be really pretty. They have a daughter around my age — and she’s supposed to be kind of weird. So maybe. .”

  The two people moved away from the woman, and Molly meekly approached her. “Mrs. Corson?”

  The woman stared at her. “I’m Ms. Corson. I’m Ray’s sister, Sherry.” She held out her hand.

  Molly shook it. “Hello, Sherry. I’m so sorry for your loss. My name’s Molly Dennehy.”

  “This is my daughter, Serena. . ” Ray Corson’s sister started to gesture toward the teenage girl. But she hesitated. “Did you say Dennehy?”

  “Yes,” Chris piped up. “I’m Chris. Mr. Corson was my guidance counselor at James Monroe. I was hoping I could talk with Mrs. Corson. . ”

  “Dennehy,” the woman repeated, scowling at them. “I know that name. I’ve heard about you from Jenna.”

  “I’d like to talk with her — and — and — and explain some things,” Chris said in a shaky voice.

  Molly put a hand on his shoulder. She could feel him trembling.

  Ray Corson’s sister slowly shook her head. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here.”

  Molly cleared her throat. “If we could just talk to your sister-in-law. .”

  “Jenna is in Yakima with her sister,” Sherry whispered. “She’s in no condition to see anyone. . ”

  “Well, she went there before Uncle Ray was killed even,” the girl piped up. “She was ready to leave him—”

  “Serena, please,” her mother growled.

  “Well, she was!” the girl said, rolling her eyes. “And still, Uncle Ray left everything to her. Anyway, Aunt Jenna’s not even in Yakima right now—”

  “That’s enough, young lady,” her mother hissed. “Why don’t you see if Grandma Berry needs a glass of water or something?”

  The girl rolled her eyes again. “Excuse me for living,” she muttered, wandering off.

  “Do you happen to have her address in Yakima?” Molly asked. “Someplace we can send a card or flowers?”

  “Haven’t you done enough damage?” she asked. “For God’s sake, leave her alone. She’s been through hell, thanks to you people.”

  “Is — is their daughter okay?” Chris asked suddenly. “The last time I talked with him, Mr. Corson said he was worried about her, because she was having a lot of problems.”

  “Tracy ran away two months ago,” Sherry said. “She hasn’t been seen or heard from since. Now, if you don’t have any more questions, would you please leave? I have nothing more to say to you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Chris murmured. “I really am.”

  “My condolences,” Molly said to the woman. She gave Chris’s shoulder a squeeze. “C’mon, honey.”

  She ste
ered him toward the exit. She noticed Serena, the Goth girl, talking with an old woman. She gave Chris a crooked smile, but he seemed oblivious. Molly waited until they reached the lobby before she patted him on the back. “Are you okay?” she whispered. “I know that was rough. But you have to remember, people say things they don’t really mean when they’re grieving.”

  He jerked away from her. “Would you leave me alone?” he grumbled.

  Perplexed, Molly backed off. “Fine. . ”

  “I’m going to take the bus home, okay?”

  “Why? Chris, honey, that doesn’t make sense. Are you upset at me about something?”

  Chris hurried for the door and ducked outside. Molly went after him. He paused by the entry — under an awning that was flapping in the wind. He put on his sunglasses.

  “Chris, what’s wrong?” Molly asked him. “Are you angry with me?”

  “You’re the one who insisted we go to the principal about Mr. Corson.” He shook his head. “I never should have told you what I saw. None of it would have happened if I’d just kept my mouth shut.”

  “You’re blaming me?” Molly asked. “For this?” She motioned toward the glass double doors to the funeral parlor. “Chris, Mr. Corson isn’t dead because of us. What happened back in December—”

  “Leave me alone!” he yelled, cutting her off. “God!”

  A passerby on the sidewalk stared at them. Chris glanced down at the pavement. “I’m taking the bus back,” he said quietly.

  Molly sighed. “Suit yourself. But can I say something?”

  “What?” he muttered.

  “Why is it, Chris, every time I start to feel we’re really connecting, you pull the rug out from under me? And once again, I’m just this stranger you resent, living in your mother’s house.”

  “Pull the rug out from under me,” he repeated. “Is that another one of your expressions? Because I don’t understand it.”