Poor Charlie seemed almost as devastated as she was when Doug had pulled away. On some level, Charlie must have known he was the reason things didn’t work out there. He started drinking more as a way of self-medicating. He even showed up drunk and surly to the Jewel, insisting on wearing his Hells Angels jacket in the store, because his checkout stand was by the automatic doors, and it was cold out. Rather than fire him, the ever-patient manager at the Jewel cut back Charlie’s hours.
To keep him busy on his new days off, Molly enrolled him in a creative writing class at Central Evanston Township Community College. His instructor was an author Molly had never heard of, Nick Sorenson, who published one novel, The Eskimo Pie Breakfast. Molly found his e-mail address in the college catalog’s course description. She wrote to him about Charlie:
. . He’s on medication for bipolar disorder, and may seem a little odd, but he’s very sweet. He’s really looking forward to your class & is hard at work on a short story. If Charlie should disrupt the class or act inappropriately in any way, please don’t hesitate to contact me by phone or e-mail. Thank you very much & I’ll have to buy THE ESKIMO PIE BREAKFAST!
Sincerely,
Molly Wright
Nick Sorenson’s e-mail reply came the next day:
Dear Molly,
Thanks very much for your heads-up about your brother. My favorite niece has special needs, like Charlie. So I’m pretty familiar with the struggles & challenges. I’m looking forward to having Charlie in my creative writing class.
Good luck tracking down a copy of The Eskimo Pie Breakfast. It’s out of print. I think there are some cheap, used copies on Amazon.com. Literally, dozens of people have read it!
Sincerely,
Nick Sorenson
Molly looked up Nick Sorenson, Author on Google.com, and came across a good review of his book, and a photo of him. The three-quarter-profile author portrait showed a trim, thirtysomething man with dark, wavy hair and a relaxed smile. His tie was loosened, and he stood in front of Buckingham Fountain. She knew it was silly, but she didn’t have a crush on anyone, and he seemed like a good candidate — even if it was just a fantasy crush. It would be a nice change of pace if she found a boyfriend because of Charlie instead of losing one because of him.
Molly ordered a used copy of The Eskimo Pie Breakfast on Amazon.com.
She took it as a good sign when Nick Sorenson sent her a friendly, unsolicited e-mail after Charlie had had his first class with him:
Dear Molly,
I know you were concerned about how your brother would get along in my creative writing class. Today, he read his short story, which was rather violent, but entertaining. He seemed to have some difficulty taking criticism of his work during the critique session. But I was impressed by the way Charlie praised a story by one young woman when it didn’t go over well with the others. It was very chivalrous of him. I think he’ll do all right in the class.
Sincerely,
Nick Sorenson
PS: Charlie proudly mentioned to me that you’re an artist & have sold your paintings in a few local galleries. I never miss a First Thursday art walk. Keep me posted on any upcoming exhibits of your work, Molly. I like to support local writers & artists!
She couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Nick was a bit interested in her, too. She asked Charlie about the piece he wrote. He bragged that everyone loved his story, but he didn’t want to show it to her yet, because it was part of a novel he planned on publishing. “It’ll probably be a bestseller,” he said.
When she asked about Mr. Sorenson, all Charlie said was, “He’s pretty cool.”
Charlie says you’re “pretty cool,” she wrote in her e-mail to Nick that night. Molly mentioned she’d shown a few paintings in participating First Thursday art walk galleries, and she’d ordered The Eskimo Pie Breakfast on Amazon.
I could only find a used copy, which means you won’t get a dime out of it. So I hope you’ll let me treat you to coffee sometime. I like supporting local writers & artists, too!
Molly thought she was being pretty damn clever with the oh-so-casual way she’d asked him out. But two days went by without a response. In the meantime, Charlie had had his second class with Nick Sorenson. The reply finally came on that third day:
Dear Molly,
Thanks so much for buying my book. It doesn’t matter if it’s used. I just like the idea that my work is still out there being read.
J. Simmons Gallery & Stafford-Lombard Gallery are 2 of my favorites. Your work must be quite extraordinary if it’s displayed in those galleries.
Would it be possible to get together for lunch or coffee on Monday? The cafeteria here at the school isn’t bad, and as you must know, Charlie seems to like it. Are you available around lunchtime on Monday?
Sincerely,
Nick
Molly wondered what he meant about Charlie liking the cafeteria. She casually asked her brother where he had lunch on the days he had writing class. “The school cafeteria, of course,” he said, looking at her as if it was the dumbest question he’d ever heard. “They’ve got excellent food.”
Molly found someone to fill in for her at T.G.I. Friday’s and e-mailed Nick that she could meet him in the school cafeteria at one. She wondered if this would be purely social or if Nick wanted to talk about Charlie. Maybe he expected Charlie there, too. It wasn’t quite clear. No, it’s a date or at least a semi-date, she told herself. Charlie worked at the Jewel on Mondays. Even if it was just a cafeteria in a community college, she was considering this a date.
Molly received her copy of The Eskimo Pie Breakfast from UPS late Monday morning. She brought it along when she caught the El to Evanston. The overcast skies looked ominous, as if it might snow at any minute. While waiting for a cab at the Evanston station, Molly decided to call Charlie at the Jewel, just to double-check that he wasn’t part of this lunch with Nick.
“You want to talk to Charlie Wright?” asked the woman who picked up the phone at the store.
“Yes, this is his sister,” Molly said into her cell. She covered her other ear as the El started up with a roar.
“Charlie quit,” the woman told her. “He hasn’t been here in — like — two weeks. In fact, we have his last paycheck here. Do you want us to mail it to him?”
Baffled, Molly asked to talk to Charlie’s boss. He got on the line and confirmed that Charlie had given his notice: “He just waltzed in here late two Fridays ago and said he was finished,” the man told her. “He said he’s going to publish a book — or something like that.”
Molly wondered what the hell Charlie was thinking. Where had he been every workday for the last two weeks?
No cabs were stopping, and while she stood there stranded, it started to snow. By the time a taxi pulled over, and she ducked into the backseat, Molly was frazzled. She remembered what Nick had said in his e-mail: The cafeteria here at the school isn’t bad, and as you must know, Charlie seems to like it. She figured her brother must have been hanging out at the community college’s cafeteria all this time, maybe writing his stories or chatting up the other students and the cafeteria workers. He had a way of starting conversations with total strangers wherever he went. About one time in twelve he’d hit the jackpot and find someone who actually didn’t mind talking with him.
She was furious at Charlie for quitting his job and not telling her. Plus the people at the Jewel had been so good to him. Not many places would hire someone like Charlie. What was she going to do with him now?
About six blocks from the college, the snow became thicker, and Molly realized that this date with Nick would almost certainly include her now-unemployed brother. That was one more reason to be furious at Charlie.
And now that she thought about it, she was pretty mad at her mother, too. Why did she have to look after Charlie while her mother played shuffleboard with friends down in Vero Beach? Wasn’t she allowed to have a life? She remembered how her mother had planned to stick Charlie in that horrible halfway house.
“Well, it’s either that or you’ll have to be responsible for him, dear,” she remembered her mother saying. “I simply can’t do it anymore.”
Molly glanced at her wristwatch: ten after one. She was already late for this stupid lunch meeting.
Two blocks from the college, the taxi’s windshield wipers had fanned a clearing on the snow-covered glass. Molly noticed something that looked like an accident on the road ahead, right in front of the community college. Ambulances and about a dozen police cars — their red strobes swirling — had arrived on the scene. At least a hundred people stood huddled in the snow just outside the school.
“This is Chicago,” the taxi driver muttered. “You’d think some of these idiots on the road would learn how to drive in the snow. Looks like a pile-up ahead. We’ll get caught in this gridlock if we keep going.”
“It’s okay,” Molly said, reaching for her purse. “I can get out and walk from here.” She paid the man, thanked him, and climbed out of the taxi. With Nick’s book tucked inside her coat, Molly treaded through the snow toward the school. The sidewalk was already starting to get slippery. She didn’t see a car wreck ahead — just the emergency vehicles, and all the bystanders. What were they gaping at?
As she got closer to the school, Molly passed several people who weren’t wearing jackets. They huddled together on the sidewalk and the snow-covered grass. Molly spotted a policeman escorting a young woman to an ambulance, and she was crying hysterically. She wasn’t wearing a jacket, either. There was blood on her white blouse.
“What’s going on?” Molly asked a thin, young Asian man who stood shivering in his shirt and jeans. He clutched some schoolbooks to his chest.
“They evacuated the school,” he said. “There was a shooting in the cafeteria.”
“What?” Molly murmured. Nick Sorenson was waiting for her there — probably with Charlie. She could just see her brother trying to be a hero in a situation like this and getting himself shot. “Do you know if anyone’s hurt?” Molly asked him, panic-stricken. “I think my brother’s in the cafeteria. Do you know what happened?”
“I was there!” gasped a short young woman with stringy blond hair. Tears streaming down her face, she stood beside Molly. She was in a short-sleeved blouse, and she frantically rubbed her bare arms. “I saw it all,” she cried. “This guy walked in the cafeteria and just started shooting people! I don’t know who he was — some creepy guy in a Hells Angels jacket. He pulled out a gun and just started shooting. . ”
Molly shook her head. She told herself she hadn’t heard it right. She glanced around at the police cars and ambulances. In the distance, someone gave instructions over a static-laced police radio. TV-news vans were just arriving on the scene. Molly gazed at the crying, shivering, scared people. She could hear their sobbing. Her brother couldn’t have been responsible for all this.
“How many people did he kill?” Molly heard someone ask.
“At least seven are down, maybe more,” answered an older man standing nearby.
Molly turned toward him. “Do you know what happened to the man doing the shooting? Do the police have him?”
Frowning, the older man shook his head. “A security guard shot the son of a bitch. He’s dead, thank God.”
The man turned away.
Molly numbly stared at his back as he threaded through the crowd. Then she glanced up at the snow. She felt the cold, wet flakes on her face.
Nick Sorenson’s book slipped from under her coat and landed in a puddle on the ground. Molly’s legs buckled.
She had no memory of collapsing and hitting her forehead on the sidewalk. She barely remembered them sewing up the gash at the hospital. Four stitches — the doctor did an exceptional job. Within a few months, the scar disappeared completely.
It was the only thing that ever really healed from that day.
Rubbing her forehead, Molly shifted in the cushioned chair in Lynette Hahn’s living room. She glanced up at Lieutenant Chet Blazevich, standing by Lynette’s fireplace, giving his talk. His pale green eyes seemed to stare right through her, and Molly realized she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Blinking, she straightened in the chair.
She felt clammy and light-headed, and hoped to God her morning sickness wasn’t coming back. She didn’t want anyone here putting two and two together and guessing she was pregnant. She would have hated for Lynette, Angela, and company to know about the baby before Jeff.
She took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on what the handsome cop was saying. But all the while she wondered how much Angela’s investigator had uncovered about Roland Charles Wright, who shot seven people in a cafeteria at Central Evanston Township Community College — before a security guard put a bullet in his throat. Of the seven people shot on that winter day, two died, one of them his teacher, Nick Sorenson. The other was a twenty-year-old student from the Philippines named Tina Gargullo, who worked parttime in the cafeteria. According to some news reports, Roland Charles Wright had been pestering her for a date, but Tina had refused his advances. He’d also alienated some of his classmates in the creative writing class in which he was enrolled. Five other people were wounded in the shooting spree: a cashier in the cafeteria and four students. All of them were treated and released within a day or two — except for one. Janette Wilder, a divorced thirty-two-year-old mother of two, had been taking a Spanish class at the community college. She was shot twice in her right leg, and then confined to a wheelchair for the next three months. Even after she endured extensive physical therapy sessions, the doctors said Janette would probably walk with a limp for the rest of her life.
Molly sent letters of apology to every one of the wounded — and to Tina Gargullo’s parents in the Philippines. After some research, she found the address of Nick Sorenson’s widowed mother — on Gunnison Street in Chicago — so she could visit her in person. Mrs. Sorenson was the woman who spit in Molly’s face.
Molly had wanted to tell her that she’d read Nick’s book, a coming-of-age story that was sweet and funny and sad. She wanted to impress upon Mrs. Sorenson how sorry she was. But it was a futile gesture. She didn’t blame Nick’s mother for hating her.
But Molly had expected some support from her own mother, who refused to come to Chicago for Charlie’s meager, furtive funeral. “I’m so disappointed in you,” she’d told Molly over the phone. “How could you let this happen? He was your responsibility. How did he get his hands on a gun? For God’s sake, you should have been watching him more closely. . ”
Her mother claimed that if Molly had let her put Charlie in the state-run halfway house, they could have avoided this tragedy.
After that conversation, Molly didn’t talk to her mother for four months.
But she talked to several doctors and psychologists, who assured her there was no way she could have anticipated what Charlie was about to do. They tried to counsel her in grief and guilt, but nothing they said really helped.
Her mother broke the silence when she phoned Molly, needing money. They were polite to each other and kept it brief. From then on, Molly phoned her once a month to ask if she needed funds. Molly always sent the check inside an artsy greeting card, scribbling Hope you’re well — Molly on the inside.
Sixteen months ago, Molly had written inside the card bearing the check: Met a very nice man a while back & was married last week. Please note the new home phone number and address. Hope you’re well — Molly.
Part of her felt horrible for being so impersonal about it. Yet another part of her got a strange satisfaction letting her mother know she wasn’t part of this milestone in her life. Mostly, she was fishing, hoping her mom would care enough to phone and ask about her new son-in-law. But her mother didn’t phone. When Molly called her a month later to inquire if she needed more money, she had to ask, “Did you get the last check — and my note?”
“Yes, thank you, Mary Louise,” she replied coolly. “Congratulations.”
Tears filled Molly’s eyes, and the hand holding the
cell phone began to shake. “His name is Jeff Dennehy, and he was married before — and divorced. He has two children — Chris, he just turned seventeen, and Erin, she’s six. They’re really nice kids. And Jeff’s wonderful.” She paused, and then sighed. “Not that you give a damn. Am I right?”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“I’ll call you next month, Mother,” Molly murmured. Then she clicked off the phone.
Her mom hadn’t always been like that. She used to have a wicked sense of humor. She’d start telling stories at dinner, and soon the whole family would be laughing hysterically — to the point at which whatever Charlie was drinking started coming out of his nose. She was a good artist, too. Molly remembered her designing their family Christmas cards every year. And it was her mother who taught her how to paint and draw. She’d made it so fun.
After her dad had died, when her mother was moving to Florida, Molly had helped clean out her parents’ old house. She’d found dozens of homemade cards her dad had saved that her mother had drawn. They were cute, clever, and very endearing. I’m Crazy About You! she’d written on one of them, under a cartoon of a woman with birds and stars swirling around her head — while she admired a muscle man on the beach. The cartoon characters even had a passing resemblance to Molly’s parents in their younger days.
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