Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

“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.