Chapter Six

Monday was Libby’s late day for work, and with the kids off to school and Bob at the office, she relished her early morning solitude. No laundry, no cleaning, and she could finish an entire cup of coffee without a single trip to the microwave for reheating. Reading the paper from headlines to car advertisements, she treated herself to a quick horoscope check and a few minutes sharpening her vocabulary on the crossword. This was Libby-Time and no one messed with it.

The phone shattered Libby-Time.

“Hello?” Libby answered.

“Mrs. O’Rourke?” A woman asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Amanda Simon, the school social worker at Acorn.”

Why is she calling? Libby thought.

“I visited with Charlie last week, and I wonder if you have a second to discuss some concerns I have?”

Libby met Miss Simon at the Acorn Open House. From what she remembered, the young social worker was tall, pretty, and fresh out of graduate school. Libby kept mayonnaise in the fridge older than Miss Simon.

“Is there a problem?” Libby asked.

“Not a problem per se,” Miss Simon explained. “I’m calling about a red flag behavior Charlie has exhibited as of late.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Wonderful. It’s always refreshing when a parent shows a vested interest in their child. In my experience, that is not always the case.”

Libby fought off laughter. How much experience is that, six months? “Please continue,” she said.

“Thank you,” Miss Simon droned on. “As part of the first grade curriculum Charlie attends art class every afternoon. This month’s project is very simple, crayon drawings of family moments. Most students submitted vacation themes and holidays; Charlie’s images were darker.”

Libby frowned. How dark?

She continued, “Charlie’s last three pictures are solely in black crayon and depict some sort of battle scene. When the teacher reiterated the assignment was family life, Charlie assured her his pictures were just that. It goes without saying, we are concerned.”

Okay, maybe there is something going on, Libby thought. “That is unusual for Charlie. Any suggestions as to what it may be?”

Grateful for the opportunity to highlight her authority, Miss Simon explained. “Art is an outlet of expression for much deeper psychological issues. In fact, a study at the Bronx Zoo recently showed that chimps given fingerpaints were able to rudely sketch cages, displaying their anxiety and fear of confinement.”

Libby’s jaw dropped. Did this pubescent social worker just call Charlie a crazy monkey?

Continuing her diagnosis, Miss Simon’s tone bordered condescending. “Overall, Mrs. O’Rourke, I feel Charlie is a wonderfully empathetic child who may simply need more positive reinforcement at home. However, if you feel he needs to speak with a child psychologist, I have several in the area I can recommend.”

“Well, this is genuinely unexpected, Miss Simon.” Libby reigned in temper. “Charlie’s father and I will have a discussion before he comes home from school today and set a course of action right away.”

“Wonderful. Please keep me informed, and know that I will continue to monitor Charlie’s behavior for signs of distress.”

“I truly appreciate that.” No, I don’t you meddling wench! “Again, thank you.”

Ringing off, Libby counted to ten before dialing Bob.

He saw the caller ID and answered on the second ring. “Hey honey, what’s up?”

“Charlie is a potential sociopath.”

He took a deep breath. “Everyone needs a goal. What happened?”

Libby recapped her conversation with Miss Simon.

Bob said, “So he draws in black and likes violence, big deal, he’s a boy. I ate paste and liked to staple my fingers at his age, it all worked out in the end.”

Bob had a way of boiling down problems until they seemed silly. Libby appreciated his soothing capabilities, but wished he shared a little of her rage instinct, just for company.

“It’s not a big issue in my eyes,” Libby said. “But I think Little Miss Shrink has him pegged for a life of crime. Do we need a conference?”

Bob likened school conferences to root canals, the meetings were always the same. He crammed his six-foot frame into a leprechaun chair and listened to teachers blather on for an hour about his child’s strengths and weaknesses. Libby refuted everything on the ride home and insisted he do a criminal background check on the teacher. No one ever won.

“Please, no conferences,” he lamented. “Can’t we just ask Charlie what the deal is? I’m sure it’s something simple.”

“Fine,” Libby said. “But the social worker said we have to ease into it. Not hit him between the eyes when he gets home.”

“I’ll take him out for ice cream tonight on the way back from soccer and see what I can get out of him.”

“Good idea, and leave the lawyer voice at the office, no cross-examination.”

“Will do, and are we having dinner together tonight or is it fend for ourselves?”

Libby tried to plan dinners around the mayhem of soccer nights, but the edible factor was always a question. “I fired up the slow cooker with something resembling beef stew. Toss it over some microwave rice before you head out to the field.”

“Mm, sort-of- stew. Have to run. We’ll talk later. Love you.”

“You too.”

Hanging up, she still had a few minutes before work and called Sean.

“Mae Day Construction,” Sean barked.

“Where’s Deb?” Lib asked.

“Walt has his first physical therapy today. I hate it when she’s out; I have to talk to people.”

Baffled by her brother’s success, Libby wondered if Sean truly possessed any interpersonal skills. Apprenticing under their father for seven years, Sean easily stepped into the role of company president when Bernie passed away.

At the time, Mae Day was doing well, but not fabulous. Within two years Sean turned the small family-owned construction company into the leading builder in the county. Unlike their father, he had a strong head for business and swung a hammer each day alongside the crew in an effort to stay connected with his employees. They respected him, and Sean knew the importance of happy staff.

“Do you want me to send Shannon over after school to cover the phones? It’ll cost you a drive to the mall?”

“That would be great. I’ll be here all day, but I have to chain myself to the desk to get through a stack of invoices.”

“Don’t sweat it, she likes coming in.” Libby switched gears. “I called to get your take on Mom’s little memory lapse yesterday.”

“You mean the doctor appointment thing? Yeah, it was weird.”

“This is pure speculation, but Grandma Shannon died pretty young, from a stroke I think. I’m wondering if that’s one of the things the doctor is concerned about with Mom.”

In the brief time the McGinn kids had with Shannon Finn, she was the best grandmother kids could ask for. Full of contagious energy, and a former showgirl, Shannon’s trademark fire-engine-red lipstick and oversized costume jewels made her a showstopper. Libby adored her grandmother’s vitality. Their fantastic summer visits to Brooklyn were full of dress-up games in eye-catching dance costumes and afternoons spinning and twirling the day away in a vintage black and white kitchen while big band music blared in the background.

Shannon’s two-story brownstone smelled of butterscotch and oversized velvet furniture. China knick-knacks filled every square inch of space. The front parlor held a glossy, ebony baby grand piano. Its closed lid displayed countless black and white family photographs from generations past and present.

One summer, without warning, the trips to Brooklyn stopped. Heartbroken, Libby didn’t understand exactly what happened. Within a year Shannon passed away.

“I miss Grandma Shannon,” Sean said. “She was a riot. It’s hard to believe our straight-laced Mom is her daughter.”

“Genetics are a mystery,” Libby laughed. “Do you remember how old we were when Gram died? I couldn’t have been more than five.”

“That sounds about right. I remember coming home one day after school, had to be first grade, right before summer break and asking Mom if we were going to Brooklyn to visit Gram over vacation. She got weepy and told me Gram was in a special hospital, and we were too young to visit. It must have been a nursing home. She never really talked about her after that.”

“To this day Mom avoids talking about her. What do you think happened back then?”

“Beats me; maybe they had a fight or something? Mom might feel guilty about never settling things with her before she died. Guilt does weird stuff to people.”

“Maybe, but I think there’s more to the story.” She checked her watch. “I’ll let you get back to work. Shannon will be in the office by three to help out with the phones.”

“Great. Hey, did you ever tell Shannon about her wild and crazy namesake? It could be where she gets her love of loud music and all things theatrical. Gram was a sequin hurricane.”