The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom

by Robyn Harding

  I would focus, with renewed vigor, on making over my life. Of course, I had neglected this project ever since Karen’s terrible accident, but now that I had put it behind me, I could take great strides. There would continue to be moments of sadness, I knew that, but her death no longer consumed me. I was at peace… and it was time to figure out what would make me happy.

  A soul-nourishing hobby would be an excellent start. I flicked through the Wild Rose Arts Center’s flyer. Drawing was out, obviously. Unfortunately, my lack of artistic ability extended to most other visual mediums, as well. But the arts center also offered a number of dance classes: jazz, salsa, Highland dancing… Maybe that was the answer? As I recalled, I had shown a natural flare when I took ballet back in kindergarten. Yes, dance would be a good choice! I would be expressing myself creatively and getting in shape! Why hadn’t I thought of it before? It was like killing two birds with one stone. And then, the phone rang.

  “Ms. Atwell?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Detective Portman calling from the Denver police department.”

  “Oh… hello.” I was startled.

  “I was wondering if I could come and talk to you?”

  My husband’s words flitted through my head—something about calling him and getting a lawyer if the police showed up again. “Sure,” I said. “When?”

  “I could be at your place within the hour.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you then.”

  As I freshened up to meet with Detective Portman, my mind raced through the possible reasons for his visit. Had they found something fishy while investigating Karen’s death? I didn’t want to believe it. It felt so good to let go of my doubts and suspicions, to accept that Karen had simply fallen and hit her head. But as I put on a coat of mascara and some sheer, berry lip gloss, I couldn’t think of any other reason. Unless… unless our meeting was more personal in nature? I had sensed something between Portman and me, that day—call it chemistry, mutual attraction, what have you… It hadn’t been particularly intense on my part, certainly nothing I would have acted upon, but maybe it had been more pronounced for him? He hadn’t mentioned bringing Detective Conroy along. I went into my bedroom and put on the water bra.

  Dressed and made up, I took in my reflection in the full-length mirror. I didn’t look too bad. The weeks of anxiety had taken somewhat of a toll, but I was regaining my healthy glow. With this subtle, yet enhancing makeup, one would never know I’d just been threw the ringer. And of course, my breasts looked fantastic. I felt a quick twinge of something uncomfortable—like guilt. I shook it off. I wasn’t doing anything wrong wearing a water bra to meet with a cop. It just boosted my confidence… along with my tiny boobs. And it wasn’t like he was going to find out the sad truth about them.

  I skipped down the stairs and into the kitchen intent on finding something to do that would make me look busy and interesting. I could organize the cupboards? Busy but definitely not interesting. Or… I could bake something? Yes, baking would make me look busy, interesting and charmingly domestic. Portman obviously liked to eat. Opening the fridge, I peered inside.

  I would turn him down when he expressed his true feelings, of course. He was an attractive man, but certainly not irresistible. “I’m flattered,” I would say. “But my marriage is important to me. I’m sorry if you somehow got the impression that I might be available. What? I’m everything you ever dreamed of? Well, I’m sorry but… Oh, please don’t cry…”

  The doorbell rang, startling me. I closed the fridge door and scurried to the front of the house. A quick glance in the hall mirror, a fluff of the hair, and I was ushering the detective into my grand entryway.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” he said.

  “Oh, it’s no problem.” He looked just as cute as he had at our previous meeting, but was dressed a little more casually. Oh God. Was he visiting me on his day off? This could be serious. “Would you like some coffee, Detective Portman?”

  “Coffee sounds great… And call me Troy.” He followed me to kitchen.

  We made small talk while the coffee brewed. I tried to put him at ease; it couldn’t be easy to admit these kinds of feelings to a married woman. Finally, when we were seated at the kitchen table facing one another, I decided it was time to cut to the chase. “So…” I said. “What did you want to see me about, Troy?”

  He cleared his throat nervously. “Well… I’m breaking department protocol by coming here today, but there’s something I felt the need to share with you.”

  “Okay.” I would be firm, but gentle in my rejection.

  “We received a letter.”

  “A letter?”

  “An anonymous letter about Karen Sutherland’s death.”

  Oh my God! I was so shocked that I barely felt the bruise to my ego. “Wh-what does it say?”

  He reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat. “We’re not supposed to show this kind of evidence to potential witnesses,” he said, withdrawing a folded piece of paper inside a plastic baggie. “But I’ve got a feeling that you might be able to help. We’ve questioned a lot of Ms. Sutherland’s friends, and you seem the most… tuned in to what was going on with her.”

  “Well… thanks.” He shook the letter out of its baggie and on to the table, gingerly opening it with the tip of his finger. Without using my hands, I leaned forward to read. It was written in pencil, using block, almost child-like letters. It said:

  TO THE POLICE,

  I WAS A FRIEND OF KAREN SUTHERLAND’S. I WAS WITH HER WHEN SHE DIED. WE HAD ARGUED, BUT I DID NOT HURT HER. I AM NOT A VIOLENT MAN. SHE TURNED AWAY FROM ME AND LOST HER BALANCE. SHE HIT HER HEAD ON THE METAL TOOLBOX. IT WAS A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT, NOTHING MORE. I CANNOT GET INVOLVED, FOR CERTAIN REASONS, SO THAT IS WHY I AM WRITING TO YOU. DO NOT WASTE ANY MORE OF THE AMERICAN PEOPLE’S MONEY INVESTIGATING HER DEATH.

  “What do you think?” Portman asked when I sat back in my chair, my face pale with shock.

  “I-I don’t know what to think.”

  “Any idea who might have written this?”

  Oh, I had an idea all right… So why wasn’t I sharing it? “Not off the top of my head. I’ll need some time to process it.”

  “Okay,” Portman said, flipping the note closed with the tip of his pen, and sliding it back into the bag. “We’ve analyzed the handwriting, but it’s virtually impossible to trace a note written in pencil and block lettering. But there are a few obvious conclusions we can draw from this letter.”

  “Like…?”

  “It was written by a male, probably a foreigner.”

  “A foreigner?”

  “His reference to ‘wasting the American people’s money’. A citizen would have said something like ‘the taxpayers’ money’. And he says he can’t come forward for ‘certain reasons’. It’s likely an immigration issue.”

  I nodded my agreement. “But… could the note be true? Could Karen’s death have been a simple accident?”

  “The autopsy was inconclusive. We know her head wound was caused by a fall, but a wound that severe usually has some force behind it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning she may have been pushed.”

  “Jesus…”

  Troy Portman tucked the note back into his inside pocket and took a final sip of coffee. “Well… I’ll let you get back to your baking.”

  “Yes, my baking…” I stood and escorted him to the front door.

  “So…” He paused, his hand on the door handle. “You’ll call me if you think of anything? You’ve still got my card?”

  “Yep, I’ve got it. I’ll give you a call if I have any ideas.”

  “Thanks again for your time, Paige.” He smiled, and I caught the subtlest hint of flirtation. But suddenly, playing horny housewife-meets-hot-policeman was the furthest thing from my mind.

  “You’re welcome.” He turned to go, but I stopped him. “Umm…have you tested the paternity of Karen’s baby?”

  “You knew she
was pregnant?”

  I explained about Janet Lawson’s orange-poppy-seed-loaf delivery and the ensuing slipup.

  “And you have reason to believe that the child was not Doug Sutherland’s?”

  “Well, I don’t really know… maybe it was, but wouldn’t it be a good idea to check?”

  “I’ll look into it. We can perform a paternity test on a deceased fetus if it’s older than six weeks.”

  I felt my stomach churn at his words. “I should go,” I said shakily.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.” He reached out and squeezed my hand, a rather intimate gesture, but I took little notice.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you.” And I shut the door.

  But I was not fine, not at all. The last few days of solace and peace of mind had come to a gut wrenching end. I didn’t want to fall back into the abyss of doubt and suspicion, but I was already there. The note had obviously been written by Javier, so why hadn’t I turned him over to the police? I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I felt something for him, something strangely… protective. Until I knew more, I couldn’t offer him to the cops on a silver platter. If I did, he’d be deported, at the very least.

  My mind raced over the contents of the missive. It sounded entirely plausible to me. Javier must have gone to talk to Karen about her unhealthy obsession with him. They’d exchanged words, and in the heat of the argument, she’d turned and toppled over. Pregnant women were notoriously clumsy. And, like Paul had said, freak accidents happened all the time. On the other hand, I couldn’t discount the information I’d gleaned from the CSI team: the leading cause of death in pregnant women is murder by the baby’s father. I’d call Detective Portman in a few days to check on the results of that paternity test.

  I was going to have to see Javier again; there was no other option. God, I really didn’t want to. It was much better when he was nothing more than a sexual figment of my imagination, the star of my own, mental dirty movie. But I had to get the truth out of him, somehow. And if I couldn’t? Well, then I would have to turn him over to Detective Portman.

  The phone rang, startling me. I almost let it ring, afraid it might be Paul. I wasn’t sure I could hide my anguish from him, but I knew I’d have to. If he found out the police had been here again, I’d face another one of his boring lectures. But on the other hand, it could be the school calling to tell me one or more of my children had a broken arm or a fractured skull. I picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Paige Atwell?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Marion Chambers calling from Rosedale Elementary.”

  Spencer’s teacher! Oh God! What’s happened to my baby? When I spoke, I managed to sound relatively calm. “Is Spencer all right? Is everything okay?”

  “Spencer’s fine,” she assured me, “but I would like to talk to you about some concerns I have with him.”

  “Okay,” I said weakly.

  “It’s nothing to panic about, at this stage, but I would like to meet as soon as possible.”

  “When?”

  “The children have their music class first thing in the morning. I’d have some time to speak to you then.”

  “Great,” I croaked. “I’ll be there.”

  When I hung up the phone, I immediately dissolved into tears. It was all too much for me to bear. I had been so absorbed in Karen’s case that I had been shirking my duties as a mother. I had been distant, distracted… And when I was paying attention to the children, I had been snappish and irritable. Spencer had obviously developed some serious personality disorder due to maternal neglect and moodiness. Marion Chambers was undoubtedly going to tell me that he’d been throwing rocks at cats or torturing squirrels. Nothing to panic about, yet, but a sure sign that he was well on his way to becoming a serial killer.

  I allowed myself to weep, unabashedly, for ten or twelve minutes before I dried my tears. Enough, I chastised myself. Pull yourself together. My first priority was my son and helping him cope with his problems. I would push all thoughts of Javier, Karen and the police from my mind until I had ensured he would become a healthy, functioning member of society. If that took years, so be it. As much as I’d loved Karen, there was nothing I could do that would bring her back. I would focus on the living—specifically my son, while there was still hope for him.

  The next morning, I parked the car next to Rosedale’s playing field and turned off the ignition.

  “What are you doing?” Chloe’s voice was shrill with panic.

  “I thought I’d come into your class and give a presentation on the special love shared between a mother and daughter.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Relax,” I grumbled, undoing my seatbelt. “I’ve got a meeting with Mrs. Chambers.”

  “Why?” Spencer’s voice was shrill with panic.

  “I don’t know why, yet,” I replied, fixing him with a steely gaze. “But you’ll be the first to know.”

  I kissed Spencer goodbye outside the music room, and waved at my daughter’s hastily departing back. Then, taking deep, calming breaths, I walked purposefully to the first grade classroom.

  “Hi, Paige.” Marion Chambers welcomed me into her classroom, closing the door behind us. “Why don’t we take a seat in Creativity Corner?”

  Creativity Corner was comprised of four squat Formica tables pressed together, surrounded by a number of short, plastic chairs. The table top was cluttered with plastic yogurt containers holding markers, pencil crayons, scissors and glue sticks. I pulled out a yellow chair, and lowered myself onto it. Ms. Chambers sat facing me on a blue one.

  “Thanks for coming in on such short notice,” she began.

  “Of course. If Spencer is having some kind of trouble, I want to help him.

  “That’s a wonderful attitude,” she said, smiling at me like I was one of her particularly keen students. “And I’m sure that if we work together, we’ll be able to get Spencer back on track in no time.”

  “He’s off track? How do you mean, ‘off track’?”

  “Well…” she paused for a few seconds, just to torture me, I think. “I’m concerned about his use of inappropriate language.”

  I guess I knew this was coming. And at least he wasn’t killing small animals.

  “Spencer is very fond of using the word…”—she hesitated, as though it were physically painful for her to utter the syllables—“frigging.” I tried to look confused. She continued, “The principal and I feel that this is not a suitable word for a six-year-old and he has been reprimanded several times. However, your son maintains that this word is perfectly appropriate. He calls it, a swear replacement.”

  “A swear replacement?” I said, looking shocked, but slightly amused in a ‘kids say the darnedest things’ sort of way.

  “Yes.”

  “Well… I don’t know where he would have heard that.” I began to fidget uncomfortably in my small, yellow chair. “I’ll talk to his father about it… We’ll make sure to explain to Spencer which words are appropriate for a boy his age, and which are not.”

  “Thank you. I don’t think there’s any need to panic, but even the use of such a benign expletive may be setting Spencer up for problems in the future.”

  “Definitely,” I said, nodding vigorously. “And we don’t want that.”

  “No, we don’t.” She continued to smile at me.

  “Well… I’ll let you get back to it,” I said, rising, with some effort, from my seat. “Off to bake some oatmeal, carob-chip cookies.” For some reason, I felt the need to assert my caring and maternal nature.

  Marion escorted me to the door. “Thanks again for coming in. It’s always wonderful to work with concerned and involved parents, like you.”

  “You’re welcome.” My voice was thin and shaky, yesterday’s dormant emotions threatening to spill over. “My children are the most important thing in the world to me.”

  Chapter 18

  The swear-replacing lecture with Spencer went very well. Pa
ul and I calmly explained that frigging was an inappropriate word for a six-year-old boy to use, and I apologized for setting a bad example. We even implemented a “swear replacement box”, like Trudy’s naughty-word box, where anyone in the household caught swear- replacing had to deposit a favorite item. Spencer lost one Bionicle to it, and hadn’t said frigging since.

  With that parenting crisis averted, I felt free to resume my search for the truth regarding Javier. The sooner I could put that baby to bed, the better it would be for everyone—especially me. I was eager to regain my former sense of peace, unburdened by this obsession with Karen’s case. And I was eager to return to guilt-free fantasizing about Javier. Unless, of course, it turned out that he was a psychotic killer, then I would focus more on George Clooney.

  Unfortunately, a rendezvous with Javier necessitated a lie to my husband. I called him at the office.

  “Oh, hi hon,” he said, tap, tap, tapping as usual. Normally, this would have annoyed me, but I felt I had no right to complain. It seemed rather petty, considering I was about to concoct a fabrication to allow me to see another man.

  “How’s your day?” It was best to start out with a little friendly chit chat.

  “Good… good… What can I do you for?”

  Normally, another enormous irritant, but I let it slide. “Remember Mary-Anne Campbell? We used to work together at Kellerman PR.”

  “Right… (tap, tap, tap) right…”

  “Well, I haven’t seen her since Chloe was a baby, but she just called me up out of the blue. We’re going to meet for a late dinner tonight.”

  “Great… (tap, tap, tap) Great… What time did you say you’re going out?”

  “What time will you be home?”

  “I’ll be here until at least eight. Is that too late for you?”

  “No. We were thinking we’d meet around nineish so that would work perfectly.”

  “Okay babe. Gotta run. Love ya.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I had a light dinner with my children, cleaned up the dishes, and then hurried upstairs to find something appropriate to wear. Unfortunately, my closet offered little choice. Not that I was trying to impress Javier: it was more of a confidence thing. Obviously, I couldn’t wear the boots again—and not because they were currently in the swear-replacement box (I could easily have sneaked them out after Spencer went to bed). But I didn’t want Javier to think I was some sad, suburban housewife with only one sexy and stylish outfit. Finally, I decided on a pair of snug blue jeans and a black V-neck sweater. First, I slipped into the red water bra—not that I was trying to look sexy and desirable. Oh no! That was far from the purpose of tonight’s meeting. But I had worn the bra at our last encounter, and if I’d suddenly shown up with noticeably smaller breasts, he may have found that distracting and not been able to concentrate on answering my questions. When I was satisfied with my appearance, I went downstairs to wait for my husband.