Italy to Die For

by Loretta Giacoletto

  Ben checked his watch, only a few more minutes in the land of make believe before he headed home. His mouth watered at the thought of sausages and eggs for breakfast but he’d already committed himself to sensible skim milk over dry cereal, the sugarless kind with a paltry few almonds bottoming out the box. What the hell, maybe this morning he could sweet talk Francesca into making him an egg white omelet swirled with no-fat cream cheese. It couldn’t compete with her mother’s cholesterol-be-damned-version but, what the hell—he couldn’t fault Francesca for making every effort to keep him healthy. He executed a quick U-turn and picked up his pace another notch since the drizzle was on the verge of escalating into a major downpour. When he arrived at Hampton Park’s exit, the gates into the real world were closed so he eased through a narrow opening he’d created in the tangled hedge the previous fall. Back on Clayton Road rush hour for the local overachievers had gotten a jumpstart, with headlights from late model cars beaming their reflections onto the glistening pavement and mesmerizing him into a state of euphoria.

  Ben turned right and made his re-entry into the affordable middle class, now under a siege of unrelenting rain. He watched his feet kick up puddles for two blocks before moving toward the middle of the street. He rounded a corner, taking it wide to avoid a car parked where no car belonged. Looking back to check out the make and license plate, he missed seeing the Dodge Caravan approaching from the opposite direction. He didn’t hear the brakes screech as they ripped rubber from the tire treads. Nor did he feel the impact of the vehicle when it tossed him ten feet into the air. Nor the devastating damage his toned body suffered when it landed on the slick concrete, a good twenty feet from where he took the final step of his early morning run.

  Chapter 3

  Nine days later dusk had settled over the pseudo Tudor on Windsor Lane. A mourning wreath of eucalyptus, protea, lilies, and baby’s breath hung on the arched front door Ben Canelli had painted a welcoming red the year before at his wife’s insistence. The twelve-over-twelve paned windows surrounding the door projected a muted glow from inside to offset the red that now begged for privacy. At the rear of the house a single light flickered from the family room television as Francesca Canelli shifted on the burnished tan of her leather recliner. She bent one elbow, made a fist on which to rest her head, and cocked it toward the light.

  Matt walked into the room. She didn’t acknowledge him but she heard the sofa groan from the weight of his one hundred and forty pounds. She heard him speak but whatever words he mumbled must’ve gone astray before the final transmittal to her brain. She sensed the laser beam of his eyes, willing her to look in his direction, just as Ben’s used to do when she couldn’t be bothered. But that was before.

  How dare Matt intrude on her grief, a mere five days after they’d buried the only man she’d ever loved, the most important being in her life and Matt’s. And what about Matt, the piss-poor way he handled his own grief. Teenagers, one minute they’re too depressed to crawl out of bed; the next minute they want to know what’s for supper. What a crock. One thing was for sure: the loss of his dad hadn’t affected Matt’s appetite, his never-ending quest for food and more food, whatever was required to fuel the energy needed to perform as a top athlete.

  “So, whadaya think, Mom?”

  Only that she wanted to be left alone, to lose herself in a rerun of Ben’s favorite game show, some idiotic program she’d always detested and refused to watch with him.

  “Hel-lo, anybody home?” Matt asked, trying to inject humor when she wanted no part of it.

  He’d assumed his most enduring position, leaning forward with arms resting on his knees, puppy dog eyes pleading for attention. His mother the bitch narrowed her eyes to the hint of a cookie duster sprouting from his upper lip.

  “You need to shave, again,” she said, “which is what you get for picking up a razor when you were barely twelve”

  “Twelve and a half, which Dad didn’t think was too early to start.”

  “Neither of you thought about asking me.”

  “It was a guy thing, Mom.”

  A milestone for Matt, one of many and particularly bittersweet for Francesca—the first time she hadn’t been consulted. Ben had usurped her authority, taken over the role she’d cherished since Matt’s birth.

  “Don’t make me repeat myself,” she said. “Get rid of the fuzz.”

  “I will, I will, but not this very minute. Okay?”

  She waved him off. Matt usually kept his word, especially when he wanted something in return. About his cell phone, he knew better than to ask for its return any time soon. She’d confiscated the damn thing after he ran up five hundred dollars in text messages, most of them following Ben’s accident and not with some girl since he hadn’t reached that stage yet. So much for the miracle of electronics, he could’ve communicated the old-fashioned way, a one-on-one-in-your-face. With her, except she didn’t feel up to chitchat. Maybe tomorrow, but that’s what she thought yesterday.

  “Now about Pegasi,” he said with a patient voice as opposed to the inside or outside voice she’d taught him ages ago. “I heard two of the players aren’t coming back and the coach might cut another two, which means I stand a pretty good chance of making the team.”

  Using her thumbs and forefingers, she treated her drooping eyelids to an ever-so-gentle massage. “Do we have to talk soccer now, with me enduring the most god-awful headache of my entire life?”

  “At this point all I need from you is an okay, nothing more. If it was the other way around, Dad would’ve … sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  Of course he did, and Ben would’ve backed him all the way. “Leave your father out of this. Is Pegasi what you want?”

  “More than anything else. Playing for Pegasi was our dream—Dad’s and mine.”

  “In that case, go for it with all your heart.” The words came from her mouth but belonged to Ben, a phrase he often used during his mini pep talks.

  Matt must’ve recognized it too, judging from the smile lighting his face. “Thanks, Mom. You won’t regret this, I promise.”

  She couldn’t think of anything else to say and was relieved when he got up and headed for the kitchen, probably to raid whatever was left in the fridge once brimming with sympathy food from friends and neighbors. The variety of calorie-laden pies and cakes fighting for space on the kitchen counter had also dwindled to a precious few. With any luck and maybe one more care package Francesca figured she could go another two days without having to open a can of hot tamales or what passed for ravioli. Good thing Matt and Ria weren’t picky eaters. Nor was … had Ben been picky, as long as she didn’t go overboard with the fats and starches. In fact, he’d often raved about her cooking, even the occasional disasters marking their seventeen years of marriage.

  She cranked her head back to the TV—only three more hours until bedtime, and the security of Ben’s pillow. She’d changed their bed sheets after the accident but couldn’t bring herself to replace his pillowcase. That final morning he’d left his scent behind, just for her, and she had no intentions of losing what little remained of him until she was ready to let go.

  Chapter 4

  Two days later on a Saturday afternoon so cold it required nothing less than her down-filled jacket and wool knit cap, Francesca drove Matt to the first of three tryouts for Pegasi United. Ria had insisted on tagging along, having refused to spend any more time with young friends who, according to Ria, had their own stupid agendas. No one spoke during the twenty-minute drive from Richmond Heights to Show Me Soccer Park, which suited Francesca fine. But as soon as she pulled Sybil, their faithful SUV, into a parking space, the sound of seatbelts loosening their restrains broke through the silence. Then came the labored effort of sliding doors, perhaps Sybil needed a shot of WD40. Another one of Ben’s tasks that Francesca would have to assume.

  “Are you nervous?” Ria asked Matt as they got out.

  “Do I look nervous, Pickle Face?”

 
; “No, but maybe you should. This is the big time. Somebody has to get cut.”

  “But not me.”

  Ria, ever cautious but still giving encouragement. Francesca stepped onto the asphalt and locked the doors with her remote. “Don’t forget, Matt: I’m leaving early with Ria for her gymnastics class.”

  “No problem,” he said, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “I’ll get a ride home.”

  Along the sidelines of the practice field mother and daughter made themselves invisible as they sat on folding canvas chairs, Francesca hiding behind a pair of dark, oversized sunglasses and Ria turning the pages of a paperback at predictable intervals.

  “Another book?” Francesca asked, neither hoping for nor expecting much of an answer.

  “My fourth in ten days.” Ria never took her eyes off the page. “This one’s a dumb story about some girl without a father. My teacher thought it would help.”

  Right, as if any book could make a difference. “She should’ve checked with me first.”

  Ria peered over the top of pink-rimmed eyeglasses. “I told her you wouldn’t mind, that you were dealing with your own problems.”

  “What did I tell you about that?”

  “It’s okay, Mom. My teacher’s pretty cool.” She reached over, patted Francesca’s arm with one hand and turned another page with the other.

  Grief, in a few short weeks the Canelli survivors had found ways to absorb the aftershock: Matt with his soccer, Ria with her books, and Francesca in a slump, as Ben would’ve said. Wherever he was—Francesca wasn’t sure if she still believed in heaven or in God—but wherever Ben was now, he must be sending his paternal vibes, demanding to know when Ria had become the adult and Francesca, the child. Not that Ria seemed to mind, or perhaps she was marking time, waiting for the right opportunity to express her dismay, which may not come for another twenty or thirty years. At forty-one Francesca was still waiting for that time with her mother.

  Ria adjusted her glasses, turned another page. The roots of her hair, blonde since the toddler years, were now turning as dark as Francesca’s and Matt’s. In another year or so her daughter would evolve into a full-fledged brunette. Sooner if Ria made good on her threat to whack off the long ponytail, in spite of a harsh warning Francesca had given the previous year after Ria shaved off her bangs, leaving a hairline of awkward stubbles she succeeded in hiding with a comb-over for several weeks. Keeping Ria’s hair down to her waist had been Ben’s idea. So had the ear-length bob, designed to swing across Francesca’s cheeks whenever she turned her head.

  “It fits your personality,” Ben had told her, “a kind of sophisticated innocence.”

  “In other words, an oxymoron,” she’d replied.

  “Yes, but you’re my oxymoron.”

  Ben always had a way with words, not so with Francesca. Rather than say the wrong thing, she kept her mouth shut.

  “Matt’s on the pitch,” Ria said.

  Right—the pitch, not the field, would she ever get that right. Francesca watched him sprint toward the mouth of the goal, along with nine other hopefuls, their sturdy legs encased in the warmth of Under Armour, their heads lifted high against the biting wind of early February. He finished second; good or bad, Francesca didn’t know.

  “Not bad,” Ria said. “Matt ran with the best.”

  Thank you, my daughter the blonde mind reader. From the corner of one eye, Francesca caught a glimpse of another blonde, her shoulder-length locks bouncing in rhythm with each footstep bringing her closer. Only one soccer mom walked with the assurance of her kid never getting cut from the team—Sunny Meredith, the coach’s wife. During the previous soccer seasons when Matt played with Thunderbirds, Francesca had only known Sunny by sight and from a distance, her husband Rex too. She first spoke to the faceless Ken and Barbie couple at Ben’s wake and still shuddered at the memory of them hugging her tighter than old friends at a high school reunion. Rex had pumped Matt’s hand, all the while encouraging him to still come out for the team, as if Ben’s tragedy was nothing more than an inconvenient disruption to the precious pursuit of soccer. This, of course, made perfect sense to everyone outside the immediate Canelli family. Or maybe Francesca was the only oddball. Get over it, Ben would’ve said. Don’t expect the world to stop just because you want to jump off.

  Sunny hovered over her. A whiff of musky perfume assaulted Francesca’s nose before the pressure of Sunny’s pampered hand assaulted hers. What was it with this touchy-feely stuff, not only from Rex and Sunny but every other person who felt the need to connect with a widow before her time. A different vital statistic box had come into play for her to check, she’d gone from single to married to this, having bypassed divorced, which would never have been an option for her and Ben. ‘Til death do us part, they had vowed, erroneously believing it meant ‘til old age took them within a week of each other.

  Sunny squeezed again, this time harder.

  “Francesca, so good to see you out and about, even in this dreadful weather. I do wish I could offer some encouragement about Matt but to be perfectly honest, I have no idea what Rex has in mind. You know, in terms of what players he’ll need to strengthen the Pegasi roster.”

  “Yes, of course.” Focusing on the pitch, she eased her hand away from Sunny’s. The woman needed to spread her good cheer elsewhere, around those who would appreciate it.

  “You’ll have to excuse my mom,” Ria said. “She’s not herself.”

  Sunny straightened up. “Don’t you have some cartwheels to turn, little—”

  “Ria, my name’s Ria.”

  Do something, Francesca, show your mom stuff. She lifted her head to Sunny’s amber sunglasses, and spoke to a row of long thick lashes. “We’re only staying for a short while; Ria has gymnastics.”

  Sunny flipped her hair; a smile crossed her perky lips. “Ah, those were the days; gymnastics paid my way through college. But I digress and don’t want to keep you, knowing how busy you must be.” She knelt, took control of Francesca’s hand again, this time patting it. “There is one thing, a rather awkward situation I feel compelled to mention.” She leveled a discreet forefinger toward the pitch. “That Hispanic boy over there, the one dribbling the ball—”

  “Is Jeff Manuel,” Ria said without looking up. “Matt already told us.”

  “I’m so sorry, Francesca. What with his father driving the van—”

  “Please, Sunny. I can’t talk about it.” Not to you or anybody, Francesca wanted to say. Hector Manuel had already made his guilt-ridden visit to the house, wept as he explained how he’d been delivering the Post Dispatch that fatal morning and hadn’t seen Ben until the van actually hit him. Two eyewitnesses, both outside collecting their newspapers, had corroborated Hector’s account to the police. Given the circumstances, any possibility of a financial settlement seemed remote, according to Mort Gellman. Maybe she should talk to another attorney, one who specialized in personal injury. Of course Ben had carried life insurance, which, true to those hard-sell agent pitches, didn’t seem nearly enough now when they actually needed it. There’d never be enough … money. How crass of her, dwelling on the monetary value of her husband’s life, as if the sum of it had been reduced to a financial statement, a postscript to his once vital statistics. Still, Ben prided himself on being a practical man. He would’ve understood.

  “About the tryouts,” Francesca said to the empty space next to her chair, only then realizing Sunny had taken her good will elsewhere. No sign of Ria either. Francesca scanned the sidelines, her gaze moving to the bleachers where she located Ria behind a cluster of parents, no doubt getting the lowdown on various players. Another Ben trait, except Ben would’ve been participating in the discussion, ever respectful of Matt’s toughest competitors, those who made him a better player.

  Francesca turned her attention back to the pitch. She counted twenty-five boys, all gathered around Rex Meredith. The muscular forty-something stood no taller than many of the players, including Matt, who at five foot seven a
nd according to his doctor was due for another growth spurt. Rex stood with a span of ten inches separating his feet. While talking, he balanced a soccer ball on the tip of his fingers and then held the ball between his hands, as if he were holding the athletic destiny of each boy. One by one and without hesitating, Rex divided the boys into two scrimmage teams. Francesca recognized several players from Thunderbolt—Ryan Masters, Eric Stegman, and Jack Salina. Both Eric and Jack exchanged high fives with Matt when they wound up on the same side. From Francesca’s limited perspective, the teams appeared evenly divided, at least according to size. As for ability, she was in no position to judge. Two or three excellent players could make the rest of a team look better. Two or three so-so players could make the rest of the team look worse.

  “I’m back,” Ria said, turning a cartwheel before she sat down.

  “Next time, don’t leave without telling me.”

  “I did, but you weren’t listening.”

  “Sorry, kiddo. I’m trying, really I am.” Francesca checked her watch. “If we hurry, we can still be on time for your gymnastics. You know how the coach feels about late-comers.”

  “But, Mom, don’t you want to hear about Pegasi?”

  Francesca got up, started to fold her chair. “Sure, while we drive to the gym.”

  “Don’t make me go, Mom. Not today.”

  Another Ria cope-out, but Francesca didn’t feel up to arguing, nor the sympathetic gestures she was bound to receive at a second location. She sighed and sat back down. “Okay, bleacher girl, so what did you learn?”