Italy to Die For

by Loretta Giacoletto

  “Well, about those four openings on the team, figure on maybe five or six ‘cause not all the guys came back. At least that’s what John Aquinas told Clark.”

  “You know these people?”

  “Sort of, Clark’s a lawyer and John an orthodontist, pediatrics if we ever need one.”

  “You’re teeth are fine.”

  “Right, if you say so. But I asked John and he said you should give him a call.”

  “Ria!”

  “Not really, give me some credit. Anyway, Clark is married to the white lady sitting—don’t look at the bleachers. They’ll know I’m talking about them. Besides, they’re pretty cool. Their son is—”

  “The team’s only biracial goalie, that I figured out on my own.”

  “See the redhead sliding into Matt, he’s Payton Meredith.”

  “The coach’s son, I remember him from when Thunderbolt played against Pegasi.” Matt and Paton were battling for the ball that eventually went to another player.

  “And the Mexican-looking kid who’s dribbling the ball now lives with the Merediths. His name is Angel. You know, An-hil in Spanish, but everybody calls him Angel, as in the opposite of devil. Ian Shepherd—he’s the assistant coach’s son—just kicked the ball to Payton. ” Ria hopped up. “Oh my gosh! Matt just stole the ball away from Payton. Matt’s passing it to Marcus Aquinas. Marcus passes it back to Matt.”

  Francesca leaned forward. “Move, I can’t see.”

  “Matt’s going for a goal. Shi-oot—sorry ‘bout the slip, Mom, Grady Greenwood blocked Matt’s shot. Did I tell you, Grady’s dad sells cars? His mom teaches fourth grade, at some private school in West County. And if you ever need a plumber, call Maurice Elliot for the team discount—if Matt makes the cut, which I think he will. The Eliot kid’s a pretty good defender.”

  Ria’s chatter lulled Francesca into a peaceful vacuum. It ended along with the scrimmage when the boys trotted off the pitch. Matt broke away from the pack and headed toward her and Ria. Standing before them, he slapped his hands together in a warming motion. Whatever he might’ve been thinking didn’t register on his face.

  “You’ve still got a better than even chance, right?” Ria said.

  “Same as the other guys, Pickle Face.” He stopped the hand warming and yanked on her ponytail. “Aren’t you supposed to be at gymnastics?”

  “Some of us still have issues.”

  “Knock it off,” Francesca said. “Both of you.”

  “Can we give two guys a ride home, I sort of promised, okay?”

  “Do I know them?” How stupid of her to ask. Ben wouldn’t have cared who they were. He used to haul kids wherever they needed to go, just as other parents hauled Matt.

  He spoke with a touch of irritation. “No, you don’t know them but Ian’s dad is the assistant coach. He couldn’t make it today. These guys live in the same neighborhood, not too far from here.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Yuck!” Ria stuck a finger in her mouth, faking a gag. “In other words I have to sit in the back with the sweat hogs.”

  “Shut up, Pickle Face. Here they come.”

  “Well, whoop-de-do,” Ria said, lowering her voice. “Get a load of the rich boys.”

  Ria did have an eye for sportswear, from the low end to the high. Judging from their confident stride to their designer clothes and gym bags, Francesca figured these kids were out of Matt’s league, at least from a financial standpoint. But on the soccer field, where it really counted, talent would reign supreme, at least that’s what Ben often said, and what she wanted to believe.

  “Just watch your mouth, Pickle Face.”

  Matt wrapped his arm around Ria’s neck, locked her in a mock stranglehold. She stuck out her tongue, pretending to strangle.

  “Enough, already,” Francesca said.

  To which Ria replied in a Donald Duck voice. “Hey, I’m the one forced to suck up their sweat.”

  “Not in this weather.” Matt shoved her aside and put on his best smile for his new friends. “Mom, meet Ted Logan and Ian Shepherd. They’ve been playing with Pegasi for five years.”

  “So sorry about your loss,” Ted said, pumping her hand as smoothly as any adult.

  “Ditto, Mrs. Canelli.” Ian applied the same sincerity with his handshake.

  What was it with teenage athletes, her son being no exception. Somehow they managed to project an aura of young immortals, even when they needed a shower. At least these two displayed some manners, which money didn’t necessarily guarantee. Perhaps they’d taken their sympathy cues from Rex Meredith.

  Not-to-be-overlooked Ria nudged Matt with her elbow.

  “Oh, and this is Pic …” Matt hesitated with a grin, “I mean Ria.”

  His potential teammates exchanged the usual “Hi” with Ria, who for the moment had lost her ability to say another word.

  With hands jammed deep into her jacket pockets, Francesca led her charges to the parking lot and Sybil. On the way they passed within twenty feet of Rex Meredith loading soccer equipment into his SUV. On seeing her, he stopped and crooked his finger, expecting her to join him as if she were one of the Pegasi hopefuls. Had he not been the almighty, all-powerful coach, she would’ve ignored the arrogant gesture. But Matt needed her, needed this opportunity. She opened Sybil’s door via remote, and told the gang she’d catch up with them in a few minutes. She approached Rex with cautious optimism. Perhaps he would single out Matt as having considerable potential. On the other hand—

  “We need to talk but not here,” he said, rubbing the cleft in his chin. “I wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, you know, about the coach showing favoritism to some and not others.”

  He spoke with words barely squeezing through his tight lips. What little she saw of his face registered a ruddy complexion flushed from the cold. A pair of dark aviator sunglasses obscured any expression from his eyes. Talking to him would be like talking to a yackety-yak. She couldn’t recall any of his pertinent features, having barely looked at him during Ben’s wake.

  “Well, I’m pretty busy,” she tried to explain, “what with running Ria here and there, plus wrapping up—”

  The lips stayed tight when he replied. “Hey, not a problem, I’m just concerned about your boy. As of now, he’s teetering on the cusp of making the team or getting cut. Naturally, I want to give Ben Canelli’s kid every chance to prove himself.”

  Matt teetering, no way, and to bring up Ben, as if doing the Canellis a favor—who did Rex Meredith think he was. Soccer be damned. She refused to acknowledge the tears welling in her eyes, to blink them away, unthinkable. She used Ben’s ploy of counting to ten before speaking. “I don’t understand. Ben always said Matt played a mean left foot. He scored most of the goals with Thunderbolt. His teammates voted him captain two years in a row.”

  Rex loosened his lips and expelled a patronizing chuckle. “Not to put Thunderbolt down, but that team was in deep do-do before it slid into extinction. Pegasi, on the other hand, has led our mid-west division for three consecutive years. We’re ranked—”

  Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, tell me something I don’t already know. After Thunderbolt folded, Ben and Matt had talked of nothing else. Now through accidental default and on Matt’s behalf, she’d been tapped to play her own game, the delicate politics of select soccer. She forced a crooked smile. “Why not call me later this evening, at your convenience.”

  Rex concentrated on his Nikes, digging one toe into ground that refused to yield. He raised his head, focused the sunglasses on her eyes, still stinging from his earlier remark. “I’d prefer you call me around ten tonight. My cell number’s listed on the Pegasi information sheet.”

  “No problem.” She turned and walked away. Whatever you say, Mr. Meredith, whatever you say, Fuckface, whatever it takes to insure Matt’s acceptance.

  Back in the parking lot Francesca climbed into an SUV of overripe warriors who had exceeded Ria’s earlier prediction. She cracked her window, the back o
nes too. After easing Sybil out of the parking space, she glanced over to the passenger seat where Matt had assumed a trancelike position, chin lowered to his upper chest. She adjusted the rearview mirror to see Ria heaving a deep sigh. To Ria’s right Ian and Ted were crunched down, heads resting to opposite sides on their shoulders. After exiting the complex, she cleared her throat and spoke to their reflected images. “Where to, boys?”

  Ian straightened up. “Sorry, Mrs. Canelli, I guess I dozed off. Turn right at the second stoplight and go about a quarter mile. We live within a block of each other but you can let us both off at my house since Ted’s spending the night.”

  “Right, my parents are vacationing,” Ted said, “a second honeymoon in Cancun.”

  “How lovely,” Francesca said because his comment deserved a response. She and Ben had honeymooned in Acapulco, the only vacation they’d taken as a couple. After Matt got involved in soccer, every trip corresponded with one of his tournaments. They’d dragged Ria along too. She’d only complained once, when the motel didn’t have a swimming pool, an irreparable error on the part of the tournament organizer.

  Ian directed Francesca through a neighborhood of affordable houses and when she pulled up in front of his brick ranch, she loosened her grip on the steering wheel. In spite of the expensive sportswear these kids didn’t have anything on Matt. Still, she couldn’t resist posing the one question most St. Louisans were compelled to ask one another, either in the present or the past tense. “So, where do you boys go to high school?”

  “Parkway South, both of us,” Ian said. He started to follow Ted out of the vehicle but paused as a matter of courtesy. “How ‘bout you, Matt?”

  “Bishop Dubourg,” he said.

  Middle-class public versus middle-class parochial, kids on a similar tract but in Francesca’s opinion Matt had the advantage of a Catholic education, a necessity which may become a luxury without soccer providing a hefty collegiate scholarship. Not just any university but a Division I, Ben would’ve said.

  That evening on Windsor Lane Francesca faced a dreaded inevitable: the funeral food had dried up, forcing her to go through the motions of grilling gooey cheese sandwiches and opening a can of chicken noodle soup. For dessert she squeezed a plastic container of chocolate sauce over two scoops of vanilla ice cream. Neither child voiced displeasure with the menu; perhaps they were concerning about upsetting her. Mourning did have its advantages. After Matt muffled a satisfying burp, he tossed back his vitamins with a single gulp of milk.

  “Did you get enough to eat?” she asked, more out of habit than concern.

  “I couldn’t handle another bite, really.” He didn’t get up but wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand.

  “Aren’t we supposed to have three or more veggies every day?” Ria said as she swirled her spoon through the moat of dark syrup surrounding her ice cream. “Does popcorn count?”

  “Shut up, Pickle Face. Can’t you see Mom’s not feeling well?”

  “Enough with the name calling.” Francesca willed her fingertips to rub circles into her pounding temples while issuing a half-hearted command. “No TV for either of you until the homework is finished.”

  Matt pushed his chair back, scraping it across the floor tile to mimic chalk grating against a blackboard. “Great, by then it’ll be time to crash.”

  “Not for me. I finished my homework before I ever left school.” Ria looked at Francesca, waiting for a sign of approval. Getting none, she carried her plate to the sink and returned for the remaining dishes. Working as fluidly as two underpaid grunts, she and Matt loaded the dishwasher while Francesca remained at the table, directing their efforts with an occasional wave of the hand.

  After the kids had returned her kitchen to a reasonable semblance of order, they scattered in opposite directions, leaving her to stare out the window, waiting for the end of another day. To make it more palatable, she got up and poured a glass of wine and later poured another.

  By ten o’clock a cloak of darkness shrouded the Canelli household. Upstairs in the master bedroom, Francesca had retired for the night. She punched her pillow for the tenth time. She checked her digital clock, only thirty minutes had passed since she first crawled into bed. She rolled over to Ben’s side and cuddled his pillow. Sleep would come when it damn well pleased, or maybe not at all. Either way, she prayed to a higher being that tomorrow would bring her enough strength to muddle through another day. Her eyes were fluttering with drowsiness when the telephone rang. She fumbled with the receiver before muttering a laconic hello, only to hear a sudden click from the other end. Someone must’ve dialed her number by mistake and didn’t have the courtesy to apologize. Oh well, back to her little piece of Ben.

  Chapter 5

  Rex Meredith had been sitting behind the wheel of his Lincoln Navigator when he telephoned the Canelli house and as soon as heard Francesca’s sluggish voice, he cut her off with the end key of his cell phone. The nerve of that bitch, not calling him after they’d agreed on the ten o’clock discussion. Had it not been for the positive influence he anticipated Matt Canelli would bring to Pegasi, Rex would’ve written off the kid and his whiney mother that very night. But Rex Meredith prided himself on being a man who succeeded because he never took ‘no’ for answer. Nor would he tolerate anyone ignoring him, not even a neo-widow so absorbed with her inner self she couldn’t appreciate the shit load of opportunities awaiting her talented son. Some people just didn’t get it.

  Fortunately, this had not been the case two years before, with Lola Delgado and her son Angel. After witnessing the boy perform soccer magic with a pick-up team on the East Side, Rex all but pissed his pants on learning Angel had just turned thirteen, the same age as Payton, which made him eligible to play with Pegasi. Soon after, Rex paid a visit to Lola Delgado, an overworked single mom bringing up Angel and three younger kids across the river in the Illinois town of Fairmont City where Mexican/Americans outnumbered any other ethnic group. Lola agreed to Angel playing soccer for Rex, but the logistics of transporting the boy to practice sessions and games presented a problem since her dead-end job barely covered the rent let alone a reliable car. Superman Rex came to the rescue that very day. After asking Lola to excuse him, he went outside and telephoned Sunny. He slathered on his most appealing charm and within five minutes had convinced her to do the right thing. Not only did Angel join the Pegasi United team he also joined the Meredith family team.

  That same afternoon when Rex brought Angel home, Sunny and Payton were waiting in the front yard. Never one to show her true feelings, Sunny took the boy in her arms and welcomed him as a foster son. Payton, on the other hand, stood off to the side, arms folded and shaking his head, a clear indication that Rex would need to sweeten the pot. He tossed a soccer ball to Angel. The kid spun it around on the tip of one finger and then dropkicked it to Payton who countered with a series of fancy foot moves. Impressive but none of which would win games without the right coach. While Payton and Angel bonded with a show of their best techniques, Sunny gradually replaced her plastic smile with one guaranteed to warm Rex’s heart.

  “You didn’t exaggerate,” she told Rex. “This kid is good enough to make Payton even better, that’s for sure.”

  And now he had to deal with this, it was always something. Sleep tight, Francesca Canelli, you pathetic excuse for a soccer mom. Rex shoved the phone into his sweatshirt pocket and stepped into the night. He checked his Rolex, still time to clear a few cobwebs from his head. He jogged twice around the perimeter of his landscaped yard, on both cycles ignoring the beady red eyes of what he figured might be a muskrat lurking under the brush. He also ignored the doormat his wife expected everyone to use before entering the Meredith house. His domain, one he acquired through considerable sacrifice. He found Sunny in the kitchen, digging her knuckles into a mound of sticky dough. The woman could cook, she could bake. She could screw like a common whore, all of which spelled b-o-r-i-n-g.

  “What are you making now?” he asked.
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  “Your favorite breakfast, a strudel I’ll finish in the oven tomorrow morning.”

  Snuggling her from behind, he asked if the boys had crashed yet.

  “Twenty minutes ago,” Sunny said without looking up as she punched the dough. “And what about you, poor baby? You must be exhausted.”

  “Not so tired that I can’t exert myself for another half hour.” A few strands of undisciplined hair had fallen onto her delicate face. He pushed them behind one ear and took a nibble on the lobe. “Meet you on level two, third door on the right in fifteen minutes.”

  She turned her head, kissed his cheek. “Make it twenty and don’t be late. I know how much you enjoy soaking in that luxurious whirlpool.”

  Upstairs the sign on the door to Rex’s bathroom read “Jocks Only,” an amusing contradiction since he depended on Sunny to sanitize every inch of his sanctuary’s marble, granite, and onyx. And of course the black toilet too, every day without fail. Sometimes Payton or Angel would lend a hand but only if Rex laid a guilt trip on them for using the facility almost as much as he did. He opened the whirlpool faucets full blast, stripped off his sweats, and stepped onto the platform of his doctor’s scale. The bucket along the bar didn’t budge from its previous position, a relief considering the king-size Snickers bar he’d consumed earlier that day. Steam filled the room as he climbed into the churning water. He leaned his back against the warm tub and slid forward to maximize the heat’s exposure to his aching muscles. Two years before at the age of thirty-nine, Rex had been introduced to early stage osteoarthritis when his knees would throb at the mere hint of impending rain. Damn the knees, always first to go with athletes who gave one hundred ten per cent to their sport of choice. Content with the knowledge of once standing with the best, Rex harbored no regrets for the choices he’d made.

  Ah-h, what a sweet life he’d created through years of hard work and numerous sacrifices. Still, he couldn’t have succeeded without the help of others, especially the more ambitious parents of Pegasi. Take the whirlpool. For that he had Maurice Elliot to thank, a generous gift on behalf of his son Parker, a so-so defender whom Rex felt could improve with private tutoring. After four one-hour sessions, the grateful Maurice told Rex if there was ever anything he could for him, just say the word. More like a series of words, of which Rex was never one to mince. Not only did he say “top-of-the-line tub but also “jet-infused shower.” Without batting an eye, the plumber came through for him and the following year threw in the toilet when Parker was named an all-tournament defender, state level. This year they’d work on the nationals; Sunny needed a new bathroom, European style to include a bidet.