CHAPTER 13
The morning after, could it get any worse? Francesca took more photos, just in case—those god-awful reminders of Vampire Rex swooping down on her, his teeth sinking into her flesh. She could still taste her own blood from where she bit her tongue. A new line of bruises along her inner thighs crisscrossed the older ones. Her mid-section ached from Rex’s surprise punches. No man had ever laid a violent hand on her before. No man would ever again.
There was a time when Francesca had relished her mornings, those quiet periods after Ben left for work and the kids for school. All that had changed, of course, when Ben left forever. This morning she couldn’t stand being alone, having to digest another fall or two from grace. She pinched her wrist, really hard. After it quit smarting, she vowed to restart her day, to forget those two horrific nights had ever happened. She’d focus on more practical issues, the possibility, or necessity, of returning to work: sometime in the future, maybe six months from now, maybe next fall when Ria entered seventh grade. The sound of music interrupted Francesca’s thoughts—cell phone alert. Who would be calling at this hour? Not what’s-his-name, that’s for sure. When she silenced the demanding tune with a frosty hello, a male caller responded by asking her name. The nerve of these telemarketers, violating the privacy of her cell phone, was nothing sacred any more.
“You first,” she said after a ten second delay. She didn’t listen to his opening but decided to give the man another chance. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”
“This is Sergeant Guy Winchester of the St. Louis County Police Department,” he said with a touch of impatience. “I’m calling about Rex Meredith. Your cell phone was the last number dialed from his.”
Francesca heard him but was scrambling for her next words.
“Hello, are you still on the line?”
“Uh, yes, I don’t understand. Is there a problem?”
“Mr. Meredith was found dead last night. And you are?”
She let the phone slip from her hand. It banged against the ceramic counter before landing on the floor. She picked up the damn thing, forced it to her ear, and sputtered a stupid apology. After giving her name, she agreed to a visit from Sergeant Winchester and his partner. His name she didn’t hear nor did she ask Sergeant Winchester to repeat.
“Around one o’clock, no later,” she said, anticipating they’d be long gone before Ria or Matt came home from school.
After the call ended, Francesca realized she hadn’t thought to ask how Rex had died. Did the detective think she already knew? So what if she had been the last person to talk with Rex by phone. Somebody had to be last. She was spooning extra crunchy peanut butter straight from the jar into her mouth when the phone rang again. This time Matt, when he told her about Coach Meredith, she acted surprised, as if hearing the news for the first time.
“Poor Rex, how did it happen?” she asked through a mouthful of peanut bits.
“At the soccer park, he was found hanging from a crossbar,” Matt said, his voice quivering.
“Which one?” Francesca couldn’t believe she’d ask such an idiotic question.
“Which goal post, how should I know? North, south, whatever—it doesn’t matter. Coach is dead.”
“Even if you’re not sorry, I don’t want to hear it,” she whispered as if the walls had ears. “Don’t ever speak ill of the dead to anyone.”
“Jeez, Mom, what do you take me for? It’s not like I ever wished the man dead.”
He hung up without saying goodbye.
Francesca collapsed in the nearest chair, anything to keep her knees from shaking. She held her hands to the sides of her head, anything to keep it from spinning. If Matt ever found out what she’d done for him, he’d be humiliated beyond words. For sure, he’d never feel the same about her—Francesca Canelli, soccer mom turned soccer whore, who didn’t think her son capable of making it on his own. What kind of mom had she become: the lowliest of the low, one who didn’t believe in her own kid.
“Stop it, you silly bitch, stop it,” she said, slapping herself across the face. Again, harder, she deserved nothing less. Once more, this time show some feeling. The final sting recalled her night with Rex, his finger on her cheek, wiping away the single tear which had managed to escape. And what about the absurd ending to his wretched life, she ought to pray for his wretched soul. Even the condemned deserved an Our Father. Or a few Hail Marys, it can’t hurt but it probably won’t help, Rex had told her. Yes, she’d pray for him, but not now—later, when she was thinking straighter than she was at this moment.
News of the death of Rex Meredith, respected coach of boy’s select soccer, dominated the local television channels, along with a flattering photo of him wearing the Italian sweats, the proverbial soccer ball between his fingers. Francesca sat spellbound on the sofa, pressing her remote from channel to channel without garnering any more information than the detective had already given her. The same news blared from Sybil’s radio as she drove to a Wal-Mart near the soccer park. Her mission was succinct and purposeful: to purchase those items she’d neglected to purchase the previous night, just in case the detectives might ask. She pushed her cart around the store, unable to remember what she’d intended to buy. Shopping lists, who needed them? Francesca had always relied on her memory. Now she could barely recall the details from those two nights. Perhaps she’d allowed her mind to exaggerate the worst of the worse. Not likely, considering those nasty souvenirs she documented by camera. As for getting the photos printed she decided to wait, maybe go through the internet where no one cared about bruises and bite marks. Except for calling her a soccer whore, what else did he say before she left him chasing his keys, something about Matt maybe? Dammit, she’d willed herself to forget and now her mind obeyed. Those detectives coming this afternoon, they’d be asking questions. She needed to come up with the right answers. Not too vague, not too detailed, just enough to make them go away.
“Have you heard the awful news?” a shopper asked.
Francesca almost ran the cart into a Pegasi soccer mom whose name escaped her. She nodded and made a sympathetic sign of the cross but didn’t stop. At the personal care section she picked up shampoo, toothpaste, and emery boards. She paid the checkout clerk with cash, and stuffed the receipt in her pocket. What about the security cameras? Damn, she couldn’t escape the ever-watchful Big Brother. Never mind, she’d think of something. And did, hunger pains resolved her immediate problem; she ate the Wal-mart receipt on her drive home. When she got there, the red light blinking on her answering machine demanded she listen to a string of messages, mostly from soccer moms she barely knew but wanted to share Rex’s tragic passing. To hell with returning their calls, at least not in her present state which, at this rate, might never improve.
And to hell with those extra pounds too. Francesca needed oral pacification. Instead of micro waving a cup of herbal tea or instant cappuccino, or raiding the candy drawer in Ria’s bedroom, she searched the fridge for something more substantial. And found salvation. She popped the cold Bud Lite, drained half of it before coming up for air. The other half, she ingested in rhythm with the tick tock of the hallway clock. Twelve times it chimed, bringing a disturbing realization. Until that moment, four solid hours had passed without her giving a single thought to Ben. Sorry, dear heart, I’ll never give you up but on certain occasions such as this I may falter.
After consuming two scoops of ice cream covered with crushed peanuts and a diet cola, she turned on the family room TV and leaned back in her recliner. The clock chimed once and Francesca waited for her visitors. She dozed off but heard the clock again when it chimed twice. Another Bud Lite was calling to her when the doorbell rang at two-thirty.
She opened the front door to a salt and pepper duo. The peppery Sergeant Winchester identified himself as the detective who called earlier and then introduced the salty Lieutenant Sam Reardan. They held out their badges for her inspection and nearly wore out the welcome mat wiping unseen dirt from the soles of
their shoes. Both men could’ve been assigned from Hollywood central casting. Guy Winchester, every bit as forty as Francesca, wore his trench coat with the assurance of a fashion model from the pages of Ebony Magazine. His partner Sam Reardan looked as if he’d dragged himself across the half-century mark, along with his sandy hair cropped too short and countless freckles blurring a doughboy face. The seams of a frayed topcoat strained to accommodate his bulky shoulders and barrel chest.
Winchester and Reardan stood in the living room, waiting for her to decluterize the once proud sofa. Newspapers and more newspapers, three magazines, candy wrappers, soiled tissues filled with dried tears from the week before. Such disregard for the sanctity of good housekeeping would’ve mortified Francesca’s mother.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she said as the detectives sat down, each hugging one arm of her sofa. “My husband passed away recently.” She chose an occasional chair, the formal brocade designed to discourage lingering visits.
The detectives offered their sympathy but neither asked the circumstances of Ben’s death. Perhaps they already knew, although it should’ve mattered to them. Only to her and Matt and Ria. The ticking clock was annoying but served a purpose, covering an uncomfortable silence until she found the courage to speak. “I was so surprised to hear about Rex Meredith. How did it happen?”
“For now, we’re still in the early stages of investigation,” Reardan said.
“Of course, I should’ve realized. Please excuse the question.”
“No problem,” said Winchester.
Can I get either of you anything, coffee perhaps?” Please don’t make me get up, she thought. Just say no.
They did. Winchester shook his head. Reardan showed his palms. Francesca felt hers grow damp with sweat. Had she shaken the officers’ hands when they arrived, she couldn’t remember. No more questions would she ask, no matter how innocuous. Answer only what the detectives ask, without elaborating. Do not volunteer any information, none whatsoever.
“According to Mr. Meredith’s cell phone,” Winchester began, “the deceased called here around nine o’clock.”
She hesitated before answering. “Yes, to talk about my son and the soccer team.”
“Pegasi United, right?” Reardan said.
Winchester checked his pocket-sized notebook. “Pegasi: as in flying horses, a herd of mythological unicorns racing across the heavenly skies.” His probing eyes latched onto hers, wouldn’t let go. “The two of you didn’t talk very long.”
Francesca’s mouth went dry. She broke away from his gaze and inspected a hangnail on her thumb. “He … uh, Mr. Meredith … uh, Rex just wanted to ask about my daughter. She broke her arm.”
“You said he called about your son and the team,” Winchester said.
“Well, that too. Rex is … was a fast talker.”
“Why the cell instead of your home phone?” asked the puffy Reardan.
“I wasn’t sure I’d be there … here.”
“And were you?” Reardan again.
“We were watching TV together.” A new voice entered the melee.
Francesca looked up to see Ria standing in the doorway.
“It was one of your favorite shows, Mom, the one about buying a new house.”
The little imp sounded so convincing Francesca almost believed her. After a brief introduction Ria slid onto the arm of the occasional chair and put her hand on Francesca’s shoulder, a small though comforting gesture.
“My wife watches that real estate show too,” Reardan said. “So who needed the new digs last night, Mrs. Canelli?”
“Mom fell asleep. I had to wake her for my goodnight kiss.” Ria held up her injured arm. “Did she tell you Mr. Meredith got me the best doctor in St. Louis?”
“How’d you break it?” Winchester asked.
“Goofing off.”
“With your brother?”
“Nope, just me turning a cartwheel … or something.”
“Something?” Winchester asked.
“I can’t remember.”
Reardan shook his leg, muttered something about a cramp. He separated his bulk from the sofa cushion and stood, as did everyone else.
Winchester slipped his notebook in his coat pocket. “I think we’ve got all we need, at least for now.” He and Reardan handed Francesca their business cards.
“In case you think of something else,” Reardan said.
“All the kids are talking about Mr. Meredith,” Ria said. “It could’ve been a horrible accident. You know, just like my arm, a goofy idea gone wrong.”
“You mean some kind of game?” Winchester asked.
Ria shrugged. “How should I know, I’m just eleven.”
“But if you do hear anything, will you let me know?”
She handed him a felt pen. “Would you sign my cast? The other detective too.”
“Sure, kid.”
“Ria, my name’s Ria. Be sure to include that with your autograph.”
Francesca went into the foyer. She opened the door, held onto the knob, and waited while the detectives wrote their names.
“We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Canelli,” Winchester said as he followed Reardan over the threshold.
She closed the door and headed toward the kitchen with Ria on her heels.
“I’m sorry about the lie, Mom. Does this have anything to do with Matt?”
“Of course not, sweetie. Why would you even think of Matt?”
“Well, last night after you left, the phone rang. I think Matt went out too.”
“Is that so?” Francesca brushed away crumbs from the counter, remnants of an earlier food binge. “Run along and finish your homework.”
Alone again, Francesca finished off another Bud Lite before returning to the comfort of her recliner. She tried to recapture her nap but even in death, Rex Meredith kept invading her thoughts. Dear God, why did she leave the house last night? Allow him to screw with her body as well as her brain, not once but twice. So what if Matt wouldn’t have started or played more than thirty minutes. So what if he never got a scholarship to one of the best universities. He could go to school locally, maybe St. Louis U. And if all the stars in heaven were aligned, make the soccer team as a walk-on. Who was she kidding; by that time, he’d be a has-been, an also-ran.
Bud was calling Francesca again, this time with the refrigerator door already opened. Matt had gotten there ahead of her. He must’ve been home for a while; he’d already changed into sweats. He latched onto the milk carton, gulped with the same urgency Francesca had given to Bud. She cleared her throat and waited as he swiped one hand over his mouth before turning to acknowledge her with no trace of a smile.
“Sorry, Mom, I didn’t see you. There’s a ton of stuff swirling in my mind.”
“Mine too. Ria said you went out last night, after I left.”
“Uh … yeah, but not for long.” He paused before hurrying through his next words. “Ted Logan came by. Remember Ted during the tryouts? We gave him and Ian a ride home one afternoon.”
Of course, the boys she’d avoided at White Castle. Both of them lived near there. “Ted from West County, kind of far from home, wasn’t he?”
“Not by car … and don’t get excited. Ted’s brother was driving.”
Matt cruising around with the boys, Francesca wasn’t ready for this. She followed him into the family room and was prepared to express her concerns when he issued one of his more profound remarks.
“Life sucks.”
“It’s not the end of your world, Matt.”
“I wasn’t talking about mine. I can’t help thinking about Payton and his mom. Angel too, ‘cause he’s part of the Meredith family. They’re going through the same hell we went through last month.”
Still going through as far as she was concerned, although she no longer expected him to suffer along with her. “The police stopped by, actually two nice detectives, as polite as those on TV. I told them Rex called me last night, just to say how much you were
improving.”
“The team, I almost forgot and maybe I should.” Matt dropped his shoulders, as if accommodating a weight too heavy to bear. “So what happens to Pegasi now?”
CHAPTER 14
Sunday, one more dreaded necessity Francesca could not avoid. She pulled Sybil into the crowded parking lot of Randall Mortuary on Tesson Ferry Road. I can do this, she thought, I will do this. At least it’s not the same funeral home that handled Ben’s final arrangements. Matt shifted in the passenger seat, for the sixth time since they left home. She turned to see him take a deep swallow, exposing the lump of his adam’s apple.
“Do we have to go in there?” he asked.
“I’m sure Mrs. Meredith would understand if we didn’t make an appearance.”
He cranked his neck to take in their surroundings, the rows of SUVs. “Most of the guys from Pegasi are already here.”
“We’ll only stay long enough to pay our respects,” Francesca said. “After all, this is not a social event.”
Not that Ben would’ve objected to all the backslapping going on at his wake. As for Rex, she couldn’t say. The man was—had been—little more than a stranger to her, except in the biblical way. A trip to the confessional is what she needed, sometime in the future, not now.
“Over there.” Matt pointed to an open space in the back row.
Francesca parked, they got out. Neither spoke as they braved the biting wind pushing them toward the green canopied entrance. They exchanged nods with Rex’s foster son, Angel Delgado, and other team players milling around the lobby—Ted the cruiser, Ian his buddy, and Jeff Manuel, son of Ben’s accidental killer. A few of the boys were text messaging. She’d have to revisit that whole issue with Matt someday, but not this one. She slipped her arm through his when a bereavement usher directed them down the carpeted hallway. As soon as they arrived at the Heavenly Stadium, a teenager dressed in a navy blazer and gray trousers stepped through the arched doorway.
She hardly recognized Payton Meredith without his soccer gear. Her heart ached for him when she saw his blue eyes bloodshot and rimmed in red, just as Matt’s had been a few weeks before. As soon as Payton saw Matt, he smiled through a mouthful of elaborate orthodontics which must’ve cost a second home mortgage. She sensed Matt’s hesitation. It lasted but a moment before the boys walked off together, each with one arm slung over the other’s shoulder. The silence of shared pain: the best gift one grieving friend could give to another.
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