The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (20 page)

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.”

The swear-replacing lecture with Spencer went very well.
Paul 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.