There was a decent turnout, but the auditorium was hardly packed and, as she’d noticed earlier, there was a distinct lack of tension in the room. The boys on the team seemed relaxed, sitting in a group off to the side, sprawling in the seats. On the stage, the superintendent was sitting at a table along with Coach Buck, the athletic director and several assistant coaches.
“We’re here today because some serious allegations have been brought to my attention concerning possible hazing on the football team, at the August training camp in particular,” began Superintendent Sabin, setting off a small buzz among the audience members. He ignored it and continued, “…and I’ve asked our Athletic Director Phil Bearse to look into them and make a report.”
“Thank you, Dr. Sabin,” said Phil, when the microphone was passed to him. “I’m happy to report that I’ve conducted an extensive investigation and I have been unable to substantiate these allegations. Everyone I’ve spoken to, and that includes all the team members, their parents, their coaches—everyone seems to agree that the August training camp is an extremely worthwhile program that offers the players a positive experience. That is exactly what the camp is designed to do and I’d like to ask Coach Burkhart to expand on that if he would.”
“Thank you, Phil,” said Coach Buck, taking the microphone. He went on to outline the goals and methods used at the training camp and Lucy found herself studying the players for their reactions. Will Worthington had joined his two buddies, completing the group of players she’d interviewed in the weight room. They were sitting together, nudging each other and laughing. Nobody had taken the seats on either side of them but Lucy didn’t know if this was simply a coincidence or if their teammates were avoiding them. Or maybe it was some sort of dominance thing, like who was allowed to sit with the cool kids at their table in the lunch room.
Lucy’s attention was drawn back to the speakers when the superintendent announced he was opening the meeting to questions from the audience. She waited expectantly for someone to challenge the smug group assembled on the stage but no one did. Only one hand was raised, that of Tony Marzetti, owner of the IGA and president of the Tinker’s Cove Chamber of Commerce.
“This sort of thing is just a shame,” he said. “It’s an obvious attempt to besmirch the reputation of our team at the very time we should be congratulating them. For the first time in I don’t know how long, maybe ever, the Warriors stand a real chance of beating the Gilead Giants. We’re off to a great start this season and I think the teams deserve a big hand. C’mon everybody, let’s show our appreciation!”
And everybody did. The room erupted in cheers and applause while Lucy slipped out the back. She wasn’t the only one. As she left the brightly lit lobby and crossed the dim parking lot she thought she saw Frankie moving through the parked cars, but when she called out to her there was no response. She must have been mistaken, she decided, heading for home.
The newscaster was announcing the Dow had dropped one hundred eighty points and was at an eighteen-month low and Lucy was worrying about the kids’ college fund, which she hoped her financial adviser had invested prudently, while she pedaled steadily on her exercycle in the family room. She had recently started riding the exercycle for twenty minutes every morning as a way of warming up for her half-hour workout with Debbie, the blond and tanned exercise entrepreneur who came to her house at seven a.m. via the cable TV. “There’s no need to go to a gym,” Debbie said, “when you can work out with me every morning in the privacy of your own home.”
And even though Lucy thought Debbie had the brain of a pea, she had to admit she felt a lot better since she’d been doing the workout. And, as Debbie never failed to remind her, it was better to exercise in the morning before getting caught up in the day’s activities. “If you wait until after supper, you’ll be too tired,” Debbie said, and Lucy knew it was true. The most she could manage then was a short walk, or a game of ball with the dog.
“Mom!” came a cry from the kitchen. “Libby’s throwing up.”
Lucy dismounted from the exercycle, wondering if she’d brought this on by thinking of the dog. Did it work like that? If she’d thought of the toaster, for example, would it burst into flames? Or the cesspool. Would it overflow if she thought about it? Was it better, as Debbie advised, to think happy thoughts? Would her life be perfect then?
In the kitchen, she discovered Libby standing over a pile of soggy dog kibble, apparently trying to decide if it would go down better the second time.
“No!” ordered Lucy, opening the door and shooing her outside. Reluctantly, tail between her legs, the dog obeyed. Lucy grabbed some paper towels and started cleaning up the mess. Instead of dwelling on the loathsome dietary habits of dogs, or the possibility that something was seriously the matter with Libby, Lucy decided to take Debbie’s advice and think positively. In cleaning up the mess, she told herself, she was maintaining a hygienic, healthy environment for her family. She was beautifying the house. And really, didn’t the cleaner bring up the grain on the wooden floor beautifully? It looked so nice, in fact, that she gave the entire kitchen floor a wipe.
The floor was gleaming when she left the house, but she was running late. Not that she was thinking about that. No, she was only thinking bright and beautiful thoughts today, she told herself, pausing a moment to take in the clear blue sky and the clump of purple asters and yellow goldenrod blooming by the mailbox. No, she refused to think about that sham of a meeting last night, when the hazing allegations were swept under the rug. And she wasn’t thinking about whether Toby and Molly would be able to buy the house they wanted, and she wasn’t thinking about the upcoming quarterly tax payment, or how Sara was coping with high school and cheerleading, or if Elizabeth was safe and sound in Boston, or even about Mimi’s murder and the mysterious homeless man. No, she was looking for more goldenrod which was why she didn’t notice Chris Cashman’s Ford Expedition shooting out of Prudence Path right into her left fender.
“Ohmigod! Are you all right?” yelled Chris, from her perch in the SUV, high above Lucy’s Subaru.
To tell the truth, Lucy wasn’t sure. She was definitely shaken up and thoughts of whiplash and hairline fractures were chasing away all the lovely goldenrod dreams. She took a few deep breaths, to calm herself, and decided to try getting out of the car and on her feet. Moving slowly and carefully, she unlatched the door and pushed it open about twelve inches, stopping when she heard the protesting screech of metal on metal.
“Well,” she said, squeezing through the opening and surveying the damage, “I seem to be okay but my car’s not.”
“I’ll call the police,” said Chris, flourishing her tiny little cell phone.