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Sandra and her two youngest children sat nestled in their minivan, watching Peter’s practice. Joanna was zombified by her tablet, Sammy was asleep, and Sandra was considering following his lead when her phone buzzed. This time, she was certain it was the same number, and curiosity got the best of her. She answered on the second ring. If it was a political poll, she would suffer the consequences.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Sandra Provost?”
“It is.”
“Hi, Sandra. This is Mike White calling ...”
Sandra’s entire body went cold.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” Joanna asked from beside her.
“I’m the president of the local SOOM district ... Ms. Provost? Are you there?”
Sandra gulped. Her throat felt as though it had just swallowed a sandy camel. “I’m here.”
“Great. Your husband said you were interested in becoming a soccer official?” His words began to spill out faster, as if he had more pressing matters to attend to and had to speed up this tiresome conversation. Maybe he had someone else to murder. Or maybe the man just had to go to the bathroom. “Can you attend some training tonight?”
Tonight? She didn’t respond immediately.
He wasn’t a patient man. “Does tonight work? If it does, we could have you on the field by Saturday.”
“What’s wrong, Mama?” Joanna asked again.
Sandra put a hand on her leg, trying to ease her panic, but that hand was trembling, and Joanna’s eyes grew even wider.
Sandra was frozen with panic. Yes, she may well be talking to a murderer on the phone, but that wasn’t even on the fear radar right now. On the field by Saturday? That was nuts! This whole thing was nuts! She never should have taken this path. She should have stuck to her blessedly simple mom routine, even if it was a little redundant. She opened her mouth to tell Mr. Murdering Mike White that she had changed her mind, but “Tonight. Sure.” came out instead. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Great! Do you know where White Funeral Home is?”
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. Was she having a heart attack? Yes, she thought she was. She, a middle-aged soccer mom, was going to die of a heart attack in her minivan. What a cliché!
“It’s on Kirkland Street.” His voice was gritty with impatience.
“What time?” she managed to squeak out.
“Seven o’clock.” He wasn’t asking if that was okay with her.
“Great. Thank you.” She hung up the phone with a trembling hand and then stared at it as if she’d never seen it before.
“Mama?”
Sandra realized she was now squeezing her daughter’s knee. She forced her hand to relax, and forced herself to exhale. I can do this, she told herself silently. It’s not a big deal. I’m just going to go meet a murderer at a funeral home, which, conveniently, he seems to own. No, this was crazy. She could not do this. She looked in her rearview, hoping to see Bob in the backseat. Of course, he wasn’t there. Angels were never visible when you really needed them. “Bob?” she said aloud, and Joanna scowled at her.
“Who’s Bob?”
An insane giggle bubbled up out of Sandra’s torso and escaped through her mouth. She was pretty sure she’d never laughed like that. Like an attention-seeking hyena with an especially high-pitched voice. The thought of the hyena made her laugh again, and now Joanna looked on the verge of tears. Sandra sent up a silent prayer, “Lord, help me get a grip.” Then she looked down at her daughter’s upturned face. Choking back another insane giggle, she caressed her cheek. “I’m sorry, punkin. Didn’t mean to scare you. I’ve just got some adult stuff going on. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Joanna didn’t look convinced, but she did turn her attention back to her tablet, so Sandra took that as a win. She took another deep breath, and her chest shook, threatening another giggle, so she tried to clear her brain of anything that might set her off again. Then she called her husband.
He didn’t answer, as she expected. This was a busy time of day for him. She left him a message, telling him that she would be going for soccer ref training that night at seven. Her voice only cracked twice during the five-second message, but she managed to avoid the lunatic laughter.
With her call finished, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. It’s okay. I can always back out. I have hours to decide whether or not to actually show up, and whether or not to actually be a soccer ref. She needed to talk to Bob. More than talk to him. She needed him to go with her. God, she prayed, if Bob’s not busy with some golf scuffle, could you send him my way? Then she opened her eyes and forced herself to focus on Peter’s soccer practice.
Not twenty seconds later, Bob appeared beside her window. Her body jerked so hard that the whole van shook. Joanna had gone back to her tablet and didn’t look up. Sandra stabbed at the window button, but nothing happened. She hurriedly turned the key in the ignition, scared to death he was going to vanish before she got to talk to him, and then rolled down the window. “Where have you been?” she said, a little surprised by how demanding she sounded.
He looked amused. “Do you really want to have this conversation out loud right here?” He glanced pointedly at Joanna, who remained oblivious.
“Well, you said you can’t read my mind!” How else could they have the conversation if not out loud?
“What?” Joanna asked, but didn’t look up.
Sandra sighed. “Nothing, honey.” She rolled the window up, turned the battery off, and got out of the car. At first, she thought Bob had vanished again, but then she realized he was standing behind the van. She followed him into the shade of an orange-leaved oak tree. Between the shade and the van, they were hidden from view of everyone there. She felt as though she were about to engage in a playground drug deal. She looked at Bob expectantly.
“You beckoned?”
“Wow, that actually works?”
He furrowed his brow. “What works?”
“I prayed and asked for you, and you came. I didn’t think that would work.”
“Of course it worked. Now, what do you need?” He sounded almost as impatient as Mike had on the phone.
“Mike White called me.”
Bob gasped and stepped closer, like a high school cheerleader eager to devour the juiciest tidbit of gossip.
Sandra laughed. She was growing quite fond of—and comfortable with—this supernatural being.
“What?” Bob pushed. “Why did he call you?”
“Well, if you’d check in, ever, you’d know that Nate called him last night to ask—”
“Your husband knows him?”
“I guess. Nate knows everyone. Anyway, he asked Mike to get me into reffing. And Mike just called me to tell me that there’s training tonight at seven. At his funeral home.” She waited for the absurdity, and possible danger, of this last detail to sink in.
“His funeral home?” Bob looked perplexed.
She shrugged. “I dunno. He called it White Funeral Home. His name is Mike White. I just put two and two—”
“Well, find out for sure tonight.”
“Bob, you have to come with me.”
He scrunched up his nose and looked at the sky. Sandra imagined him doing a quick scan of his angelic version of a calendar app. “Sure. Okay.”
She breathed out a rush of air. “Awesome. Thank you. But don’t be late. I’m not going in without you.” She looked him up and down. “If anything should, uh ... go wrong ... can you defend me?”
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, if he tries to murder me and stuff me in a coffin, can you whip out some miracle power and save me?”
“Of course.” His expression, which was completely sans confidence, did not match his words.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure! Stop worrying. He’s not going to try to kill you. He has no reason to be suspicious of you.” Bob had a point. As far as Mike White knew, she was just a new soccer ref. “Is that all? Because I really need to get back to football practice. There’s a kid playing with a concussion, and I need to stay close.”
“Sure. Oh, wait. Do you know if Peter’s coach is still mad at him?” She only felt a little guilty for keeping the angel from the injured football player.
Bob frowned. “Not really a pressing issue.”
“Do you know or don’t you?”
He let out a resigned sigh. “I have no reason to think that Peter’s coach is mad at him. In fact, I overheard him praise Peter’s aggression to his wife.”
“Oh good.” She wasn’t sure if this was good or not, but she’d take it. “Thanks, Bob.” But he was already gone.
She climbed back into the van to see a text message from Nate. “Will you still have time to cook supper?”
Oh good grief. “Yes,” she texted back. “I won’t let you starve.”