8. Leslie’s Story

Saturday was for sports, but Sunday (at least Sunday morning), was for church.

The Dells piled into the GTO and Kevin followed Locust Street to the sprawling, three-way intersection with Second Street and Old County Road.

Continued south past Bissett Road and then past the high school and then took a right onto Clancy Lane to the center of town.

Cruised along the Common and past the Chronicle to the intersection with the Home Run House on the opposite corner and turned right onto Fulton Ave.

A half mile down, across from the industrial park that includes City Hall, he pulled to the curb and the Dell family piled out.

Fulton Avenue was a busy place, almost as busy as downtown.

An eclectic mix of buildings.

On the side opposite of where Kevin parked was an expansive industrial park with former factories built of brick, ponderous and rectangular, with rows of half-moon windows.

For nearly a quarter mile the old buildings were lined up alongside what was once a healthy running stream; but now, with a modern, cement dam built there was a good sized body of water, a figure-eight shaped pond that in winter froze into just the right amount of space for two, perfectly sized hockey rinks.

The factory buildings were settled with age, but still a vibrant, reddish brown that promised centuries to come; the interiors having been modernized to shelter the local health clinic, attorney offices, insurance agencies and specialty stores.

There was even a building allocated to the offices of City Hall and the Mayor.

On the Dell’s side of Fulton Ave sat The First Congregational Church, an even older structure than the brick factories; though, ironically flanked by modern homes built in the last half century.

Kevin was staring across the street at the health clinic when Sara poked him in the ribs. Pointed at the kids walking in front, three-abreast across the cement sidewalk, adorable in their church dresses.

June was walking with a slight limp.

Zee, walking between Kai and June, was putting a hitch in her stride every second or third or fourth step (sometimes switching to the other leg), showing support and empathy for her biggest sister.

Kevin grabbed Sara’s hand and she leaned her head against his upper arm.

Physically and in temperament, June and Kai were startlingly similar, even for sisters; both, even keeled since birth, smooth brunettes with the compact and supple form of their mother.

But Zee?

Zee had jet black curls and pale skin and freckles and had begun to lengthen, showing signs her body type might end up more similar to Kevin’s.

Her spirit was growing even faster.

The latest clashes between Sara and Zee had Kevin pondering what might actually happen when an irresistible force encounters an unmovable object.

But Sara always had the ace up her sleeve: June.

June was not only Zee’s biggest sister, but her idol.

Even at her most stubborn moments of defiance, one look from June and Zee did what she was told.

“What would I do without you,” Sara would tell June at least once a day.

***

Church was strange for Kevin; symbolic of most of the things in his life, he supposed, but overall a positive experience. Just confusing.

He enjoyed listening to Pastor Nate.

Especially enjoyed the singing parts, folks who lustily belted lyrics off key.

Would stare, fascinated, out of the corner of his eye at the folks who raised their hands.

The hand raisers, he called them.

Folks who, during singing or prayer, lifted a hand to the rafters.

To rise!

When others sang, Kevin felt their joy, but felt none of his own.

But that was the way it had always been.

Surrounded by friends. People who loved him. He felt alone, though not lonely.

His successes in life, whether social or monetary, as much as he enjoyed them, always came as a surprise.

Kevin preferred the periphery; observation, rather than participation; his parents and then Sara being the only people who truly understood his pensiveness.

His entire childhood, it seemed, was buried in books.

Trying to quench an unquenchable thirst.

Find the answers.

In the summer after Kevin finished first grade, his parents brought home a new set of deluxe encyclopedias, an adult, leatherbound edition for the library downstairs, and a junior version for Kevin’s room; the junior version heavy on color pictures and charts and diagrams to lure young adolescents into science and math.

A couple months later, with second grade about to start, at supper, Kevin announced to his Mom and Dad that he was finished reading them.

Staring at her son, Mom slowly lowered her fork and asked, “You read your encyclopedias?”

Kevin, focused on pushing peas away from the mashed potatoes—gotta keep those two separated!—managed a nod.

Flabbergasted, his Mom asked, “All of them?”

A bit embarrassed, Kevin said, “I skimmed through some of the boring parts.”

Mom shook her head and looked at Dad as though for help, but he shrugged and said, “The adult version is in the library.”

Kevin, still busy digging out renegade peas attempting to bury themselves into the potatoes, gave another, curt nod.

His Mom looked between the two of them and burst into laughter.

Barely two weeks later, his Mom was dead, an overdose of prescription drugs and alcohol.

She used to say to Kevin, “Hey smart-butt, don’t get too smart for your butt.”

Always made him laugh.

But now, as a parent, Kevin understood what his Mom meant.

Sara and Kevin yearned above all other things for their children to be happy, and as soon as June was born, they knew she was a smart little bugger.

And while being smart is a good thing, Kevin had firsthand experience of a lesser-known and unfortunate truth: that being overly smart at a young age is rarely conducive to happiness.

When Kevin’s Mom died in an awful way, he was the one to find her body; at the time, being only a year older than Zee was now.

Teachers and counselors sat him down to talk about death. They had talked, anyway.

Dad brought him to church after Mom died.

So Kevin read the bible and other books on religion and there were a lot of interesting things to think about.

But even at such a young age he became disillusioned.

People comfortable with cherry-picking religious texts to find whatever justified their current behavior while ignoring the rest was … incongruous.

Besides, despite being so young, Kevin understood that his Dad only brought him to church in the hope that he would find solace there.

As he was now, with his girls.

Kevin did appreciate the architecture.

The Worthboro First Congregational was a twice renovated version of the original, but still with the original backbone; interwoven, seven-inch timber beams; beams, no doubt raised—as they did in the old days—still a bit green to dry in the form of the nave; human hands creating elegant and strong joinery that incorporated wooden pegs, securing this structure from the harsh New England elements for well over a century.

Nobody knew the exact date the original framing was erected, but Kevin had done enough digging through the Chronicle archives to find the church rose shortly after the Civil War began to rage; a time when you could still harvest such timbers from old growth forest in your own backyard.

While the other parishioners sang, Kevin mouthed the words and stared at the rafters, pondering the fate of Leslie Marionette; at the same time, feeling blessed to be here, with his girls, in this town, in this church, a place Sara described as the only place she feels completely at peace, other than their home.

“Off to our beautiful little church,” she said each Sunday morning, herding the girls out to the car.

Along the length of each side of the nave were stained glass insets, industrially produced replicas of a forgotten master.

The straight-backed pews were full that morning.

Kevin slouched as much as comfortable, Sara to his left followed by Kai, wearing a pretty yellow dress, cuddled against her Mom, appearing to be asleep, though she wasn’t.

June sat on Kevin’s right, vibrantly beautiful in her navy blue church dress, back straight against the sturdy backrest, eyes locked on Pastor Nate, speaking from the chancel.

Zee, wearing the white dress that both June and Kai once wore, slumped heavily against her big sister (she really was asleep).

Pastor Nate concluded the morning’s sermon telling the congregation that today, a day we mark on the calendar as Mother’s Day, would be a good day to finish with a silent prayer for the Marionette family.

He reminded everyone that, due to the fame of Leslie’s son Jonny, there would be a police presence where the family lived, lasting throughout the weekend and into tomorrow, when the family would host private visitations.

“So please,” Pastor Nate advised, “Unless you’re on the visitor list, don’t try to swing by. The police department asked me to say something.”

The sermon ended with the Lord’s prayer, Kevin, again, only mouthed the words while thinking about how Leslie Marionette was killed.

Not believing it had anything to do with her famous son.

Some lone, craze-job.

Our minds, more often than not, aren’t equipped to come up with proper answers so we conjure our own; something that Kevin knew that humans were particularly good at—building narratives and telling stories.

Leslie, he knew, had been killed for a reason.

Church ended and everyone politely shuffled into the main aisle.

Being tall, Kevin resignedly watched the parishioners file slowly ahead, through the vestibule, where Pastor Nate greeted each person, speaking when spoken to … which meant speaking to everyone.

When the Dell’s reached the hand-crafted, oaken double doors, a gust of wind bit sharp and being New England, winter still had some bite left.

A now fully awake Zee announced at the top of her small but strong lungs, “Holy craaaaap it’s cold!”

Later, when they were alone, Kevin would say, “Yeah, pretty sure everyone still at church heard her.”

Sara would answer, “All of Worthboro, I think.”

But there were a few chuckles.

Glances of curiosity and amusement at the adorable, freckled face with the mischievous grin and dark curls.

Nan Murphy, who was 91 years old and still drove herself to the church and lived barely a mile from the Dells, said from a few bodies ahead, her hand in Pastor Nate’s, “You are correct young lady! Yes-siree-bob!”

Kevin, waiting for Sara to look, made the sign of the cross with a finger in a way that only she could see.

Sara rolled her eyes back at him in a way that said—I know, I know. That’s exactly the way I sound on those chilly winter mornings, herding them out the car.

“Not so loud,” June hissed.

“I don’t have mittens,” Zee complained.

June grabbed one of Zee’s little hands and said, “Stick the other one in your armpit”; instead, Zee jammed both hands into her big sister’s, walking with a near 45-degree lilt, somehow maintaining forward momentum, something that required the type of coordination that Kevin knew would surely leave him sprawled on the ground.

Upon reaching the exit, Pastor Nate greeted the Dell’s warmly (he greeted everyone warmly), but Kevin often felt there was a special affection for Sara.

After the birth of June, Sara set her focus on finding a church for their family.

June was nearly a year old when Sara and Kevin joined the First Congregational, where June, Kai and Zee would be baptized.

Pastor Nate liked to joke how she sat him down in his office so they could talk.

“I like to call it an interview,” he would say with a smile, “But it had moments that felt like an interrogation.”

“Just making sure I’d found the right place for my girls,” Sara would answer, the fire that allowed her to compete in gymnastics at a national level always smoldering just below the surface.

Pastor Nate grabbed Kevin’s hand in both of his, knowing that the well respected newspaper man was a good friend to the Marionette family.

“Leslie was good and kind. I am so sorry this happened,” he said in a manner that pushed the chilly wind away.

“Me too,” Kevin said.

Zee, both of her hands still stuck in one of June’s, piped up to Pastor Nate, “We came in Daddy’s new car and it’s the Goat.”

“Of course you did,” he answered, looking down. Smiled. Returned his gaze to Kevin and added, “What else would your Dad drive?”

***

Kevin spent Monday morning at the paper.

Past deadline, went home for lunch, then drove to the south side of town and the Marionette household.

The street entrance to the exclusive neighborhood was flanked by fieldstone pillars and a landscaped grassy area. Cruisers were to either side, blue lights lazily rotating. Officers stood in the street. Orange and white parade barricades allowed space for a single car to pass.

Kevin put the window down as he drove up and an officer looked and waved him along.

Parked a good hundred yards from the Marionette property because of the long line of cars in front.

Walked down the sidewalk.

The houses were all huge and architecturally landscaped with immaculate lawns. Flowering dogwoods imported from afar, shrub gardens and raised flower beds with retainer walls of manufactured rock.

The Marionette’s driveway was full of vehicles in front of the four-car garage.

Kevin had been to the property hundreds of times. A giant, white colonial with navy shutters and more, gorgeous landscaping.

Under the tudor arch entry the front door was open.

Due to the amount of parked vehicles, dozens of people had to be inside, but no human noises emerged.

Kevin entered the funerary atmosphere, greeted by an aroma saturated with freshly cooked dishes and baked desserts. Aromas that, despite the sadness or maybe because of it, inspired hunger.

Clusters of somber, well-dressed people in black.

Movements are methodical and polite.

Tapped shoulders. Fingertips to forearms. Handshakes and hugs.

Hushed tones all around, as though Leslie’s ghost still lingered.

Kevin, with his height, was able to survey each room quickly.

Passed through the dining area where he spotted the sisters, Jackie and Jenna, seated at a majestic rectangular table of white marble, three chairs of curved dark wood and beige cushions to each side, all occupied by women.

The sisters, born only 11 months apart, sat next to each other; as always, Kevin marveled at their physical contrast.

Jackie, blond and slim like a model in a black scuba crepe dress with a v-neck.

Jenna, dark hair, similarly dressed, but six inches taller and built as though the genes that instructed muscle development had been activated 40-percent longer than her sister’s. (Kevin liked to joke with Jonny, the mega-millionaire superstar, that he wasn’t even the best athlete in his family.)

The sisters were surrounded by other women, standing around the table. Talking. Supportive.

Kevin knew that Jackie and Jenna would get through the death of their mother the same way they did everything—together.

***

Kevin moved to the living area.

The Marionette home was big and cozy.

Amish-crafted furniture of earthen tones, oversized sofas of muted, matching linens.

Accent chairs upholstered with soft, bleached leather.

Watercolors of New England ocean scenes occupied the wall space.

Kevin found Jonny planted on a couch between his two best friends from childhood: Vincent Comeau and Matt Shea.

Thought, wow!—when was the last time the three of them were in a room together?

From Little League through high school, Jonny Marionette, Vincent Comeau and Matt Shea were leaders of a crew that dominated regional sports for a decade.

Brothers in combat on the playing field; three peas in a pod outside of it.

Post high school saw the three friends shoot in diverging directions.

Three years into college, Jonny signed a professional contract and instantly became a star.

His wavy blond-brown hair in a Beckham-faux hawk, Jonny was now at the peak of his physical powers, earning over a million dollars every night he took the pitcher’s mound.

Matt, who was Jonny’s catcher from Little League through high school, had skin like dark cedar. On the short side and now a well-fed husky, he wore cornrows and had a goatee long enough for a rubber band halfway down.

Found trouble with the law following high school.

Spent a couple years in jail and moved from Worthboro to Brockton, where he quickly found his footing and now ran a successful restaurant with his wife Josie, seated in an accent chair next to the couch, beautiful, cocoa skin and wavy black hair, sitting with her legs wide, belly looking ready to pop for what Kevin believed was the fourth time.

As for Vincent Comeau, maturity has been kind.

Funny looking as a kid, Vincent’s face had filled to better handle a large and round nose with flaring nostrils. Eyes that once seemed too small and far apart are now framed by professionally plucked eyebrows and stylish eyeglasses. An early baldness pattern offered his natural widow’s peak an aristocratic flare.

Kevin often thought that Vincent’s olive skin and odd combination of features allowed his constituents to see whatever they wanted: european, asian, african or even native american.

While Jonny’s career had maintained a meteoric arc, Vincent had now risen equally high.

Trained as an attorney and having entered state politics as soon as he finished law school, last fall Vincent was elected to the US House of Representatives, at the age of 31, the second youngest congressman in the entire house.

Jonny, Matt and Vincent wore dark clothing, ties loose, jackets hung over the back of the couch.

Kevin approached and Matt saw him first and rose, Vincent quickly following.

Kevin shook hands with Matt and then Vincent and looked to Jonny, who remained a step away.

Jonny’s lower lip trembled as he came forward to throw his arms around Kevin in a fierce bear hug.

“Thanks for coming,” he mumbled into Kevin’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry Jonny,” Kevin mumbled back.

The two unclasped and Jonny, almost as tall as Kevin, looked at him with open affection. “My Mom just loved you, you know. She kept every damn article you ever wrote about Jenna and me.”

Kevin looked at Jonny with the same affection. “She was a great one.” He stepped back and looked at Matt and Vincent, “Gentleman, I’d love to catch up with you, but later.'' Looked back at Jonny, adding, “I’m gonna wander. Talk to some of your Mom’s friends. Your sisters, maybe, if they’re up for it. I’ll be writing her story.”

“Thank you,” Jonny said. “We wouldn’t want anyone else to do it.”