Heaven Lies East of the Mississippi

By Anna Scott Graham

When Kendall Schultz walks away from professional soccer and his longtime girlfriend, tragedy threatens to destroy the American superstar. In rural Tennessee, Kendall meets Sarah Dwyer, a widow whose son Heath reflects Kendall’s regrets. Can a sporting icon set aside catastrophe or will his chance at happiness be forever lost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Scott Graham
• Release date: Mar 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463606322

Anna Scott Graham

A California native, I lived in Britain for eleven years, moving back to The Golden State in the spring of 2007. I'm leaving these stories for my grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. In the meantime, please enjoy the tall tales. And thank you for reading an independent author.

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Heaven Lies East of the Mississippi

By Anna Scott Graham

Copyright 2019 by Anna Scott Graham

License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this novel, please encourage your friends to download their own copy. Thanks for your support.

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, incidents and places are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For my husband and those who have offered their love and support over the last several years, both in the writing and the living.

Chapter 1

Steel beams and concrete were the bones and blood of the stadium, but as Kendall Schultz stood on the velvet green pitch, a heart pounded under his feet. The beat rose to his ankles, up to his knees, hips, and onward. But he grimaced as that rumbling reached his chest, a shallow pulse in response.

It shouldn’t be this way, he considered, staring at thousands of cheering fans. I should feel something beyond what this place stirs. He looked toward where Natalie and his parents sat, although he couldn’t make out his girlfriend and family amid a clamoring sea of FC San Diego supporters, or FCSD as everyone in San Diego who adored soccer called the team, his team. For eight years this had been Kendall’s team, but why wasn’t he as excited and nervous as at last year’s final?

He glanced down the line; Wilson Givens wore a broad, infectious smile. Trevor Harner gently scuffed his left shoe along the grass. Casey Alspach was shaking his shoulders as if trying to remove his head from the rest of his body. His blonde hair flew as though connected to the screams rippling from all sides. Casey was always this jumpy until they stepped on the field to play. Then every tendon went slack, Casey the most relaxed man on the squad. Kendall flashed him a smile, then stared at the ground, wishing for that sort of energy.

I should feel something, Kendall stewed inwardly, but nothing’s burning, nothing that means this is anything other than a day job. That’s wrong, that’s impossible, that’s….

The whistle blew and Kendall looked up, then glanced at Casey; he stood perfectly straight. Wilson and Trevor were the same, as was the entire team. It lasted for seconds, during which Kendall inhaled, then exhaled, trying to conjure the magic that had dwelled within him for the last conscious twenty-five years of his life. He had been playing with a soccer ball since he was two. But from the age of five it was locked in his memories, kicking that sphere on his parents’ front lawn. His mother said it was on Christmas morning, but Kendall wasn’t aware of the date; it could have been his birthday, or Groundhog Day for that matter. It was a moment of clarity, never forgotten. Now at thirty years old, another title just ninety-plus minutes away, all that passion and awareness felt as uncertain as when it began. Had it been on Christmas? Maybe Easter, maybe his birthday. Photographs couldn’t pinpoint a season; Kendall was born and raised in San Diego, had played nearly all of his career here. Other than two years with Real Madrid, he had only lived in Southern California, where seasons were as illusory as what he felt. Maybe this was practice for a World Cup or an Olympics. Perhaps this was off-season training. Or was this Spain, when he had been just starting out, but still far above his American peers. Maybe this was high school or middle school or the first few years he ran around a large emerald expanse, learning to forget about his arms, to concentrate on his legs and feet. All that mattered were his lower limbs.

He was never this unfocused, and that drove him even further to search for something as solid as what this place was made from, once eyes left the field. Where spectators sat or stood, where concessions were sold, where offices hummed with all that occurred behind the scenes; Kendall focused on those tangible aspects of the game. It’s a game, he reminded himself, as his teammates huddled. He joined them as if by an involuntary force; all the actions were rote, what the hell? I need to focus, I need to….

Everything all right Schultz?

Kendall nodded to Coach Schlatter. Yeah. Let’s play.

Herman Schlatter nodded in his curt German manner. Uh-huh. Then he said something to Wilson and Trevor. Kendall stared at his coach as though Herm was speaking in his native tongue. The cadence was clipped, like all the German Kendall had heard when playing in Europe. Spanish was more fluid, how Casey now looked. An occasional twitch lingered, but as Herm Schlatter gave his last pep talk, Casey grew still.

Kendall inhaled again, waiting for the adrenaline to kick in, waiting for something to wrench him into reality, to where they were, seconds away from the start of the final game of the season. He had felt disconnected all through the playoffs, each game exacerbating his lack of focus. He had never felt so detached from this sport, his teammates, his coach. He hadn’t said anything about it, not even to Natalie. But she knew, and from Herm Schlatter’s glare, so did he.

Now, I need to be on now. Kendall cleared his throat as Schlatter stepped his way. Schultz?

Kendall smiled. His was the only Germanic surname, and Schlatter’s accent always accentuated it. No worries, Kendall said. He glanced around; I need to feel it now, I have never not felt it, the ambience and drive, that spark, the thrill. The bliss is missing, shit!

Schlatter said nothing, his thin gray hair and glasses showing his age. Otherwise his face was unlined, even after years of coaching how many teams, some great like this one, some abysmal. How many times has he stood in this position, Kendall mused, heading for the field. He was a forward, had played this position almost all of his life. His first year at Real Madrid, he was an attacking midfielder, often on the right, sometimes the left. He was moved to forward during his second season in Spain, which had angered some of his teammates due to his nationality and youth. But he had proved his worth, and longing for home, returned to America, to California. He signed with FC San Diego, lived twenty minutes from where he grew up in La Jolla. He spoke fluent Spanish, could make out just enough French, German, Dutch, Italian, and Portuguese to ask for the bathroom or order a beer. If he stepped onto any foreign soil, he was revered for his skills. If he stepped outside FCSD’s stadium, he was often anonymous.

If he didn’t pull it together in the next several seconds…. Kendall glanced at Casey, then to Wilson and Trevor. All were in the zone, where Kendall usually resided. He stared at the opposition, D.C. United, representing the nation’s capital. Faces were familiar; it was a small sporting community, even if it gathered players from around the world. Maybe half of D.C.’s team was comprised of foreigners, about the same with San Diego’s squad. But that was the case in Europe too, lineups a mix from all over the globe. All over the planet, except in Kendall’s home nation, football was king. Football was played with a round ball for two forty-five-minute periods, give a few minutes for stoppage time. It didn’t require pads or helmets, hands were verboten except to return the ball into play. It required immense skill with one’s feet, great stamina in a player’s legs, and the entirety of one’s heart. At that moment, Kendall possessed the maximum level for all but his chest muscle. It seemed several beats behind.

He pounded the middle of his upper torso, then smiled. Then he waited. Start damnit, start! As play commenced, he sighed, running with the rest. Yet Kendall’s heart hadn’t responded to the whistle.

It hadn’t answered him by half-time, and twenty minutes into the second play period he was still on auto-pilot, for which he was thankful, but not enthused. Only when Casey passed him the ball in the sixty-ninth minute did Kendall’s heart finally wake up. He shot the ball away from the goalie, cleanly into the back of the net. A thunderous roar swelled all around him, hollering teammates raising the din. A scoreless tie had been broken as well as a brick knocked from the wall around Kendall’s chest.

For the rest of the game he was a semblance of himself, but it was only noted by Herm Schlatter, who eyed his forward with a suspicious gaze. At the end of regulation time, the score remained 1-0, and as extra minutes ticked down, Kendall wiped sweaty brown hair from his face, staring at snippets of the crowd and his teammates, wishing to see Natalie. He needed someone who would understand, and who wouldn’t be pissed at him. Coach Schlatter couldn’t wait to rip into his star forward, even if Kendall had scored the winning and only goal.

The stadium erupted in raucous bliss, which crept up the backs of Kendall’s aching calves, sneaking into his weary quad muscles, easing along his buttocks into his lower back, then crawling so slowly along his spine. It never knocked on his rib cage, but edged forward into his brain; another title for FCSD, another accolade for perhaps the finest male soccer player the United States of America had ever produced. Kendall didn’t tear off his shirt, but acknowledged the achievement by slapping backs, giving hugs, but not blinking away any tears. Others did; Casey Alspach wept freely, but perhaps that was also for other issues. Throughout the season Casey and his wife had tried to get pregnant. Maybe now, with the title in hand, Casey could complete other desires.

Thirty-one-year-old Wilson wanted to go home to Alabama for Christmas. Trevor hailed from Georgia, and also couldn’t wait to flee California. Like Kendall, Casey was a native of the Golden State, but he spent the off season in the Central Valley on a sprawling ranch north of Bakersfield. Kendall considered how in a matter of days, this tight-knit group would disperse for all corners, not just of this country, but to Central and South America, Europe and Asia too. The upcoming Christmas holiday, still a few weeks away, had been on hearts and minds when the end of the season was broached. On the second of December, a title had been clinched. Within days, real-life beckoned.

But first microphones and questions were thrust into players’ faces. Kendall smiled as though he was twenty-three, twenty-six, twenty-nine even. This time last year he’d been ecstatic when FC San Diego had beaten the Houston Dynamos; was this second straight title as sweet as last year’s?

Oh man, yeah, I mean…. Kendall’s post-game responses were perfect, from his electric American smile, his gushing yet grateful tone as he gazed between the interviewer, the stands, and the ground. Looking at his feet, Kendall had found, humbled him, as though giving thanks to the pitch upon where the victory had sprung. He was a star, had scored the only goal, but from that earth had he been given a purpose, and eventually into that earth he would return. Then he thanked his coach, his teammates, and the fans. San Diego fans were the greatest in the world.

That was a bald-faced lie, but at that moment few would call him on it. San Diego soccer fans might be the best on the West Coast, maybe within the US. Real soccer, or football, fans resided anywhere else on the planet. He wouldn’t assert which were more passionate, the Spanish or English, the Dutch, Italians, Germans, Mexicans, Brazilians, or Argentinians; the list went on and on. Americans were tepid in comparison, but he couldn’t say that on live television, not to ESPN or Fox or Sky or Telemundo or any other networks who sent reporters to cover a competition that meant…. What did soccer in America actually mean?

The US had never placed in the top three any year of World Cup play except for a qualified third place finish in the initial tournament in 1930; no actual playoff game for losing semi-finalists had taken place, but the United States was given the nod over Yugoslavia due to tournament records. The best that America had done was in 2002, when reaching the last eight, losing to Germany 1-0. As a kid, Kendall had breathed by those facts, growing up loving soccer in a country where it ranked far below hockey, not even achieving active major league status until 1996. Living in San Diego had exposed him to Mexico’s strong football base, but even as soccer exploded as a youth sport, it hadn’t penetrated the upper echelon dominated by baseball, football, basketball, and hockey. Even hockey had more fans than soccer.

Kendall considered all that as fawning reporters asked identical questions. To those speaking Spanish, he answered in the same tongue, but he’d been doing that since his days at Real Madrid. Kendall had learned the fundamentals of that language in high school. Living so close to the Mexican border, he appreciated a cross-cultural fan base, and loved communicating with those whose passion for the game was inborn. No matter how ardent the supporter, a foreigner always outshone an American.

Except perhaps for his parents, Kendall smiled, as the last queries were posed. He then joined teammates already celebrating on the field, families gathering around Wilson and Trevor. Casey’s wife was glued to her husband’s side and Kendall felt their joy, also small apprehensions. All season Casey had blamed the game for interfering with their plans. Now there wouldn’t be any excuse. Scouting for Natalie, Kendall stopped by Casey, again grabbing him in a bear hug. No words were exchanged; they had seen to it a goal had been scored, but it could have been anyone else on the team. Yet, they had the glory. As Kendall pulled away, he ruffled Casey’s thick blonde hair, then smiled at Casey’s wife Melissa, a petite brunette. What kind of coloring would their child have?

Kendall moved away, waving to Wilson and his wife. Their two small sons looked just like their father with large brown eyes, close-cropped tight brown curls and enormous smiles. Wilson hoisted the youngest; Kendall couldn’t recall the boy’s name, but he shrieked Daddy until Wilson’s wife Delia told him to hush. Wilson pointed at Kendall. Natalie was just here looking for you.

Tell her I’m looking for her, Kendall laughed. My parents too.

Good luck man, Wilson shouted, tickling his son.

Kendall nodded, stepping toward Trevor and his wife, whose name slipped Kendall’s mind. Where was Natalie; was she waiting with his family or was she lost in the multitudes. Trevor waved at Kendall, a tall, balding man Kendall’s age, his wife also tall, with long strawberry blonde hair. She was seven months’ pregnant, but their eldest, a girl, wasn’t there.

Kendall skirted around other players, sometimes making eye contact, but his focus was on finding his kin, which included Natalie Koslow. Then he smiled, seeing her twenty feet away, a dense crowd between them.

Their eyes met, smiles too. Hers was like Wilson’s wife Delia, beatific and proud. His was…. Kendall wondered what his grin revealed, hopefully just fatigue. He was bone-tired, felt little relief. Why wasn’t he like everyone else on the pitch, euphoric or tearful. Behind Natalie, Kendall’s family tried to squeeze through, but she reached him first, stroking his sticky face, her gentle nod bringing a semblance of life back to him. She knows, thank God, he thought. She’s the only one who does.

Then she hugged him, not tightly, which both also understood. As Kendall pulled away, she grasped his hands. Are you okay?

He smiled, then nodded. Anything else would have been misunderstood. He wanted to shrug, say meh at the top of his voice. His voice was intact, not hoarse from screams of pleasure. And later it would remain intact, even after he and Natalie had sex. He chuckled. Nothing in his life was going to plan.

You played great, she whispered, kissing his cheek.

Her voice was subdued; she didn’t try to infer anything but the truth. He had played well, just like always. Even if I couldn’t feel a damned thing, I went out and did my job, he sighed inwardly. I’m well paid to do it, and at least I managed that. Thanks.

Neither had ever been overly effusive, why they had gotten together in the first place. Yet he wished she carried more sentiment, maybe it would spark his. Maybe she could heft him into the stratosphere like all the rest. Instead she kept him grounded, just like always, which had been necessary in the past. Kendall blinked, then saw his mom, dad, sister, and brother. And his past, like this day had occurred years ago.

He smiled, but felt sick, only staying upright because Natalie gripped his hand. He closed his eyes, his mom on one side, his father on the other. His brother’s voice swirled around Kendall like a vice, while his sister’s thrilled giggles punctured Kendall’s eardrums. They called him Ken or Kenny, familial nicknames that did nothing to calm his rolling stomach. As they stood back, he opened his eyes, pretending they were reporters, that this was all part of the routine. But never in his entire life had he felt so disjointed within himself, or from his nearest and dearest.

He stared at the half-full stadium. It had been twenty minutes, at least, since time ended, since the rush of media, since, since…. I, uh, God, I’m so tired, he mumbled.

His mother, Brenda, clucked. Well, it’s been a long season. Honey, are you all right?

Yeah, just need a minute. He squatted, which was painful, but near the ground something resonated. He wanted to lay face-down in the grass, maybe he would melt into it. Perhaps then he could pull himself back together and stand on feet that knew what in the hell was going on. Instead he stood, grasping Natalie’s hand. He inhaled deeply, then smiled. Okay, yeah, better. Feeling much better.

Just walk away, please, because I’m not okay, but I only want Natalie aware. He looked at his girlfriend. The slight shift of her blonde head offered small relief. We better let you get to the locker room. I’ll see you at home.

Oh yeah, Kendall’s dad Chris said. Will we see you guys tomorrow?

Yeah, or the day after. Kendall nodded, looking at his parents, then his younger siblings. They couldn’t tell anything was amiss, other than he was fully exhausted.

Well, take your time. Brenda stroked his face, then smiled. You’ve answered any remaining critics. Savor this Kenny. It’s all yours.

Critics, he wanted to snort. She meant the media who still hounded American male players for not reaching any higher than the top eight in World Cup play. American women had won in 1999, placing within the top three slots otherwise. But the men lagged behind.

Kendall felt dogged by more than results and fatigue. Natalie gave him one kiss, then led his family away. He wanted to thank her for that courtesy, would see how she responded to his gratitude later. Later that night, once he had properly greeted and thanked everyone necessary, answered any loitering reporters, then he would drive away from the stadium; he loved driving, finally getting to use his hands for something. And if Natalie was in the mood, maybe he would use those hands to accurately tell her thanks. Maybe, he sighed, his plodding footsteps attempting to reach into the ground, retrieving any sense of purpose.

Chapter 2

When Natalie turned over, she was only half surprised to see that Kendall wasn’t beside her. For a few seconds, she stared at his empty place, then she glanced at his clock; it was two in the morning.

She got up, used the toilet, washed her hands. Then she put on a robe, padding to the living room. He sat on a kitchen stool dragged near a large picture window. Blinds were mostly pulled, but he had cracked open the sliding glass door, gentle rumbles from the Pacific wafting into the dark, cavernous space. Kendall?

He turned, also in a robe, arms crossed over his chest. Did I wake you?

She came up behind him, first running fingers through his mop of hair, then setting her hands on his shoulders. He turned back to the window as she did so, but he gripped her fingers. I had to pee, she said. How long’ve you been up?

Maybe an hour. Couldn’t sleep.

Three months ago, Kendall wouldn’t have again faced the window. I would have stood, then embraced her, he mused, but something’s changed here too, not only on the pitch. He clutched her hands and she reciprocated. I’m too wound up, I guess. But you should go back to bed.

They had made a rushed but uninspired love when he got home, which hadn’t felt any differently than the last few months, just like earlier that night, running around the field, because that’s what he did. Kendall chased a ball, had sex with Natalie. For five years they had been together, three of those spent in this spectacular house overlooking the ocean. Natalie Koslow designed exactly the kind of homes in which she and Kendall resided, imaginative living spaces wrapped into stunning nooks and crannies all along the West Coast. The couple graced magazine covers, one of those beautiful duos both in looks and careers, yet their profiles weren’t overblown in part because Natalie didn’t crave the limelight, and that Kendall had chosen to play in America. Foreign clubs still sought his skills, but this was where Natalie wanted to live, and ultimately, Kendall did too.

You wanna talk about it?

He didn’t flinch at her voice, as though he had been waiting for her to speak. The ocean’s soft rumble seemed to heighten his senses within an odd silence that wasn’t fully quiet. He had stirred from a strange dream, used the bathroom, then come out here, trying to…. What was he trying to do, find, resurrect? My heart, he sighed. I just don’t feel it anymore.

I could tell. You wanted to be anywhere else tonight. Still, she chuckled, squeezing his hands. You managed to win the game.

He nodded. Don’t know how the hell it happened. He turned, seeing her small smile. But yeah, me and Casey somehow got it done.

Herm say anything to you?

Gave me his patented death glare. Kendall shrugged, then grinned. I’ll get an earful in a day or three.

She nodded, then stared beyond him. What do you wanna do?

She said it as though she knew the answer. He sighed. You ever feel this way, I mean, trying to figure out how something’s gonna come together, but you have no idea how or why.

She met his gaze. She knows exactly what I mean, but can’t or won’t answer me. Kendall stroked her cheek. She has the most beautiful blue eyes, she looks like the quintessential California girl, but was born in Washington State. Yet those eyes are so deep; I used to feel safe when I looked at her. I haven’t felt that way in….

What do you wanna do Ken?

She rarely called him anything but Kendall. Teammates and his family used Ken or Kenny, but in getting older, he preferred his whole name. I have no idea, I mean….

She nodded. I’m going back to bed. She glanced at her bare feet, then toward the window. My toes are cold.

He smiled. I’ll be right there.

Okay. She brushed her cheek along his, then walked away. Kendall sat for another minute, then closed the sliding glass door, joining her in bed.

They ate a quiet breakfast on the terrace, overlooking the water. Their phones were at their elbows, but both ignored various calls and texts. Then Kendall sighed. I wonder what would happen if I chucked this thing in the ocean.

They’d still find you.

Mom and Herm would.

Your dad and Casey too.

Kendall laughed, then picked up his phone. A long list waited on the screen, from his parents and coach to who he considered his best friend, apart from the woman seated across. Casey had passed the ball to Kendall not just because Kendall was in position, but because the men trusted each other. Kendall would have done the same if the roles were reversed.

Yet, in a matter of days their lives would be unharnessed, and not only due to Casey and his wife Melissa leaving for their ranch. In the