Rough Trade

foot and quickly disappeared down alleys and side streets, leaving a trail of broken glass and garbage in their wake. After what seemed like an eternity, a uniformed officer approached our car, signaled the driver to roll down the window, and assured us that it was now safe to make our way into the church.
    The archbishop, looking shaken, emerged from behind the heavy egg-splattered doors and greeted us on the wide, stone steps. Taking Jeff by the hand, he led the Rendells into the dark sanctuary of the cathedral. I made my way behind them followed by the first tentative clusters of funeral-goers.
    The interior of the cathedral was damp and narrow like the inside of a tomb. Above, from the ribbed vaults of the ceiling, the vestments of dead clergy hung like flags while thousands of votive candles flickered in the gloomy alcoves that punctuated the transept. From somewhere behind us the deep-throated organ throbbed the first mournful strains of requiem, and the air was thick with incense.
    I took my place in the hard pew beside Chrissy and Jeff and focused my attention on the casket that had just been brought to rest before us. In life Beau had always made himself the focus, the epicenter of attention. Why was it that in death I seemed to be always losing sight of him? His murder had put into motion a chain of events that seemingly swamped the event itself. Whenever I found myself even beginning to think about what had precipitated it all, something else popped up to divert my attention yet again.
    Coach Bennato appeared on the altar to deliver the eulogy—one old man’s farewell to another. I looked around for Harald Feiss and found him seated across the aisle between Gus Wallenberg and a delegation from the mayor’s office. This being an election year, the mayor had no doubt decided that there was nothing to be gained by doing anything linking himself to Jeffrey Rendell, who had, with the publication of six column inches of type, found himself Milwaukee’s number one leper.
    Marie Bennato snuffled noisily throughout her husband’s remarks while her daughter did her best to comfort her. Of the hundreds of mourners who had paid their respects, hers were the first tears I saw shed for Beau Rendell. I suspected she cried at funerals as a matter of course.
    Bennato’s speech covered the distance between barroom reminiscence and locker room oratory. He told of miraculous victories and bitter defeats, of snowstorms and blown plays, of broken limbs and shattered dreams. He spoke without irony of Beau’s faith in his players, his love for the game, and his devotion to his community. His words were met with silence save for the scratching of the pencils of the reporters at the back of the church, scribbling it all for the afternoon editions.
    At the conclusion of the service we made our way out of the church between police lines three men deep. Chrissy said it made her feel like the wife of an about-to-be-deposed Latin American dictator. Jeff just huddled in his coat, looking shell-shocked and oblivious. Four days earlier he thought he’d reached the end of his rope when he told his father that he was leaving the Monarchs. Now his father was dead, he owned the team, and he was so vilified by the fans that they were pelting him with garbage. If he were a prisoner, I would have had him placed on suicide watch. I made a mental note to speak to Jack about keeping an eye on him when they were in L.A.
    At the cemetery it felt like February. Darkness clung stubbornly to the edges of the day while the clouds let loose a steady stream of freezing drizzle. Most of the mourners had not made the trip to River Hills for the burial. A few friends clustered beneath dripping umbrellas. The entire Monarchs team was there, no doubt Bennato’s doing. They stood together, silent and gigantic, like a stand of rain-washed sequoias.
    Whatever meager semblance of restraint the press had managed at the cathedral was immediately abandoned in the open air of the cemetery. The clicking of camera shutters punctuated the archbishop’s final benediction, and at least one cameraman found a perch on an adjacent headstone in order to capture the most affecting shot of Beau Rendell’s casket being lowered into the earth. I don’t care what the ACLU lawyers say; the framers of the Constitution, when they contemplated freedom of the press, could not have possibly imagined such gall or such intrusion.
    When it was done, we went back to Beau’s house