Sand And Water
Matt had believed Scott a murderer when the news broke. No way in hell would Amy ever shoot herself in the head; no way would she leave her baby, sick in the hospital. He'd asked Scott why, still in denial; was still asking him why this had happened.
But Jeff, staring at Amy as she lay on the altar, knew why. Had known why for years; and if Matt could only get past his own feelings of guilt he would know the truth; that no one could have helped Amy.
Well, now it was too late; Matt and Scott would probably spend years picking up the scattered pieces of their lives. Amy hadn't thought of that when she let go, but really, when had she ever thought of anything but her own pain?
No, no...that wasn't right. Amy had loved them as deeply, as hard as she could. They had only loved her in return. But as the old song went, sometimes love isn't enough.
***
September, 2000
"You sure you don't want me with you?"
She smiled at him, "Matt dumped me, Jeff; that doesn't mean I need a baby sitter."
Jeff shuffled his feet, watching Amy as she tilted back a long-necked bottle of beer. Some part of him wondered if she was ever really 'all right'; then again, neither of them measured up to conventional standards of normalcy.
"I'm not going to sit here slitting my wrists over him, Jeff." She finished her beer and abandoned the stool she'd been settled on, "Come on, let's go across the street."
Jeff didn't even hesitate, though 'across the street' was a dive usually frequented by Hell's Angels. He helped her into her mock-leopard coat before following her out of the bar.
She shivered and burrowed deeper into the lining of the jacket while they jaywalked to the neighboring bar. Amy was far more partial to the heat, and Matt's old joke about her went something like, 'When God made her born a southerner, He knew what He was doing!"
The stale scent of beer blasted them both when they entered the barroom. A wanna-bee college pop band droned on at top volume about the ills of society. Amy was drawn magnetically toward that end; Jeff never figured her a stickler for the environmental crowd. But then he saw a head of curly hair; familiar. One of the company?
Milling through the crowd, he tried to get a glimpse of what was going on between Amy and the unidentified man.
He recognized the man instantly; Scott Levy. A thrill of fear raced through Jeff's spine; Scott Levy, former hardcore drug user. He couldn't possibly be of any help to Amy; rushing forward into the crowd, he clapped his hand down on Amy's shoulder.
Both of them looked up at Jeff guiltily, as though they'd been caught in the middle of something naughty. "Red Hardy," Scott said, sounding amused. Jeff smirked at the use of his nickname; it stemmed from an all-too-unpleasant encounter he'd had with a dye bottle a few months ago.
"Scott," He said quietly. "Amy and I were getting ready to leave..."
She turned around, shooting Jeff the oddest look, "We just got here."
"Yeah," He absently clutched at his head, "I think I've got a migraine coming on."
"Then you can go back alone," She said.
Jeff shook his head; the blaring of the music and Amy's obstinance were combining to make his headache more genuine. "Alone?"
She folded her hand into the crease of Scott's elbow, "I'm going home with him." Said Amy Dumas, boldly.
**
Jeff snapped back to reality as the strains of a Leonard Cohn song rose from the organist's booth; his cue, and everyone else's' to stand up.
Matt had picked the priest; the same pastor from the Blessed Virgin in Cameron. He approached the alter and, after gesturing for the audience to seat themselves, began to read from the prepared text.
How Matt and Scott had fought over these words; words, meaningless piffle. Jeff's teeth sunk into his bottom lip; Amy's death had begun to sink in. All he could do was hold himself together; his reading would be next. The only coherent thought in his mind remained: I don't want to disappoint her.