Sand And Water

The stone was meaningless now. Still, he turned it over and over in his hand, watching it glitter in the smoky light that surrounded him.

He couldn't help it. This was all he had left.

"Scott?" He heard his name as it slithered through the air. He resurfaced, eyes drawing bead to the bedroom's door. Stevie, his best friend, stood there leaning against the doorjamb. Swathed in black from shoulder to foot, he looked the part of a morbid undertaker. "The car's waiting."

Carelessly, Scott Levy pushed himself into a standing position. He couldn't, look back at the bed where they'd spent the most joyful moments of their married life. He nodded to acknowledge Stevie's words before pulling on a heavy, dark jacket and following his lead, puppy-like, out the door.

The day she had died, the southeast had been laboring under mercilessly hot skies and ninety-degree temperatures. Now, on the morning of her funeral, grass stood gray beneath layers of frost. He couldn't bear to look at the tulips she'd planted in the window box, now head-bowed and dying, dull-brown.

He and Stevie entered the limo and settled into silence; through the dull black glass, Scott watched the sidewalks leading in and out of the Birarbrook Cul De Sac fill with sad-faced, sign-bearing mourners. He tried to read each face as they blurred by; too many teenagers, too many young girls, all weeping, bearing white tallow.

If I couldn't make you stop, He sighed to himself, why didn't you think of them? But he said nothing.

Stevie stared silently out of the window opposite Scott; wisely, he never spoke to his "idol" unless he felt absolutely certain of his words. Now, everything seemed too uncertain, fragile; unable to sustain the weight of his opinion. Much more important to make sure that Scott remained on medication. Anything to keep him from doing what she had done..

Their jet-black limo pulled to a halt before the Church Of The Sacrament. Stevie took it as his cue to get out, and pushed open the limo door. Scott followed, silently, his red eyes blinking back tears of pain as cold shafts of sunlight penetrated his sunglasses.

The street they alighted onto, Plano Road, was eerily still; located in the middle of a large and happy neighborhood, it normally bustled with happy activity. Four police officers apiece stood at either end of the block, leaning on yellow police barricades. Vince had paid to have the road blocked off, he realized dully; the street was free of traffic.

It seemed as though life itself had been sucked out of the street; as though it had fled across the two-lane highway. When the limo sped away, Scott realized that it had only been chased across the road; the sidewalks facing the church were lined with mourning fans; weeping, picture-taking teenagers and young people. Older people, business-owners, stood at the top floors of their businesses, watching balefully. Dotted among them all were press people, bearing boom mikes and recorders, jostling against the yellow tape keeping them in line.

But the most prevalent presence was of the law, and it was that which penetrated Scott's awareness the most. Blue uniforms, two for every four people on the street, pressing back a surge of activity from the tape-recorder bearing reporters; Scott belatedly realized that it was a reaction to his presence. He took control, pulling Steve into the church and shutting the door firmly behind him.

Inside, the tiny chapel glowed with sheaves of pink roses. Her favorite flower; Matt and Jeff had remembered. Not that he doubted they would. Scott wondered for a brief moment if he had done the right thing; she had never been a religious woman. They had attended Christmas services there, and she had loved the sense of community and peace it brought. Well, that was one thing done right.

Everything else had been handled by the Hardy brothers; a peace offering. They had done right by their childhood friend; all of her favorite flowers were present in heavy, lavish dollops; somewhere in the wings, an organist played "For a Dancer", the Jackson Browne song they had first danced to. Some part of Scott wanted badly to avoid Matt and Jeff, but he knew that it was an impossible wish, and not what she would have wanted.

Slowly, he proceeded into the church; feeling Stevie's presence fade away as he walked magnified, to the front of the room. His eyes remained focused on the gigantic statue of the Virgin Mary affixed over the alter; much more comforting than a cross, at least that's how she would have felt. Scott slipped into place at the first pew, and he immediately opened a program. Anything to avoid looking into that open box at the alter. He ignored the sudden presence of both Hardys in the chapel, even as they sat down beside him.

"Why didn't you stop her?" It was an abrupt, pat statement by Matt Hardy. Scott didn't even wince in response.

"No one could have stopped Amy." Scott said simply. And he knew that as an honest, simple truth. No one could have saved his wife, because he had moved heaven and earth to do so. And Amy Dumas-Levy had shot herself to death, anyway, four days after their daughter had been born.



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