2
Ted was at work.
Ted was at work, and Amy was sifting through a box of Mort's stuff.
It was hard, seeing all of Mort's things, but no Mort.
And nearly everything had a memory to go along with it, like the day Mort had
bought that black felt Amish hat at a rummage sale.
"I look like a man who belongs out on the north forty, walking plow-furrows
behind a mule's ass."
She had smiled and lovingly pulled the brim down over his eyes.
That was a memory.
So, came the voice, was John Shooter.
Amy gave an involuntary shudder, her calf throbbing for a moment, and she
swiftly thought of something else.
She found a small box inside a bigger box labeled MortnAmy, one
that was covered in fingerprints (recent by the looks of them) and grime and
remnants of a red water-based Crayola pen. Amy blew the excess dust off from
the top of the box, then wedged her fingers between the box and its lid. She
had to tug and shake the box a bit to get the lid to loosen, the contents
rattling thickly inside, and finally the bottom fell from out of the clutches
of the possessive top.
A square, black thing bounced out of the now-lidless box, hitting the floor
with a clunk. Amy bent towards it, curious, and reached out, grabbing the hunk
of plastic.
She saw the label, and her vision blurred and darkened.
Our Wedding
*~*~*
Lunch that day was not a pleasant event.
Amy fixed herself a peanut butter sandwich, a glass of peach iced tea, got
herself a paper plate and a napkin and tried not to look at the videotape lying
facedown in the corner where she'd thrown it. It had bounced off the wall, and
Amy had had to duck a slice of black plastic as it broke off and shot in her
direction. That bit was still on the floor, where it had landed.
Amy wasn't sure about it. The tape. Did she want to touch it? Should she let it
lie there and cover it up with a rug? What should she do? What should she
think?
It had been a strange thing, four months earlier, after Mort had moved out,
when she couldn't find the tape, and she had thought of calling him up at
Tashmore Lake, to ask him if he'd seen it, but just as she picked up the
receiver she got one of her feelings.
This was a bad idea. Bad karma, bad chi.
Her heart still ached at the thought of Mort's reaction that goddam horrible
night, his face, that sadangryhorrified look in his eyes as he drank in the
scene. They had been naked, their limbs twisted up in sheets. Their shoulders
were touching.
Then there was screaming, confusion, and then the staring contest against the
barrel of a gun.
Amy had replaced the receiver.
Now all she could do was wonder. Now there was no Mort to almost call, and then
not call due to fear and guilt and utter misery.
Amy wondered if Mort had ever watched the tape, perhaps at three 'o clock in
the morning with a whiskey and a peanut butter sandwich off of a paper plate,
napkin at his side, the food too thick in his mouth as he watched himself hold
her close, his nose nuzzling her hair as her own was buried in his lapel, her
fingers stroking the back of his neck as his danced over her hips. Amy wondered
if his eyes had blurred as they kissed softly, sweetly, and if Mort had told
Bump that the tears were a result of his taking too big a bite so that it was
hard to swallow.
Why were men so utterly stupid when it came to admitting feelings?
Amy found it hard to swallow herself, and blamed it on the peanut butter.