We cuddled on the couch under a soft blue blanket, Amy’s head resting on my shoulder, her legs wrapped around mine as her fingers kneaded my chest.
“Maybe I’ll get pregnant,” she said.
“You’re not …?”
“On the pill? Not for years. It messes with your ecosystem. Probably invented by a misogynist.”
She pressed her hand over my chest.
“I could have…used protection.”
“Please tell me you’re not one of those guys who carries a condom in his wallet.”
“No …”
“Well, I don’t have any either. It’s not like I keep a box around just in case. ‘Just in case’ hasn’t happened for months. After all these years, did you really want to stop and run out to Quick-Check for a three-pack of rubbers?” She pecked my cheek. “Don’t worry. My cycle’s been off. Attempted suicide will do that sometimes …”
“If you do get pregnant—”
“Of course you would. If I asked, you’d probably carry it.”
The sole of her foot slid up and down my calf as her palm covered my cock, which lay exhausted and useless.
“We might need some time. I’m not eighteen.”
“The Viagra years, already?” she giggled. “Okay, I can wait.”
Yet I worried that the names “Ronan” or “Sarah Carpenter” might fill any open spaces the way flood water will seep into the cracks, building up until suddenly you’re waist-deep and wading through the muck. I wanted to believe that Amy and I could exist without ghosts, but what if, instead of keeping us apart, those ghosts were the essential link?
I sensed my thoughts slipping down a long dark well, the walls too mossy and slick for me to climb out, and somewhere in that dark space Kelly’s name might be written on the wall. Though our relationship had no binding agreements (she abandoned me in a room full of Jackson Pollocks!) I still felt like I’d cheated, something I had never done. And damned if I didn’t miss her.
And yet—at that moment; with Amy and I nestled together, our bare skin touching, her breath warm against my neck, everything seemed, if not perfect, at least perfectly earned.
. . . . .
When I woke up Amy was gone, the room dim except for the glow of the porch light through the living room window. I grabbed my pants and checked my phone; I’d been asleep for four hours.
In the dark I threw on my clothes and switched on the light.
Amy padded down the stairs in a sleeveless summer dress, her feet still bare but her hair washed and pretty, her contacts replaced by funky red frames.
“Don’t worry, I just woke up, too,” she said. “Maybe a half hour ago. I shook you a few times, but you were dead.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Now I have risen.”
“Great. Walk on water and I’ll post it on Facebook.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep …”
She smiled. “Hey, it’s what you do best.”
Her voice held no sarcasm, yet the words stung. It’s what you do best.
“Since there’s no need to wait up for Jill, I thought we could spend the night at your place,” Amy said. “A suite at the Beach House Inn—that’s always been a dream, you know? It’s silly, but as a little girl I fantasized about getting married there someday. Growing up in this stupid town, it’s hard not to.”
“You never told me that.”
“There’s plenty I haven’t told you.” She sensed my hesitation. “Hey, it’s okay if you’d rather not …”
“No, it’s a great idea,” I said, thinking about Kelly’s things—her suitcase, her guitar, her fuzzy, calico slippers—still waiting back at the room.
“I’ll need a few minutes to pack a bag and then we can go,” she said, and headed back upstairs.
She was gone only a second when the doorbell rang. I pulled back the curtains to see who was there.
“Fuck! Who is it?” Amy shouted.
Through the glass, I saw the police car double-parked in front of the driveway. “It’s Clyde.”
“Get rid of him, please,” she shouted from her room. “Tell him I have cramps. He’ll vanish like a bad magic trick.”
I opened the door. “Well, if it isn’t the friendly neighborhood man in blue …”
Clyde smirked, his “Serve and Protect” partner standing two steps behind; they were both in uniform, yellow safety vests strapped over the blue. The porch light caught the yellow and made them both shimmer.
“Why am I not surprised you’re here?” Clyde said.
“Deductive reasoning: impressive. Binge-watching all those CSI repeats must be paying off.”
He scratched his nose, ignoring me.
“I need to talk to Amy. It’s about our daughter,” he said, pushing through the door. Officer Mike followed, casing me with his eyes as he barked “step aside” like I was a character in his fascist TV script.
“You need to go down to the beach and get Jill out of there,” Clyde said. “We just got word from the State Police. There are six other beaches being ‘occupied’ and the Governor’s office wants it squashed immediately. Some anarchists from New York and Philly have come down to stir up trouble, and it won’t be tolerated, not this close to tourist season. There’s a sweep scheduled in ninety minutes.”
“They’re in violation of a local ordinance,” Officer Mike said.
“I don’t want Jill there when things go down. If they don’t disperse, we have to arrest…”
“They won’t get special treatment,” Officer Mike added. “We can hold them for forty-eight hours without processing. Everyone we bring in gets strip-searched.”
Even Clyde noticed the glee in his voice. He shot him a look, and Mike backed off.
“Isn’t this an over-reaction?” I said. “They’re hanging out on the beach at night. Kids have been doing that for years. Christ, you did that for years. Who cares? Is it really necessary to bring out the long knives?”
“I’m not calling the shots,” he said. “The State Police are coming down to coordinate. I just want my daughter safe. I don’t care what happens to that lesbo friend of hers …”
“She has a name—Maddie.”
“…but Jilly needs to be out of there before
