A Straw Man (The Clay Lion Series Book 3)

by Amalie Jahn

  “What about him?” I replied at last.

  She took a deep breath. I could see she was planning her words carefully which made me nervous.

  “Is he coming to visit this summer like he did last year?”

  We’d barely discussed it, making only vague promises to one another regarding our loose-knit plans. There were no dates circled and highlighted with smiley faces on my calendar, and my heart ached to think of it, knowing his addiction continued to widen the rift between us. I knew in my heart there would be no visits unless I went to him, and I couldn’t imagine what that would look like. Certainly nothing like our trip to the beach the year before.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

  She chewed her bottom lip and looked past me, into the family room.

  “It’s just that I don’t know if I want him around the baby. The way he is. It might not be safe.”

  Although I understood her protective nature, her accusation still felt like a kick to the gut. A small ember of rage sparked inside me ready to defend him. I’d been making excuses for his behavior for months, to his professors, his teammates, and his friends. I’d come up with dozens of ways to explain away his lies as well as his aloof demeanor and rudeness. I’d begged for understanding and compassion, given all he’d been through. It was exhausting.

  I was exhausted.

  I closed my eyes and willed the tears behind my lids to remain there. I didn’t want to burden Brooke with my problems. They weren’t her responsibility.

  Vicki suddenly began squirming, arching her back as she let out a wail. I looked down to see her beautiful face distort into a scowl. She was awake and she was angry. It suddenly occurred to me that I was angry too.

  “I’m sorry, Melody,” Brooke said as she positioned herself on the stool beside me at the counter with a bottle and took Vicki from my arms. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  We sat together in silence while Vicki drank noisily from her bottle. The steady rhythm of her sucking calmed my nerves.

  “You don’t need to apologize,” I said finally, “because you’re right about Nate.” I searched for just the right word to describe why I didn’t want him near the baby either. “He’s become untrustworthy.”

  Brooke held Vicki to her chest and patted gently on her back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  No. I didn’t want to talk about it. But I decided maybe I needed to.

  “I don’t know what there is to say,” I began. “He lies to me about where he is and what he’s doing. He steals from me constantly, thinking I won’t notice. For weeks, I thought I lost the ring Grandma gave me for my sixteenth birthday, but now I’m pretty sure Nate sold it for pills. The worst part is he had the nerve to ask me if you were a full-fledged doctor who could write prescriptions. I swear he would steal your prescription pad if he could get his hands on it.” I hesitated, crushed by the guilt of painting him in such a horrible light. I could have told her about dozens of cruel things he’d said and done to me since becoming an addict, but I couldn’t bring myself to continue speaking so poorly of him.

  “He was amazing. And now he’s deteriorating from the inside out,” I said finally. “And I don’t know how to fix him. The worst part is he refuses to fix himself. He likes being punished. He thinks he deserves it.”

  Brooke set a contented Vicki back in my arms and I cuddled her against my cheek. Her breath was sweet with milk. “Do you think he deserves it?” Brooke asked.

  I’d wasted hours mulling over how I felt about the role Nate played in Sam’s death trying to figure out why he felt so responsible. For months I replayed the events of that night over and over again in my head but knew I would never see it from Nate’s point of view. Only Nate and Sam knew exactly how it all went down.

  C HAPTER EIGHT

  FALL SEMESTER – SECOND YEAR

  The police siren was faint over the techno music blaring from the first floor of the Sigma Pi house. Lesley was dancing provocatively across the room with a guy she knew from biology class while I stood against the wall with our friend Kara nursing my warm beer.

  “Where’s Nate?” she asked. “He never misses a Friday night.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “He had a bad practice and went home. They have a game tomorrow so I guess he’s just resting up.”

  “They have rules about partying during the season, right?”

  “Right,” I acknowledged. The team had a strict no drinking policy before games which Nate took very seriously. Even still, it wasn’t like him to miss out on a good time. I couldn’t imagine what had happened that had him in such a funk.

  Worrying about him was keeping me from enjoying myself but I couldn’t help it. Part of me wanted to ditch the party and head over to his place with a movie and a bag of chips, but it seemed clear that he wanted time alone, so I stayed put. I was just about to join Lesley on the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room when I noticed flashing lights out the front window.

  “I think there’s something going on out there,” I said to Kara, handing her my cup. “I’m gonna go see what it is.”

  “It’s probably just that homeless guy they keep arresting for exposing himself,” she called after me.

  “No.” I took a step closer to the window to get a better view. “There are a bunch of police cars down at the corner. And an ambulance. I’m gonna head outside to see what’s going on.”

  The hypnotic bass of the party subsided as I made my way down the sidewalk toward the flashing lights and commotion at the end of the block. I stopped walking the moment I recognized the black pickup, its front end wrapped around the large sycamore beyond the gully on the edge of the road.

  The UVA football sticker on the tailgate and chrome hubcaps meant only one thing.

  The truck belonged to Sam.

  I began moving again before I had a chance to process the scene before me. I had to know if he was in the truck. I had to know if Nate was with him.

  “You can’t get through here, Miss,” someone shouted as I wove my way between the emergency vehicles.

  I ignored him and continued toward the wreckage. The air was pungent with the smell of gasoline. I stood on my tip toes, craning my neck to see beyond the fireman wrestling with the jaws-of-life to free the driver, whose darkened figure I could just make out when the pulse of the red and blue police lights illuminated his face.

  It was Sam.

  “Sam!” I cried to the fireman. “His name is Sam! Please, please get him out!”

  I began shaking, unable to control the fear that was quickly spreading through my body.

  “Nate?” I called into the night to whoever was listening. “Nate!”

  A pair of arms drew me into their embrace. For an instant, there was a pang of relief. He was there. He was fine.

  “Miss, you can’t be this close to the scene. You need to move back,” the voice above me said. I looked into the face of the bystander who had warned me to stop only moments before.

  I burst into tears despite my best efforts to hold myself together.

  “My friend Sam is the driver,” I explained between sobs. “And I’m afraid my boyfriend Nate might be with him.”

  The man shook his head. “I saw the whole thing happen from across the street. I was out on my porch having a smoke when the kid hit the tree. I called in the accident and was the first to respond. There was no one else in the car. Just the one fatality.”

  My breath hitched on the word fatality. Why would he use that word? Fatality meant dead, and smart, charismatic, college quarterbacks didn’t die. They couldn’t die. It was impossible, wasn’t it? Sam could not be dead.

  The noxious gas fumes overtook me as I tried desperately not to be sick.

  An officer approached me as I steadied myself on the hood of his police cruiser.

  “My friend Sam’s going to be alright?” I asked him, convinced I’d simply misunderstood.

  “I’m sorry,” the officer began. �
�I’m not at liberty to give out that information at this time.” He paused to take a small notepad out of his jacket pocket. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t,” I replied, still waiting for him to confirm Sam was alive. “It’s Melody Johnson. And the driver’s name is Sam. Sam Murphy.” I peered around him at the wreckage as the firefighter finally loosened the door from its hinges and pulled Sam’s lifeless body from what remained of his truck.

  I dissolved into another round of hysterics and crumpled to the ground, no longer able to support my own weight. There was only one person I could think of to talk to and I pulled my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans to dial Nate’s number. He picked up on the third ring.

  “Hey, Mel,” he said.

  “Oh my God, Nate, I’m so glad you’re okay!” I wept into the receiver.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m sitting here playing video games with Tyree.”

  I continued to sob, unable to speak.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  I could hear the panic in his voice and took several deep breaths to compose myself. “It’s Sam,” I whispered.

  “What about Sam? Is he with you?” His voice was thick with irritation. “Did he tell you what happened at practice? Is he still running his mouth off about how it’s my fault he’s getting benched tomorrow?”

  “No. He didn’t.” I swallowed back the lump that was wedged like a rock in my throat. It was too late to keep him from the truth, and so as much as it sucked, my impulsive decision to call left me no other option than to tell him what happened. “Nate, I don’t think Sam’s going be playing anymore. Maybe ever again.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Mel?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just, there’s been an accident, and I think Sam might be dead.”

  C HAPTER NINE

  SUMMER BREAK – SECOND to THIRD YEAR

  After putting the baby down for a nap, Brooke joined me on the back porch carrying two glasses of iced tea.

  “I never understood why Nate blamed himself over Sam’s death. It was a DUI, wasn’t it?” she asked, handing me my cup.

  I set down the proposed bill I was reading and accepted the glass which was already covered in condensation from the warm air.

  “Thanks,” I said, waiting until she settled herself comfortably onto the wicker rocker beside me before addressing her question.

  Although months had passed since the accident, it was still difficult to think about Sam, much less discuss him with another person. Talking with Brooke about his tragic death and the repercussions of his poor judgment was sure to expose my well-hidden wounds, but I’d come to accept that sharing my feelings was the only way I was ever going to heal.

  “It was reported as a DUI by the police. There’s a sharp curve on Virginia Avenue and apparently Sam took it too fast. Ended up crashing himself into a tree. It’s a miracle he didn’t hit a house. Or a person.”

  Brooke stirred her tea absently as she studied my face. “You never said much about it when it happened,” she remarked.

  It was true. In the immediate aftermath of the accident, I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Nothing more. I got up. I went to class. I tried to pretend there wasn’t a hole where my friend used to be. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was helping by moving on.

  Looking back, not sharing my anger and hopelessness was probably the worst thing I could have done. By keeping my feelings locked away, Nate assumed he was the only one still suffering.

  During those months, my family hadn’t pried. They hadn’t forced me to rehash the accident or my sadness over losing Sam. They assumed I was going to be okay, and maybe it seemed like I was, but not because I’d truly healed. If I no longer spent my days mourning Sam it was because I filled the void created by his absence with the distraction of worrying over Nate.

  Because of course Nate was filling the void with guilt and hydrocodone.

  Addiction is a strange phenomenon. People can be addicted to all sorts of different things for all sorts of different reasons. There are studies which claim having an “addictive personality” is inherited. Others claim certain lifestyles promote addictive behaviors. Neither of those reasons explains why Nate abandoned reality to walk in the hazy fog of man-made opiates.

  I think most of us have a point at which we just say enough. Perhaps we each have a predetermined level of tolerance and if your threshold is particularly high, you may never feel the need to dull the pain. But for some people there comes a time when they look to find a way out. Many choose traditional, mainstream outlets like therapy, peer mentoring, or medication. But sadly, there are those who may feel too isolated, self-conscious, embarrassed or even confused to seek professional treatment. These people often turn to mind-altering chemicals, or in the most severe instances, contemplate suicide as a way to dull the pain.

  I prayed Nate would never reach that point.

  I considered Brooke’s astute observation that Nate did in fact blame himself for Sam’s death. It seemed ridiculous that someone could blame himself for another person’s stupid decision, but he did.

  I took a sip of my tea and set my glass beside my binder on the porch floor. Brooke was waiting patiently for me to respond. I knew I could continue to sit in silence for the remainder of the afternoon and she wouldn’t be upset. She of all people knew there were topics that were difficult to discuss.

  I cleared my throat. I didn’t know why.

  “I didn’t talk much about the accident because I didn’t realize there was anything to discuss. Sam died. And it was a senseless tragedy which could have been easily avoided. He got in a car and drove after drinking God only knows how many beers. People tried to stop him, but he assured everyone he was okay.”

  “Was Nate one of the ones who tried to stop him?”

  “No. They weren’t together before the accident. They had a fight earlier in the evening and went their separate ways. Apparently Sam was really pissed at Nate.”

  I watched a hummingbird hover above the feeder hanging from a hook in Brooke’s garden. Surrounded by flowers full of nectar, the bird chose the ease of artificial nourishment over the more difficult task of extracting sustenance from the blossoms.

  Were all creatures predisposed to take the path of least resistance?

  I refocused my attention back to Brooke.

  “Since Nate refuses to talk to me about it, most of what I know regarding what happened between them came from other members of the team. According to the guys, things hadn’t been going well for the team during the pre-season. I think the whole mess started when a bunch of us went swimming at the quarry last summer. Sam slipped on some wet rocks and landed on his wrist, but instead of going to the doctor, he just figured it would heal on its own. I guess he didn’t know how bad it was until he got back out on the field and had trouble throwing. My friend Josh told me during that first week back, Sam and Nate didn’t connect on a single pass. It was like they’d never played together before.

  “And tempers flared,” Brooke interjected.

  “Yeah. Sort of. But it gets worse. By week two, the coach realized Sam was hurt and started running practices with Zach Barnes, the backup quarterback. In the days leading up to the opening game against Ohio State, he and Nate ran every play together.”

  Brooke shook her head. “Let me guess. They were amazing.”

  “Josh said Nate caught every pass.”

  I remembered how he was before Sam’s death. Driven. Determined. He didn’t know how to not give life every bit of himself. I wondered whether he would have been willing to drop any of those passes if he’d known what the coach was going to do.

  “And that made Sam angry? It wasn’t Nate’s fault Sam was hurt.”

  “I don’t know for sure. I have a feeling he was angrier about what happened next.”

  “Which was?”

  Would Sam have still been alive if Coach Anderson hadn’t done what he
did? Would he have gone on his post-practice binge?

  Would Nate still be blaming himself?

  “He benched Sam. Gave Zach, the second string quarterback, the nationally televised showcase game against Ohio.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I know. I can’t imagine how upset Sam was. Tyree told me that after practice Sam went after Nate and Zach in the locker room and accused them of making him look bad. Then he cornered Nate and told him getting benched was his fault because he hadn’t caught any of his passes all week. The last thing Sam yelled before storming through the door was that he was never going to forgive Nate for losing him the showcase.”

  Understanding washed over Brooke’s face. “Oh, Mel,” she said.

  It felt liberating to share the burden of Nate’s story with someone other than those who were involved. It had been many months since we’d consoled one another even though we were all still very much in need of consolation.

  “Now you know why I can’t be mad at him for reacting like he did. He carries that accusation around with him every day. Along with the blame for the decisions Sam made that night. He believes with every bit of his soul that it’s his fault that Sam died.”

  Anger crimsoned her cheeks. “But it’s not. Sam had a choice. He chose to be reckless and stupid. He chose to put himself in a situation that led to a catastrophe.” She paused. “No one made him get into that car.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ve told him that a hundred times. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t want to listen.”

  Brooke leaned back and rocked methodically in her chair. The air was growing warmer and the sun threatened to break the tree line as it began its descent in the pale afternoon sky.

  “So he’s self-medicating. Trying to deal with the guilt on his own.”

  It was hard thinking of the Nate I used to know as someone who could ever be depressed.

  “I suppose. The worst part is I could love him in spite of his depression. I could even kind of understand why he thinks he needs the pills. But since the lying and the deception of the addiction started taking over, I just can’t be around him. He’s difficult to talk to and impossible to reason with. It’s like I don’t even know him anymore.”