My hand had never felt something so hard before. It was Craig’s body, but with the life and warmth drained out of him—cold and hard. I pulled back in shock and regained my composure to touch him one last time.
Craig lay in a cherry wood casket inside the funeral chapel. He was dressed in his favorite Abercrombie and Fitch clothing, with tokens from his life set snugly in the coffin between the wall of the casket and his bitter body. A stuffed monkey, a mix CD of Craig’s favorite band, the Beastie Boys, and a shot glass, usually filled with bootlegged vodka, placed in the casket down by his feet.
I touched Craig on the shoulder and looked for the bruising around his neck from the noose, but the shirt was buttoned all the way up to his chin, hiding any evidence of pain. My eyes stuck to Craig’s face a long moment before they looked away. I hoped that I would be able to call upon the image at any point in my life to recall the person I once knew. As soon as I turned away, however, the image left me and I realized that images of Craig alive would be the only ones I would be able to remember.
* * *
I knocked on the door. No one. After a few minutes I saw Craig come down the stairs and motion to me that the door was open. I would have just walked in, but I didn’t feel comfortable.
“What’s up, bud?” I said.
“Not much. You coming out tonight?”
“Maybe. What’s going on?”
“Party somewhere.”
I sighed and thought about telling Craig how we could be better friends if he wasn’t relentlessly bent on drinking. I would have loved Craig to stay sober tonight. We got along so well when he didn’t drink, but when he did I could never relate to the Craig I wanted to know. I resigned myself to change and didn’t try to persuade him into not attending the party. I tried to change the subject.
“So, when do you think Lauren is going to marry your brother?” I said.
“Which one? Brian?”
“Of course, man.”
“I don’t know. It is pretty serious though. You know, once they get married, we will be like brothers.”
“I have always wanted a brother."
* * *
My ceiling glowed dark silver, reflecting light from the window blinds that were collecting the moon’s rays. This night I lay in bed for an hour, like the previous three nights, and tried to picture Craig in Heaven. Heaven was a mysterious place to me, but I lay there in contemplation of my friend enjoying its bountiful treasures.
I had found some comfort in talking to Craig, as though he were standing beside me, the last nights as I fell asleep. I can’t claim to know about the ability of the dead to communicate with the living, but I held on tight to a thin line of faith that he would be able to hear me. I might have known a thing or two about Heaven, but I was unsure about Craig’s ears for my words.
“Craig? I don’t know if you hear me, but I just wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you. I just wanted to say that I hope whatever peace you couldn’t find in this world you found in the next.”
I held back enthusiasm and emotion when I spoke to him, thinking that if I spoke clearly and smoothly my voice would be more discernable to Craig.
“I miss you, and your friends miss you. We’ll never forget you.”
The words didn’t last long before the exhaustion of the week overtook them and changed them into an incoherent slur.
I dreamt I was in my high school’s main hallway. The hum of the white, tube lighting overhead could hardly be heard above the commotion of students leaving for the day. My last block of classes had finished and I joined the lemmings headed for the parking lot. We were propelled toward the doors by our desire to leave school.
It was freezing outside and my height gave me ample opportunity to scan the drop-off zone of the parking lot for the cars and their drivers that would be able to spare me the cold, long walk to my car. A red Honda Prelude caught my eye. I had seen the car before and recognized the cheap hub-caps that could have been bought at a gas station’s convenience shop. I was soon by the side of the Prelude. I bent over and cupped my hands over my eyes on the frosty window to see Craig staring blankly at me.
The window rolled down. “You want a ride, man?” Craig said.
I was thrilled that Craig was back. He was dead, but now he was very much alive, and I was going to get a chance to ride in his car, something I hadn’t experienced prior to his death.
“Would you give me a ride? That would be awesome, dude. I wasn’t looking forward to the walk,” I said.
“Hop in. Where are you parked?”
“The far side of the tennis courts.”
His composure was casual. He seemed to evade the mood of suicide that lingered in the air, making it thick. He started to drive and loop through the parking lot in order to get to the opposite side. I sat there, half expecting him to start telling me why he’d done it, and half expecting, the next time I glanced to my left, to see anyone else but Craig driving the Prelude. But it was always Craig at the wheel, and he never said a word.
I had so many questions about his death, but now that he was here all I could do was sit in silent reverie. My mind muddled through the questions, trying to pick one because I felt as though I had only one shot at getting a reply before my ride ended.
The Prelude pulled to a stop, and I saw my Accord to the right. I opened the door and put one foot outside. I hesitated and gazed at my car for a moment. I didn’t want to waste my opportunity. I slowly turned to Craig. His face was expectant, as if he knew my question before I had even chosen the one to ask.
“Can you hear me when I talk to you, Craig?”
His eyes glanced down and a smile flicked through his complexion as though he was happy I had chosen this question above the others.
“All the time,” he replied.
I couldn’t put into words the joy his answer gave me; anyway, no words were necessary. We smiled, and I nodded one last goodbye. We wouldn’t see each other again until my time came. I didn’t stare at him, trying to grasp again one last image before I stood up out of the car. The door shut and I watched the silhouette of Craig disappear down the street.
I was staring at my ceiling again, but this time it was a bright white, with the reflection of the sun off the rain-soaked street bending through the slits of the blinds. I remembered my dream in its entirety and tears found their best path down either cheek. I wasn’t trying to cry; the tears just came forth without effort. I find that these tears, the joyful ones, come unexpectedly and are welcomed.
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