A Eulogy

“Do you want blueberries or chocolate chips?” The sweet voice of my grandmother asked me.

            I leaned against the ancient iron stove she kept in the kitchen, lost in my thoughts. It was an early Tuesday morning, seven o’clock to be exact, and Christmas was less than five days away. My grandmother had invited my family over that morning for her homemade waffles – a specialty of hers that no rational person ever turns down.

            “James?” She called again.

            I didn’t answer. I was lost in the idea of writing a story involving werewolves – not that I knew how to write at the time. I had a hard enough time writing essays for my teachers, and I hated knowing that as I progressed through the eleventh grade, it’d only get harder.

            “James!”

            My head snapped up. “Huh? Wuh?” I mumbled. I blinked a few times, “I’m sorry, did you ask me something?”

            My grandmother, wearing a white nightgown that she hadn’t bothered to change out of, stood over the kitchen counter with the waffle maker. She’d just poured the batter in and was raising an eyebrow at me. “I said, do you want blueberries or chocolate chips?”

            “Oh.” I stood and rubbed my forehead, pushing away the curls of strawberry blond hair before answering. “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.” I flashed her a smile.

            “Hmm.” Her almond colored eyes studied me for a moment longer, a small frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. For a moment, I thought she’d chastise me, but instead she returned her attention to the waffle maker.

            I let out a small sigh, wanting to return to the land of my imagination, but something on the TV decided against it.

            “Hey! Wait! Rewind that!” My mother’s voice rang out from the living room. I didn’t bother tossing her a glance. I knew full well by the boring voices of news anchormen that she was watching Channel Five News. I didn’t care for the news.

            “James! Isn’t that Michael?” My grandmother said, gaping at the TV.

            Michael? I stood straight and looked over to the living room. A picture of one of my oldest friends was plastered in the center of the monitor. “The heck?” I moved over to the living room and stood behind the couch just as my mother turned up the volume.

            “The Dorchester County Sheriff's Office is investigating a shooting that left a 19-year-old man dead Monday night. The victim, William Michael Cummings Jr., was shot in the chest and found in a truck –”

            “WHAT!?” I grabbed the back of the couch with both hands and leaned forward. I hadn’t heard right – couldn’t’ve heard right. This had to be a mistake.

            The picture changed to show a late night crime scene. The police had already sectioned the area off with police tape and were backing off any bystanders who got too close. I could see a white pick-up truck being examined by a forensics team just behind one of the officers. I recognized the truck. I’d seen it less than three weeks earlier. I knew exactly who it belonged to.

            The anchor went on to explain that the shooting had been drug related, but I didn’t hear any of it. All I saw were the lips of the anchors moving but the words themselves – absent. My mother turned to me, saying something, but she may as well have been talking to the couch for all I cared. I wasn’t listening to anyone. I turned around and walked back to the kitchen without a single word. I felt an emptiness within my stomach and worse, within my soul.

I didn’t care that he was gone.

***

            The first time I’d met Mikey had been back in early 2001, when he was nine. He was two years my elder, and was one of the few guys at church I could hang out with. I was the lanky, socially-awkward blond boy that none of the other kids wanted to play with. I couldn’t click with groups.

            Despite all of that, Mikey still chose to hang out with me. He was much taller than myself, even to the last day I saw him – by six inches. He kept his burgundy hair in a mullet, which went along nicely with his coffee brown eyes. He always grinned – always – and was the biggest joker I’d ever met – second to me of course. We both loved video games and we both loved doing pranks.

            One time, when he was ten, Mikey had this brilliant idea about becoming a magician. He asked his mother to buy a magician’s starter kit with the playing cards, the black and white wand, the special gloves, and the signature top hat all magicians sported.

            “Hey, James!” He patted my shoulder, just as we came outside of the Sunday school building. “How would you like to be my assistant?”

            “Uh… assistant?” I hadn’t seen many magic shows but for the few that I had, I always remembered the assistant being a lady who did stupid things – like getting into a box that the magician would shove swords through. I knew for certain I wasn’t a lady, and I definitely knew I wasn’t suicidal. “I’m not sure.” I mumbled, wanting to shout out hell no! But, at the same time, not wanting to be excluded from the magic. I wanted to see some of his tricks, maybe even play around with that cool wand he was holding in his left hand.

            “Oh, you’ll love it!” He laughed. “I just need you to volunteer when I perform a trick for the crowd.”

            Crowd? What was he talking about? I stared at his grinning form with his ridiculous top hat, trying to piece together what mischief he planned to do. I hoped it didn’t involve grabbing the attention of the entire congregation because I didn’t want to be in the center of tha –

            “Ladies and gentleman!” Mikey exploded without warning, yanking me by the shoulder towards the front of the steeple.

            “Hey!” I yelped, but the chatter of adults pouring out from the doors drowned it out.

            “Step right up, and see the greatest magician perform!” Mikey continued, thrusting out his hands for all to see.

            Uh, oh! I went to move away but it was too late. Several adults had stopped their conversations and turned their attention to Mikey and his terrified, unwilling, little assistant beside him – me.

            Oh, no…I wanted to run away, to hide in a corner – to be anywhere other than there in front of two hundred and something people. Why in God’s name did Mikey have to do this to me? Just why!?

            “What’ve you got, Mikey?” Someone within the crowd of towering adults asked – my dad, maybe.

            “I’m glad you asked!” Mikey said, baring his blindingly white teeth. “For this trick, I require a simple possession from a volunteer.”

            Yeah! Not me, pal! I tried to slide away from him, hoping to melt in with the crowd that had only began to grow bigger as kids getting out of Sunday school rushed over to witness the commotion. But Mikey wasn’t going to let his dear little assistant get out of it that easily.

            “My good friend, James,” he said, grabbing my shoulder for what was now the third time in the past eight minutes, “has already asked to help!”

            Several large lumps of ice fell into the pit of my stomach as more eyes darted to me. Ooooohhh Mikey, wait till I’m bigger. I wanted to choke him.

            “Now, your wallet, James?” he stuck out his hand, staring at me with fox eyes. I swallowed, and stuck a hand in my pocket before reluctantly fishing out my wallet. Why he couldn’t have asked me for a quarter, a piece of string, or a small pencil I’d taken from the classroom, was beyond me.

            “Here.” I muttered so low, that I doubted anyone heard me. Regardless, he snatched up the wallet with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

    I have a bad feeling about this.

            “Now,” he said, holding up my wallet high in the air, “I’m going to make this wallet vanish!”

            I narrowed my eyes. Oh, really? How? By shoving it in your hat?

            He lowered his hand to chest level. “Watch carefully.” He commanded, his impish grin never leaving. He raised his wand over the wallet and tapped it once. Then twice. Then thrice. I began to lose patience.

    “Mikey,” I started, with a frown, “are you going to do something or n–”

    He slammed the wand down a fourth time and then the impossible happened. My brown, camo wallet that had been in the palm of his opened hand, vanished. My eyes widened. My jaw, along with a few other viewers, fell.

    “M-Mikey…” I stuttered. “How did you…?” I couldn’t begin to finish.

    Mikey bared his toothy grin at the audience, basking in his moment of glory before saying, “There’s more where that came from, but if you wish to see it, come back to tonight’s service! Thanks for coming.” Without another word, he pushed through the crowd, and jogged over to where his mother and their white pick-up truck waited.

    I stood in place a moment longer, still processing what had happened. A few other kids did the same while many adults, that had stood frozen for the entire show, came back to life and returned to their conversations, some even about Mikey.

    “That was awesome!” One of the kids behind me clapped his hands, as we both watched Mikey and his mom drive away.

    “Yeah,” I said still staring, “it was.” I smiled for a brief moment and slid my hands into my pockets, then realized something. “Hey, wait a minute,” my smile melted, “what he’d do with my wallet!?”

    ***

    I smiled at the memory as I waited for my name to be called. Three years had gone by since that fateful morning. I was nineteen now – the same age Mikey had been the night he died – and today, the last day of my public speaking class. I had to deliver a ten-minute speech to the class as my final exam.

    I’d chosen to do something that was over three years past due. Something I owed to Mikey and to the hollowness within my chest that hadn’t left since the day he’d died. I still hadn’t lost any sleep over his death, cried a single tear in sadness, or spoken a single word to his mother since the day. I hadn’t even attended his funeral. Yet, here I was dressed in my best – a white polo shirt, tan slacks with a black dress belt and matching dark dress shoes – about to deliver a eulogy to a room full of people who’d never even seen Mikey, let alone heard his name. What kind of friend was I?

    “Next, James Tavelle.” The professor announced, just as another student finished their speech and sat. I took in a quick breath, well, here goes nothing. I got up from my seat and moved to the front of the room. I left the notes I had written for the speech on my desk. I didn’t need them.

    I took a deep breath, gazing at my audience – teenagers, a few adults, the professor –waiting for me to get on with it.

    “Right,” I murmured. Then, after taking in another longer breath, began, “The last thing I said to him was a lie.” I paused. “It was a small lie, a harmless lie, but it was a lie nonetheless, and I’ve carried it with me for the past three years…”

    The memories leading to that final conversation between the two of us returned.

***

            In early 2006, Mikey and his family left the church. He’d just entered his early teens and I’d finally reached year eleven of my life, when it happened. I hadn’t heard that they’d moved until the weekend after they left, when I attended church and noticed his family was missing.

            Resentment came over me when my mother explained to me that he’d moved towns. He left? Why? Why didn’t he ever say he was moving? Why didn’t he say goodbye? Anger boiled as those questions pestered me, but it died away soon enough. I figured that he’d call me from his new home, and explain why – maybe even offer a date when we could hang out together. The town he moved to was only fifteen minutes from my place after all, so there shouldn’t’ve been a problem. So I waited. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. He never did call, never did gave me answers, and I never did forgive him.

***

            “Then, three years ago we moved to a new church as well,” I said to the class. I’d just finished telling the tale on how Mikey had stolen my wallet while playing as a magician and moved onto my feelings of resentment when he’d moved without ever saying goodbye. “I hadn’t heard from Mikey in over five years,” I went on with my speech, “so it was a shock to me when one Sunday morning, he and his mother walked up to us at church.”

***

            The early morning that he came back into my life, Mikey had almost completely faded from memory; it’d been so long. He’d aged like me. The baby fat from his face had shrunk into an angular, sharp jaw. The freckles he had carried since forever had faded away; and the grin he’d always carried along with his mullet – gone. Short cut hair and a serious expression had taken their place. The grinning, mischievous, ten-year-old boy I’d once known was gone. A serious, quiet, nineteen-year-old young man had taken his place. I could only wonder why.

            My mother talked the entire time with Mikey’s. I remained silent. I was too stunned to say anything, and the feeling of resentment I’d had as a child had returned – a surprise to me given that I’ve never held grudges before or since then.

            “Hey man,” he said first. His voice deep, much deeper than the high octave voice he’d carried as a child, “it’s nice to see ya.”

            “Uh…yeah,” I slowly nodded, “you too.”

            Our mothers continued to talk while an awkward silence stood between the two of us. It stayed like that until we were about to part ways. “Hey, James.” He said, just as I turned to leave, “Why don’t we hang out again, sometime? My place maybe?”

            My hands, in my pockets, clenched. He wanted to hang out now, did he?

    I gave him a wide smile then said with absolute dishonesty, “Sure man. Love to.”

            I turned and walked away, determined never to speak or see him again.

***

            I returned to my seat with my hands in my pockets, and my face downcast. Relief had come over me now that I’d finished delivering the eulogy; but that hollowness I felt lingered. It refused to leave.

            “Hey, you knew Mikey?” a voice asked me. I looked up to see two of my classmates watching me. I couldn’t remember their names, but I knew that one of them worked at the game store while the other was a PC Gamer, or so he’d claimed during his speech. It was the PC gamer who’d spoken.

            “Uh, yeah.” I nodded. “Y’all knew him?”

            “Yep, sure did.” The PC Gamer said. “We used to hang out all the time back at my place. We met back when he moved here.”

            That hollowness I felt turned to ice. These were the friends he’d made when he’d left. If Mikey had still been alive, I’d probably have turned red and said something spiteful. But I was no longer the same angry seventeen-year-old kid from 2011. I’d matured, and no longer felt that anger. Just the guilt.

            I didn’t say anything back. The only thing I could do was return his reply with a grim smile.

***

            I stood in the cemetery staring down the onyx tombstone. Two years had passed since the eulogy, five since Mikey’s death. My uncle and his family had just moved back to the states from Germany. To celebrate, my entire my family chose to attend homecoming at our old church, the same church that Mikey was buried next to.

            You would think that within the five years that had passed, I would have at least once swung by to visit his grave. And I had, once. But it’d only been for a few silent minutes.

            Yet, here I stood staring at it. A photo of Mikey had been engraved in the top of the stone, his name beneath it. “A beloved son” it read. And a greater friend.

            I sat on a grave across from his and just stared. I didn’t know what I wanted to say, what I wanted to do, or why I was there. Mikey was gone. Nothing I’d do would change that or make things any better… or so I had believed.

            “I’m sorry, man.” I finally said, thirty minutes later. “I’m sorry I lied.” I clenched my eyes shut, taking in a breath of the cold, early January air. “I know my apology won’t change things, can’t change things, but you deserve it nonetheless. I should’ve called, swung by, o-or done something after you asked me to. Maybe things would’ve been different, if I had. Maybe that night you left, maybe you wouldn’t have made that choice that you did. Got involved with the people that killed you…”

            I took in another breath then got to my feet and crouched so I was eye-level with the gravestone. I placed a hand on it and said, “I’ll never know. But what I do know is that I held anger against you that you didn’t deserve and I’ve held a guilt for not only how I wronged you, but for not feeling anything once you were gone. I want to make it right. So Mikey…”

            I stood up, unable to finish. I didn’t know what else I could say or do. All I felt was that same emptiness. I turned and walked away back to the party being held in the fellowship hall. My family had gone outside and were about to leave. When I stepped out of the cemetery, the hollowness I’d carried within me for so long had vanished. My uncle, the only one that saw me leave the party, stood waiting for me.

    “Are you alright, James?” he asked.

    I stopped in front of him, hands in both my pockets, and looked up.

I was crying.