Брайан Фриман - Funeral for a Friend

Stride climbed the stairs. As he went up, Steve’s nurse passed him going down. She gave him a weak little smile and shook her head.

“It’s good you’re here,” she said. “I don’t think it will be long now.”

He said nothing in reply. He paused on the stairs, letting a shudder of grief ripple through his body. Then he continued to the loft and hovered in the doorway, watching Steve in bed. The bed faced a picture window on the bay, and Stride could see one of the ore boats that had come off the lake through the city’s lift bridge, heading for harbor on the Wisconsin side. To everyone else around Duluth, this was an ordinary day. Not the last day.

Steve didn’t look like Steve. Not anymore. His wavy blond hair was gone. His tall frame had the bony look of a skeleton. His skin was pale and loose, like a suit that didn’t fit anymore. Stride had been in too many rooms like this in his life. He didn’t really mind death, but he hated the reality of dying.

He took a step closer, and the floor of the loft squealed under his feet. His friend’s eyes fluttered open and took a moment to focus. The eyes, at least, were still Steve’s eyes, smart and blue. Steve saw him and laughed out loud, which was an effort that ended in a cough. His voice had the rasp of an old wire brush.

“Holy shit. Dress blues. Is this heaven? Are you an angel?”

“Heaven can do better than me for angels,” Stride said.

Steve had more to say, but it took him a long time to get out the words. “I’m picturing it like a Victoria’s Secret commercial. Wings and all. Any chance Kathy Ireland is waiting for me up there?”

“Pretty sure she’s still alive and kicking, Steve.”

He laughed again. Coughed again. “Man, I cannot catch a break.”

There was a wooden chair next to the bed, and Stride sat down. Wearing his uniform made him sit with perfect posture, which felt odd and uncomfortable. By instinct, he smoothed his sleeves and brushed away a loose thread. “So,” Stride said.

“So. What’s new?”

“Not much. You?”

“Busy. Lots of people.”

“Yeah. Good.”

“Maggie was here,” Steve said.

“I know. I saw her.”

“She brought a Big Mac. Ate it while we talked.”

“She didn’t,” Stride said.

Another laugh. “No, but I could smell it on her.”

“Yeah. Mags loves her Mickey D’s.” Stride shook his head and tried to think of something to say that wasn’t banal. “Cat wanted to come, but... well, actually, I told her not to.”

“Good. Keep her away. She doesn’t need this. How is she?”

“She’s pretending to be tough. She says she’s over everything that happened to her in the winter, but she’s not.”

“She’s a good kid.”

“Yeah. She is.”

Stride was angry with himself. This was the last time he was going to see his friend, and there was so much important ground to cover, so many memories to revisit, so many emotions to express. But all he could seem to do was make small talk, like they would do this again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. But they both knew they wouldn’t.

They’d been friends for a long time, and Steve had a way of reading his mind. “It’s okay, buddy.”

Stride inhaled sharply. “No. It’s not.”

“Why don’t you go home? You’ve done your duty.”

“I can stay.”

“No. Go. Really. I’m pretty tired.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Honestly, I think I’d rather be alone for the end.”

“You don’t have to be,” Stride said. “I’ll stay all night. Right here. You can sleep if you want, but I don’t have to go anywhere.”

“Yes, you do. Go home, Stride. Kiss Serena. Kiss Cat. Be happy, okay?”

“Son of a bitch, Steve.”

“I know.”

Stride got out of the chair. His friend’s eyes blinked shut with exhaustion. He leaned over and took hold of Steve’s hand and clasped both of his hands around it. He held on, not wanting to let go, trying to cement the feel of his friend’s skin, his grip, his warmth, in his memory forever.

“Tell Cindy I’m okay, will you?” Stride said.

“Count on it.”

“Goodbye, buddy.”

Stride choked out those words, but his friend didn’t answer, as if he were already asleep. He put Steve’s hand down on the bed and tucked the blanket around him, keeping him warm. He wanted to make it out of the room before he began to cry. He took one last look at Steve’s face and headed for the door.

But Steve wasn’t done.

He had more to say.

“Hey, Stride,” Steve called after him in a voice that was barely there. “You’re safe. You can let it go, okay?”

Stride stopped and turned around. Steve’s eyes weren’t open, but he was talking, murmuring, whispering so softly that Stride had to come back to the bed to hear him. “What did you say?”

“You’re safe, buddy. I never told a soul.”

“About what?”

“About the Deeps,” Steve whispered.

Suddenly, Stride felt disoriented, as if he were back in his recurring dream. He looked down at his own chest, expecting to see blood on his uniform. A bullet hole. It was all so vivid. He could hear the surge of the river and feel the spray rising over him from the rapids like a cloud.

“What about the Deeps?” Stride asked.

Steve was quiet. His eyes were still closed. Stride knew he should let it go, but he couldn’t. He had to know.

“Steve, what about the Deeps?” he repeated, more urgently.

His friend’s lips moved. Steve spoke again, barely making a sound. “Nobody knows, buddy. Don’t worry. I found the body after you left, and I took care of it. I buried him.”

Darkness fell at the end of the long summer evening.

Stride stood on the narrow strip of beach that ran along the Point, the waves of Lake Superior crowding his feet. His face was damp from mist, which was the leading edge of a hard, steady rain approaching from the west. Grief and rain always seemed to go hand in hand. He hadn’t eaten anything. All he’d done at home was hang up his dress uniform and change back into casual clothes, then head over the dunes to the lake. He’d been outside, alone, for more than an hour, watching the Duluth lights awaken on the hillside a few miles away. Serena knew to give him time and space.

He’d been visited by death many times before. Death always made him question his own life, but he never made any real changes when he lost someone. He’d considered moving away after Cindy died, but Duluth was home, no matter how many painful memories it carried. Going anywhere else would make him a foreigner, with no roots, and he couldn’t handle that. A few years earlier, after falling in love with Serena, he tried moving to Las Vegas to be with her. But he was a fish out of water there. Not long after, rather than break up, the two of them had come back to the cold of northern Minnesota. Serena was better at being a stranger in a strange land than he was.

Now, as he was about to lose Steve, he found himself at a crossroads again. He wondered, not for the first time, about quitting his job. Changing careers. He’d put in his time; he could retire if he wanted. But no matter how restless he felt, he didn’t know what he would do if he weren’t a cop. He found it hard to imagine not getting up in the darkness every morning, not going to a job that took him all over the city. That had always been his life. He was addicted to what he did, and his colleagues were his family.

Regardless, every loss chipped away at his soul. The violence took its toll. He didn’t know how long he could stay numb to it day after day.

“Stride?”

He turned around on the beach. Cat stood behind him. She held up a can of Bent Paddle. “I thought you could use a beer.”