Funeral for a Friend

1

“I had the dream again,” Stride told his wife, Serena.

She sat in the passenger seat of his Ford Expedition and twisted a few strands of long black hair between her fingers. Her eyebrows arched in a teasing way above her green eyes, and her lips bent into a little smirk. “And were you still married to you-know-who?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Should I be jealous?”

Stride chuckled quietly because Serena knew better than anyone that his second marriage, to a woman named Andrea Jantzik, had ended badly. Meeting and falling in love with Serena had been part of their breakup, but only part. Stride and Andrea had been mismatched lovers from the beginning, two wounded people looking for things the other couldn’t give them. Their relationship hadn’t even lasted four years.

“How many times is this?” Serena asked. “The dream, I mean.”

“Every night for a week.”

“Any idea why?”

Stride didn’t answer at first. He stared through the truck window at the house across the street, where Steve Garske lived. They were parked a few blocks away from their own small cottage on the Point, which was the seven-mile narrow land barrier jutting out from downtown Duluth, creating a calm ship harbor protected from the assault of Lake Superior. Stride’s house faced the lake, whereas Steve lived on the bay side. His friend’s house was old, small, and needed work, as so many Point homes did, hammered throughout the year by floods and lake winds, frozen by bitter winter nights. A green picket fence and untrimmed hedges fronted the street. The house’s wooden siding was painted to match the forest green of the fence, but the paint had weathered. A jumble of flagstones made a driveway that led to a single garage stall at the back of the house, steps from the bay.

“I met Steve at the Deeps when I was fifteen,” Stride said finally. “In the dream, that’s where I am. So I assume, in some way, it’s about him. I haven’t been thinking about much else this week.”

“What about the gun? And the man you shot?”

Stride shook his head. “I don’t know what that’s about,” he lied.

“And Andrea?”

“I don’t know why she’s there, either,” he lied again.

There was something in the flicker of concern on Serena’s face that said she knew he wasn’t telling her everything. But for the moment, she didn’t challenge him on it.

“I know how hard this is, Jonny,” Serena said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I need to do this myself. You already said goodbye.”

“Okay. I’ll be here.”

She slid across the seat, turned his face toward hers with both hands, and kissed him gently. Her lips were soft, as they always were. Her eyes were sad. She ran her fingers through his wavy black-and-gray hair, doing what she could to tame it, but it was a lost cause. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. The weathered lines there were deeper and darker than usual.

“You look nice,” she told him, being kind.

Stride wore his dress blues. He mostly did that for police ceremonies and funerals, but this day was a kind of funeral. It was the last time he would see his best friend. Steve was a doctor and a practical man about life and death, so he wanted no visitation, no church service, no wake, no gathering. When the time came, Stride would take his friend’s ashes into the north woods to be scattered. And that night, at the coffeehouse in Canal Park called Amazing Grace, Steve’s country band would play, with an empty chair on the stage.

He got out of the truck. The sun hid behind charcoal clouds, making the July afternoon unusually cool. The bay water behind Steve’s house was motionless and slate gray. Standing on the street, he took a slow breath, trying to fight back tears. Then, drawing himself up straight to his full height, which was not quite six foot one, Stride crossed the street.

His number two on Duluth’s detective force, Maggie Bei, was already inside. He passed her bright yellow Avalanche parked at the curb. The brand new truck replaced one that had been destroyed six months earlier, but in that short time, it was already missing its passenger-side mirror, had a crumpled rear fender, and bore the telltale dents and scrapes of Maggie’s abysmal driving skills. Stride couldn’t help but smile, even though it didn’t last more than a moment.

Maggie met him at the door. She wore a little black dress, probably purchased in the teenage prom section at T. J. Maxx. She wasn’t much bigger than a China doll, and had her dark hair pulled tightly back behind her head. Like him, she tried and failed to hide her tears.

“Hey, boss.”

“Hey, Mags. How is he?”

“The nurse thinks it’ll be tonight.”

Stride bit down on his lip until it hurt. “Yeah.”

“You want me to stick around?” she asked.

“No. That’s okay. Thanks.”

She caressed his arm briefly as she left the house. He could hear the sharp crack of her heels on the flagstones as she headed for the street. It was strange, the things that triggered memories. When his first wife, Cindy, had died, he spent the evening after the service here, in this house with Steve and Maggie, and he could remember the click of Maggie’s heels then, too, when she’d left the two men alone on the back porch at midnight. Unfairly, he knew that the sound of Maggie’s heels would always make him think of cancer.

Stride braced himself.

Thirty-six years. That was how long he’d known Steve Garske. They were as different as night and day: Stride, a closed-off cop who’d spent a lifetime building walls around himself, Steve, a guitar-playing family doctor who never left a room without making friends with everyone in it. At every crossroad with the important people in Stride’s life, Steve had been there. Steve had been the one to see Cindy through the disease that took her away. He’d been the one to counsel Andrea on infertility at a time when they wanted kids. He’d been the one to see Cat Mateo, the teenage runaway who now lived with Stride and Serena, through the girl’s pregnancy and delivery.

Steve had been best man at each of Stride’s weddings. That said it all.

And now he was dying.

He told Stride about it three months earlier, long after the initial diagnosis, when the outlook was terminal. He wanted no sympathy, no early grief, and so he’d kept it a secret from everyone. He’d spent the weeks since the announcement winding down his practice and finding new doctors for all of his patients. Stride and Steve had carved out one May weekend to take a last camping trip on the Gunflint Trail, and they spent three days fishing, swapping old stories, listening to Sara Evans songs, and completely ignoring the fact that they’d never do this again. When Stride dropped Steve back at his house, they exchanged a single look between them that said everything they failed to say in the woods. A look that said “thanks” and “I’m sorry” and “goodbye” and “I love you” all at the same time.

This house.

Stride inhaled the scent of it. Dust. Burnt coffee. Tuna fish on toast. That was Steve’s life. It had smelled the same way for years.

Steve bought the ramshackle cottage on Park Point when he came back to Duluth after medical school and lived here ever since. It was a bachelor’s house; Steve had never married, barely even dated. He’d never needed anything more than a small house on a small lot by the water. He wasn’t addicted to material things, just medicine and music. The one change he’d made to the place over the years was to add a loft as a bedroom to give him a better view of the bay.

That was where he was now.

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.”