Fraternity-Testvériség, 1988 (66. évfolyam, 1-4. szám)
1988-04-01 / 2. szám
FRATERNITY Page 23 "Weirdoes!" Craig yelled, disgusted with our performance. "We're weirdoes. You're the only fool who likes the song!" "You're so weird, Viki." "Stupid!" "Weirdoo!" "Fool!" "Sticks and stones will break my ..." Craig stopped. Everyone on the beach stared at us. We finally realized how childish we were acting. I turned to Craig, he turned to me and we roared. Eventually everyone on the beach laughed, laughing more at Craig's cackling goose laugh than at our previous antics. This argument foreshadowed the many which would follow throughout the summer. It was our method of communication, our way of having fun together. Craig would say black, I would say white, and Amy, the moderator, would say grey. We all liked each other but, we were all too stubborn to admit it. So we would argue till the end. Late in the season, one sunny afternoon when Amy and I were lying on the beach, chattering away, as usual, we were interrupted by a sudden, piercing shriek. We turned to see our friend Ellen come stumbling, crying down to the beach. Amy whispered, "But her boyfriend dumped her." She frantically moved toward us and fell down beside Amy. She began muttering, "I don't know how to tell you ..." Then she broke out in hysterics unable to continue. Finally, she sobbed, "Craig . . .has been. . .killed." Those last words echoed in my ears and pierced my heart like a knife. I began to shake all over and tears gushed from my eyes, and a lump had formed in my throat. I was numb. Visions of Craig flashed through my mind. It was not until three hours later that I learned the cause of Craig's senseless death. Craig has been mowing the lawn with his Walkman on, totally unaware of the world. His older brother had watched him from the other side of the road making sure he wasn't slacking off. Craig had been working ten feet away from the road. Suddenly his brother cried out. The warning had come too late. A car out of control had flown over the roadside ditch, hitting a cement block, and had sent Craig flying. We were told he hadn't had time to even see the car. Amy and I refused to believe it. For three days after his death we kept waiting for him to come racing down with his bike, cackle, and say, "It was just a joke." But he never came. My second nightmare occurred the night of the wake. Fists clenched, Amy and I entered the funeral home. We slipped into the room and stopped as soon as we saw the coffin. Since we both felt queasy, we found a place to sit down. All was still. The room was dimly lit, dark and somber. The atmosphere was still and lifeless, like death itself. A few moments passed before Amy and I gathered up the courage to face Craig's mother. I cleared my throat and murmured softly in an agitated voice, "Mrs. Rawley." "Girls, I am glad you came!" she exclaimed and then rushed away from us. We were stunned. After a moment of reflection, we realized she was hiding her grief behind a bright mask of superficial normalcy. It was as if, if we all conversed normally, everything would be normal. Normal was what it was before Craig died. It was brave effort, but it didnt work, not really. We were all there for a purpose, a purpose we didn't want to acknowledge. We were there to say — Goodbye — forever. It was the hardest Good-Bye I ever said. Several times Amy and I tried to approach the coffin only to retreat in a flood of tears. There was a finality surrounding that coffin, which held our lifeless friend, a finality we just couldn't accept. Our tears and retreat from the coffin were the only acts of defiance which death had left us. Finally, we did manage to approach the coffin. We did so in a spirit of defiance, still not accepting the finality of the ritual. Our real good-bye would come later in a most unexpected way. After the wake, still numb with grief, Amy and I returned to my house. We sat around talking about Craig, the times we had had together, the senselessness of his death, and all of our memories. The radio was playing softly in the background. We weren't really listening to it until we heard, "My name is Luca." Amy and I stopped talking and just looked at each other. We both began to cry. The foolish song ended, "We just don't argue anymore." It was then that I finally said good-bye to Craig. I had accepted the finality of his death. The song said it all. We never would argue again. The above short story appeared in "Firstfruits" which is an anthology of short stories and poems written by Canadian high school students and published by the Montreal Jewish Public Library. Thousands of high school students submit their works and a blue-ribbon committee of Canadian writers and educators select the best pieces for an annual publication. Viki Komjathy's story was not only published in this prestigious anthology, but she has also received the first prize in literature on May 18, 1988.
