My Friend Hart

 

by Mihran Kulhanjian

 

I saw Hartley Meriwether only once during the summer between seventh and eighth grade.  While in seventh grade we did things together all the time, nearly every day.  We were in the same P.E. class and during football season we played on the same team—and during baseball season we played on the same team, too. We would hangout together with our own group—there were five of us:  Nicky Silento, Joey Balinese, Jay Fitzmorris, Hartley Meriwether, and me, Mike Mc Gavin.  We were pretty good friends, all of us, until summer.  Hartley or Hart as we all called him disappear this one particular summer.  I knew he was home, but every time I called, his mother would say, “You just missed him—I’ll tell him you called.”  I never got a returned call.  After about ten calls to him I began keeping a log and by the time summer was over, I had called him thirty-two times—and each time, I seemed to have just missed him.  And each time I had called his mother had answered, took the message, and he never called me back.  It was all very strange and I became obsessed with the whole thing.  After about fifteen calls, it became a game. I was really wondering how many calls do I have to make before I get a return call—so, I merely kept calling every few days hoping for a call back. It was kind of like how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?  The calls to Hart became my Tootsie Pop. I’d leave messages like: Would you like to go fishing, play football with the guys, we’re going to meet at Vince Park and get a basketball game going with some other guys, or just hangout—even go ride our bikes to the beach.  I started e-mailing Hart every day for two weeks and then I gave up. 

 

Hart lived about three miles from me, so I wasn’t all that anxious to ride my bike to his place unless he was home; but on four occasions I did just that.  Two of the times no one was home.  After knocking on the door a few minutes, I went around back and looked through the windows.  I couldn’t see anyone.  And the other two times his mother answered the door and said he wasn’t home.  I didn’t talk to his mom for very long.   The last time, I told her that I had sent Hart some e-mails and I was wondering if he wanted to go fishing.  She said he had a cold and that was it.  And then I asked her if he is all right because I sensed something just didn’t add up.  She told me Hart was with his father on a camping trip and won’t be back for a long time.  I asked what day they’d be back and she said she didn’t know. That’s maybe why he never answered my e-mails and why Mrs. Meriwether kept telling me on the phone that he wasn’t around.  But why would she tell me I just missed him?  Well, maybe he was home then, I thought.

 

All summer had passed and I hadn’t seen Hart.  It was the first of September and it was still hot and school would be starting the following week.  I was excited for it.  I got kind of tired of summer.  I wanted to get involved in school things and it was football season and me and Hart and the rest of the guys had to start practice soon.  I was starting to get curious about the classes I would have and a really looked forward to cooler days.  I figured Hart would have to be home since school was starting in one week. 

 

It was late, about eight o’clock.  I thought it over and decided I’d try to see Hart one more time.  I hopped on my bike and rode to his house.  When I got there, the lights were on and there was a dim light that I could see coming from Hart’s room. This time I wasn’t going to knock on the door.  I got up to his window and knocked on the glass.  I knocked as quietly as I could, tapping it; I didn’t want to disturb everyone, or startle anyone—I was only interested in Hart.  My heart pounded and my breath quickened.  At last, I took talk to him, see him, and ask him why he never called me.

 

I got between the hedges and the house and I knocked a couple of times on the window, softly.  There was no answer.  I waited and did it again.  No answer.  The light went off in the room and I wasn’t sure what to do.  And then I heard the front door open.  I felt like hiding in the bushes, but there wasn’t much room and it would look foolish if someone found me like that.  So, I got out onto the lawn and on the porch I saw Mrs. Meriwether staring right at me.

 

“Mike,” she said.  “Hartley is not home,” she said is very calmly.  She wasn’t angry.  Then Hart’s mom paused for a minute and asked me to come into the house.  If he isn’t home why does she want me to come inside?  I said okay and met her on the porch.  She opened the door for me and I went in first. She followed close behind.

 

“Please, sit down.  Would you like a piece of apple pie and a glass of milk?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” I said. I really didn’t want it.  I was nervous but relieved. Maybe Hart would be home soon so she wanted me to wait for him, I thought.   

 

The house was very quiet. Besides me, Mrs. Meriwether was the only one here as far as I knew.  As I waited for Mrs. Merewether’s return, I thought of a few things to say to Hart.  But then I didn’t know what to say.  He never answered my calls or emails or nothing. Why should I even bother with him?  Why am I here? I should leave now.  Maybe he just doesn’t want to see me?  I began feeling really lousy inside and I was ready to get right back on my bike and leave—I’ll see him at school in a week anyway.  What is the big deal?  As I stood up, Mrs. Merewether entered the room with the pie and milk.

 

“Here you are, Mike.  I made this this afternoon,” she said.

“I didn’t know you could make milk?” I said.  Why did I say that?  That was stupid.

 

She smiled and laughed a little.  She placed everything on the coffee table and took a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the table.  I sat on the sofa.   I had an uneasy feeling their with Hartley’s mom sitting across from me by ourselves. I took a gulp of milk and a couple pieces of the pie, larger pieces than I could place on the fork without it falling off both times. She was staring at me the whole time while I was trying to place the pie on my fork and then she spoke:  “You like Hartley very much?”

 

I swallowed a piece of pie and then answered her:  “Yeah, we’re good friends.  During the school year, yeah, we spend a lot of time together—you know with football and baseball and stuff.  I haven’t seen him all summer, you know?  Every time I called he was never home—and he didn’t answer my e-mails.  I haven’t seen him all summer.  Is he home now? Is he sleeping or something?

 

She kept staring at me without answering.

“When will he be home?”

“He’s here.  He’s in bed, sleeping.”

“It’s early.  He must be pretty tired.”  I didn’t believe her.  It was too quiet—no T.V., nothing.

“Mike,” Mrs. Meriwether said, “Hartley has been very sick.  And the last two months he has been in and out of the hospital. He didn’t want to see anyone until he was better—especially you, Mike.  He told his father that you are the best in the group—his friends, and he didn’t want you to see him ill.  We all thought he’d be better soon, but it hasn’t happened.  You know, when you get sick, really sick, it is hard to see people.  Can you understand this?”

“I understand. Is he all right, now?”

“The doctors said he doesn’t have very much time, Michael.  We brought him home.”

I didn’t want to believe what she was telling me.  I couldn’t believe it.  What is she saying?  What is she telling me?  This isn’t right.  What is she talking about?

“Michael, he is very ill.”

“Where is Hart?  Where is he?  He’s my best friend—my best friend!  Where is he?  Damn you!  Damn you!  Where is he?  I got up from the sofa and went to his room and turned the light on.  And there I saw a boy that didn’t look like Hart.  I stood frozen in the doorway.  Mrs. Meriwether stood behind me and put her hands on my shoulders.  And I could feel the pressure as her fingers tightened.

 

With eyes opened, the boy in the bed looked at me with both sad and happy eyes.  “Mike, Mike.,” he said.

I looked at him.  It wasn’t Hart—it couldn’t be. It wasn’t him. I didn’t want it to be him.  But it was him, and I knew it was when he called my name.  He always called my name twice whenever he wanted to talk to me.  It was Hart. 

“You can go in,” said Mrs. Meriwether.

“As I got nearer to him, his lips parted and I saw the smile of my friend. I sat in a chair beside the bed and he put his hand out for me. I took it and held it there on the bed.  He smiled. “Hello, Mike,” he said in a soft voice.  He always had a soft voice.  It was a pleasant voice, not like mind.

 

“You’ve got to get better—school starts next week and so does football practice. I missed you all summer.  The gang missed you, too.  We went fishing a few times on Jays 15 footer and the last time, a few weeks back, Jay landed this Mako shark and it was about seven feet long, nose to tail.  He hooked it on 30 lb. line with a 60 lb. leader and we wrestled that shark for over an hour.  He was kind of slow for a while, but he was a fat boy—like a sack of cement—it pulled and pulled.  Nick was with us and we passed the rod around so we all got a good feel of that shark.  After a while, we cut the line. You know, we couldn’t bring it up—boat was too small and we just didn’t know how to get it in the boat.  We thought about how to kill it, but we couldn’t figure it out—didn’t want to get to close to jaws—if you know what I mean.  It’s good to see you, Hart.”

 

Hart was thinner than I had ever seen him and his skin was white—his hand, as I held it, was warm and fleshy and bony too.  There was no meat or muscle anywhere on it. And after I stopped jabbering about the shark, the moment of sitting their, beside Hart, overcame me and I looked at him in the face and his eyes were glazed and watery.  And my eyes filled with tears. But I did not cry.  And neither did he.

 

“What else did you do this summer?” Hart asked.

“We got a regular group of guys together and played a game of hotbox about three times a week.  And played Pony League—came in second.

“You’re always good at baseball,” said Hart.  “I’m tired, Mike.  I’m glad you are here now.  I didn’t want to see anyone earlier—I thought I’d be better by now.”

“You’ll be in tip top shape soon,” I said.  “I know that for fact.”

“Thanks for coming to see me, Mike.  I’m tired, I want to go to sleep now.”

“I’ll see you Monday at school.  I hope we’re in the same P.E. class.  You’re good competition,” I said.  “I can still beat you running.”

Hart smiled.

His hand loosened the faint grip it had and lay on the bed. He closed his eyes and I turned to his mother. She put her hand on his forehead and combed his hair with her fingers.  “He’s sleeping,” she said.

 

I got up and looked at Hart.  I miss him.  I was in the living room not sure what I wanted to do when Mrs. Meriwether came out of the bedroom.  She came closer to me and I put my head down into my arm and wept.  First it was slow and then I couldn’t control myself.  She held on to me and I wept as though the world had come to an end.

 

The next day Hart died.  Three days later my mom took me to his funeral.  A month later, Nicky, Jay, Joey and I went to visit him in the cemetery. We found his grave, and on the tombstone was my name.  I was really surprised to see it there.  It said: A Beloved Son and Grandson and Best Friend Mike. That afternoon we played football in the cemetery.  Hart was on my team. He will always play on my team.