Heaven

Christopher was his name. He played the guitar; he liked to think he played it well and I, at fourteen, thought he did.

We'd sit on his back porch on Friday afternoons, with all the guitar magazines we could afford on our combined allowances and go through all the songs we knew.

He would strum, I would sing.

He thought it was fun; I thought it was heaven.

Christopher was his name. He was the kindest soul I'd ever known. He'd give the last cent he had to anybody who asked, even if he had to walk back home from school instead of taking the bus. He'd often stop at my house to eat a sandwich in our brown and yellow kitchen.

"Missed lunch," he'd say; he'd given that away, too.

He thought I was a good sport. I thought he was perfect.

Christopher was his name and he could wipe away all the doubts a girl of fourteen had. He hardly ever said a word, but his smile was the next best thing to sunshine.

Then one Friday afternoon, on his back porch, Christopher pulled something out of his pocket.

I thought it was a cigarette -- he'd learned how to smoke the year before -- but it wasn't a cigarette he pulled, it was a long thin glass tube and he kept rolling it round his hand.

"Do you smoke that, too, Chris?" I asked, trying to figure out how to make a GM7 chord on his guitar.

He didn't answer right away; he just winked, sunshine in his smile.

"It's happiness, Honey," he said.

Do you know the feeling that something isn't right? Your stomach starts twisting and your hands and feet get cold?

That's how I felt.

Everything soon changed after that.

He still played the guitar while I sang, but it wasn't every Friday anymore, and when we did, it was clear his thoughts were somewhere else.

He no longer stopped to eat a sandwich in our brown and yellow kitchen.

One afternoon, I saw him walking on our street. I grabbed a loaf of bread from the bin, ran out of the house and waved.

"Hey, Chris, missed lunch?" I yelled.

His smile was pure sunshine, but he walked past our house, down the end of our street and turned the corner. It was four months of Fridays before I'd see him again.

He'd changed even more.

It was Sunday evening. Mama was in the kitchen, Dad was in his favorite chair, reading the Sunday papers, when the doorbell rang.

It was Christopher and his guitar... with his mom and dad.

Do you know the feeling you get that something bad's about to happen? You can't breathe and your chest is really tight?

That's how I felt.

Mama came out of the kitchen.

"Go up to your room, Honey. The Lorels need to talk to us. I'll call you when dinner's ready."

I looked at Christopher, wanting him to look at me, but he didn't. He stared at the floor, in soiled white t-shirt and jeans... and muddy sneakers. His hair was long and stringy -- and he was thin -- so thin.

"He looks cold," I thought, going up to my room.

I lay on my stomach for an hour, then I heard the front door; I opened my bedroom window and voices drifted up from the porch.

"Don't worry, we'll see to it," Dad said.

"Thank you and we owe you, Don, can't say if we'll come back," Mr. Lorel answered.

I finally looked down; the Lorels were walking to their car.

I ran out of my room, down the stairs and past Mama and Dad.

"Hey, Chris!" I yelled, running up to the blue station wagon.

Christopher stopped. After the longest second in the world, he finally looked at me.

He smiled, but it wasn't his sunshine smile.

"I have to go away, Honey, but I'll be back, I promise. You take care of my guitar, okay?" he said, easing it off his shoulder and handing it to me.

"Next time, you strum and I'll sing. That'll be fun."

He got in the front seat with his dad. Mrs. Lorel kissed my cheek and got in the back. The car moved down the street and round the corner.

I never saw Christopher again.

I never heard him sing.

And no other smile's brought sunshine.

But I still have his guitar and every Friday, I run my fingers across the strings.

It still feels like heaven.