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typed in his own name. There were the usual sites, White Pages, and people of some sort of renown whom he shared names with, but nothing with his own personal name. He clicked forward to the fourteenth page. Halfway down the page was the blog of Raymond Callaway.
“Raymond Callaway,” James mumbled, “a real idiot, couldn‘t stand him.” An excerpt from the blog read, “My friend James Freeman and I were inseparable…”
“What!” James said at his computer screen, “I don’t even remember having a decent conversation with him. He was a jerk. I told him that to his face. He was obnoxious and bothersome. He spread some rumors around about me and my sister. We almost fought in the hallway. We both had to go to the principal's office. I almost got expelled over him.”
James clicked the link. To James’ surprise, there was a picture of him and Raymond. It looked like they might have been seniors. Their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders.
“How could I have missed that?” James said. “I can’t imagine under what circumstances I would even envision my arms around him. I hated the guy, and he hated me.”
James read, “As I face my last days, there are things that stand like darts in a board fresh in my mind; solid and painful. One had to do with my friend James Freeman. He was ever loyal and understanding. Although not aware of the ailment that will shortly take my life, he showed uncommon courage and understanding.”
“He had me confused with someone else,” James said. “That was not me, it was Bob Constantine. He was a nice guy; polite and —too polite. Teachers were enamored with him.”
At the end of the post was Raymond’s email. James typed an email, “I’m James Freeman. This is my phone number. Give me a call.”
James left the computer and fingered through his bookshelf. He found his senior annul and looked through the random pictures posted in the back. There it was: the picture he saw on the computer screen (James and Raymond with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders). “I don’t remember this.”
The phone rang. James picked it up. “Hello.”
“Is this James Freeman?”
“Yes,” James said. “Is this Raymond Callaway?”
“Yes,” Raymond said. “I just got your email.”
“I read the post,” James said. “Forgive me for being so direct, but how long do you have to live?”
“The doctors say anytime,” Raymond said. “My system will just shut down. I liken it to a storm; the lights flicker, and suddenly no power. The lights haven’t flickered yet. It’s a condition I’ve had all my life. It’s been managed well.”
“I’m so sad to hear that,” James said. “I always knew there was something wrong with you, but I didn’t know. I don’t think anybody knew.”
“I shared it with no one,” Raymond said. “I didn’t want pity.”
“I must confess,” James said. “I don’t remember the picture being taken that you have in your post. In fact, I found it in our senior annual.”
“There is likely something else you might confess,” Raymond said. “We were not friends. That is probably why you don’t remember the photo being taken. It was a big joke, in the spur of the moment.”
“Yes,” James confessed. “That did confuse me, but we were kids.”
“I was still a jerk,” Raymond said.
“I think I know why, now,” James said. “You didn’t want pity.”
“That’s right,” Raymond said. “A strange way of looking at things, but we were kids.”
They talked for half an hour.
“James,” Raymond said, “you’ll have to pardon me. I’m becoming extremely tired.”
“Sure,” James said, “I’ve kept you too long.”
“Yeah,” Raymond joked, “you're just trying to speed up my death.”
James quipped, “You are such a jerk.”
“Music to my ears,” Raymond said.
“I’ll call again,” James said.
“Absolutely, make it soon.”
“Goodbye, my friend.” James pressed “end” on his phone.
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