He's Gone
By Cybra
A/N: We've come to the finale, folks! This is Arnold's closure for this whole little series that was originally supposed to be a one-shot. Read on!
Disclaimer: If Craig Barlett had killed off his main character, there'd be no series. So, logically, Hey Arnold! can't possibly be mine. The poem is written by me! It's mine! So, nyah! P
Reunion
Silence slowly fell over the gathering as people wandered over to the Wall of Photographs that had been set up in order to remind the guests of the good times. Images from long ago of class picnics, field trips, class photos, and general goofing around brought smiles to the guests' faces as they reminisced about the good old days at PS 118.
The reminiscing stopped when each person reached one photo that had Gerald and one other person that the gathered crowd had worked very hard to push away from their minds, that person's face drawing up a painful memory that still hurt after thirty long years.
Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd-Higgins had set up the entire reunion and had thought up the idea for the Wall of Photographs. She had made nametags for each of the participants containing class pictures taken from fourth grade so that people who hadn't seen each other in years would know who they were talking to. She had even managed to get their favorite teacher Mr. Simmons to come by.
She had been careful, choosing each picture for the Wall to show at least one of the guests. Some classmates had even come in when she'd gotten in touch with them to take pictures of themselves in the same positions as the original photographs – sort of before-and-after shots that the guests had appreciated.
Apparently, she had made a mistake in choosing one of the pictures.
Arnold James Mackintosh Qwilleran's face smiled widely at them with his arm wrapped around Gerald's shoulders and Gerald's arm wrapped around his shoulders, frozen in time.
Arnold had died during class of an aneurysm. A weak blood vessel in his brain had exploded, killing him even before he hit the floor. That horrible image had stayed with his classmates for weeks. A soul once so vibrant had been lost in a split second.
Yet, they remembered fantasies of seeing Arnold in the shadows or even talking to him in a ghostly form. They remembered pretending that they had stayed after school together and chatted with an imaginary phantasm. Of course when summer vacation had come, they had been unable to stay at PS 118 for any real length of time and so the fantasies stopped. And as the summer wore on, they pushed these imaginative meetings from their minds and eventually forgot.
So why did those fantasies suddenly come back with such great strength?
A voice mellowed with age suddenly pierced the all-consuming silence. "I saw him last night."
Heads snapped around to the retired teacher who stared at nothing but the photograph.
Phoebe Hyerdahl – formerly Mrs. Gerald Johannsen before a relatively easy divorce – asked, "You saw him?"
Mr. Simmons nodded. "I was visiting last night just to look at the place when I heard someone crying. I looked around the school and saw a blonde boy sitting up there." He nodded towards the place on the bleachers where the ghostly figure had sat. "He was sobbing as if the world had ended."
Helga gaped and then swallowed. She was over her love of Arnold (his words in that strange dream that had been set in Arnold's deserted attic room somehow had brought her some peace), but it still hadn't been easy to get over the knowledge of that he was dead.
"It was him," Mr. Simmons stated, finally meeting everyone's gaze. "I know it was him."
In the brief silence that followed, a strangled sob reached their ears. Everyone froze, listening intently. The sound of running footsteps reached their ears.
"It came from the hall!" shouted Thaddeus P. Gamelthorpe (known to friends and former classmates as "Curly") as he ran towards the gym door.
The group of adults rushed after him, following the sound of the running footsteps. The footsteps suddenly stopped, but they followed the sound of sudden tormenting sobbing that reached their ears that came from the same direction as the footsteps.
"It's coming from Mr. Simmons' old room!" Lorenzo shouted.
The group paused outside the classroom door, both anxious and terrified to go inside.
What could they possibly see in there?
Helga slowly opened the door, steeling herself for what she might find.
She was totally unprepared for the sight before her.
Sitting at his old desk, body bent over the desk, head wresting on his arms, sobbing hopelessly, was the ghostly visage of Arnold.
Nobody spoke as the specter's crying continued, the ghost unaware of his visitors.
"Arnold?" someone – they thought it was Stinky but couldn't be sure – asked.
The head slowly rose up to reveal the familiar face, streaked with ghostly tears and emerald green eyes a dull jade with sorrow. His ghostly body – though it was that of a nine year-old boy – seemed older than time itself.
He looked as haunted as the buildings he inhabited. Not a glimmer of the hope or optimism that he was known and remembered for remained. In its place was the look of a tormented creature with no prayer of escaping the prison it had chosen for itself.
Slowly, he looked at each of his friends in turn, opened his lips, and spoke in a heartbroken voice, "Why didn't you come back?"
A million poems flew into Helga's head. She had become a successful poet over the years and had been coming up with new poems for her latest book, but none had the power or sheer emotion of the ones that sprang to her mind now.
"You said you'd come back," he whimpered, ghostly tears still falling. "But you didn't. You were at school, but you didn't…"
Apparently finishing his explanation of his strange words was too much for him. He slowly lowered his head to his arms again and his body quivered with heart-wrenching sobs.
Phoebe stepped forward next to her best friend. She knew (and she knew her classmates knew) what Arnold had meant. The memories of their "fantasies" revealed that they had promised Arnold that they would stay in touch with him…
But they had all broken their promise. They had blocked Arnold from their minds and had convinced themselves so well that the apparition had been a product of their imaginations that even when he had shown himself to them, they hadn't been able to see him.
The once-mousy woman stepped forward and kneeled beside the distraught spirit. She wrapped her arms around his "body".
Her memories told her to expect the warmth that she had grown to associate with this amazing boy. So when she touched his body, she felt some warmth but there was a large amount of cold in there as well. Time and despair had robbed him of most of the warmth.
"We're sorry," she whispered, tears threatening to spill from her own eyes. "It's not going to change what the past thirty years have done to you, but we're so sorry."
The spirit raised his head from his arms and leaned into her embrace, wrapping his smaller and thinner arms around her neck as he cried ghostly tears onto her shoulder. His small frame shuddered in her arms, and she forced herself not to shudder as well. The chill from his tears combined with the sudden increase in the chill of his "body" both chilled her and horrified her.
After a few moments, Gerald stepped forward as well and reached out to pat his old best friend on the back, a bit awkward in more ways than one. He wasn't sure how to comfort a ghost nor was he exactly sure how to comfort Arnold himself. Arnold had not once broken down like this in front of anyone, not even him.
"I'm sorry, man…" Gerald told his old best friend. "I thought I was goin' crazy, seeing you…I shouldn't have ignored you…"
Somewhere amidst the whimpering and crying of the spirit, a choked tenor voice told his former classmates, "I forgive you."
After several minutes of no one moving and Arnold simply crying on Phoebe's shoulder, the ghost pulled his face away but stayed encircled in her arms.
"What happened to all of you?" Arnold whispered, his voice hoarse from shed tears.
Everyone remembered how Arnold had told them that he had turned his back on Heaven in order to make sure that they would be all right. Maybe this would finally help him move on.
"I went to Yale," Phoebe began, "and I'm now a successful psychologist. I got married to Gerald after college but divorced him four years later."
Arnold's eyes flicked with concern from Phoebe to Gerald and back again.
Gerald chuckled. "We parted on good terms, Arnold. It wasn't working out. I'm now a pro-football player. I wanted to take her everywhere with me, but her practice wouldn't let her. We didn't see much of each other anyway, so we figured it'd simply be best if we just ended our marriage."
Helga stepped forward next. "I'm a poet now. I'm writing my tenth book of poetry, it's untitled but I think I'm going to call it 'Memories' or something like that. I'm even engaged. Scary, isn't it? Someone actually thinks they can put up with me." She held out her hand for him to see the diamond engagement ring.
"I'm glad," he told her honestly, a hint of his old smile on his face.
As each friend and former classmate stepped forward to tell his or her story, Phoebe felt that warmth she had always associated with Arnold slowly returning. It would take a long time for it all to return to him (after all, thirty years of sheer hopelessness doesn't do anyone a bit of good), but at least it was coming back. That was her sign that his own wounds that he had nursed thirty long years without a bit of comfort were starting to heal.
When the last person finished their story, tears were flowing out of Arnold's eyes again. Only this time, these tears were of joy. Joy for them, those who had abandoned him and then returned to him at last.
A suddenly light caught their eyes. Near the window, a portal of light had appeared and two winged figures – angels – stepped out.
The first was an elderly male.
"Grandpa," Arnold whispered.
The second was an elderly woman who stayed close by Phil.
"Grandma."
"We're not the only ones, Short Man," Phil told his grandson. "There're two people here who've been waiting even longer than we have to see you again."
Two more angels appeared, one male with handsome features and blonde hair and the other with a wide-shaped head and brown hair.
"Mom!" Arnold cried out, emotion strangling his voice. "Dad!"
Phoebe released him as the boy raced towards his parents. So they had been dead all these years after all.
His mother fell to one knee and wrapped her boy in her arms, her pearly wings tucked neatly behind her back. His father placed a hand on his head and ruffled his hair.
Then, Arnold's own wings appeared for he, too, was to be an angel. But his wings were different. They weren't full and healthy like those of his parents and grandparents. They were broken and patches of feathers were missing.
"Time to say 'goodbye', Arnold," Stella gently told her son.
He turned his face to his friends and whispered, "Goodbye, everyone. I'll see you again someday."
"Goodbye, Arnold," each adult whispered back.
Stella stood, cradling her son in her arms and gave the boy's former classmates and former teacher a smile. Then she turned towards the heavenly portal as the boy's grandparents stepped through.
Miles stayed for a moment longer. "Thank you."
Then he turned as well and entered the portal with his wife and child.
~@~
No one would ever forget that night. After all, it had turned out to be not the simple class reunion that they had expected, but a reunion with an old friend and a reunion of a family.
Helga put it best when she immortalized that night in her poetry, though future generations wouldn't be able to decipher its true meaning.
Broken-Winged Angel
Oh broken-winged angel, who cannot fly,
Who can no longer hold your head up high,
An offering has come from those who live:
An apology for something they did.
Can you forgive them for their wrong?
And if you do, shall you go to where you belong?
Or will you forever be bound to the Earth,
The place that had been your home since birth?
Will you reach Heaven at long last
Oh broken-winged angel, fallen from grace,
Please let me dry those tears on your face.
I give you my story, which is all that you ask,
I've ended my bluffing and destroyed my mask.
A portal of light on the wall I see,
And out steps four angels, all known to thee.
They have awaited your coming these long years,
And you greet them, eyes filled with joyful tears.
Now as I watch you and tell you "goodbye",
I now am the one with joyous tears in my eye.
Oh broken-winged angel, one of large heart,
Thank you for forgiving me who tore it apart.
I shall miss you, my friend, for the rest of my life,
But I shall not forget you; not this time.