#i hope this hopper callback to will in TUD is obvious that is totally what i was going for!!

[baldrambo]

What do you think Hopper’s funeral was like? I’m kinda curious about whether or not that’s going to be addressed.

I am SO sorry for getting to this like 80 years after you sent it, lmao.  This was such a good question and the more i thought about it the more I got these clear images in my head of that day, and the more I wanted to just write it. I have 0 expectations that it will be addressed, honestly, SO here is Jim Hopper’s funeral service, told through the eyes of 4 non-Party members.

It was the last funeral, and by far the largest.  Karen Wheeler found herself thinking it was also the most beautiful.  She shifted her weight in her tall black heels and glanced around at the throng of solemn people in black.  The casket stood at the epicenter, a large block of shiny wood that shone brightly in the afternoon sun.  In a way, the symbolism of it felt silly.  There wasn’t a body.  There hadn’t been any bodies.

Attempting to banish the morbid thought from her mind, she glanced sideways at Ted who was staring solemnly at Pastor Charles.  Was he reading from the Book of Revelation again? She found it next to impossible to concentrate on any of the readings, anymore.  Ted had willingly attended every funeral with her, without complaint.  A fresh wave of guilt struck, and she swallowed.  Holley peeked over from her Dad’s arms, her large blue eyes carrying a new weight to them.  She was a kid now, not a baby anymore.  Karen reached over and gently caressed Holley’s cheek and that familiar, deep and abounding love for her children coursed through her like a powerful current. Karen wondered how someone could ever survive the loss of a child.

Karen turned to Mike, who stood stoically on her right, his hands at his sides like a soldier standing at attention.  He was staring over Pastor Charles, his attention on the trees in the distance, his eyes unfocused.  His mouth was set in a tight, straight line.  He hadn’t said a word all morning.  Hadn’t said a word since dinner last night.  The dinner table had been deadly silent, the new norm.

“I don’t want to go to the funeral tomorrow,” Mike spoke up, his voice eerily flat and quiet.  Karen looked up from her plate and squinted at Mike, confused.  “It’s the last one, Mike.  And it’s for the Chief.”

He clenched his fork in his fist and looked up at her, a strangely hollow look in his eyes that made her stomach start cramping up in knots.  “I’m not going.”  Karen looked over at Ted for help.  His attention was conveniently focused on Holley.  Karen put her silverware down, gently.  “I know this is upsetting for you, Mike, and….”

“No. No! You don’t know!”

“Mike...” Nancy reached over to put her hand over his and he wrenched it back standing up in his chair abruptly.  “It’s not like I actually wanted him to DIE!” He shouted, kicking at his chair. It went flying backwards, striking the wall.

Karen and Nancy both stood up.  Nancy stopped her.  “I’ll go.” She gave her mom a reassuring look, and wiped her mouth with her napkin, tucking her chair into the table neatly.

Nancy was standing at Jonathan’s side, leaning on his shoulder, her hand wrapped around his arm. Nancy kept sneaking glances at Jonathan, whose hands were in his pants.  Jonathan wouldn’t meet her eye, his attention fixated on Joyce who was staring ahead, stone-faced, at Pastor Charles.  Her face was still strangely devoid of emotion.  Will flanked her on the left, a head taller than her now. Clearly uncomfortable, he kept shifting his weight and looking over at Joyce, too.  

3 days after the fire, Will answered the door, his polite smile more a grimace. He stepped aside to let her in. Joyce was sitting at the kitchen table, a large ashtray full of cigarette butts in front of her.  She’d looked up at Karen, large, dark circles under her dry eyes.  “Thank you for stopping by.”  Karen nodded, watching the trail of smoke from Joyce’s lit cigarette float up towards the ceiling. Joyce redirected her attention to the ashtray, barely blinking. Karen looked nervously over at Will who gestured silently towards the front door.  Unnerved, she stopped in the doorway, turning back.  “If she is upset and needs someone to talk to….”

“She hasn’t said much since the fire,” Will interrupted.  “Thank you for stopping by, Mrs. Wheeler.”

Nancy caught Karen’s eye and gave her a small, sad smile.

Karen had thought, naively, after the fire, that they might, finally, trust her.  Trust her with this weight they carried with them, this weight that had been hanging around since that girl had made an appearance in Hawkins. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they knew, they ALL knew something she didn’t.  Even Joyce.

She glanced down again at Mike.  His lower lip was quivering.  Karen reached over and slipped her right hand into his.  He gripped it back, tightly.

***

Scott Clarke thought Karen Wheeler was still the most beautiful woman in Hawkins.  He watched her place her hand in Mike’s, her black dress effortlessly drawing attention to her slim figure.  She had been his first crush, he remembered.  She dated Scott’s older brother, Rob, when Karen and Rob were seniors in high school.  He had been in….6th grade? 7th?  It felt like an eternity.  A bead of sweat dripped down his neck in the heat.  He tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his button down.

There were beautiful white lilies lying delicately on the casket and perched in small bunches surrounding the funeral attendees.  They were freshly picked.  Were they the Chief’s favorite flower? It didn’t seem like they would be.  He thought the Chief was probably the type to prefer wildflowers.  He thought he would prefer wildflowers at his funeral, too.

He would remember the morning after the fire for the rest of his life.  He woke up like any other summer day, fried 2 eggs, toasted two slices of bread, and sat down at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee in his Friday mug.  His weekly copy of Science Magazine opened in front of him, he flipped on the news, prepared to ignore another day of local Indianapolis crime.  Within moments, his coffee and breakfast were forgotten.  Frantically thumbing through the prior year’s class roster, he stationed himself in front of the phone for the next 5 hours.  It was around three in the afternoon when he finally got off the phone with the Police Department and marked the last student on his list safe.  Moments later a sobbing Ms. Landon called.  Frank Rose in last year’s 5th period math class disappeared from the 4th of July Festival and was presumed dead in the fire. Scott had gone over and spent the evening with her.

Suddenly growing aware of the silence, Scott blinked, focusing back in on Pastor Charles.  He stepped aside to allow Flo from the Police Station to begin her eulogy.  Scott glanced around him at people growing increasingly uncomfortable in the heat.

Maxine Mayfield was conspicuously absent.  Scott hadn’t seen her since her brother’s funeral.

Lucas Sinclair stood adjacent to Scott, his parents behind him.  He fiddled with the buttons on his coat and his mother swatted at his hands, leaning in and whispering in his ear.  He stood up straighter and turned to his left.  Dustin and Claudia Henderson were standing beside the Sinclair’s, Claudia Henderson periodically blowing her nose loudly into her handkerchief. The boys exchanged a look and turned their attention another ten feet away to a handsome, familiar-looking older boy with longer hair.  The older boy met their gaze and shook his head slowly.  A warning.

It had been the boys that first made him suspect something else was going on.  

A few days after the fire, Scott reached up and knocked on the door.  Erica Sinclair opened it a moment later, staring up at him.  She put her hand on her hip.  “WHO are YOU?”

“Mr. Clarke.  I’m here to see Dustin and Lucas.”  Moments later he heard loud thudding on the steps and the boys appeared in the doorway, shoving a protesting Erica back into the house behind them, shutting the door loudly and standing up against it, staring awkwardly at him.

“I came to check on you, boys.  Dustin, when I stopped by your house your mom said you both had been at the Mall the night of the fire.”  The boys exchanged a worried glance and turned back to Scott.  Lucas grimaced.  “Yeah, we….we were there. It was….it was a really, really big fire.” “Huge,” Dustin interrupted.  “We were…we got caught in it.  But we got out.”  Lucas nodded along enthusiastically.  Scott swiveled between the two of them, skeptically.

“Anywayyyy, we better get back inside.  Almost time for dinner.  Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Clarke!”  Lucas called out as he scrambled for the doorknob.  “Yeah, thanks!”  Dustin scuttled inside after him, shutting the door abruptly.  

Scott looked down at his watch. 2:55pm.

The boys had stopped fidgeting and were focused on Flo now, their faces solemn. Scott looked back over at the older boy, who was staring up at the sky, as if he were trying not to cry.  Steve Harrington!  That was his name. He’d nearly flunked the boy in 7th grade. He had to be 17? 18 now? How did he know Dustin and Lucas?  Frowning, Scott turned back to Flo, who was struggling to finish her statement.  Joyce was standing just beyond the casket, as resolute as ever, the crowd of mourners centered around her and her sons.

Strangely, Scott found himself wondering if Joyce ever figured out what was wrong with her magnets.

***

If only the Chief were here now, Calvin Powell thought to himself, to see the entire town of Hawkins show up for his funeral.  He could just picture him blustering about the office with a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth.  “Just bullshit obligation,” he’d mumble.  And if he knew Flo would be the one giving an impassioned eulogy on his behalf, he would be mortified.  Powell stared over the casket as Flo’s lilt carried across the field.  Well, the Chief could suck it. Because he’d gone and gotten himself killed, and now here they all were.  Without him.

Scott Clarke was standing straight ahead of him, watching over Dustin Henderson and Lucas Sinclair.  There were some hardened people in this town, but that man certainly wasn’t one of them. He’d been on and off the phone with Scott Clarke the day after the fire.  That’s when he’d still been acting as de-facto Chief. Not anymore, of course. The Feds had seen to that.

Powell re-directed his attention to Flo as she walked towards him, wiping at her eyes as she folded her notes up and tucked them inside her dress.  He gave her a small, reassuring smile and squeezed her shoulder as she stood beside him. Callahan was nearby with his young wife.   When the Chief took over, everyone figured he would make Callahan Deputy. He ruffled a few feathers by naming Powell.  He still remembered the Chief’s first week on the job.

“I already TOLD you,” Roger Walsh sneered.  “I’m here to talk to the Chief.  “Well I’m Deputy,” Powell cut in.  “So I’m here to….”  Walsh interrupted by sniffing and crossing his arms, his lip curling in disgust. “Deputy.” He clicked his tongue, staring Powell down.

Hopper waltzed into the station, his eyes red-rimmed, and headed over to the counter for coffee, ignoring the two of them.  “Chief Hopper,” Walsh interrupted him, uncrossing his arms. “I need to speak with you about….”  

“Talk to my Deputy,” Hopper interrupted, tipping his head back and swallowing a swig of coffee.  He turned towards the men, grimacing.  “I don’t have time for whatever *this* is today.”  Hopper headed past the men towards his office. “This is bullshit,” Roger cut in.  “You are the Chief, I don’t want to talk to this nigg…..”

Hopper stopped and swiveled, aggressively grabbing the man by the scruff of his shirt, pulling him forwards.  He smacked his lips.  “What?” He tilted his head, looking down at the man, his face stormy.  “Go ahead.” His voice was dangerously low. “What were you going to say.”  Roger gawked at the Chief, terror in his eyes.  Hopper let go and pushed the man backwards. “Get the fuck out of my station,” he growled.  “Powell, I don’t want to see him again.”

Flo nudged him sympathetically.  He was crying.  Powell sniffed, angry with himself.  He promised himself he wouldn’t do this.  Not here, not now.  The Chief wouldn’t want him to. He swiveled away from her, hoping Callahan hadn’t seen him.   Jonathan Byers was standing next to Pastor Charles now.  He was wearing worn down black trousers, his right hand resting in his pocket, a piece of paper in his left.  He took a deep breath and began reading.

The Feds had showed up within days, sauntering about the office arrogantly.  Powell wasn’t sure how a picture of Hopper’s dead daughter contributed to a federal investigation but then again, what did he know? He was just a small-town cop.

Jonathan Byers had chosen today of all days to demand an audience with Powell. He stood in front of the desk as Powell scooted his chair to the side for a man with dark shades.  The man looked up at Jonathan pointedly and then continued out of the office with a stack of papers from the bottom drawer. Another agent strolled in and also stopped for a moment to stare at Jonathan, recognition all over his features, too.This second man grabbed another box of papers in the corner.  

Powell opened his mouth to question the boy when Jonathan blurted, “Flo said you were helping her with Hopper’s funeral arrangements.  I want to give a eulogy.”  Confused, Powell frowned, scooting his chair back to its proper place. “Son, that is very nice of you to offer, but….”

“He was there for my Mom and I, when Will disappeared,” Jonathan interrupted, passionately.  “When NO ONE else was,” his voice broke and he looked away. Taking a deep breath, he looked back over at Powell.  “We’re the only family he has, now.”  Powell didn’t have it in him to say no.

Things grew quiet and Powell re-directed his attention to the boy, who was struggling.  He stopped to put his head in his hands.  Nancy Wheeler approached slowly and took his other hand, standing with him.  Jonathan got himself together and continued.  Powell glanced over at Joyce, who was staring down, her eyes trained on the grass.

Powell felt the worst for Joyce Byers.  Ever since Lonnie skipped town she’d been on her own, and she always seemed one bad day away from a breakdown. But the Chief had a way with Joyce.  Powell suspected the Chief had been sweet on her, he even teased him about it once.  “I was with her when we found Will in the woods. I’m just doing my job,” the Chief had shrugged.

As Jonathan finished up his speech, he walked back to his mom, hand-in-hand with Nancy.  Jonathan reached for her hand when Joyce turned away suddenly, retreating towards the parking lot.  The entire town watched her as she went.  As if she were the Chief’s Widow.

Powell never bought that the Chief wasn’t sweet on her.  Just like he never bought that Will had been lost in the woods, or the fire at the Mall was just a fire. But then again, what did he know? He was just a small-town cop.

***

Jane always came to visit, at least every two weeks, without fail.  But it had been a long time.  Too long.  Slowly but surely, Terry Ives built up her strength to go and find her daughter.

Terry squeezed her eyes shut, her daughter’s features coming into crystal clear focus.  She reopened them, pushing herself up from the rocking chair.  A bed lay fifteen feet in front of her, a still figure laying on top of it.  

Jane.  Her feet splashing in the inch of water that filled The Void, Terry approached the bed, her heart pounding.  Jane’s eyes were closed, and she stirred for a moment on the sheets. Asleep.  

Standing there for a moment, Terry sized up the faded green comforter and white bedframe.  This wasn’t The Cabin.  Terry kneeled beside the bed, water soaking through the bottom of her nightgown.  Faded tears stained her daughter’s sleeping cheeks and a beige shirt was folded in her arms.  A small patch on the arm read “Hawkins Police.”

Terry leaned forward and rested her hand on her cheek.  “Jane,” she whispered gently.  Her eyes fluttered and opened.  Jane blinked for a moment, confused.  Jane sat up slowly and looked around, still gripping the uniform.  “Jane!” Terry exclaimed, louder this time. El continued to look around the room, the confusion turning into despair.  “Mama?”  She whispered, clutching the shirt tighter.

Something was terribly wrong.  She could barely feel Jane’s energy, it was weak.  Too weak.  Terry rested her hand on her daughter’s cheek again, but she didn’t move.  Jane squeezed her eyes shut tight.  “Mama,” she murmured, and a soft sob escaped from her lips.  She pulled the shirt to her chest.  “I can’t feel you, Mama.  I can’t feel him,” she began to cry, her despondency like painful tendrils reaching into Terry’s own heart.

Horrified, Terry glanced around her desperately.  Why couldn’t Jane see her?  Why couldn’t she feel her? Something fuzzy beside the bed grabbed Terry’s attention. Focusing in on it, a small nightstand materialized.  It was adorned with a lamp, a clock, and a picture frame.  The frame included 2 small boys and a petite brunette woman.

The woman. The woman who came to see her with the Cop. Why was Jane in her house?

Terry heard a noise behind her and turned around slowly.  A small green car came into focus.  Terry took a few small careful steps forward.  The woman was resting her head on her arm, leaning up against the car. She was taking shallow, shuddering breaths, her tiny frame quaking ever so subtly.  In pain.  

She was wearing all black, standing in tall grass.  Not with Jane.  As Terry approached, the woman picked her head up.  Her big brown eyes were filled with tears.  She put her hands up to her eyes, dabbing at them carefully with the backs of her hands.  The grief etched into the lines of her face matched Jane’s. Taking one final deep, sharp breath she squared her shoulders and started walking away.

Terry watched her figure pass by Jane’s bed, fading away into a cloud of smoke. Where was the Cop?  Terry felt the beginnings of exhaustion creeping into her mind and she pushed them away.  She had to find the Cop.  She fought for a mental image of him.  Her mind was going fuzzy, Jane’s bed fading in and out like a t.v. station competing for a signal.  Panic creeping in, she squeezed her eyes shut, pushing for the memory.  Her breath grew raggedy from the strain as she opened her eyes.

Another bed began to materialize, this one without a bed frame, this one far, far away. Yet somehow so close.  Blinking, Terry slowly stepped towards it, the image continuing to cut back and forth with her daughter’s.  As she grew closer to him, The Void seemed to expand around her.  The air grew colder and her heart began beating faster.  Thump, thump, thump.  He was lying on his side, curled up in a ball.  Shivering.  Not safe.  She was a few feet away when his voice grew slightly stronger, his image momentarily clear.

“You don’t tug on Superman’s cape….you don’t….spit.  Into the wind.  You don’t pull…the mask off that old lone ranger…..and you don’t….mess around…..

….with Jim.”  The hopelessness and fear were so powerful, Terry nearly froze.  Mustering her last bit of strength, she reached for him.  Her hand closed over his.  Terry gasped audibly. “El?”  He whispered into the darkness.

And with that, he was gone.  Jane was gone.  Terry felt the sensation of falling, sharply, backwards.  She grasped for something, anything, in front of her as she fell, her hands closing around thin air.  She landed in her rocking chair, now frozen in place.

“Terry?  Terry!”  Becky leaned over her sister.  “Why is the lamp blinking, honey? What is going on?”

“Breathe,” Terry whispered. “Sunflower.  Three to the right, four to the left. Rainbow.  Four fifty. Breathe. Sunflower. Three to the right, four to the left. Rainbow.  Four fifty.”

“Terry, what is it?” Becky whispered, urgently.

Breathe.