The St. Stephen’s high school gymnasium sounds like a Broadway theater before the lights go down. Four hundred students ranging from fifth-graders to the senior classmates of Kate Townsend and Chris Vogel have been crowded into the bleachers on both sides of the gleaming basketball court. Most teachers are sitting with their classes, trying in vain to keep the anticipatory energy under control. About fifty adults from the community-many of them St. Stephen’s parents, but some teachers and coaches from other schools-stand against the wall by the large double entrance doors. Coach Wade Anders, our athletic director, stands by the smaller door to his office, glaring at the loudest of the students to quiet them down.

A podium has been placed at the center of the tip-off circle, with chairs on both sides of it. In the chairs sit Jan Chancellor; Holden Smith; Dean Herrick, minister of the Presbyterian church Kate attended; Roger Mills, minister of the Methodist church Chris Vogel attended; and Charles Martin, the school chaplain. There’s no chair for Jenny Townsend, Kate’s mother, but she must be here somewhere. Likewise, the Vogel family.

Jan Chancellor stands and walks to the microphone, a folded piece of paper in her hand. On any other occasion, it would require some effort to obtain quiet, but not today. Today the room goes still as though everyone has suddenly held his breath. Death retains its power to awe.

”We have gathered here,“ Jan says in a strong voice, ”to remember two of the most distinguished students ever to attend this school: Kate Townsend and Chris Vogel. Because St. Stephen’s is such a small institution, we are truly a family. And today we all grieve the loss of two family members.“

As Jan goes on, I realize she is an even better speaker than I thought. She doesn’t distance herself from the kids by being too formal; neither does she condescend to them. She paints a brief picture of each dead student that brings home their special qualities and avoids all mention of the manner in which they died. I suppose that subject will be handled by the ministers winging the podium.

As Jan introduces Reverend Mills, I find my thoughts drifting away from the proceeding. This gymnasium served as a backdrop for some of the most seminal moments of my life. Several of the royal blue banners hanging from the far wall have my name inscribed in gold upon them, along with the names of boys I knew from the age of four until today. From this tiny town, we sallied forth in a creaking old school bus and claimed state titles in basketball, baseball, football, and track. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the sound of rain thundering on the tin roof as we run line drills during P.E. and basketball practice. We even practiced football on this floor when it rained, barefoot to protect the wood, wearing shorts, shoulder pads, and helmets. On this floor I stole kisses under the eyes of watchful chaperones during school dances, devoured barbecue chicken at athletic banquets, received ribbons on academic awards days, watched school plays, and ran endless sprints as punishments for various infractions. But this is the first time I have come here for a funeral.

It’s not a funeral really, but a memorial service. The real funerals will begin in less than an hour, in churches downtown. Students from the tenth grade and above will be excused from school to attend them, if they so choose. The rest will sit in class and pretend to work while they wonder what is happening at the funerals.

Reverend Mills is speaking now, trying his best to deal with one of the thorniest issues any believer must face: why an innocent young person should be cut down for no apparent reason just as his life is about to begin. By my measure, Mills isn’t doing a very good job. He seems to be following the ”God has a plan inscrutable to us mortals“ line. I stopped buying this rationalization at age fourteen, and I doubt it’s resonating with the students sitting in the bleachers today.

Scanning the faces in the crowd, I realize I’m searching for Marko Bakic. I don’t see him anywhere. I suppose the incipient drug war has changed his opinion of the relative value of an American high school education.

Reverend Mills segues into the evangelical section of his eulogy. He has no more intent than Jan Chancellor of delving into the issues of sexual homicide or drug abuse. As his deep bass voice drones on, I wonder who will finally articulate the feelings of these students, and of the town proper. After the unprecedented losses of Kate, Chris, and Sonny, news of last night’s deaths hit Natchez with the force of a tornado. I’ve never seen the city in such a state, not even during the race riot of 1968. Then, at least, the threat was understood. But now all sense of control has been shattered. Driving through downtown this morning, it felt as though the air had been sucked from the streets. People hurried along the sidewalks with their heads down, like medieval villagers awaiting the onslaught of some unknown calamity. So many deaths in so few days almost begs the question of divine retribution, and I’m sure that theory has been raised in some local households.

Mills’s somnolent drone makes me want to get up and phone Quentin Avery, who is setting up his offices at the Eola Hotel right now. But Reverend Mills suddenly yields the floor to his ”Presbyterian colleague,“ Reverend Dean Herrick. Herrick is about my age, and I’ve met him a couple of times. He’s from Tennessee, and he seems to have more liberal ideas than any of his predecessors or peers. He’s about twenty pounds overweight, and he’s starting to use the dreaded combover to combat his receding hairline. He stands at the podium in silence, surveying the assembled students with dark eyes

”Boys and girls,“ he says finally, ”I’m not going to take much of your time today. And I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to spout a bunch of platitudes that sound good in a preacher’s guide but give no comfort to a grieving soul or a troubled mind.“

Reverend Herrick did not look at Reverend Mills as he said this, but he might as well have. I sense that he has the full attention of the assembly.

”The premature death of someone like Kate Townsend or Chris Vogel is the toughest test a Christian ever faces. As a minister, I have no special powers of understanding. Like you, I’m rendered speechless by these tragedies. My heart is broken. And in the face of deaths like this, the Bible is strangely silent. We search its pages for comfort, but we find little. Death, like birth, is a mystery. We feel that we understand birth because we know what comes after it. But do we know what comes before birth? No. We believe that souls originate from God, but more than this we do not know. So, what of death? For Christians, death is the time when we shuffle off this mortal coil and return to God. But as for details, we know none.“

Reverend Herrick pauses. The air in the gym is still; not one student shifts in his seat.

”As I lay in bed last night,“ he goes on, ”one question filled my mind. Why? Why was this beautiful girl taken so young? Does God have a plan that requires her death? The Bible doesn’t tell us so. Whatdoes the Bible say? Jesus said, ‘No one can come to me unless the father who sent me draws him.’ In other words, only through death can we return to God. Well, all right. But does that answer my question? Why, after eighteen years of rigorous and joyous preparation for life, were Kate and Chris taken from us? If they were not to be granted a full life, why were they born at all?“

Some of the parents stir at these words, as if Reverend Herrick has trespassed on territory best left unexplored in the presence of children. But he’s got the kids; I can feel it.

”But here we may find some comfort,“ Herrick says. ”Because you and I would not be the people we are, the souls that we are, had we not known Kate and Chris. Both those young people brought joy into my heart and yours. Simply watching Chris perform on the fields and courts of this state was a revelation. Seeing Kate work with children on mission trips made me think of Audrey Hepburn working with the starving children of Africa. But Kate didn’t think of herself that way. Like the rest of us, she spent much of her time worrying whether she was living up to the ideals her mother and this community had bred into her.“