Chuck and Warren were best friends from the time they started high school in seventh grade. By the time I was assigned to their home room, three years later, they were inseparable there in the front row, where they could make the most trouble for our long-suffering homeroom teacher. From my vantage point in the back row, I debated which was the cutest -- Warren, with his mop of curly brown hair, his long, curled eyelashes, and the little mustache of which he was so proud, and which always hid a smile; or Chuck, with his red hair, blue eyes, handsome features, wit and humor.

There was always a bit of rivalry between the two guys, as will happen even among friends. Warren got a leather jacket before Chuck got his. Warren got blue suede shoes before Chuck got his. And Warren got his driver's license a month before Chuck got his, even though he was a month too young.

Asked how he pulled off that particular miracle, Warren only smiled that little under-the- mustache smile, and said, "Magicians never tell their tricks."

Well, soon Chuck and I were going steady, as it was put in those days. Warren was still a friend, and when my mother would yell about me going out too much with one boy (Chuck), Warren stepped in to save the day by taking me to the movies, or ice skating, in the most brotherly of ways.

Then came graduation, and even the dearest friends find themselves going in different directions. I married someone else. Chuck married someone else. Warren married Chuck's cousin Joan, so they kept somewhat in touch even though their work took them to different parts of the country. But I didn't see or hear of either of them after graduation night until 43 years later, when I moved back to Pittsburgh, Pa., our old home town.

There I ran into Chuck's mother, a sweet lady who had made my 16th birthday party. I told her that since I had now raised some boys, I could appreciate what a great job she had done in raising a fine guy like Chuck. She smiled -- and when she next spoke to him on the phone from his home in New Mexico, told him I was back in town.

Imagine my surprise when the phone rang a few days later, and, when I answered it, I heard a voice I hadn't heard for 43 years. "Hey, wanna go to the movies?" Chuck said, recalling one of his favorite lines of those ancient days. The years blew away like dry leaves. We got married, and soon planned a trip to Florida to visit Warren, who had retired there early. He was delighted to hear that we had "finally got together," as he said, and was looking forward to seeing us.

But it was never to be. Joan called to tell us Warren had died of cancer. She was bringing his remains home to Pittsburgh for burial, and would we come to the funeral?

Of course we would.

At the funeral, we viewed Warren's remains. I was astounded at how lightly the last 50 years had touched him. No wrinkles, no bald head, no age signs. The brown curls were still a mop, his closed eyes emphasized the long, curling eyelashes, and that little mustache still, I think, covered a tiny smile.

As I held his cold hand, and my tears dropped on his tweed sport coat, I had to smile despite sadness. Other people get buried in boring blue suits. Not Warren. A sporty tweed jacket was his favorite, and the reddest of red print neckties that I have ever seen on a dead person -- or a live one, for that matter. Chuck touched his old pal's arm and said, in a choked voice, "Nice tie, man."

After the service, the family held a gathering at a restaurant, and we visited with Joan and her children. At one point, Joan opened her handbag and pulled out an envelope of pictures. "Warren took a lot of chemotherapy," she said, opening the envelope, "and it kept him looking and feeling terrible most of the time. But one day he felt pretty good, so I wanted to take some pictures of him so everyone could remember how handsome he was."

She passed the pictures around. I looked at them. I could pick out Joan in the photos, but who was that elderly man with her? The pale one with the hollow eyes and cheeks, the few remaining hairs on his head a straggly gray, the pitiful attempt to smile...could that be Warren's granddad? Of course not -- Warren was as old as we are, and now we are the grandparents in family pictures.

Then I realized -- omigod, that was Warren. That poor, sick, frail wreck of a man in the photograph was the dapper, vibrant, fun-filled Warren we had known and loved. We handed the pictures back to Joan, lying gallantly that it was nice to have the pictures of Warren when he looked so well.

On the way home, I asked Chuck, "Did the man in the pictures look to you anything like the man in the casket?"

Struck by the thought, Chuck said, "Geez. No. Nothing like him. I guess the undertaker fixed him up to look good."

"No," I insisted. "What we saw was far beyond what any undertaker could do. We saw Warren exactly the way he looked on graduation night. For us, he was 18 again. Wouldn't that be just like him, to find a way to show us he was young, not old like us?"

After a long, thoughtful pause, Chuck nodded. "Yeah, that would be like him. Exactly like him. I wonder how he did it?"

Then I remembered Warren saying, "Magicians never tell their tricks."