Sweetheart

By Ernest Slyman

They came to a funeral of the man they respected most, admired like a giant. His name was Jack Trayer.

When he died it was like they'd been deserted at birth. As they approached their hometown the streets and the houses spoke mysteriously of them. Who were they? Why had they come back to Bristol?

What did the town know about them? Did the town hate them? They came from poor families. Poverty had a craggy face, so ugly it would scare the life out of anyone.

But it was the death of Jack Trayer that welcomed the boys. Everyone else hid from the boys. The boys who were once famous for singing for Jack Trayer. He came out in the alleyway behind his restaurant and three boys sang a church hymn that knocked Jack Trayer down. He couldn't believe his ears.

Now years later the boys come back to sing the same hymn at his funeral. The day they buried Jack Trayer would go down in history as the saddest day in Bristol.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ernest Slyman
• Release date: Mar 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781311491244

Book preview

SWEETHEART

Ernest Slyman copyright 2017

www.ernestslyman.com

Sweetheart

They came to a funeral of the man they respected most, admired like a giant. His name was Jack Trayer.

When he died it was like they'd been deserted at birth. As they approached their hometown the streets and the houses spoke mysteriously of them. Who were they? Why had they come back to Bristol?

What did the town know about them? Did the town hate them? They came from poor families. Poverty had a craggy face, so ugly it would scare the life out of anyone.

But it was the death of Jack Trayer that welcomed the boys. Everyone else hid from the boys. The boys who were once famous for singing for Jack Trayer. He came out in the alleyway behind his restaurant and three boys sang a church hymn that knocked Jack Trayer down. He couldn't believe his ears.

Now years later the boys come back to sing the same hymn at his funeral. The day they buried Jack Trayer would go down in history as the saddest day in Bristol.

Sweetheart 1

I seen him fidgeting, his head ducked down, eyes closed, his mouth making a fizzing sound like it was releasing the grief we all felt. He looked back over his shoulder like something I said bothered him. He wondered what I was doing. Nosey thing. His hand disappeared into that paper bag. Come out with the liquor bottle, took a nip. The bus just kept going, like it didn’t care if we was going to get drunk. Jack Trayer was dead. And that made us sad. He was a man who we much admired. Oh Lord, he was something.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. Although I knew I had to stop thinking about him because we when you get that much sorrow inside you it’s going to cut your circulation off. Your legs go numb, arms droopy. I don’t know if I can live in this world without Jack Trayer out there somewhere.

Not that I’ve seen him lately. Living up Morristown way. So many miles from Bristol, knowing his voice don’t carry that far. What if it did? Would he tell me I was all grown up? It being some thirty years since I seen him. Jack’s my best friend, even though I ain’t talked to him all these years. I loved him like he was the one who believed in me.

Somehow we was flesh and blood. Even we weren’t related. Him being older than me. It was everything I could do to keep myself from crying my eyes out. When I heard Jack Trayer died it hit me hard. Right in the breadbasket. I couldn’t breathe. My head burst, my eyes let go them big tears. I was in my truck, and the news come over the radio. Jack Trayer dead. What that mean? Who killed him? He got old, some spell that catch him, make him gray haired, circles under his eyes. Give him some kind of illness that take away his great big heart.

Hey, Gladstone. What are you doing? Don’t you like funerals?

I heard that voice. I knew who it was. I turned around. Gladstone was smirking like he knew something. Like he was immune to the sorrow. I know he wasn’t. Cause I see him cry back there coming through Bluff City. I seen his hands tremble, come up to his mouth, try and cover the melancholy that mouths get when somebody croaks.

Finley and him was playing poker. Taking nips out of that liquor bottle. What did they think they were doing? Somebody die that mean so much to you there’s no time for poker. You’ve got to let that sadness come over you. The things it do to somebody is like some wild animal find you in the dark. Eat you up.

Grief all covered with fur and angry about something. It don't care who you are. It never going to be somebody that admires you. Somebody give it a hard time. Somebody just don't care what it's going to do with them. What's the matter with us? Somebody die like Jack Trayer make us feel things we never felt before. It takes things from us. Gets deep inside us. I ain't going to tell you I like it. Though I know people who make of it something small.

Jack Trayer was not small. He was as big as Bristol. And that old town was his sweetheart. When they met they was seldom seen apart. Went everywhere together. Lord, you could pry them apart.

Sweetheart 2

We was coming to Jack Trayer’s funeral? Of course there was more to it than that. It was immense what was about to happen. Hit us in the gut. Got there in a hour and a half. How was we going to keep ourselves from balling our eyes out. That old cheap motel room stank of aerosol spray. Guess we’d let our noses sniff that like it was some kind of savior. Pink face, chubby cheeks. Lace collar. I heard the toilet flush. I could swear it said something to me.

We didn’t feel too good. Grief make you immature, you know. Go around punching your buddies. Laughing, burping. You never when your friends will pull your ear off. Sorrow does stuff to you that you'll never understand. You don’t cry in front of your buddies. You just feel like chicken manure.

And what’s the matter with that? Somebody die you’re covered with that stink. You can’t get away from it. Death has its ways with us country boys. Grab us by the scruff of the neck. Pull us down, get on top of us and don’t let us up. The great Jack Trayer was dead. His funeral only a few hours away. The thought of seeing his casket lowered into the ground just about enough to scare the life of you.

The cigarettes was eying us like we was helpless. Dangled from our lips and when you spoke they dropped ashes on the carpet of that old cheap motel. Ashes it seemed appropriate, long as you don’t have to sweep them up. They probably knew we was hopeless skunk drunk. Cigarettes know all kinds of things.

They got ears, you know. They hear what you say. What you think. Cigarettes are smart. You think they knew about Jack? Did they feel sorry for him? Dying in bed and his last breath taking the town of Bristol with it. We could see outside that Bristol had crawled out. It was sunlight that came and brought Bristol back from the dead. It wanted to go with Jack. Bristol loved Jack. He was the one. Bristol was Jack’s sweetheart. They was a number. Holding hands everywhere they went. Johnson City, Kingsport, Greenville was jealous.

The newspaper in Bristol started crying like a baby. You know it was a terrible thing to happen. Jack Trayer he was deceased, and nobody was happy in Bristol. They was all totally crushed up, and it was a wonder they could bear the grief. The loss of such a great man took them by surprise. You see them. I looked out the curtain they had these dumbstruck looks on their faces. Even the dogs couldn’t believe that Jack was gone.

The clock on the dresser said it was fifteen minutes after eleven. Only had two beds. We didn’t care cause we weren’t going to stay the night. We were going back on the bus. All we planned was to do right by Jack. Come to his funeral, hear the eulogy that would hurt us for the rest of our lives. We near expected to receive bruises from it.

Fear ain’t the word. It was more of cold, numb feeling that crept over us. We knew Jack was gone. It was something we couldn’t escape. It wanted to stay beside us. A feeling that would clutch at you, pull you across east Tennessee. And what if it wanted to visit, live with you. That was all right. It was a piece of Jack. Tall fellow, broad shoulders, crumpled smile. Hands in its pockets like it had seen everything, done everything. And all it wanted was to come along. Maybe sleep beside us for no other reason that to keep us company for the rest of our lives.

Whatcha looking at, Marsh? Don’t you wonder if anybody recognizes us? They put our names in the Bristol paper. Didn’t have no pictures.

I give him a dirty look. I wasn’t expecting Finley to come out with that. It’s not attractive. What people say to you when you feel lost matters a lot. I was ready to collapse on the bed. Just let myself recline on the soft mattress. I figured beds didn’t know I was in need of solace. A comfortable pillow might spare me. I was certain how beds knew they could give me what I needed. I was betting they could help me feel a little better.

Why would they recognize us? We ain’t famous? Gladstone said. I could tell he was drunk. His voice was stumbling in the graveyard of knowing how utterly awful it was knowing we was in Bristol. We had something to do. It was going to take a lot out of us. We didn’t know if we had what it took.

Nobody knows who we are in Bristol, I told him.

And if they did, who gives a dang? They wouldn’t know what we look like. We all growed up, Finley said. His cigarette smoke come up and curled around his cheek like it was trying to comfort him.

I’m telling you it’s anybody’s guess we’re in Bristol, Gladstone said. Can’t tell me there’s anything expected from us. The front desk clerk didn’t crack a smile. She’s unaware of anything.

Are we going to eat something before the funeral? Finley asked. He squinted at Gladstone.

We could order something in, Gladstone told him. What would you like?

Nothing. I couldn’t eat a foreleg on a stick. I feel lousy, Finley said.

How about you, Marsh? Gladstone asked, holding the menu in his hand, checking out the sandwiches.

No, I’m all right, I said.

I was amazed at what happened next. Gladstone ordered a cheese burger and fries with a chocolate milkshake. How could he do that? His voice jumped right into the telephone like it was hungry.

Could you give me plenty of them little ketchup packets with it? Gladstone said.

That was what did it. I was wondering what kind of man would feel like he needed to eat something at a time like this. It seemed outrageous. He actually had an appetite.

Sweetheart 3

I was the one who took the last gulp of whiskey. The bottle lifted up, spilled a bunch of drops down my throat. I thought I was going to taste something amazing. And all I got was a tiny gulp that crawled down my throat and sang a lullaby. What more could you ask for? I was surprised I felt a high take on my grief. Not that the whiskey could roll it up, make a soft whisper out of it. What I thought I felt was a lonesomeness. Like it was apologetic that it couldn’t do more for me.

I couldn’t tell if my eyes were poor. Or was I plum intoxicated, encumbered with the whiskey’s spell. How would I know? I looked down at the Holy Bible on the dresser. One of those motel bibles that will save your soul, just let go with its sweet passages, hug you like a teddybear. Kiss you all over. Leave you think you wasn’t alone in the world. That you wasn't unloved. That Holy Scripture could make you feel like you was doing fine. Nothing to worry about.

Like it had thrown a shroud over Jack. Covered his face, those closed eyes nothing to worry about. Would I look like that when I died? Stretched out in a coffin? A cold look on my face that swung around Bristol, slapping everybody in the face? Pulling their hair out. Telling them things that they’d never heard before. Like don’t you ever believe that anybody die? What’s the matter with you? You just one dumb country boy, ain’t you?

We all had white carnations in our lapels. Give us the look of somebody who could appear like they was present at the funeral, full of respect, a reverence that couldn’t be denied. And occasionally we took turns sniffing the carnation. Gladstone would sniff his carnation. Then go over to Finley’s carnation and place his nose right on it. When I seen Gladstone come over to me I knew he was going to sniff mine.

I lifted up my lapel so the flower could smooch his nose. He got a whiff that gave him a nice feeling. Then I went up to his carnation and took a sniff. Finley returned the favor. We were sniffing those carnations as though we wanted them to give us something that would quell our sadness. It didn’t do much of anything for us. What carnations do is just sit in the lapel with their hands folded, looking at us like we’re fools.

It never occurred to us we were ticked off. And you know that’s what death does. Makes you madder than a bull stung by a bumblebee. We knew it. We tried not to be all angry about Jack. But we couldn’t help. Went around the room of that motel, punching each other. Grief makes you immature. We shrunk up. We was children. Poking each other, pulling the other’s sleeve. Making faces like all them funeral guests we’d see later.

Gladstone, I think I saw him cry. He put a napkin up to his eye. Right between french fries. One fry jumped down to his aluminum plate. I don’t know what it said. Maybe it took away some grief. French fries can do that, you know. Those little ketchup packages can help you out, if you’re at funerals. I told myself I needed to remember that. It could come in handy when I got back home.

I heard a sniffle from Finley. So I sniffled back. I didn’t want him to feel like he was the only one. A sniffle is God’s way of telling us we’re sad. We don’t know how sad we are until the sniffle arrives, like an old friend. The sniffle loves me. I know it does. Why can’t have more sniffles when we’re happy. They don’t let us wail. The things