The Sweetest Thing.
A short story about music and memory.
“Christmas is doing a little something extra for someone.” Charles M. Schultz
I want to tell you about an incident that happened last Christmas Eve. It involves a couple, an attractive couple, and Handel’s Messiah. I have the Deutsche Grammophon edition, featuring The Mendelssohn Choir, possibly a collector’s item.
We played it every Christmas in our house, even when the kids held their ears, begging us to stop. My wife would tell them, “It will always make you think of Christmas.” It certainly did for me, anyway. But that’s not the story here. My wife passed away two years ago—Christmas Day, in fact, so that plays a big part here. I wish it didn’t.
She said it made up for all the times I never cried during our marriage, which was plenty.
Near the end of her life, Martha — my wife — made me play it over and over. I’d put the record on the stereo, and I’d start crying. She used to say it was the sweetest thing. She said it made up for all the times I never cried during our marriage, which was plenty.
I’ve kept a tape I made of the Messiah ever since. It’s there in my pocket when I go to my daughter’s place. Eleanor and her husband live out in the east end with their three kids, two boys and a girl.
Even though we’ve had our differences over years, Eleanor still invites me over at Christmas. The kids want to see their granddad. They ask me about Santa Claus. I tell them he’s the best pitchman Coca Cola ever had. I don’t know why I do that. I guess it’s all those years I spent in advertising. I gave it up, retired, and now I sit around being a granddad, playing that tape and crying.
Chrissie — the youngest — gets up on my lap. She wants to know why her granddaddy is crying. Eleanor tells her I’m sad, but I don’t think Eleanor believes it.
I lied to Eleanor and her mother a lot over the years, mostly about my drinking. She gives me the same look she did back then, the same warning glance. So much has happened since her mother died. I’ve become old and possibly sentimental. I can cry at the drop of a hat now. Eleanor doesn’t know what to make of it.
I called her the other night, just as she was heading off to one of those pageant rehearsals at the school. “What is it?” she said, “I’m in a hurry.” and I said, “Just a head’s up. I won’t be over Christmas Eve. I’m going to a friend’s party.”
Then she let out a breath of air. “What friend?” she asked, like I didn’t have one.
The phone went silent for a minute. Then she let out a breath of air. “What friend?” she asked, like I didn’t have one.
“Bernie,” I said. “You met him at your mother’s funeral.”
“I don’t remember a Bernie.”
“I introduced you to him and Trudy.”
“Where is this?”
“At the funeral — ”
“No, I mean, where’s this party?”
“High Park. Near where I grew up. Bernie says he’s got all the old gang coming over. Everyone from the office.”
“So when are you coming here?”
“First thing Christmas morning.”
“You better not show up hung over. I’ll know if you do.”
She hung up and then called back.
“Be here by eight thirty,” she said.
“I will,” I said. “What do you want me to bring?”
“Just be here,” she said, and hung up again.
Bernie and Trudy have been living out in High Park for years. I used to go there just after Martha died. That dropped off. I wanted to stop talking about it, and Trudy didn’t. I miss going out there, though, seeing the old places, the houses, the stores.
He’s wearing these crooked antlers on his head.
On the cab ride over, I go past my old house, wondering where all the years went. By the time I arrive at Bernie’s, the party’s in full swing. I can see the old crowd in the living room, standing around. There’s Madeline, our old media director, sitting with her young beau. Stanley and Ross — the print production guys — are talking to Bernie. He’s wearing these crooked antlers on his head.
“Tom, you old rascal,” he says when I come through the door. We shake hands, he slaps me on the back. “Get a drink and join us,” he says. “Trudy’s in the kitchen with her yoga buddies.”
I go through the dining room to the kitchen.
Trudy’s talking to an attractive couple, about my age. His hair’s silver, hers is light blonde. They’re both holding their wine glasses by the stems. He’s got a bottle in his other hand, looking at the label with his bifocals. “Is this ours?” he keeps saying to his wife. “Someone drank it all.”
“There’s plenty of wine, Orson,” Trudy says, and pulls me over. “Tom, this is Orson and Connie. Connie and I take yoga together. This is Tom. He used to work with Bernie at Sullivan and Green.”
“I’m retired now,” I say.
“Did your stint, huh?” Orson says. “Connie told me there’d be advertising types here.”
“I didn’t say types,” Connie says. “I said people.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You think everyone’s a type,” Trudy laughs. “Orson and Connie are in kitchen utensils or something.”
“What do you mean, or something?” Orson says.
“Aren’t you in kitchen utensils?”
“Damn right, we are.”
“Ignore him,” Connie says. “We import kitchen products.”
“I started out this way years ago, Tom. Sold pots and flatware to all the restaurants along Dundas. You know this area?”
“What’s wrong with calling them utensils?” Orson says. “I started out this way years ago, Tom. Sold pots and flatware to all the restaurants along Dundas. You know this area?”
“I grew up on Glenholm,” I say.
“No kidding?” he says. “I grew up on Medland. Down near the park. We used to toboggan there. What’s your last name?”
“Carson,” I say.
“Mine’s Bradley. Name ring a bell?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, still a coincidence.”
“Maybe we should let them reminisce,” Trudy says to Connie.
She takes Connie by the arm.
“Ditching us already?” Orson says.
“You can join us when you’re through,” Trudy says.
They go in the other room. I light a cigarette and open the kitchen window. There’s an ice bucket with cans of beer. I open one. Orson’s still looking at the wine bottles. His face shines in the light.
“I was telling Connie on the way over about that guy down on Annette,” he says. The one who had the grocery store?”
“Old Joe,” I say.
“People weren’t getting murdered back in our day, were they?” Orson says. “We looked out for each other.”
“Yeah, Old Joe. He got murdered, didn’t he?”
“So I heard. Some kids tried to rob him.”
“They ever catch them?”
“I don’t know. It was quite a while ago.”
“People weren’t getting murdered back in our day, were they?” Orson says. “We looked out for each other.”
“There were still murders.”
“Not like today. You still have family out here?”
“No, they’re spread out. My daughter’s in the east end.”
“Still keep in touch?”
“I’m seeing her tomorrow.”
“My kids still haven’t forgiven me for running off with Connie,” he says. “She used to be my buyer. We went to Paris two years ago on business and hooked up. Who doesn’t in Paris, right?”
He winks and swirls the wine around in his glass.
Trudy and Connie are laughing in the living room. They’re on the couch next to Madeline and her young beau. He looks bored as hell. I put out my cigarette and close the window. I take another beer out of the cooler. Trudy is waving to us from the living room.
“Bring us some wine, Orson,” she calls over the chatter.
“We’d better join them,” Orson says.
Connie’s telling everybody about Paris and the choir at Notre-Dame Cathedral. “Didn’t you love their singing, Orson?” she says.
He tucks a wine bottle under his arm, and we go out to the living room. Stan and Ross are still standing by the fireplace with Bernie. Connie’s telling everybody about Paris and the choir at Notre-Dame Cathedral. “Didn’t you love their singing, Orson?” she says.
“It was okay,” he says.
“Oh, everything’s okay with you.”
He sits on the rug next to her, pulling up the sleeves on his red cardigan. He leans back and Connie rubs his shoulders.
“Speaking of music,” he says, “shouldn’t we be listening to Christmas stuff or something?”
“There might be some in the cabinet there,” Trudy says.
Orson leans over and opens the cabinet under the stereo. He goes through the tapes. He pushes things around.
“What do you want to hear?” he says.
“Do you have any choirs?” Connie asks.
“I don’t know,” Trudy says. “Do we have any choirs, Bernie?”
“You’d have to look,” Bernie says.
“There’s Perry Como,” Orson says.
I look at Connie sitting there. I reach in my jacket pocket.
“You carry choirs around in your pocket?” Orson says.
“I’ve got a choir if that’s what Connie wants to hear,” I say.
“You carry choirs around in your pocket?” Orson says.
“It’s Handel’s Messiah,” I say.
“Isn’t that what we heard at Notre Dame, Orson?” Connie says.
“Honestly, I don’t remember. Maybe.”
He takes my tape and looks at the list of movements.
“Here’s your choir, Connie,” he says.
He puts on his bifocals and pops the tape in the cassette tray. I hear the music start, the opening, the rise of the sopranos. I close my eyes, and it starts coming back to me. I see my wife there in bed, the little Christmas tree I decorated on the dresser. I close my eyes tighter, feeling the tears about to come.
It’s then that the music suddenly stops. There’s a whirring sound and a click, and Connie saying, “Orson, leave it alone.”
I open my eyes. Orson is pushing buttons on the stereo. “Isn’t there anything on here a little less depressing?” he asks.
One minute I’m moving towards Orson, the next, I’m flat out on the rug.
It’s hard to explain what happened next. One minute I’m moving towards Orson, the next, I’m flat out on the rug. Bernie’s there, telling everybody to move back. He kneels down, holding my head, asking if I’m all right. Over his shoulder, I can see Orson standing there, fists still clenched, Connie beside him. “He swung at me, for chrissake,” he’s saying. “What was I supposed to do?”
I was wondering that myself. I’ve been wondering about a lot of things lately. Notice how everything ties in here? That’s the thing about memories. They’re supposed to fade — but they don’t. I still see Martha there in bed, the little tree on the dresser, lights blinking. She keeps asking me to play the Messiah. We’ve played it eight times already, and I say to her, “Don’t you want to hear anything else? Can’t I put on a different album?”
But she wants to hear the Messiah again. Somehow she knows this is it. Or I think she knows. Her lips move, anyway. She looks at me and does her best to smile. Three strokes and she still smiles.
Then she says the same thing she’s been saying all day.
“Play it again, Tom,” she says. “I want to see you cry.”
And doesn’t she smile when I do? Just like they all did at Bernie’s place when I told everybody I was all right. “It just gets me sometimes,” I said, and then Bernie’s slapping me on the back, saying, “Sure you are, you old rascal. We understand.”
I wonder if he does. I wonder if any of them do. It seems so long since I’ve understood anything myself.
Robert Cormack is a novelist, short story writer, blogger and journalist. His work is now free here on Medium. His first novel “You Can Lead A Horse To Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online through Simon & Schuster. I’ve even learned Walmart is selling “good, used copies.” His stories and articles are also available at robertcormack.net
