Jacard’s Trombone©
After the funeral, my daughter called me to come over to her place. We’ve stayed pretty close, even though her mother and I divorced when she was fifteen. My grandsons have always been a big part of my life, and I’ve got her to thank for that. So Jacard’s death was really hard on me.
I was the one that taught Jacard to play my old slush pump—that’s what we colored folk call a trombone. He caught on real quick. The boy was smart like that.
My apartment caught fire a few years back—burned clean to the ground, along with my old trombone. Nuthin in that place mattered to me, ‘cept that old slush pump. I knew Jacard loved it too and was getting’ right good at it. Since that fire, I’d seen him play an imaginary one, slide his right arm in and out and puff out his brown cheeks like a blowfish.
I went over and talked to my daughter. “Dad,” she said, “there is no way I can come up with the money for Jacard a trombone.”
I started toward the door. Then I turned back and grinned. “Let’s go price one.”
She looked at me like she sometimes do when I say somethin’ squirrelly. “Didn’t you hear me?” she said, “There is no way I can come up with the money!”
I grabbed her coat and pulled her out the door. She managed to work her tongue up into a good tiff, but ‘fore long we were walkin’ into Marco’s Music Mecca, on 155th Street, down by the East River. She was mumblin’ somethin’ ‘bout we should try a pawn shop. “Nope,” I said, “Jacard gonna have a brand new slush pump—nuthin but the best for our boy.” I put my arm around her. “Afterall, Jacard always bring out the best in everyone. Yes, he do.”
I told her we could get a loan. She’d make one payment, and I’d make the next. And so on ‘til we got it paid for. That plan would’a worked, but then I had that heart attack. All my money went to pay doctors and hospital. I felt bad that I hadn’t been able to keep my part of the deal. “Don’t worry, Dad,” she said, “I’ll manage somehow.” She pinched pennies and—bless her heart—managed to get the thing paid off.
In the mean time Jacard was beginnin’ to make that big shiny slush pump come alive. Ever time I’d come over to my daughter’s place, Jacard would start out by playin’ Stand By Me. ‘Course that’s one of the favorites in our Abernathy Baptist Church, where we all go.
Well, to get on with my story. After Jacard’s funeral, Retha—I forgot to tell you my daughter’s name is Retha—Retha asked me to come over. Said she had somethin’ for me. She cried a bucket of tears at the funeral. I guess I did too. So I didn’t know what to expect.
I opened the door—I ain’t never convinced her she need to lock that door—and soon as I step in, there she is with Jacard’s trombone. “Dad,” she said, beneath the tears, “I want you to have it.”
I took her hand and lead her out to the front stoop, where Jacard had played many times. We sat on the step. I wiped my eyes and asked her what she wanted to hear. She grinned real big. “The Hallelujah Side.”
I started to play, best I could—It’d been awhile. It weren’t long ‘fore we had Retha’s neighbors joinin’ in and dancin’ in the street. I looked to my right, and leanin’ against a car parked on the street, was Cisco. You know, Retha’s son—the one Jacard took his bullet. Tears streaming from his eyes, both hands raised straight to the big Heaven. His lips quivering.
I stopped playing. The small crowd stared. My hands shot skyward. Yeah, Jacard, it is finished. Your work on Earth is done.