A Lifetime of Little Fires
by Mel Sherrer
The musty bedroom room was quiet, just two men breathing and the wet, frothy sound of Paul brushing warm, whipped, shaving cream onto Martin’s chin and cheeks.
“How’d you learn to do an old-fashioned hot shave, Paul?” Martin asked, breaking the silence.
“Well, I have always liked to keep a smooth face, I think it makes me look five years younger, don’t you? Paul asked.
“I thought you liked to do it so you can wear ladies’ makeup without any whiskers in the way.”
Paul gently wiped a dab of shaving cream from Martin’s ear with the backside of his fingers.
“Yes, that too.” Paul admitted.
He expertly worked the straight-razor blade over weeks of unkempt stubble. It occurred to Paul that this might be Martin’s last shave, and a minute consolation for the dying man. Paul lifted Martin’s face tenderly with the tips of his fingers. He angled the blade and began to remove the delicate patch of hair between his father-in-law’s chin and lip.
“Would you like to try some? After the shave?” Paul asked.
“Try what, makeup? Hell no!”
Martin made to flinch away, then remembered the razor near his cheek. He sighed, body and mind exhausted. His shoulders which had once been formidable, embellished by smart, sport coats or padded shooting jackets, rose and fell, fragile as the wings of a car-stricken city bird.
“But— I guess they’re going to put that shit on me for the casket anyway, may as well beat ‘em to it, huh?” Martin said.
“I guess that’s one way to think of it, as makeup for death.” Paul said.
“How do you think of it? Never met a Black man fine with being the way you are, let alone happy to flaunt it.” Martin’s voice was angry and pathetic, bitterness rattled his sunken chest.
“I think of it like adding a touch of salt and pepper to a steak, or a sprinkle of cinnamon over a perfectly brewed cappuccino, it’s just improving on something already great.” said Paul.
“Does Trey think I’m great?” Martin asked.
“I think, in everyone’s lifetime there are moments of greatness. Life is peppered with little fires, greatness and brightness,” Paul said.
“What are you going to tell Trey?”
“That you love him, maybe that you wanted things to be different, but that you didn’t want him to be different.”
“Why didn’t he come himself? I’m his father. It’s the reason I wanted to be at home instead of, you know, the hospital, or hospice, I just— I said that I was going home to family, and with my insurance nobody stopped me, but I assumed he would come.”
“He was worried that you wouldn’t be different, just dying.”
“I am dying.” Martin replied frankly.
“Are you different?” Paul asked.
“Yes, perhaps. I had hoped my only son would come to me on my deathbed, not send his gay lover.
“I’m the only person who would or could come. So here we are.”
For a few moments they were quiet again. Paul finished the shave and pressed a damp cloth to Martin’s neck, cleaning up stray dollops of cream.
“What are you going to tell him, really?” Martin asked, looking up at Paul smooth-cheeked and childlike in his deteriorated sate.
“I’m going to tell him that you considered the makeup.”
“Do not tell him, or anyone, that!”
“I think he would find it comforting; I think he would look at it like an acceptance of sorts.”
“Oh. Well, then— tell him I let you put a little on me.”
“Really?” Paul asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“It’ll mean more to him alive, than it will to me dead. Besides, it’s too late to do it right.”
Mel Sherrer (She/Her) is a writer and performer. She received her B.F.A. from Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia, and her M.F.A. from Converse University in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Mel teaches and conducts Creative Writing and Performance Literature workshops. Her poetry was nominated for the 2021 Pushcart Prize, and Best of the Net. She currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada. You can find her work and more information at www.MelSherrer.com, or follow her on Twitter @Heda_Mel.