Sonny’s Barely a Man

Haunted, lonely and uncertain

Photo by Kyrie Isaac on Unsplash (cropped)

Sonny lives all alone, although he’s barely a man. His dadda was a handsome sailor back then, who left and never came home. He barely remembers him. Shadows of a man, who left his dark looks on Sonny’s face. Sometimes he wonders what his life might have been if his dadda had been there. Instead he lived mostly under the care of his sister, Yola, especially after their mamma died.

For years Yola’s told him about their dadda. How he’d make her laugh with nonsense songs he made up just for her, and for Sonny, who doesn’t remember, except occasionally a little tune with silly words comes into his head and he knows it despite not knowing. How he’d fetch her from school if he finished work early, hauling at the docks, and bring her little ‘jewels’ he found on the street. Dadda was her hero; if it hadn’t been for Sonny, she might have broken in two when he never came home again.

After he left, everything changed. Mamma changed. She was angry and mean. She’d leave Yola to look after Sonny when she went out “to find a new dadda”, as she’d sell it to them.

Sonny used to imagine her walking in one day, with a big smile, carrying a parcel, wrapped up like a birthday present, containing a big bear of a jovial man, who’d make up funny rhymes, who’d hide tiny treats in his enormous pockets, to dig down deep for with tiny hands, who’d tickle and tumble him upside down above his head, so high he’d be able to touch the ceiling, like an angel on a fir tree.

Instead, Mamma more often came home alone, drunk, disheveled and angry-disappointed, or with any one of a rude assortment of men who weren’t in the least jovial, nor wanted to play with him. If they’d stayed beyond a bleary-eyed cup of tea, sometimes a few days, they’d wanted all of Mamma and nothing of him or Yola. There’d be high-pitched giggling and low grunting from Mamma’s room, too often followed by smelly farts, belching and shouting and piss on the toilet seat. Then they’d leave. A reprieve of sorts, before the next one turned up.

From the grave, Mamma still haunts his dreams. She’d rarely been kind, although Yola insists she had been long ago. When Yola talks of that time, her eyes shine — with happy tears or sadness, he’s not sure. It’s all the same, he knows. But for him it’s like a fairy tale. A fairy tale hint of vanilla-scented memory with burnt almond bitterness powdered on top.

Mamma’s attempts at loving him fell short. He’ll understand better when he’s older, Yola assures him. Now, it sits with him as a ball of pain somewhere between his chest and stomach. He’s far too young to suffer daily from indigestion. When he’s older he’ll understand… the refrain echoes, sings itself like a lullaby in his head.

As a child and now, as he’s becoming a man, images of blurred, gleeful giggling and harsh realities mix into a stew of confused, conflicting memories, always seasoned with the love of his big sister.

He sings to himself late at night when he wakes from anxious dreams, of running through brambles catching on his clothes, stumbling over tree roots and lumpy ground, of never finding the precious thing he’s seeking. Remorseless and repetitive. His singing feels like sleeping, moving to a deeper, slower breathing, but lacking the power to revitalise him to face the coming day.

Yola, who has always loved and taken care of him, yet was unable to erase the damage, is finally away at university. She had waited, just for him, but now he has to manage alone. He’s not sure that he’s doing such a great job. Unemployed and lonely, if he’s not curled up in bed half stoned, he spends time in the library, where although he doesn’t speak to anyone, he feels a sense of community and belonging. There’s a small group of regulars; he knows their faces if not their names. And the not unkind librarians, who let them commune in silence and don’t kick them out.

They’re the same breed, a clan of sad souls, as Sally, the young librarian, thinks of them. She has her favourites, Sonny being one, perhaps because he’s around her age. She thinks he’d be quite handsome if he looked up and took up the space he’s due. She sees it when he occasionally smiles from under his soft Afro. When she feels all alone, she imagines running her hands through it, feeling the soft, wiry fuzz.

She puts aside books for Sonny, newly arrived graphic novels she thinks he’ll enjoy. She’s not often wrong. Sonny has become a little less reserved with her now and shares a shy joke or a smile from time to time.

Sally has a gift of seeing beneath the surface, able to delicately touch raw sensitivities that people think they’ve hidden. People rarely hide them very well, but not everyone can see. In Sonny, she senses the potential to be a beautiful man; a man who might soothe her own sadness.

Sonny finds her easy to be near. He warms to her gentleness and wonders if she’s lonely too. He likes how she finds books for him and how she smiles.

One bright summer Saturday morning, before they close at noon, Sally tentatively invites Sonny to go for a walk. She has a blanket and a picnic, which she prepared that morning. She knows not to mention the food preparations, lest she frighten him away.

He thinks he might want to go for a walk with her, but it’s all too much pressure, out of the blue like this. He mumbles something that might be ‘yeah, ok’, but leaves in a red-cheeked flurry, stumbling down the steps.

She senses his barely audible yes. Sally is not a woman to give up easily; she’ll ask again another day. She realises she handled it badly, too boldly. Frightened little rabbit out of his furry wits.

Chastising herself, she shuts off the lights and locks the main door. She walks towards the river, imagining Sonny’s head on her lap, by the soft river bed.

At the corner, on the bench, is Sonny. He’s waited for her. Sally smiles hesitantly. Sonny grins, with pink cheeks, then drops his eyes quickly, embarrassed to show so much of himself.

They walk side by side, not touching, making no eye contact, not saying much. The silence goes on; a silence of two hearts listening and beating in unity, to a shy, excited rhythm.

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This story was inspired by the lyrics of a Mary Black song, written by Ron Hynes: ‘Sonny’. You can listen to it here.