Johnny Ace (John Marshall Alexander, Jr.)
December 25, 1954

The last week in December was always a busy period for St. Peter. Many of the infirm and the aged who willed themselves to make it to Christmas expired a day or two after the holiday having triumphantly crossed the finish line. Distant family members came together for the holidays, and old grievances and resentments were rekindled in close quarters. Domestic spats lubricated by too much drink turned violent and fatal. Regrets multiplied, depressions deepened, and death seemed the only answer in the 4 a.m. darkness. St. Peter had to call upon his brother St. Andrew to help out with the extra load at a temporary desk set up thirty paces to the left of the gate. Even with the help St. Peter was frazzled by the constant parade of the dead in their gaudy Christmas sweaters and their ill-fitting blouses and shirts they would have returned in the next few days.
            St. Peter heard the whoosh of a new arrival. He looked at him and then down at the book of life to confirm the identity of the young dark-skinned man, about five feet seven, who stood before him in a shiny gray sharkskin suit.
            “Mr. Alexander, I am sorry to see you here so soon.”
            Johnny Ace looked around, confused by his surroundings. He looked down at his polished alligator shoes. “What happened, sir? He asked in a soft lilting Southern voice.
            “There was a bullet in the chamber.”
            “I didn’t hurt Olivia, did I?”
            “No physical harm. I’m afraid, that’s all I know.”
            Johnny Ace twisted the three-stone diamond ring on his right hand. “She gave me this today.” He paused. “And Big Mama. Is she okay, sir?”
            “You frightened her terribly, Mr. Alexander.”
            Johnny Ace didn’t look St. Peter in the eyes. He spoke quietly, full of “yes sirs” and “no sirs.” He was a shy, polite young black man born and raised in the South who knew his place when speaking to a white man. St. Peter had waved many innocent young black men in their prison stripes through the gate. Johnny Ace had a sweet baby face marred by a wispy moustache and pomaded hair. His suit was tight across his chest. He carried more weight than he should for a man of his slight frame. St. Peter could tell without looking at the book that the young man was not taking care of himself. He was not eating right and drinking too much. Successive one-night stands hundreds of miles apart had taken their toll on his once slim body and youthful appearance.
            St. Peter sensed the young man’s discomfort at being called by his birth name. Everyone knew him now as Johnny Ace. Calling him “Mr. Ace” seemed awkward to St. Peter. Against normal protocol, he addressed him as Johnny. In the last two years St. Peter heard the angels humming Ace’s hits. It was often the last thing that teenage drivers heard when their speeding cars veered off the highway into gullies and trees. Though he grew up in Memphis, the home of Beale Street blues, Ace was a mellow baritone, a crooner of heartfelt ballads with a warm, relaxed tone. There were a sadness and vulnerability to his singing that cut across the musical color line.
            “Johnny, do you know where you are?”
            “Looks like the pearly gates I do believe, so you must be St. Peter with those keys dangling up against that white robe of yours. Am I going to heaven, sir?”
            “That’s for God to decide.”
            “Don’t have the Lord go talking to my mama. For sure, I’ll be going straight to the fires of hell.”
            “But I see here in my book that you sang in the choir of the Bethel AME Church when you were younger. That must have pleased her.”
            “She thought I lost my way, sir, playing my guitar down on Beale Street. The blues was the devil’s music to her way of thinking.”
            “I’ve heard your music, all those hits you had. They were sweet and gentle to my ears. No shouting, no rough words.”
            “Thank you, sir. But for mama if it weren’t church music, it was the devil’s music.”
            “Your mother took in your wife and child. That was a fine thing to do.”
            “Yes sir, she treated Jean and little Glenn when he came along like family. But I wasn’t welcome in my own home. She said I wasn’t doing right, said I had lost my way.”
            “Was it just the music?”
            Johnny didn’t say anything. He tugged on the sleeve of his suit, avoiding St. Peter’s eyes. He seemed to St. Peter like a child caught stealing a candy bar from the neighborhood grocery store.
            “Up here Johnny you have to look at the truth head on. This is the last stop on the train. Do you understand?”
            “Yes sir.”
            “I see you were dishonorably discharged from the Navy.”
            Johnny smiled. “Yes sir, the Navy didn’t agree with me.”
            “I can’t see that you ever had a real job.”
            “No sir. I spent most of my days shooting pool and horsing around with my pals down on Beale.”
            “How did you support your wife and child, Johnny?”
            “Mama and my father looked after them.”
            “You never gave your wife and child any money? Not even after your records were selling and you were performing all over the country?”
            “No sir,” Johnny mumbled softly.
            “Come closer, Johnny so I can hear you better.” Johnny took two small tentative steps toward St. Peter. “I thought all you singers liked to be front and center in the spotlight.”
            “No sir. I just sat at the piano and sang. Big Mama liked the bright lights not me. Guess you would say I’m shy. Always have been, unless I’m juiced up.”
            “You did drink a lot.”
            “Not when I was younger. It was all that travel that got me down. I’d wake up in the morning and didn’t know what town I was in. Drinking kinda softened the edges, you know what I mean.”
            “Was it dangerous on the road? Were you afraid of getting robbed? Was that why you bought that gun down in Florida?”
            Johnny laughed, “If anybody give us trouble, we would have sicced Big Mama on ‘em.   Didn’t need me no gun. I could take of myself. I always wanted a pistol since I was a kid. Played cowboys and Indians out in the alley. Liked to wave it around like the Lone Ranger. Driving down the highway, I’d stick that pistol out the window and shoot holes in Burma Shave signs. When I had me too much vodka, I’d put it out the hotel window and shoot a few rounds off for fun.”     
            St. Peter wanted to reach over the desk and give Johnny a good shake, but the time for shaking was past. “You could have hurt somebody.”
            “I was just funning. I meant no harm to no one.”
            “Johnny, if there is a time for truth telling, it’s now. Did you mean to kill yourself?”
            “I know the Lord don’t like people killing themselves. I didn’t kill myself. I wasn’t playing no Russian roulette. I was just drinking vodka and playing around. My tooth was aching bad. I wasn’t sure I could go back on stage after intermission. I put an aspirin against my tooth. Dear Lord, I sure am sorry for being such an ignorant fool. I was waving that .22 around. Pointing it at Olivia – sure glad I didn’t kill that sweet lady– and her friend Mary and her friend a fella I barely knew. One, two, three clicks, and I am laughing. That fella didn’t like me pointing the gun at his girl and him. If you want to point it, point it at yourself he says. Always up for a dare, I put the barrel to my forehead, ‘I’ll show you it won’t shoot‘ I said. I heard it fire, felt the heat against my face. That’s all I remember.” Johnny Ace shook his head side to side, tears running down his cheeks.
            He looked up, one of the few times he looked straight into St. Peter’s eyes. “It don’t look good, does it? I can smell the brimstone.”
            St. Peter prided himself (but not to the level of a sin) on keeping calm in the face of lives cut short or wasted. The why and when of death was God’s department. God had his reasons beyond St. Peter’s understanding. God gave man free will, and so St. Peter’s anger was directed at Johnny Ace. An anger that surprised him. A beautiful voice. A wasted gift. Just twenty-five. Dead from foolish recklessness on the day of Christ’s birth upset him even more. How could he be angry at a child who didn’t know better. Johnny Ace was a man child, a boy in a grown man’s sharkskin suit.
            “Sir, all I ever wanted to do is make music. To sing. The folks at Duke records sent me to a tailor. Bought me some fine clothes. They wanted me to look high class they said, not like some sharecropper straight out of the cotton fields. I had to look as smooth as my voice. I didn’t sing rough like Howlin’ or Muddy. They bought me a Cadillac, and I sure did like driving around in that car. But true, I didn’t need all that to make music. I played down on Beale Street for nothing. I just wanted to sing, that’s all. Maybe I could have been another Nat King Cole.”
            He was a child not fit for the hard ways of the music business. St. Peter’s anger turned to sympathy. He felt sorry for Johnny Ace. All he knew was music.
            “I had me a new song, ‘Pledging My Love.‘ Just out a few days. It was going to be a hit. You could bet on it.”
            “Can you sing it for me, Johnny.”
            “Johnny Otis played some sweet vibraphone, but I’ll try.” Johnny Ace hummed the melody, then eyes closed began to sing, “Forever, my darling, our love will be true.” The words were simple, Johnny Ace’s voice, clear and direct. He was singing not to make a dollar. He was singing from the heart. St. Peter heard the rustle of angel wings. He turned to see a half dozen angels crowded behind the gate listening to Johnny Ace.
            St. Peter sent his silent thoughts to God. How could you silence that voice?How could you punish a man who always was and would be a child? How could God deny the blessed of heaven the sweetness of Johnny Ace’s voice? St. Peter waited for God’s decision. God did not usually take so long to decide.
            St. Peter waited. He heard a faint divine humming, the tintinnabulation of starlight turned into sound, the soft melody of “Pledging My Love.” St. Peter smiled. He put his hand on Johnny Ace’s arm and led him to the gate. He opened the gate.
            “Join the angel choir, Johnny.”
            Johnny Ace passed through the gate. His fine sharkskin suit fell from his body, his diamond ring melted into the heavenly ether. With a few steps all that remained of Johnny Ace was the memory of his sweet, gentle voice and his imperfect soul.

Jeffrey Hantover is a writer living in New York. The author of three novels and a novella, his poetry and short fiction have appeared in various literary journals including Flora Fiction.