Bearing the Scars

Two deep scars and another faded one adorned Ray Carver's right cheek. That was all the proof my cousin needed when he told his story about the time the black bear got him. It was a good story. An easy one for him to tell and retell down here at Bigguns. It always drew an audience.

This was Ray's favorite pub when he lived around here. I left the small town where Ray and I grew up, moved to the city, opened up this pub, and it wasn't long before he followed. I liked having him around. He respected my rule of "no free beer" and I respected his right to get the beer somehow.

He was an interesting character, that's for sure. Whenever anyone would start to complain about his or her lot in life, Ray needed only to touch his cheek, run his dirty, callused hands down the row of scars there and nod. "There are times when life hands us more than we think we can bear," he'd say as if trying to cover up pride, and a sadness deeper than a river.

Out of respect for a man who had faced more hardship in one moment than many of us will ever face in our lifetimes, all would fall silent around him and listen to his story. Not everyone who walked through the heavy steel doors of this out-of-the-way bar knew the tale by heart, but all would know it before they left.

Ray knew how to weave a story better than a doctor could stitch a cut, if Ray's torn cheek was any proof. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and raised his plaid sleeve to swipe a nonexistent tear. He'd blow his nose and say, "Sorry ‘bout that. Always chokes me up a little to relive it." His audience, new and old, would nod respectfully and lean in a little closer.

"It was a beautiful summer day when it happened. My brother Tommy and I were up in the foothills of this great land of ours, breathing deep of the good, clean air and thinking about all the fish we'd have to fry. It was the kind of day where no clouds get in the way of the beauty of the mountains, and gentle breezes brush your cheeks and make you glad you're alive." Ray would caress his scars and chuckle softly to himself before taking a long swallow of his beer. Everyone would nod and murmur agreement and take swigs of their own drinks.

"A day you'd expect to go just right. And for a while it was just like you'd imagine it to be. Perfect in every way. Birds chirping. Frogs and toads croaking from every direction, and squirrels running down to the ground where you just walked to see if you dropped anything for them." Ray would laugh and drain his glass heartily. At that point, someone would offer to replenish his empty beer glass for him. Raymond would smile, nod and say, "Why that's mighty nice of you. I think I'll take you up on that.

"Tommy and I had been at the river about an hour, maybe closer to two, before it happened. I remember the last thing Tommy said to me . . . "

Now, at this point in the tale, Ray would pinch the top of his nose, right between his eyes and squeeze his eyes shut really hard. He'd snuffle and exhale loudly as he reached for his glass and whisper out, "Pardon me." All around him, heads nodded and beer glasses rose to suddenly parched lips, no one finding the words to ease the big man's pain.

"Tommy had gone further along the bank of the river to see if the fish were biting any better down stream. Last thing he said to me, was . . . ‘Hey, Ray, old buddy. Come on down here! The fish are practically jumping onto the shore.' And I . . ."

Ray would take a swig of his beer and stare up at the ceiling for a long time. No one spoke in the silence. It wasn't right to rush a man while he was talking about so horrible a memory. Finally, just when everyone started to shift uncomfortably in their seats and wonder if that was the end of it, he'd sigh and shake his head.

"Sorry ‘bout that." Another long swig. Another offer of a refill, which he gratefully accepted. He'd laugh and tell about the finer points of his brother, good ol' Tom. Ray talked about Tommy's good looks, his charm, his wit, and all the qualities that make up the most ideal person you could imagine.

"Well, I turned around to reel in the line, gather up my tackle box and . . . and I wish to God I hadn't. I can't help but blame myself . . . for . . . what happened." Nobody drank then. All stared with rapt attention at the storyteller. The regulars knowing what was coming next, and the new listeners imagining all sorts of horrid things.

"I never saw it. If I hadn't turned around to gather up my things at the very moment that I did . . . I don't know. Maybe I could have warned him or something." Ray would throw his arm up to shield his eyes and then slowly lay his head down on the table as his large bulk shook with the tears he shed.

Some would say "It's okay, Ray. It's not your fault." Others would nervously guzzle their drinks, hoping the display would end soon so they could avoid feeling embarrassed about not knowing what to do for the poor guy. A few more sniffles and snuffles, and swallows of a newly acquired beer were usually enough to do the trick and bring him around.

"It was a black bear. A Mama. We had no idea we'd somehow gotten ourselves between her and her cubs and she was raging mad. She came at Tommy so fast, I never saw it happen. I heard my brother's screams and I dropped everything. I ran to him, right up to where that bear had him pinned to the ground and was clawing at him, scratching him, tearing him to shreds and I lunged right for that bear's throat. I rammed my whole weight into her, jumped clean over Tommy to do it too! She let out a mighty growling sound, kind of like a roar and reared up on her hind legs, ready to tear me apart too."

Ray paused to run a finger around the rim of his empty glass. He'd shake his head, pinch between his eyes again, and touch his scars. Someone would offer to get Ray another drink on his or her way to the bar and Ray always accepted and then he'd continue with his tale.

"She came at me, but I dropped and rolled out of the way just in time. I glanced over at my brother lying there, his body split open, and blood everywhere and I just lost it! I kept running at that bear, ramming my entire body into her body, not caring if I got cut up or bitten, or even killed. My best friend and only brother was laying there, dying right before my eyes and I hated her for it. I got it pretty bad. Got my face cut up, my arms, my legs, but . . . this is nothing as far as I'm concerned." Ray would take a quick gulp of his beer again and whisper, "But my little brother . . . he didn't make it. Once I'd gotten that bear scared off, I carried him out of there, and even though the doctors tried, he just . . . didn't make it."

By the time old Ray finished his story, there wasn't a dry sleeve in the place. That was the best story I ever heard Ray tell in his whole life. He was good for business. He told the stories, I'd pour the drinks and while I made myself a tidy little profit, Ray got everybody buying his beer for him.

But then that's what Ray was—a storyteller. Sitting there listening to him, he almost had me convinced that he'd actually had a brother. I'm his cousin, so I'd know. He'd built his life around telling tales the way all con men do. Yeah, old Ray, he's a con man, a thief, and a lying two timer through and through. But I'm sure going to miss him around here. Now that Ray's back in the pen, I won't be seeing him for a good long while.

A bear. That still cracks me up. It was a junk yard dog with a bad attitude, and there was Ray with nothing to defend himself beyond his lousy left hook. This last time though, when he met up with trouble, he didn't go unprepared. Waving a gun in front of a couple of tough cops got him different results than he got going up bare fisted with one mean, old dog. I'm looking forward to hearing his version of this one when he gets out. Good ol' Ray.