The Man in Black

    The mysterious man in black wept silently to himself in the pews, sun beaming down from the windows like Technicolor bridges to the heavens. The mahogany box positioned up near the alter spoke only of sadness, whispering of another man so close and yet so far from the earth. The guests were together in grief. Veiled women who knew him gazed silently up toward the pastor, eyes unmoving, yet alive with shimmers of light reflected off the lower eyelids. The widow was not present.

            The sermon was bland, empty promises of celebrating a good life were carefully distributed to the ears of all in attendance. Northern funerals were always as such. No one was laughing, dancing, or singing. All were quiet and mourning. How could a celebration be present in such an environment? The clothes were being watered down, as if their wearers might be able to grow a garden of happiness between the folds of satin and silk.

            Not many spoke. The Mother, too distraught. The Brother, too distraught. But the Neighbor was chatting quietly with the person seated to her right, behind the rest of the congregation.

            “Horrible business, that,” she said, her southern rumble betraying her origins. “Struck down in his prime.”

            The addressed man responded, “As the good ones usually are.” He never took his eyes off the pastor.

            “Where is Sheila? Wouldn’t she be front and center?”

            “Perhaps.”

            “Well what happened?”

            “A bit of a falling out in October.”

            “About what?”

            He hesitated for half a second. “He didn’t say.”

            The pastor announced the hymn, and the congregation rose to his instruction. The lyrics rang around the church, empty echoes filled the space, before dying down as the guests to the “celebration” returned to their seats. Many grieving members had resumed their tears.

             The Ushers stood at the door, vanguarding against unwanted rabble. The man who entered in that instant was neither. Dressed in a three piece black suit with a smooth yellow vest, he clattered through the door from the courtyard, smelling of fine wine and cologne. His cheeks were flushed.

            “Jesus, save me. I’m late.”

            “You here for Mr. Keele, sir?”

            “Yes I am. Oh God, how late?”

            “Not long, the service just finished the second hymn.”

            “Damn. Never thought I’d be late for my brother’s funeral.”

            “You can still go in, sir. It’s not too late.”

            He looked up. “No, I’ll catch my breath first.”

            “Water is behind you.”

            “Thanks.” He took his hands off his knees and looked through the glass for the first time. “What is he doing here?”

            “Who?”

            “It’s… it doesn’t matter.” He turned to fix himself some water.

           

            The pastor droned on, picking each verse of the Bible with the utmost care. The eulogy was given by his mother, whose tears made comprehension impossible. The Neighbor turned back to the man seated next to her. “He was always known to keep secrets, wasn’t he?”

            At this he turned to her. “Have some respect for the dead!” He softened. “But yes, I suppose he did.”

            “I suppose it was that that caused the split. Maybe she found something out.”

            He stole a glance at the man in black, but quickly regained his focus. “Or maybe he told her.”

           

            An hour passed, the service had ended, the guests had left, and still the mysterious man in black wept.

By: Tristan Hester