The Man Dressed in All Black

Monday morning, my father and I were leaving for a funeral. 

I've never enjoyed accompanying Mr. Barnes, my father, to work; nevertheless, I don't refuse. 

The deceased had died on a Saturday afternoon.

Ms. Winchester, the dead man's wife, had yet not notice, till the milkmen arrived late, bringing not so fresh milk. She couldn't carry all the bottles by herself, so she yelled for help, but got no answer. 

"Mr. Winchester passed away due to natural causes, during his nap, peacefully", said Mr. Barnes in a calming voice to the oldest of the Winchester daughters, as soon as we arrived at the funeral. 

Mr. Winchester had numerous relatives, most of whom came from elsewhere. 

I suppose it must be nice to have a large family. 

Mr. Barnes is all I have, and when his time comes, it most likely will be only be me standing in the cemetery. 

Before the funeral came to an end, Mr. Winchester's youngest daughter, Sylia, said a few words. She used to teach me before I dropped out of school last year to work at the funeral parlor.  It felt wrong to look at her as vulnerable as she was, so I turned towards the trees. 

I remember seeing a middle-aged man, dressed in an elegant coat. In his right hand, he held an umbrella, the same color as everything else he was wearing: black. 

He was a merchant, as Mr. Barnes once said; always worked anywhere but home. He had come to a considerable number of funerals since his family lived here. 

I recall seeing him when I was an infant, thinking curiously of him. 

The presence of the man dressed all in black was odd, from what I knew Mr. Winchester had no brothers, kids, or any male relatives other than the ones Mr. Barnes and I had previously met. He was also too stubborn to make any friends. He appeared to be a man who enjoyed solitary activities, a solo type of man, except when it came to his wife. 

The more thought I gave it, the less I understood. The merchant approached nobody at all while in any burial I had seen him at. Nor had I seen him anywhere else, other than this graveyard. I couldn't help but wonder: does he really have any relatives in town? Could it be a lie? 

My mind was so absent that I failed to take notice when Mr. Barnes was falling into the ground right in front of my brown shoes. 

I'm familiar with tragedies, they happen all the time, but I thought I would only be an observant of such.  How clueless. 

Wednesday morning. 

I was speaking the truth. It is indeed only me standing in the cemetery. 

With the only mortician in town taking his job too seriously, Mr. Barnes's funeral is far from proper. 

I figure I should treat this situation differently from any other working day as it could be. Therefore, the white flowers I hold on my arms. He would've liked them; I picked them myself. For a while, I've wanted to give flowers to customers, yet Mr. Barnes refused; he thought of them as a more personal gift. 

I secretly cherish for some unknown relatives to show up. Be that as it may, no one came, and the funeral has ended like expected. 

Mr.Barnes is now dead, but I will recall this bouquet as our last son-father gift. 

"For you, Mr. Barnes"- I say while I carefully place the margaritas on top of the coffin. 

Just as I look up, the merchant, again, dressed all in black, watches from afar. I am certain, he did not have any relationship  with my father. I'm full of curiosity. Who would make an appearance at a stranger's funeral? 

Of course, I'm eager to know. 

I walk towards him. He stands still. 

"Morning Sir". I’m say as I wave. 

"Ma'am. You are talking to a woman". 

"My apologies, ma'am". 

She doesn’t bother to look at me. 

I proceed to ask her: "Did you know Mr. Barnes, my father?" 

"That's for me to know and for you to question, boy", says the woman irritated. 

"I'm Max, his son".

"Well, don't tell me things I already know". With all, I ask again:

"May I ask, why you've come uninvited to the funeral of a man whom you did not know?"

"Don't break your head with such questions, boy".

She then opens her umbrella and walks away, with no rain or sun to cover from. 

A woman. The man dressed all in black is a woman. All these years, how could I’ve missed it? 

"Wait!". I yell, without thinking much of it. 

But she won't stop. I run towards her. As soon as I'm close enough I ask a different question. 

"The umbrella, what's it for?". 

She stops, closes her umbrella, and subsequently hits me with it on the bottom of my left leg. 

"You look ridiculous, boy", she tells me while her eyes are staring wide open into my shoes. I make a small groan of pain, but even if she had hit me harder, I wouldn't have left. 

"They're not black, I'm aware. Williams, the shoemaker, was supposed to fix my black shoes since they had holes. He ended up, accidentally, giving my only pair to someone else. I'm afraid this was the only pair I could find", I tell her in an attempt to justify the distasteful combination my black suit makes with such bright brown shoes. 

I look down at my feet. In the act, I take a glance at the woman's shoes; they were my shoes, my only pair of black shoes. She had to be the one Wiliams, incidentally, gave the shoes to. It's the accidental part that I question, and so an eerie feeling invades my body utterly. 

My head, involuntarily, arises. 

We make eye contact, and I know she understands what I just now have taken knowledge of. 

"Give me my shoes, please", I ask loudly. As threatening as I want to sound, the lump in my throat won't allow it. At no time had I ever felt more angst. 

"No, Max", answer the woman, firmly. 

"Do not call me by my name". I answer with rage." And give me my shoes".

"I'm afraid, if I do as you tell, all our work will have been for no reason, and I'd have nothing to sell".

"Our work? What do you mean?" I say it in an authentically loudly voice. "You want to sell my shoes?".

"The towns work, and yes", she tells me as if I could understand what she calmly is trying to reference. 

"Many people are involved. I'm verboten to explain to you in such place as a cemetery. My car is over there, shall we?" 

"Why would I follow a thief?" It’s my response. The once bewilderment became anger but has now transformed back to its origin. 

"If a thief, as you say, is what I am, lucky for you, Max. Don't you want to be set free from ignorance?", says the woman. 

We walk to her car. It's a black Mercedes.  I’m inside but it’s not till both of us are closing the doors, that I look at her to get the answers I seek. 

Seems she's reading my mind. 

"You were mistaken Max, these are not your shoes. They were your father's, do I lie?".

Of course, I remember Mr. Barnes gave them to me not long ago. It could not have been more than a week before his death. 

She continuous, "The essence of a human's soul lays within the person's shoes. Two pairs, that's the price your father owes us. I'm only here to pick up my merchandise".  As she explains, her eyes are set on the road.

There's a long pause.

"How wrong of me to take all the credit” she breaks the silence. “It was the milkman who must certainly, not accidentally, took your shoes from the shoemaker. And your father who broke your shoes so you would be unable to wear them to his funeral." 

I ask:

"You said two pairs. Where is the other one?". 

"Open the glove compartment". 

There I see a bag, red to be precise. It doesn't take me long to comprehend. These shoes I take out of the bag, were the once, recently worn by Mr. Barnes at his funeral.

 As I drive away, with the woman I once knew, as the man dressed in all black, The merchant, I can now picture: my father buried six feet deep, barefoot, on the cemetery we leave behind. 

And I can only ask,

"Tell me more".