The Hero in the Yellow Mask

Michael held the rose, though he wasn’t ready to place it on the grave quite yet. It was sharp yellow, because that was his favorite color. The brightness of the petals contrasted starkly with the dark brown of the dirt that covered the man he called Dad.

The funeral had ended over an hour ago. Everyone had left except Michael, his mom Sara, his sister, ironically named Rose, and the manager of the grave site, who was patiently waiting so he could wrap up for the day and head home. The funeral drew well over 400 visitors, which was a shock to Michael. His dad was a kind and thoughtful man, but he placed priority on his work over being at home. Or so Michael believed, anyway.

Sara and Rose were sitting next to each other, arm in arm, grieving. Michael chose to sit on the opposite side of the row. His eyes were transfixed on the flower he held, though his grip on the stem was tight enough it was starting to bend. The rose had one thorn on the side, which had cut Michael’s left thumb. It stung, but it didn’t affected the way he held it.

“It was a beautiful service, mom.” Rose said quietly. Her words came out course, as the emotions of the day were taking their toll. She took a drink from the water Pastor David had brought out for her when they first arrived.

Sara smiled slightly and patted her daughter’s hand. “I thought so too. David and your father have been friends for many years. It felt right that he do the service.”

“Were friends.” Michael said, beneath his breath.

“Did any of your friends show up, dear?” Sara said to Michael.

“Not as many as dad’s did.” Michael said back, with a snarky undertone. He was quiet, but firm in his response, causing Rose to give him a puzzled look.

Sara, who seemed to miss the tone of Michael’s response, continued. “It was so thoughtful that Miss Snyder brought that baked bread for us, too. It was always your father’s favorite.”

Rose smiled at that thought, but now Michael was the one looking confused. His shoulders arched in, as he leaned back in his chair. “Wait…doesn’t she run that old orphanage?”

“She would bake him that Italian herb bread every time he helped out.”

His mother’s response made Michael pause. He rubbed his chin with his right hand in thought. His eyes were darting back and forth, then he suddenly lifted his head. “That was her bread?” Michael said in confusion. Memories of fresh, warm bread smelling of garlic, basil, and rosemary came flashing across his mind. He used to love to watch the butter melt slowly on the soft dough.

“Yes, and it was delicious!” Sara said.

“The cards from the kids were so sweet, too! Even some of the former orphans showed up.” Rose said.

Michael was perplexed. He crossed his arms and leaned so far back in his chair, the front two legs lifted slightly off the ground. He caught his balance, forcing the chair back firmly on the ground. “What am I missing here?”

Sara and Rose looked at each other, not sure where Michael’s questions were coming from.

Rose responded, “What are you talking about?”

Michael, who was starting to get annoyed, responded with a sharp tone. “Why are kids from the orphanage making cards for our father? And why was he getting that bread?”

Sara and Rose looked at each other. Suddenly, Rose’s eyes got big and she grabbed her mother’s arm. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

Sara looked sweetly at Michael, then back at Rose. She slowly shook her head back and forth.

Rose put her hand to her mouth. Her head tilted slightly to the right. With compassion, she asked her mother, “Why?”

Sara looked back at Rose and said lightly, “It was his decision.”

Michael slammed the yellow rose down on the seat next to him and stood up. Speaking loudly, he said, “What? What was his decision? What did he not tell me? What are you two not telling me??”

Rose shook her head, then turned and looked at the loose dirt of her father’s grave.

Sara looked at Michael. Her eyes were big and watery. “Do you remember when the city was going through a tough time, about 20 years ago or so? There were stories about a masked man, defending the part of town over by the orphanage?”

Michael’s eyes looked around the room, though he looked at nothing in particular. He stuttered out, “The Hero of Olive Street. I was young, but yeah, I remember. What’s that got to do with dad?”

Sara didn’t respond, though her look revealed it all. Suddenly, Michael knew.

“Dad? That was dad?” Sara smiled and nodded.

Michael looked at Rose, but she was still avoiding the conversation. He looked back at Sara and said, “People were going crazy back then. Shops were broken into. Cars were getting smashed. Gun shots…It was insane.”

“It was, sweetie. And it really affected your father deeply. He finally got to a spot one night where he couldn’t take it anymore. So..he didn’t.”

Rose smiled. Still looking at the fresh dirt she said, “The Hero in the yellow mask.”

Michael sat back down in his chair and looked at the rose sitting next to him. He picked up a petal that had fallen off of it and in a hushed voice said, “Yellow.”

Sara nodded, then said, “After a while, things finally settled down and he stopped putting on the mask. But he never stopped caring for that orphanage. He would always go over and mend the gate or work on the garden or bring presents for the kids. Any free minute he had, he spent it there.”

“I thought he was at work.” Michael said lowly to himself, with clenched teeth.

Rose leaned her head on Sara’s shoulder. Sara tilted her head into Rose. Everyone sat silent. The manager of the funeral home came over and, putting his hand on Sara’s shoulder, whispered his condolences. The sentiment of the funeral director interrupted the silence of a private identity now discovered.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Michael finally said.

“He didn’t talk about it with anyone, sweetie.”

“Not just the hero part.” Michael responded. “All of it. I never knew where he was going all those time. I just thought he was working.”

“Well, you had your sports and your friends. You were always so busy, son.”

“But he was my father. I…I could have gone with him. I could have helped him.”

“This was his fight. He was always so worried about people finding out who he was back then. He was worried it would expose us…all of us. I guess he just never got out of that mode.”

Picking up the yellow rose, Michael muttered “My father, the hero.” Then, tearing off one of the petals, he added, “The hero I never knew.”

They remained silent for a while longer. When the funeral home manager came back and stood to the side, they knew it was time for them to go home. Slowly, they got up. Rose first, who then extended her hand out to Sara, helping her mother stand. They both looked back at Michael, still sitting in the chair, holding the rose. Sara breathed deep, took one last glance at the grave, then slowly nodded to Rose that she was ready to go.

As they began to walk out, Michael finally stood up. He walked over to the grave and stared at the pile of dirt. He took one last glance at the yellow rose.

As a tear rolled down his cheek, he knelt down on his left knee, gently placed the rose on the dirt, then repeated in a hushed tone, “The hero I never knew.”

THE END