The Mourner

He was known in town as the mourner, because he attended graveside funeral services regardless who the deceased was. He wasn't a professional mourner—no one paid him any attention let alone a gratuity. It was a very small town and everyone knew everyone else. There are more eccentrics than you'd think in a small town. Probably more than you'll ever find in a big city. That's because our networks crisscross every single day, sometimes planned but sometimes unpredictably and in so many different contexts. You get to see so many dimensions of the same people, and that just doesn't seem possible with the thousands upon thousands of interactions in an ever-changing sea of faces in the city.

It was obvious when he attended funerals on the other side of town. He stood out like toothpaste on a black funeral dress. On this side, he was just another shade of white on a paint sample. While he knew many of the deceased personally, there were quite a few outside and beyond his ken for a variety of reasons, but even when his knowledge or memory was sketchy, over the course of the service he would often overhear enough to assemble a brief biography.

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Yesterday morning, I attended a funeral for one of the town's first families. I didn't know the person, but during the service, I happened to hear several conversations, including some that I don't think I, or anyone else, was meant to hear, like the one about the county contract for road repairs. I had no idea there was so much money in that line of business. Of course, there was the usual gossipy talk about affairs ... and not business affairs. They change partners so often—it's like a great dance party, only it's done secretly ... so they think. Everybody knows everything about everybody, but people still get surprised when their dirty laundry gets out in public. Kinda funny—in two ways—to see a couple going to church together on Sunday morning, when on Saturday night they were coupling with someone else. What is particularly disturbing is when the relatives start talking over the will before the corpse is even in the ground. But then there are good things I hear ... sometimes. Often it's from a much older person who remembers some of the more innocent moments from the deceased's youth. In the deceased's case, there was the fourth grade geography teacher, a teammate from the high school football team, a girlfriend who'd been treated better than most, and the town librarian. He was apparently a big reader. The most touching was the story about how he taught his crippled granddaughter to ride a horse. She'd been scared to death by big animals, partly because she was so petite herself. The wife of the deceased—number three someone said—was there. She was stunning and must've been only in her early forties. Very formal and correct. She didn't look at all like a widow. The priest was young and nervous. Looked like he hadn't seen too many off. It was on its way to being a hot, sweltering day, and the sweat beaded on the clergyman's forehead and upper lip. Just as he opened his Bible to read a pre-selected passage, the book slipped out of his hands and tumbled into the grave. The sudden hush was deafening. Someone handed the priest another one. A good thing, because I couldn't see anyone climbing into the grave to retrieve that holy book. That was really the only flaw, except for one slip when the priest referred to the deceased as 'James.' Turns out James was the younger brother and the black sheep.

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I buried my Paulie yesterday. They put us in this here sunny spot at the far end of the cemetery where poor folks go. There ain't no shade trees in this part.

It was just me and the gravediggers and they was standin way back. Paul hanged himself. My baby boy. The preacher said he had demons, but I reckon he had one of them psychology problems. Needed medicine but wouldn't have none. Stubborn as mule that boy just like his old pa. Least he wasn't no drunk. But he was tormented. You could read it in his face. Tormented—that was the exact word he used, the preacher did. Deep down I was afraid. I felt like I knew it would come to this. Poor Paulie. My only child.

I wasn't alone long before that strange old man who hangs around the graveyard came up and spoke to me. He asked if he could join me if he just kept quiet. Didn't wanna be rude, but I told him I wasn't objectin so long as he wasn't lookin for company. So, he stood there. In the hot afternoon sun. He didn't speak, I didn't speak. For some reason, I didn't feel ashamed of crying in front of him, and I cried a whole lot that afternoon.

"Ma'am. It's gonna be sundown soon, and we gotta finish up here. We don't mean to hurry you, but ....

"Thank you gentlemen. I'm sorry. I know I overstayed. I'll be going now. I thank you kindly for puttin my boy to rest."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sir?" said the other man to the mourner.

"Ah, yes, I'm leaving now as well," responded the mourner.

I felt a hand on my shoulder like a gentle summer breeze, then he turned and walked away in the other direction, towards the last of the day's sun as it ducked below the pine tops. The wings of the cicadas continued into the deep summer evening.