A SINGLE SOCK

Mr. Henry’s house was a marvelous mansion. He was the talk of the town, and his abode was no different: the towering marble columns were only outshined by massive arched windows, precisely trimmed topiaries, and the endless fruit orchard in the surrounding acres.

His young apprentice, I approached the front door with apprehension, hearing all sorts of strange things about Mr. Henry; such that he was rich in wealth, but poor of mind. He once boarded a parade float, dancing and hollering before the officers dissuaded him. He once drove a steamroller around the neighborhood as if it were simply a transport vehicle. He once gathered fruit from his orchard, only to toss them at the mayor who had halted his construction of a commemorative statue of himself at City Hall.

But there I stood, at his front door, slicked back hair, pressed shirt, I put on a smile. What else was a young, poor man to do?

I found my courage and knocked, and followed was an echo, a song of the mansion. Mr. Henry opened the door, and I realized quickly something was amiss. I panned down to his feet subconsciously and noticed he had only on a single sock.

Curious, I asked, “Mr. Henry, if you would please mind my gall, but why do you have only one sock?”

Unflinching, Mr. Henry replied without pause, “I can only afford one sock, look at my house.” He then politely and silently walked away, but with the intention that I would follow.

Throughout the years, Mr. Henry and I found boundless fun, and though he was serious about his work, he never turned down the offer for mischief. When we were not carefully conducting financial matters, we were in a whirlwind of chaos: betting on horses, champagne-filled revelry, and nights occupied by Nicaraguan cigars and rounds of poker. Those years were fond but could not last forever.

We spoke long and truthfully on Mr. Henry’s last night, and I asked him about his life. He had told me, “Son, when you are as rich as I, people do not see you as a man, they see you as something evil: a tyrant, a boss, a figment to please. But at heart, I am the same as the rest; I am only one man with one life to live and a heart full of love to give. I want you to pass this all on to someone as fair and good as you. Remember always, you are only one man too.”

When Mr. Henry had passed, the wonderful man he was, I shed my tears but did not weep for our time together was rich in joy as it was wealth. We had a life of experiences, laughter, and memories to last forever. I was fortunate, and though I did not ask, Mr. Henry named me his sole heir; his marvelous house and vast wealth were duly passed down to me. So when the day came for my new apprentice to arrive, the one who would take the place I had with Mr. Henry, I welcomed his knock at the front door, and on my foot, a single sock.

Baylee Marion studied Creative Industries at Toronto Metropolitan University and has published fiction in Coffin Bell, The Chamber Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Phantastikon!. She primarily writes horror and fantasy.