“Oh, snap,” Father Pat said, preparing to step out of the warm rectory into an icy Nor’easter. His clerical collar prohibited the use of stronger words, even though he’d heard them all many times, often followed by an “Oh, Sorry.” He pulled the fleece-lined, black coat tighter around his body, adjusted the knit cap for extra protection, and stepped off the porch into the worst snow storm of the year. Others might use the weather as an excuse, but Mrs. Allgood needed him. Dementia had a grip on her similar to a raptor’s talons on its lunch. He wouldn’t have many more opportunities to provide comfort.
***
Jenna Allgood stared out the window at the blanket of falling snow so thick she could barely make out the trees surrounding the park across the street. She didn’t remember anything like it happening before. But then there were a number of things she didn’t remember. She pictured Father Pat in her mind. He’d put on too much weight over the past six months. She hoped the walk wasn’t too much. She’d feel terrible if she was responsible for his death. He’d always been too kind and too caring — like a member of the family, only more so.
***
Father Pat trudged through the snow glad his destination was only a few blocks from the rectory and church. The drifts were already up to his knees. His breathing was heavy, the extra weight he’d added over the previous six months a hinderance. He should have listened to Mrs. Allgood and been more faithful to a diet. He paused to rest and remember. They first met shortly after the diocese assigned him to St. Francis. She chaired the committee that put together the brunch served in the community hall after his first mass. He remembered her welcoming smile, her husband’s weak handshake, the bashfulness of her twin daughters, and how her hand’s feathery touch affected him as he led the group in a prayer.
***
Even though many past memories were lost, Jenna did recall her first meeting with Father Pat. It was after the initial service he led. Jenna sat in the front row with the other members of the welcoming committee awaiting the start of mass. She listened to the free-flowing gossip. While she tried to ignore what was said, much of it turned out to be true. The new priest was tall and lean and — handsome as all get out. He was also young enough to be her son.
***
The following week Father Pat attended the women’s prayer meeting. He was a few minutes late arriving and found the only available chair next to Mrs. Allgood. He enjoyed the meeting and interacting with the group, but felt surprisingly uncomfortable sitting next to her. Like the first time, today when Father Pat held Mrs. Allgood’s hand during the closing prayer, he felt another spark. Through the years, they had many encounters, and he wondered if her actions were flirtations in disguise. He smiled at the thought. She knew better. He hoped. It wasn’t until late last year, when her husband passed on after a long illness, that she became more forward, brushing against him and gently touching his arm, or hugging him at what he felt were inappropriate times.
Now — the snow continuing its assault — he stood in the doorway of her room at the skilled nursing facility, the dementia oblivious to who she was versus who she’d become. She sat in a wheelchair facing a window. Her eyes glowed when she turned, like an owl, and saw he’d made it. Father Pat sat next to her and held her hand in silence, just as they had during that first prayer meeting. A sound gurgled from her throat, and he felt a faint squeeze of her hand. A deep breath escaped her lungs, and he saw something in her eyes. In a few months, he would administer the Last Rites. For now, he softly sang her favorite hymns and cradled her hands in both of his.
***
Unable to remember the words, Jenna hummed along with Father Pat. She thought back to what few memories she had of the two of them and smiled. She knew he’d given her all he could. As the memories faded, the warmth of his hands was all she needed, all she could ask for.
Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in Every Day Fiction, The Yard, Short-Story.me, Ariel Chart, Spank The Carp, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others. More of his works can be found at jpharrington.blogspot.com.
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