LAST MEAL

AND OTHER STORIES

James G. Bruen, Jr.

A Tales of the Short Bow Book

Choptank Publications

© 2013, James G. Bruen, Jr.

For GKC

In Memoriam

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface

Last Meal

Water Hazard

None So Blind

The Donation

Politely

Aches and Pains

Biographical Note

Preface

Here are six flash fiction stories in which things sometimes go horribly wrong and at other times go wonderfully right, or at least they seem to. They are quick and, I hope, enjoyable reads. The six stories appeared originally in Gilbert Magazine, the journal of the American Chesterton Society.

James G. Bruen, Jr.

August 2013

Last Meal

Brock Milont grunted as he swung the multi-colored tarp over the lean-to supported by two small trees on the edge of a slight clearing in the woods. The branches and cardboard that constituted the lean-to's roof leaked, and the newly found tarp would help keep him dry when it rained. Milont wasn't a strong man, and getting the tarp in place took more effort than he'd anticipated. The tarp proved large enough to cover the entire structure. Milont secured its top with twine to the trees, and he staked its bottom to the ground. The early morning air portended rain; he was tired but very pleased.

Milont had wandered the woods during the previous night as was his custom, studiously avoiding the nearby four-lane road, but oblivious to whether he remained outside the Air Force base or meandered inside it. He was at ease in the woods, and didn't care who owned the property. The moon had been full, throwing more light than Milont liked at night. When he came across the brightly-hued tarp on the ground in a small field, he had recognized its utility immediately and folded it reverently. Though Milont had struggled to haul the tarp back to his place, he was mighty satisfied by the result when he installed it on his lean-to.

Milont was so enamored of his work that he almost missed the brief but insistent honking of the car's horn. Lt Col Don Proce opened the door of his BMW, placed a small Burger King bag on the side of the road, then closed the door, drove to the base's checkpoint, identified himself, and headed to the command center. He omitted one part of his usual routine: he didn't look in his rearview mirror to watch the man emerge from the undergrowth to claim the small treasure he had left behind. Many of his coworkers ridiculed "the bum" who lived in the forest just outside the base when they thought of him at all. Lt Col Proce instead insisted on recognizing his humanity, referring to him as "a homeless person" and delivering breakfast to him daily. But today Lt Col Proce was anticipating the scheduled weapons exercise; he simply forgot to look in the mirror for the man.

Milont stumbled through the mixture of trash and undergrowth that bordered his camp, grabbed the bag, and retreated through the underbrush to his sanctuary to enjoy a sausage and egg muffin, hash browns, and coffee. The bag contained creamer, sugar, and a stirrer, but Brock Milont drank the coffee black. Sated, Milont tossed the packaging aside and stretched out inside the lean-to for an early morning nap. The caffeine had no effect on him; he slept soundly.

The excitement was palpable in the command center. All prior tests had been successful, but those drones had been unarmed. Today the unmanned aerial vehicles would carry miniature missiles with small payloads, "enough to destroy a car, perhaps," explained Lt Col Proce to a reporter observing the test.

When Lt Col Don Proce gave the order, two unmanned planes with wingspans under two feet took off. Without further human assistance, one drone climbed to 900 feet, the other to 1,100 feet. Staying under the cloud cover, automated and unpiloted, the drones began crisscrossing the base, onboard computers processing images from their cameras, searching for the target.

"Although this exercise is relatively simple, you're going to see the future of warfare," Lt Col Proce told the reporter. "We've got an easy target for the UAVs to find and destroy on their own without human guidance or assistance. Someday, we'll add facial recognition software that will allow UAVs to search for a human target, locate and identify him, and then launch a missile for the kill – all without human intervention. Those UAVs will have what we call 'lethal autonomy,' and they'll do the job without risking any American lives."

After about twenty-five minutes in the air, a drone zeroed in on the target near a border of the base. It contacted the other aircraft and asked for confirmation. The second drone flew nearby, its sensors confirmed the target, and that drone informed its counterpart.

Those monitoring the exercise from the command center held their breath.

The first drone launched the missile. The drones began their automated return to base.

Hooting, hollering, and back-slapping filled the command center. Someone popped the cork from a bottle of champagne. Lt Col Proce lit a large black cigar.

"Want to see the damage and destruction?" asked a grinning Lt Col Proce as he and two subordinates headed towards a military vehicle.

"Love to, sir," said the reporter, bounding after them.

"Hop in," said Lt Col Proce, waving the cigar in the reporter's face. "It's a short drive, but we'll have to hike through the woods a bit."

"What was the target, sir?" asked the reporter.

"A tarp – a bright red and blue and yellow tarp," said Lt Col Don Proce. "We secured it on the ground in a small opening in the forest. No one was allowed in there today because of the exercise. It would've been hard for the UAVs to miss that target from the sky even though it's overcast. Shouldn't be much left but little pieces blown every which way."

Water Hazard

Phil Hackett brought the cart to a stop on the paved path next to the pond that jutted into the sixteenth fairway of Fairmont Hills Country Club. He found the crisp air of the late autumn weekday invigorating, but it must have been too cold for most other club members as the course was almost deserted. "I need to get something from the back of the cart," he said to his long-time playing partner, Dan McDivitt.

Phil got out of the cart, went behind it, looked around the empty golf course, and took his titanium driver from his golf bag. Phil smashed the driver's head against Dan's right temple. Dan slumped into the cart, dead.

Phil put his titanium driver back in his bag. He removed Dan's cap and golf shoes, tied weights he had hidden in the rear of the cart around Dan's legs, arms, and torso, and slid Dan over the side of the steep embankment into the murky pond.

Months before, Dan had mentioned to Phil that the pond was deepest at this point — "nine feet if it's an inch" — and Phil later plumbed it to make sure. Dan had learned its depth during a meeting of the club's groundskeeping committee. While Dan spent a few evenings a week shepherding the reconstruction of several holes through that committee, Phil had spent the same evenings in the arms of Dan's wife, Donna. Phil thought those were the best evenings of his life and yearned for much more. Donna felt the same way. The obstacle to fulfillment of their desires was, of course, Dan.

Once the body was out of sight, Phil climbed back into the cart, tossed Dan's cap and spikes into the back, and watched a figure emerge from the multi-hued woodland that abutted the narrow fairway on the far side. Dressed in clothes and cap similar to Dan's, the figure jumped nimbly over a stream and headed straight for the golf cart. Phil marveled at how the golf shirt and pants hid Donna's curves and how, dressed as she was, even at thirty yards a casual glance could mistake her for her recently deceased husband. He grinned broadly, thinking of their last amorous escapade and anticipating their next.

Phil wasn't worried about the corpse surfacing eventually. He knew that early tomorrow the club would begin to fill in the pond as part of the renovation Dan had engineered. During the next week, dump trucks would deposit tons of fill in the pond before it was planted as rough interspersed with a few trees and lined by three sand traps. Jimmy Hoffa didn't get to design his own place of interment, snickered Phil.

"Nice backswing," said Donna McDivitt as she climbed into the cart next to Phil. "Thanks," smiled Phil. He wanted to take her in his arms but he didn't. He wanted to take the cap from her head and let her auburn hair cascade to below her shoulders but he didn't. Instead, he headed the cart towards the parking lot.

After taking car keys from Dan's golf bag, Donna put his clubs, cap, and spikes in the trunk of Dan's car. Her mission was to make it appear Dan had left town. She would drive Dan's car to the airport's long-term parking lot, leave it there, take one shuttle from the lot to the airport and then another to the airport hotel where she had left her car. Phil had cautioned her to park her car at a hotel rather than in the long-term lot where cameras photograph license plates to help identify abandoned autos and to facilitate charging those who have lost their parking tickets. Later, they would rendezvous at Phil's place for a celebratory tryst. She would wait a day or two before reporting Dan missing.

Phil would have preferred to head to his place immediately, but he knew that it was important that he do nothing out of the ordinary and that it would be at least three hours before Donna arrived there, so he followed his usual routine. He put his clubs and spikes into the trunk of his car before returning the cart. He headed into the clubhouse where he chose a stool at the empty bar. Floor to ceiling windows on a wall at one end of the lengthy bar gave a panoramic view of the eighteenth green and part of the golf course. Three different sports shows blared from three large flat screen televisions behind the bar.

"The usual? Burger and Bud Lite?" said the sole bartender, a portly man in his mid-twenties. "Where's your buddy Dan?"

"The usual," confirmed Phil. "We had to cut the round short. Dan had business to attend to, so I dropped him at his car."

"I watched you two cutting across the course toward the parking lot and wondered what was going on," said the bartender. He poured the beer and pushed it across the bar. "Too bad he couldn't finish the round. After today four of the back nine will be shut for repairs, you know. It'll be a while before anyone can play the whole eighteen again."

"It'll be especially good to get rid of that pond on sixteen," said Phil. "Neither of us seemed able to avoid it."

"Yeah," said the bartender. "They're going to start pumping it first thing in the morning."

"Pumping it?" exclaimed Phil, spitting beer across the bar.

"Yeah," repeated the bartender. "They'll pump it dry before they fill in the hole. They're going to drag a fire hose across the sixteenth and pump the water from the pond into the stream on the other side. They'll find plenty of balls for the driving range in that pond, I bet. Maybe a few clubs too. No telling what else they'll find."

None So Blind

Ben Hazeltine eased the stolen car past the convenience store. Turning a practiced eye to the store's illuminated interior, he observed a single clerk and no customers. Two teen-agers had just left the store and, hesitating a short distance away, were cupping their hands under a streetlamp to light cigarettes. No one else was in sight.

Ben turned right at the next corner. His pulse was racing and his spirits high; just the right mixture of pills ands booze, he thought. He parked the car along the side of the road, doused its lights, pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, patted the pistol in the sweatshirt's pocket, slipped on a pair of sunglasses, unfolded a long, thin, red-tipped white cane, and stepped into the cool breeze of the night. Once on the sidewalk, he swept the cane from side to side in front of him as he rounded the corner, passed the teens, and headed toward the convenience store.

He stayed close to the buildings that lined the sidewalk; the tip of his cane tapped against the buildings as he swept the cane before him. As he approached the convenience store, one of the teens sprinted over, opened its door, gently grasped Ben's right arm at the elbow, and guided him inside. "Thank you," Ben said; "thank you very much."

The clerk was very solicitous, offering to direct Ben to the products he sought. Ben soon chose a canvas tote bag, and, after glancing out the store's large front windows to see that the teens had disappeared, allowed the clerk to guide him to the cash register. "Fill it with money," Ben directed, handing the bag to the clerk. "Do as I say, and you won't be hurt. And don't hit the alarm."

"But," sputtered the clerk, "but you're blind!"

"Yeah, pal," Ben growled, "and the moon's made of blue cheese."

The clerk fumbled with the register. Ben waited confidently; he was certain the hooded sweatshirt and dark glasses would render useless any photos taken by the store's security cameras.

"I got a gun, so don't do anything funny," said Ben, watching the clerk intently as he emptied the cash drawer. "Give me the bills from under the tray, too," Ben insisted.

"Don't worry, mister, I'll do just what you say," said the clerk apprehensively as he filled the tote bag. "Anything you say, mister."

"Now, lie down flat on the floor," commanded Ben, grabbing the bag. "Don't get up or even move a muscle until you've counted to five hundred. I've got a bud outside watching you to make sure."

As soon as he'd left the convenience store, Ben spied one of the teenagers on the sidewalk between him and the car. Fighting the urge to run to the car, Ben hung the tote over his shoulder, fidgeted with his dark glasses, and then walked slowly down the sidewalk, his cane sweeping the way.

"Need a hand?" inquired the youth as Ben approached. "Let me help you with that," he continued before Ben could reply. The teen snatched the tote, pulling it from Ben's shoulder. Ben's cane went flying as Ben tried unsuccessfully to hold onto the tote bag.

From behind, a single blow crashed into Ben's temple; his glasses flew off, and he crumpled senseless to the sidewalk.

One assailant took the bills from the tote bag before tossing it to the ground, scattering coins onto the sidewalk and into the street. The other rifled Ben's pockets, seizing the car keys and pistol, but overlooking his wallet. The two teens then sped off in the car Ben had arrived in.

Ben Hazeltine drifted in and out of a dream-like consciousness for three days at the local hospital before he was able even to recognize individual voices. When he finally awoke, his head was throbbing, and he only gradually became aware of others in the room. After a few minutes more, sounds became distinct, and he also became aware of an ongoing conversation.

"The store clerk was so sure, doc," said a male. "Man, he really fooled that clerk. He must be a great actor, doc. And have real guts, too, to rob that store in his condition. No brains though: I wonder how he planned to get away."

"I've no idea how he was going to get away, officer," replied a female, "but there's no question: we've tested him thoroughly. That clerk was mistaken: he's completely blind."

"That sure explains why he tripped over that raised part of the sidewalk, doc," noted the cop. "His cane never hit it, and he never saw it."

"He had a terrible fall," said the doctor. "He smashed the side of his head terribly, officer; but, with a little luck, we'll have him out of here and into rehab in a week or so." She smiled. "He'll probably be as good as new in a couple of months." She hesitated. "He'll still be blind, of course; but otherwise, he'll be as good as new."

"The court'll wait 'til then, I'm sure," said the cop.

"By the way," inquired the doctor, "did you get back the money he stole?"

"We found some coins, doc," he replied. "Most of the bills probably blew away. Passersby probably saw their opportunity and grabbed the others."

Ben Hazeltine groaned before sinking back into unconsciousness.

The Donation

"Already done it, preacher," said Stan Samuels, his elderly, gaunt face turned towards his visitor. "Said he was my lord an' savior years ago."

"Praise the Lord!" exclaimed Micah Long, staring at his host's glassy eyes. "You are saved, brother!"

The two men sat facing each other, about three feet apart, in Samuels's sparsely furnished doublewide. Samuels was short and thin; he wore a dirty tee shirt, tattered dungarees, and worn sneakers. He had not shaved for a couple of days. Long was much younger than Samuels, and taller and sturdier, too. He wore brown loafers, tan slacks, a blue blazer, a pressed white shirt, and a maroon tie decorated with blue anchors. To one side of them sat Samuels's wife; to the other, a young woman who had accompanied Long.

"Went to church every Sunday, an' services that same night, an' on Wednesday evenin's, too," continued Samuels, rapping his long red-tipped white cane sharply on the metallic floor. "Damnedest fool thin' I ever done."

"Praise God! The Lord wants you to join my church, Brother Stan!," exhorted Long, rising slightly from his chair. "I hear Him telling me that in my heart, brother."

"I ain't hearin' no such thin' in my heart," growled Samuels. "You knocked on my door, came in here to my livin' room, and just like that you tellin' me to join your church? I ain't joinin' no church, preacher. No, sir; not me."

"Well, brother, the Lord had you invite me in when I knocked on your door," rejoined Long, settling back into his seat. "I don't believe in coincidence, brother. God had a purpose in my knocking on your door and your letting me in. The Lord wants you in my church, brother. Those that's saved should worship together. Once saved, always saved, praise God."

"Yeah, I been told that," groused the blind man. "But I don' wanna be saved no more. They told me that lord of yours makes the blind see, but he made this seein' man blind. An' then folks got no use for me, a poor ol' blind man. So I don' wanna be saved no more."

"Ah, but you are saved, praise God!" cried Long. "God predestined you among the elect; you are saved!"

"I don' wanna be saved no more, preacher," repeated Samuels. "No election neither. Just leave me be by my own self, preacher. I want money, not savin'. You gonna give me some money, preacher?  Maybe that's the lord's reason for havin' you knock on my door? God predestine you to give me some money, preacher?"

"Money?" inquired Long. "You want money? How do you live? Food stamps? Welfare?"

"Donations mostly," answered Samuels. "Folks makin' gifts to me. Happens in stores, buses, subway trains, most anywhere; folks makin' donations. Even here in this livin' room, folks known to make me a gift."

"Christian charity," observed the preacher with a broad grin. "Praise God!"

"You gonna make a donation, preacher?" challenged Samuels. "Practice some Christian charity?" He reached his cane in Long's direction and whacked him across the shins. "You gonna make a donation, preacher? Help poor blind folk?"

Long ignored the blow. "Come to my church," Long replied, the grin frozen awkwardly on his face, "then the brothers will see if they can help you." Long rose from his chair and lifted the elderly blind man from his. Long wrapped his arms around his host, hugging him firmly. "Come to my church and feel the love of Jesus, brother," Long said. He released his grip on Samuels. "Sunday services begin at nine." His assistant handed Mrs. Samuels a brochure with the church's name and address on it. Then the visitors departed, saying they were going to visit other homes in the area.

Samuels slumped into his chair.

"Did the preacher make a donation, dear?" asked Mrs. Samuels.

"Yes," replied Stan Samuels, handing her the wallet he had extracted from a pocket of Long's blazer. "Tell me how much he contributed, would you?"

Politely

"You didn't have any difficulty finding a place to park, did you, dear?" laughed Betty Winkle, her eyes sparkling, as she opened the door to her row house to greet her daughter.

"No, mom," said Liz Curley, laughing once again at the old joke. She gave her mother a brief hug as she entered her home.

Mrs. Winkle's row house stood alone in a sea of asphalt, completely surrounded by acres of parking lot. Years ago, HumaneCare hospital had purchased more than one hundred houses to build the parking lot. Only Mrs. Winkle had refused to sell.

The two women settled into stuffed armchairs in the living room. Mrs. Winkle had set out a pitcher of sweet tea on a small table between the chairs.

"Do you remember that nice Dr. Goldman, dear?" asked Mrs. Winkle. "The head of the hospital? The one who built the hospital? The doctor who wanted to buy my home?"

"Of course I do, mom. How could I forget him? He still calls me every few months trying to pressure me to get you to sell."

"He calls me every month, dear, and politely asks if I'm ready to sell."

"He's a skunk, mom." Liz poured sweet tea into a glass. "He doesn't care about you."

"No, dear. He's a nice man. He makes sure the neighborhood is well lit and patrolled by policemen; why, he even has the snow cleared from my sidewalk in the winter."

"Look, mom, this hospital is a for profit business. He's only in this to make money. He doesn't care about you."

"I understand why he wants to expand the parking lot, dear. He needs more room. When the lot is full now, sometimes cars park on my property. When that happens, Dr. Goldman makes sure the hospital pays me five dollars a car even though it doesn't charge for parking. How can they afford to pay me if they don't charge? No, don't tell me it's just a business."

"He's a skunk, mom," Liz insisted. "He cheated a lot of people out of their homes." She took a long drink of sweet tea.

"I'll hear none of that, Liz Winkle Curley," scolded Mrs. Winkle affectionately. "Why, last year Dr. Goldman offered me triple what he'd paid the others. You think that's cheating? Of course I still told him I wasn't selling. Money can't buy happiness, and I'm happy here. After all, this is where I lived with your dad for over forty years. This is where we raised you girls. All my memories are here. But if I did sell, I told Dr. Goldman, I wouldn't want to cheat him and take more than he paid for the other homes."

"All the same, mom, I wouldn't trust him if I were you."

"Liz, Dr. Goldman sent over one of the young doctors from the hospital for a house call, just like doctors used to do when you were a child. Dr. Rita Mortes. An up and comer at the hospital, he said. See, he's a nice man, dear. Dr. Rita is a specialist in geriatric services. Can you imagine that? A women doctor. And she takes care of old folks like me. Well, she gave me a complete physical, and guess what?"

"What, mom?"

"She says that other than my aches and pains, I'm fit as a fiddle. So she's going to do a new procedure on me in the hospital. I forget what it's called. She says all these aches and pains I have now will never bother me again. She's done several of these procedures already and the hospital rates every one of them as a complete success. That's why I asked you to come over, so I could tell you. Dr. Rita even brought me those horrible hospital forms to sign right here in my own home so I could have the procedure done. Now, don't go telling me Dr. Goldman is a skunk, dear. He's a nice man. He arranged all this for me."

Liz Curley sighed. She poured another sweet tea and changed the subject.

Rob Goldman, holder of two doctorates, one in Business Economics and the other in Health Policy Management, stared down from a wide floor-to-ceiling window in his twelfth floor penthouse, admiring the graceful arc of medical buildings and assisted living facilities that almost surrounded the parking lot. Automobiles looked like scurrying bugs as they navigated the lot. His penthouse spanned the width of the hospital building; the suite of rooms served as his residence and also as his office. There was only one blemish on the view, one pimple in the parking lot – Mrs. Winkle's aged two-story row house, sitting almost in the middle of the lot, silently defying him and his vision for the hospital campus.

Goldman opened the manila folder he had carried to the window. He assured himself that the documents for Mrs. Winkle's procedure were in order. She had signed the informed consent acknowledging the procedure's experimental nature and assuming the great inherent risk of serious injury or death. She had acknowledged she understood that neither Medicare nor her private insurance would pay for the procedure. And, smiling slightly, he saw she had executed the form deeding her home to the hospital to secure payment of the costs of the procedure. Rob Goldman decided to wait until after Mrs. Winkle's procedure went horribly awry to call the demolition company.

Aches and Pains

"Liz? Liz Curley?" said Fr. Paul Petersen, speaking into the phone on his rectory desk on a dreary, chilly, rainy weekday morning. "This is a pleasant surprise. We haven't talked in years, since your wedding."

"Still hostile to the Church, eh?" he continued after she replied. "Well, your mother's a saintly woman, as persistent and perhaps as holy as Monica," he laughed, "so you'll come around eventually, I'm sure."

"Your mother's in the hospital?" The levity left his voice. "Insists on me, not her parish priest, does she? Yes, yes, of course I'll anoint her. Wouldn't be much of a priest if I said no, would I?"

Fr. Petersen soon arrived in Betty Winkle's private room at HumaneCare hospital. He deposited his raincoat and umbrella on a chair. She did not appear ill, but given her age and the impending procedure, he judged the anointing appropriate and advisable. After he administered the sacrament, they chatted for a few minutes, then he left.

Early that afternoon, Fr. Petersen visited Liz Curley at her suburban office. He hung his raincoat in a closet and left his opened umbrella to dry in a corner of the reception area. "I'm concerned," he told Liz after he had been ushered into her room; "your mother seems in great health and spirits yet has a 'do not resuscitate' order in place. Did you know that?"

"Mom wouldn't want that, Father," replied Liz Curley emphatically. "She'd leave it up to God to decide when she'll die," she continued sardonically.

"At the hospital, I spoke with a nurse who's a former parishioner of mine. She told me the hospital requires that every patient over the age of sixty-five decide whether to have a 'do not resuscitate' order. Unless the patient opts out, the hospital puts one in place. My guess is that in the flurry of forms the hospital gave your mother to sign, she never noticed this."

"Mom trusts doctors implicitly, Father," said Liz Curley. "I'm sure she never noticed. There's not much chance, though, of a problem. Mom's only having a minor procedure to alleviate her aches and pains."

"It still concerns me, Liz. The nurse told me that Dr. Mortes, the doctor who is doing the procedure, has 'lost' four apparently healthy elderly patients in the last six months. The nurses call her 'The Mortician.'"

Liz Curley's eyes widened noticeably. "That skunk," she exclaimed. "I wondered what Goldman's angle was. He recommended Dr. Mortes to mom. This is how he plans to get mom's home."

"Goldman?" The priest was puzzled. "Her home?"

"Goldman owns the hospital. Mom's house stands alone in the middle of his damn parking lot. It's the only one he didn't get when he built the hospital. He's been begging her to sell for years. Once she's out of the way, he figures he'll get it, I bet."

"The residents of the assisted living facilities on the hospital campus pledge their assets in return for care," noted the priest, "but how could he get your mom's property? Has she pledged her home to pay for the procedure?"

"I don't know," Liz snorted derisively, "but who else would want the house? It's in the middle of his damn parking lot. It wouldn't be any good to us kids." She pounded her fist into the palm of her other hand. "We better call the county attorney."

"I fear he wouldn't be much help," replied the priest. "He's on the boards of Planned Parenthood and the Hemlock Society, so he gets people coming and going. No, I doubt he would be very sympathetic to your mom's plight."

"Mom would never believe me," sighed Liz. "She puts doctors on a pedestal and trusts them without question. She thinks Goldman has her interests at heart. I've tried to tell her he's a skunk, but she won't hear of it. Maybe the best bet is to go public, call the newspapers and television stations?"

"Oh, no, that will never work," said Fr. Petersen. "They'll say that all we have is unsubstantiated fears, not proof."

"What about The Mortician? Those four deaths would surely impress the media, I'd think."

"Hospital committees and professional associations reviewed those four cases thoroughly, the nurse told me, and professed themselves satisfied that Dr. Mortes had proceeded appropriately. We'd not only be attacking the civic hero who established the hospital, we'd be attacking the entire medical establishment. No, the media surely would dismiss us as cranks."

"What shall we do?"

"I think I'll pay your mother another visit," replied the priest, who departed without another word. The rain stopped and the clouds had parted; he no longer needed the umbrella he carried.

The next day, as the sun rose from behind the hospital building and bathed Mrs. Winkle's house in its warm light, Betty Winkle returned home from HumaneCare. Soon thereafter, Liz Curley waited in St. Patrick's rectory until Fr. Petersen returned from celebrating the noon Mass.

"I don't get it, Father," said Liz when the cleric appeared, dressed in a cassock. "Mom seemed so cheerful about canceling the procedure. How did you talk her into canceling?"

"The procedure?" repeated the priest. "Actually, we only discussed it briefly. Mostly, we discussed theology. More precisely, suffering."

"Suffering?"

"Suffering," he reiterated. "Redemptive suffering. Expiatory suffering. Vicarious suffering."

"Huh?"

"Liz, to modern secular man, alleviating pain and suffering is often viewed as the highest good. That's not the traditional view of the Christian. Your mother decided not to have the procedure, but instead to accept her aches and pains as a gift to offer to God in prayer for the intention that you and your sisters return to the Church."

Liz Curley swallowed hard.

"I've contacted a parishioner who's also an attorney," continued Fr. Petersen. "Your mother had deeded her home to the hospital to secure payment for the procedure. He assures me that the hospital must now annul the deed because she cancelled the procedure. He's also going to consider running against the county attorney in the next election."

Biographical Note

James G. (Gerry) Bruen, Jr. is a recovering attorney. His non-fiction appears primarily in Culture Wars magazine, and his fiction in the American Chesterton Society's Gilbert Magazine. You may contact him at cwbullets@yahoo.com. Gerry is author of several additional e-books for Kindle:

Impossible Possibilities

Speed Bump

The Academic Exercise

The Christmas Stamp and other stories

Errant Knight: The Scandal of Prochoice Knights