A Cruel Season for Dying Read Online Free
Author: Harker Moore
The living quarters at St. Sebastian were as old and unre-modeled as
the church itself. And while a lack of change might be deemed a virtue in a building that mimicked twelfth-century Gothic,
for the two priests assigned to the outmoded Brooklyn rectory, the neglect meant mostly discomfort.
He took a sip of the drink, then shuffled like the old man he was becoming to the recliner in front of the TV. He should be
thankful for the archdiocesan attention, which the younger priest’s assignment to St. Sebastian represented. But charity was
in as short supply as faith and hope in his heart—virtues lost not through some brave battle with temptation, but drained
away softly in the acid rain of years. Was it the world that had changed, or had he? Was it time or the devil that had curdled
his soul?
As always, he regretted the bitterness of his thoughts, and in all his more honest moments, he acknowledged that he was not
cut out to be a pastor, and in the old days never would have been one. Now, with the shortage of priests, men more than twenty
years younger than he were getting their own parishes, better and richer parishes than St. Sebastian. Thomas Graff, he knew,
would be presented just such a plum for his work in parish renewal.
He reached down to the space heater and turned up the dial, welcoming the warm blast of air on his feet. On the television
the news had ended, and a cop show, decades old, was playing. The violence seemed stilted, infinitely less real than the daily
dramas that played inthe nearby streets. He keyed in the time on the remote:
11:52
in glowing blue-green appeared in the corner of the screen. Surely, Father Graff had not forgotten that it was his turn for
early Mass tomorrow.
He frowned, sipping again at the drink, allowing a memory of the old days when the church had been full. Perhaps the chronic
bad weather had something to do with it, but even with all Graff’s efforts there seemed to be fewer and fewer people scattered
in the pews. Though Marian’s husband, of all people, had been there this morning.
Light rose and skittered across the curtains. This time, unmistakably, he heard the sounds of the Jeep. In a few moments Thomas
Graff came into the foyer. Despite the cold, he wore no coat over athletic pants and jacket. He looked boyish with his duffel
bag and the baseball cap riding his fair hair. With a pang of what he acknowledged as jealousy, Father Kellog thought of how
quickly the women, young and old, had taken to Father Graff.
He watched the man take off his cap as he came into the room. The priest greeted him and smiled.
“Cold out?” Kellog sought conversation.
“Pretty cold.” Graff nodded. “Mrs. Callahan thinks it’ll snow before Christmas.” He was unfailingly pleasant. A subtle condescension.
“You saw Mrs. Callahan?”
“Her daughter asked me to drop by and bring her Communion. I visited a friend after that.” Graff looked at his watch. “Later
than I thought,” he said. “Mass tomorrow. I better get some sleep.”
Father Kellog nodded his good-night, watching as the younger man bounded up the stairs. Thomas Graff was not quite as youthful
as he appeared, but he kept fit, running most mornings he didn’t say Mass.
The hall clock struck midnight. The deep chimes seemed incomplete and ominous. He looked down into his drink, finished it.
He picked up the remote, settling back in his chair. Flipping through the channels, he searched for a movie in black and white,
putting off bed and the silence of his cold room.
CHAPTER
2
S leep fell away like leaden weight. Sakura’s eyes snapped opened.
5:47
in the morning. He reached to switch off the alarm before it sounded, and settled back down under the sheets. Turning toward
Hanae, he saw that against the stark white of the pillow, her black hair spread like fine dark silk. He bent and kissed it,
inhaling its scent. Rain. Not city rain. But the rainfall of his childhood
the church itself. And while a lack of change might be deemed a virtue in a building that mimicked twelfth-century Gothic,
for the two priests assigned to the outmoded Brooklyn rectory, the neglect meant mostly discomfort.
He took a sip of the drink, then shuffled like the old man he was becoming to the recliner in front of the TV. He should be
thankful for the archdiocesan attention, which the younger priest’s assignment to St. Sebastian represented. But charity was
in as short supply as faith and hope in his heart—virtues lost not through some brave battle with temptation, but drained
away softly in the acid rain of years. Was it the world that had changed, or had he? Was it time or the devil that had curdled
his soul?
As always, he regretted the bitterness of his thoughts, and in all his more honest moments, he acknowledged that he was not
cut out to be a pastor, and in the old days never would have been one. Now, with the shortage of priests, men more than twenty
years younger than he were getting their own parishes, better and richer parishes than St. Sebastian. Thomas Graff, he knew,
would be presented just such a plum for his work in parish renewal.
He reached down to the space heater and turned up the dial, welcoming the warm blast of air on his feet. On the television
the news had ended, and a cop show, decades old, was playing. The violence seemed stilted, infinitely less real than the daily
dramas that played inthe nearby streets. He keyed in the time on the remote:
11:52
in glowing blue-green appeared in the corner of the screen. Surely, Father Graff had not forgotten that it was his turn for
early Mass tomorrow.
He frowned, sipping again at the drink, allowing a memory of the old days when the church had been full. Perhaps the chronic
bad weather had something to do with it, but even with all Graff’s efforts there seemed to be fewer and fewer people scattered
in the pews. Though Marian’s husband, of all people, had been there this morning.
Light rose and skittered across the curtains. This time, unmistakably, he heard the sounds of the Jeep. In a few moments Thomas
Graff came into the foyer. Despite the cold, he wore no coat over athletic pants and jacket. He looked boyish with his duffel
bag and the baseball cap riding his fair hair. With a pang of what he acknowledged as jealousy, Father Kellog thought of how
quickly the women, young and old, had taken to Father Graff.
He watched the man take off his cap as he came into the room. The priest greeted him and smiled.
“Cold out?” Kellog sought conversation.
“Pretty cold.” Graff nodded. “Mrs. Callahan thinks it’ll snow before Christmas.” He was unfailingly pleasant. A subtle condescension.
“You saw Mrs. Callahan?”
“Her daughter asked me to drop by and bring her Communion. I visited a friend after that.” Graff looked at his watch. “Later
than I thought,” he said. “Mass tomorrow. I better get some sleep.”
Father Kellog nodded his good-night, watching as the younger man bounded up the stairs. Thomas Graff was not quite as youthful
as he appeared, but he kept fit, running most mornings he didn’t say Mass.
The hall clock struck midnight. The deep chimes seemed incomplete and ominous. He looked down into his drink, finished it.
He picked up the remote, settling back in his chair. Flipping through the channels, he searched for a movie in black and white,
putting off bed and the silence of his cold room.
CHAPTER
2
S leep fell away like leaden weight. Sakura’s eyes snapped opened.
5:47
in the morning. He reached to switch off the alarm before it sounded, and settled back down under the sheets. Turning toward
Hanae, he saw that against the stark white of the pillow, her black hair spread like fine dark silk. He bent and kissed it,
inhaling its scent. Rain. Not city rain. But the rainfall of his childhood
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