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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The strength that poured from that wasted body was astonishing. He writhed and bucked, his hands clawing at the pillow on his face. It didn’t take long. After the initial fury he suddenly relaxed, his head sinking beneath the pressed weight of our blessing. The room filled with a sour smell. We held the pillow there, clamped tight as death’s hands for what seemed an eternity, not looking at one another, silent, a priesthood of purpose, until Clay was gone.
We relaxed our hands, each standing away. Max took the pillow, and moved over to the bed stand. He plucked a handful of tissue, turned the pillow over, and briskly wiped it clean of a round damp spot before replacing in on the chair in the exact position it had been.
There was nothing left to do. We were silent, immobile. Finally, Willy slumped to his chair, and began to wail with a grief so deep it was bereft of meaning. Biff, with his eyes closed, was silently praying, his lips moving. Max, the physician, looked around the room for loose ends, and then rubbed his hands together briskly, as if washing them in a post-surgery scrub.
“I’ll go downstairs and tell her that her husband has died. That he went quietly, with all of us praying for him. She will understand,” he said. “Completely.” With that cryptic statement he left the room.
“The Brethren” is copyrighted © 2001 by T. O. McCallister. All rights reserved. You may not republish or reproduce this work without the expressed written permission of the author by any means mechanical, electronic, graphic, including photocopying, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems. Permission can be granted by writing the author at alimed42@yahoo.com. He also welcomes your feedback to this story. All violators will be persecuted.
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