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      Parishioners and Other Stories

      by

      Joseph Dylan

      Copyright 2012 Joseph Dylan,

      All rights reserved.

      Photography by Joseph Dylan

      Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

       http://www.eBookIt.com

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0982-5

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is dedicated to:

      Parishioners

      Once a month, the first Tuesday of each month, they met informally, gathering at the home of some member of the group. Originally, there were twelve of them, but cancer claimed one, and two in retirement had moved on to bigger cities. Now, there were nine of them, nine men who had gone to the same church for decades, kneeling and praying next to each other, some of them knowing each other for over twenty or thirty years. They had witnessed the baptisms and confirmations and weddings of each other’s children, and they had attended the funerals of many mutual friends. There was no set purpose of the group. There was no set agenda. They were just old friends getting together for a few drinks and a little conversation.

      Outside, in the cold of this wintry December night, the air hung thick and heavy with the temperature well below freezing. Under the startlingly clear skies, the stars shone like dying fires. Tonight, it was John Seymour’s turn to host the gathering. By seven, all had arrived. Inside his house, in the living room, the fireplace glowed with burning pine. It glowed and flickered in the dark room where the nine men all stood around holding their drinks.

      –Has anybody heard how Sam Cunningham is doing? It was Ernie Simpson who had spoken.

      The oldest member of the group, Simpson was a retired political science teacher. At one time or another, most of the children of the people gathered had taken his course at the local high school. He was a generous man in aspect and appearance, and his suspenders held his pants up his substantial paunch. Unlike the others, he was not drinking any hard liquor; tonight he was drinking a Michelob, and his bottle was nearly empty.

      –I heard that he just went in for his third round of chemotherapy, said Seymour.

      The only member of the group who was actually born and raised in the small town in Western Colorado, Seymour owned a construction company that had thrived during the up and down years of this boom-and-bust city that was just about halfway between Denver and Salt Lake City. Though he was retired, he kept a hand in with his son in running the business.

      –I bumped into his son at City Market, said Jim Tripplehorn. He said that he’s pretty worn out from it, but that he’s doing okay. At least as good as could be expected.

      Tripplehorn was a retired accountant, wearing the rimless glasses that had had seen him through many tax returns and more than a few audits. The sweater he wore had leather patches on both elbows where the wool had worn thin.

      –What’s his prognosis like, inquired Simpson.

      –I don’t think that it’s that good, responded Tom Crawford. I heard that the tumor had pretty well spread throughout his body.

      Though a spare man, Crawford still looked like the distinguished lawyer he was in the small community. He was a man with a tendency to speak softly, but not so softly that the others in the room failed to hear him.

      –That’s just a shame, added Tripplehorn.

      –Yeah, it is, said Frank O’Connoll. I met him the first year I served as county commissioner. We could have used a lot more like him in the community through the years.

      O’Connoll took a long pull on his scotch and went over to the credenza where he poured himself another shot. He never ceased to remind the others that he had once served in public office and that they hadn’t.

      The flickering light of the fire in the fireplace gave the darkened room an eerie glow. It appeared as though the men were standing about a campfire in the middle of the summer rather than John Seymour’s den in the dead of winter. They all stood about the fire staring into it, for several moments none of them speaking as they tipped their glasses back, draining the alcohol that seemed to warm them, and ward off the cold outside as much as the fire. In the silence of the gathering, all that could be heard was the crackling of the pine logs in the fire place they burned away. Outside, there wasn’t the hint of a wind. Nor was anyone out on the street. Most of the members of the community had elected to stay indoors on this cold December night in the middle of the week.

      –Has anyone heard anymore about Tony Dennison? asked Harry Carlyle.

      The former owner of the Chevrolet dealership in town, many of the men present had bought vehicles from Carlyle at some point in the past. Carlyle had never run for public office, but he remained active in the Republican Party, and the majority in the group, with the exception of Bradford and Seymour, were Republicans.

      –Just what I read in the papers, said Crawford.

      –How long has it been since he was the priest at St. Joseph’s? inquired Tripplehorn.

      –At least ten years, said Crawford.

      –At least fifteen years ago, interjected Stan Peterson. Kyle, my youngest was an altar boy when Dennison was here.

      Peterson, a former history professor at the Junior College in town, appeared the most avuncular of the group, wearing a dark, blue cardigan over his oxford cotton shirt.

      –That long ago? said Tripplehorn.

      –Yeah, that long ago, said Seymour.

      –My god, time has flown, responded Tripplehorn.

      –It has, added Carlyle.

      –How is your son, Kyle? inquired Bill Bradford.

      Starting out in the valley in the early fifties as a reporter for the local newspaper, Bill Bradford was now the managing editor and its sole proprietor. Being a newspaper man, he had heard the news first about Dennison. He had, in fact, informed both Seymour and Carlyle about the matter.

      –Kyle, replied Peterson, He’s just fine. He’s in his second year at CU. He wants to be a lawyer, just like you, Tom.

      Peterson tipped his drink in Crawford’s direction and then took a pull of his scotch in his glass. Seymour put another log on the fire, the sap remaining on the log snapping as it burst into flame.

      –Tell Kyle not to waste his time on the law. His mind is too good for it, added Crawford beaming at the others in the group. His mind is too good for it.

      –You mean that there’s no more room in the valley for a good lawyer? chided Tripplehorn. Maybe you don’t want the competition.

      There was a small murmur as some of the gathering laughed.

      –Now, I didn’t say that, chortled Crawford.

      –I’ll tell him to keep that in mind, responded Peterson.

      –Dennison every approach him? asked O’Connoll.

      –If he did, he never said anything.

      –Did anyone ever complain about Dennison to anyone? inquired Terry Hendrichs.

      The department store that Terry Hendrichs founded on Main Street had long since been eased out of business by the Walmart that went up on the highway.

      –Not that anyone’s said, replied Crawford.

      Basking in the warmth of the fire in the fireplace, working on their second

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