Dennis Day: A Short Story

Father Padraic O’Malley, driving his old black 1947 Plymouth coupe, stopped at the curb where I stood alone and forsaken. Leaving the car running, he climbed out and walked toward me. Father Paddy reminded me of Dennis Day who appeared every week on the Jack Benny Program. He didn’t have the tenor voice that Dennis had, but he was always singing and tap dancing. He also had that Irish glint in his eyes like he was up to mischief—always a joke on his lips or a trick up his sleeve, fun to be around.
“Khalil,” he addressed me, “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be riding with the family to the cemetery?”
“I got left.”
“Jump in. We’ll catch them up, and I’ll drop you so you can be with them for the final prayers.” He opened the passenger door and slid across to the driver side, motioning me to follow.
“I can’t.” I continued to stand next to the car’s open door. I fought back the tears that wanted to fall down to my feet freeing them from the locks that bound me to the cement. The heat from inside the car rushed out, touching my face with its warmth. I blew my hands to warm them. My gloves and hat must still be in the church, probably already appropriated by the old witch who, after weddings, steals the

Butler’s Uncle Anthony was a coal miner who worked with my Pa for as long as I can remember. Though we’re not related, I call them “Aunt” and “Uncle.” Now, though up in their years, they still do a bit of light farming. Well, at least Aunt Mary does. Uncle Anthony had a stroke a few years ago leaving him bed-ridden. Fortunately, Aunt Mary found him only moments after he collapsed in the snow bank just inside their fence. He survived the fall in the snow—and the stroke—possibly because of all the alcohol in his body after an evening at the tavern. Or, maybe Aunt Mary’s quick wits of rolling him onto the sled, then pulling him up to the house and calling the near-by vet, kept him alive. Alive, but unable to speak or move. I’ll visit them after my Mass