OldTown Short Stories

Why Derm Can’t Ignore His Cousin’s Death

OldTown Short Stories bear witness to the complexities of human relationships and the trials of family life. There are no easy answers, but the truth leads toward the light.

Dermid did not like to be disturbed, much less perturbed or discombobulated. On a glorious October morning, he wanted nothing more than to enjoy his morning breakfast—coffee, juice, and a peanut butter & jelly sandwich on wheat bread—check his emails, organize his students’ pleas for assistance in order of desperation, and review the algebra assignments he would be teaching in his online classes. Once the basics were mastered, he’d take the frisky dogs for a quick romp in the fresh air and then start his workday in earnest. But the first of six emails stopped him in his tracks.

“Dearest Dermid,

So sorry to be the “bearer of bad news,” but your cousin Chippy has passed to the great beyond. I’m not sure how that translates to you Catholic types—some kind of waiting room in the Purgatorial Station, I suppose. But, any-hoo, he is no longer with us mere mortals. As far as I’m concerned, my poor, little brother has sprouted wings and is soaring among the stars, enjoying the pleasure of no more pain. That’s how I like to think of him now—a renewed cherub, trying his hand at a harp, or bongo drums, knowing him, and bouncing on celestial clouds. Not that I believe it, but it’s a fun image.

I’ve packed up my last mental picture of him in the nursing home: slack-faced, drooling, and incoherent, and put that in the burn pile. That’s not who he really was. Just a temporary malady that, finally! has been cured.

The Visitation is on Thursday, and a funeral Mass on Friday, because Mom insists that’s what he would have wanted. She’s even shelling out the money for a full burial! I told her that cremation saves money, time, and trouble, but she won’t hear of it. She insists that the Lewis traditions should be respected. (Picture a headshake here)

She’s getting on in years herself, the last of her generation, but still clinging to the old ways. There’s no talking sense to some people.

I just wanted to inform you, since I know you visited him often these past few years. I hadn’t seen him since, gosh knows when. Been a decade or more. Nearly broke my heart. It’s one thing to take a few meds to relax and rejuvenate, but quite another to get addicted. Poor fellow. He never knew his limits. Well, he doesn’t have any now! (Smiley face.)

I’ll probably wander through the Visitation, though I wouldn’t sit through a Mass for any money, but maybe we can catch up at the funeral dinner. It’d be great to see you and Rita. She’s still among the living, right?

Best to you and yours,

Sabrina

Peanut butter, having stuck itself to the roof of his mouth, now felt like the protruding end of a boulder that might never make it down his throat. Dermid dropped the half-eaten sandwich on the napkin beside his computer and scraped back his chair. He couldn’t think about another sip of coffee; his stomach churned like a boiler already.

I need to talk to Rhona. He didn’t mentally add, and the dogs, but the understanding was there. Morning romps with the dog often righted a tilted world.

As expected, Rhona was doing her morning tour, sucking in lungfuls of brisk autumn air, eying the bright October foliage, feeding the plethora of cats, and taking note of things that needed doing around the place. As a part-time consultant, editor, and proofreader for a multinational textbook company, she probably had her day planned down to the moment her head hit the pillow.

Forty years of marriage, and he knew exactly what she was up to.

Standing before the shorn garden bed, a few weedy barrels lined up along one end, her hands propped on her hips, she looked very much like a manager about to hand out pink slips.

Relief rushing through him, Dem couldn’t wait. He called from several feet away, “Hey, honey, mind if we have a little chat? I’ve got some news.”

A quick glance at the sun just rising over the horizon, and Rhona seemed to be checking that the natural order was still in place. A concerned frown replaced her typical placid expression. “Sure, let’s go inside. I’ve got to get the roast in the crock pot, anyway.” She slipped her arm into his, and they headed to the gray, wrap-around porch. “You okay?”

Dermid shook his head. “It’s Chippy. He’s passed away.”

Rhona halted in her tracks, her arm catching him in mid-stride, forcing him to a sudden stop. “What? When? Who told you?”

“Sabrina sent an email.”

Her eyes drooping to half-mast, suspicion written all over her face, Rhona started forward again. “Sabrina!”

Agreeing wholeheartedly but trying to be fair, Derm nodded. “Yeah, Sabrina. But she was nice enough to let me know. Vicki probably wouldn’t think to tell me until after the funeral.”

A snort, her head down, in full listening mode, and Rhona plodded on.

They maintained the comforting silence of best friends until Derm had a fresh cup of coffee set before him at the kitchen table.

Rhona busied herself at the counter. A half-thawed roast immersed in chicken stock sat in the crock pot while four potatoes, a mound of baby carrots, and a large brown onion waited at the head of a chopping board. “Syn and Renzo are coming for supper, so I’ll bake some fresh bread, too.” She squinted at her husband as she mechanically began to peel the potatoes. “So, what’s up with Sabrina, anyway? It’s been years since you heard from her, and now, out of the blue, she decided to visit her brother, and by wild chance, he happens to die the next day? How strange is that?”

Peels flew across the counter. The carrots and the onion held their ground.

Fingers tapping the side of his mug, Dem nodded. “That’s what hit me when I read her message. Here, you’ve got to listen to what she says. Honestly, I think there’s more to this situation than meets the eye.”

Derm scurried off to his study at the end of the hallway, grabbed his laptop, and soon resettled himself at the kitchen table. He wouldn’t go near the counter until the peels stopped flying.

He read the message aloud, glancing up every little bit to see his wife’s reaction. A gut feeling warned him that he had slipped down a rabbit hole, leading to Sabrina’s altered universe, but he couldn’t help himself. Everything about his younger cousin set his nerves on edge. Chippy was the only sane person in that family, and they often laughed about Sabrina’s exotic theories. But now, as Derm’s gut churned with too much morning coffee, he couldn’t help wondering if Sabrina had somehow managed to get the last laugh.

The potatoes now in the pot, a fistful of carrots in hand, and Rhona stared hard at her husband. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Derm’s heart leaped. Thank God! I’m not mad. Rhona was the calmest, most sensible person the good Lord had placed on Earth, so if she was seeing the possibility, Derm felt emboldened to voice his own foreboding thoughts. “She killed him.”

The carrots fell to their natural end. Rhona grabbed the onion and began to peel. “We can’t say for sure, now. Let’s not get hasty. But didn’t you say that Chippy was doing better the last time you saw him?”

An honest shrug, and Derm had to admit that, in Chippy’s case, there was never any better, only not worse. The man’s mind had deteriorated long before its time, due undoubtedly to some unwise life choices. But it was also true that dementia ran strong in his family, taking members early and often until there were only a few left.

Chippy had been young when he began forgetting things, only in his fifties. Somehow, he managed to make it to his sixties, but his mind hadn’t much to offer during his last years. Still, he was a good listener, would smile when Derm entered the room, and seemed to enjoy the old jokes, no matter how many times Derm told them. Occasionally, Derm read newspaper articles aloud, and Chippy would lean back, grinning like a bear at a honey festival.

“Chippy wasn’t a spritely man, but I certainly didn’t see the shadow of death looming over him. I was just there a couple of weeks ago and read the latest selection of literary winners from the OldTown Chronicle. The man cackled when I read Ada’s ‘Ode to the Last Tomato on the Vine.’”

The onion dispensed with, Rhona hurriedly washed her hands and wiped her eyes. Then she blew her nose and swiped a stray hair back into place. Once straightened, she charged into the next phase, a perplexed frown furrowing her brow. “That’s what worries me.” She snatched a sponge from the sink and maneuvered the vegetable debris onto her cupped hand. “It would be just like Sabrina to take it upon herself to free ‘poor Chippy’ from his miserable life.” She tossed the leavings into the trash.

That’s the crux of the matter. Derm knew Rhona would understand, but it didn’t stop his heart from racing at the thought that one cousin might have killed another.

The formal Visitation wasn’t as bad as Derm had feared. They rarely were. Wearing his best suit, he stood awkwardly aside the gathering of family as friends from OldTown, the Wayfarers Hotel staff—where Chippy had worked for thirty-odd years, and distant relations filed past, offering condolences and repeating comforting formulas: “So sorry for your loss; he’s in a better place now.”

Chippy’s mother, Mrs. Vicki Lewis, looking every second of her eighty-three years, stood surprisingly erect at her daughter’s side. Wearing a black dress, oddly short for someone of her age, and a black veil, ready to slip off her head, she accepted every kind gesture with the sincerity of a grieving mother who has never understood what this word had to offer and has little clue about what might be coming next. Murmuring, “I should’ve been the one to go,” like a plaintive refrain, she hardly seemed aware that her youngest child stood next to her. For all their interaction, they could have been strangers.

Sabrina, on the other hand, was all smiles. Seeing her mother’s incapacity, she had taken over wherever the funeral director had left off and would have turned the mourning into dancing, if that were possible. Dressed in a stylish pantsuit a headmistress would be proud to own, she greeted everyone with the same boisterous “So glad you could come!” acclaim. Hugs were easy for Sabrina, though her gaze often roamed the room, a huntress searching for interesting prey.

A knight in rusty armor, Derm stood stiffly at his wife’s side. They had gone through the line early and were just waiting for an appropriate moment to leave. Rhona had a cake to frost for the next day’s funeral dinner and an editing job to complete before a hard deadline. Derm had a line of students hyperventilating over midterms. They didn’t speak. They watched.

There was plenty to see.

On the drive home, Rhona seemed as nervous as a mole in a doghouse. Spasmodically, her hands took on a life of their own, tethered to her arms unwillingly.

Finally, Dermid’s nerves snapped. “What’s up? You’re always the calm one at these things. It was sad, but Vickie seemed to be holding up all right. Better than I expected. And Sabrina was positively vivacious.”

A long exhale, and Rhona slapped her hands on her lap and grabbed her knees for support. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

There was no escaping it. Derm knew he had to face the dark dilemma in the light of day. “You really think she could have done…something?”

“She’s a nurse! Who better? Plus, the way she was talking so loud and happy. You would have thought it was some kind of graduation party.”

Derm nodded. He did know. “But we need proof. We can’t just go around accusing people of murder. Imagine what it would do to Vickie if it were true! The poor woman would expire on the spot.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that it’s highly likely that Sabrina killed Chippy. She may have justified the act in her own crazy rationality, but we can’t just ignore the possibility. We need to know the truth.”

“That we do.” Derm didn’t need to add, “But how?”

“Tomorrow, at the funeral dinner, let’s sit with her, get her talking. You know how Sabrina is. Never wrong! She’s so sure of herself; she’ll tell us everything we need to know before the evening is out.”

“You think it’ll be that easy?”

“Getting people to confess to murder is never easy. But acting like an interested audience while someone brags about their noble deeds…well, that’s second nature.”

Derm offered a side glance. “You’ve gotten lots of people to confess to murder, eh?”

Deflating, Rhona’s shoulders sagged. “No, of course not. Though there are lots of ways of killing people, you know.”

A rush of sadness filled him. Dermid took one hand off the steering wheel and clasped his wife’s hand. Yeah, he knew.

True to her word, Sabrina didn’t show for the funeral Mass and didn’t bother attending the graveside service. Dressed in bright colors, she was at the door greeting people at the dinner, though.

With streamers dangling from the church hall rafters and festive balloons hanging in threesomes, the place could have passed muster as the setting for a prom dance.

Having discussed the matter with Rhona long into the night and through the drive to the funeral, Derm repeated the plan in his head. It was a simple one: Just keep her talking. In the end, that wasn’t a problem. Shutting her up became a painful trial.

Once Sabrina filled her plate and found a place at one of the long white tables, Derm moved in. An elderly parishioner who often helped out at these events had taken a seat at Sabrina’s right and attempted to offer her sincerest condolences. Rhona, standing just behind, held her plate of turkey slices, green beans, a roll, and a pat of butter, and waited.

Derm wasn’t about to miss his chance. He slid his tray to Sabrina’s left, pulled the metal chair out, and staked his claim. He flashed a smile.

Possibly unaware of Rhona, and clearly done with the elderly parishioner, Sabrina turned and opened wide her arms. “Come here, you goof! It’s been ages!” After pulling out of the grand embrace, she grinned wickedly. “Oh, I know we just saw each other yesterday, but there was no chance to talk then.” She leaned in, clasping his exposed arm in both her hands. “Tell all. Catch me up on all the wild goings on in this old town.”

Holding his cousin’s gaze steady in his own, Derm didn’t glance at his wife, allowing her to make her entrance when she saw fit.

The elderly shadow meekly excused herself and labored on to her next duty.

Still, Rhona stayed in the background.

Derm jumped in first. “So, tell me how you’ve been. Where have you been? Nearly a decade since you took that job in Austin. You’re still there?”

Hands fluttering like leaves in an autumn breeze, Sabrina laughed that notion to death. “Austin? Naw! You’re way behind the times. I did a stint up in Chicago, but then I got recruited to the Netherlands.”

Derm did the “Wow, I’m so impressed!” look to the best of his ability. “So, what did you do there?”

Suddenly intervening, Rhona cleared her throat nosily. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Sabrina’s forced smile played the polite game. “Sure. Grab yourself a seat, Rita.”

The tray landing with a decided clatter, Rhona managed to keep her smile hanging on by a thread.

Refusing to be derailed, Derm thrashed toward the deep end. “So, tell me about your work these days. What do you do?”

Another throat clearing, and Rhona seemed intent on breaking the momentum. “Oh, honey, let the poor woman eat. She’s just suffered the loss of her brother, and I’m sure that she needs to keep up her strength.”

Ah! Oh, she’s subtle. Derm almost smiled at his wife.

But Sabrina was bent on taking the bait in all forms. Her fork clasped firmly, she stabbed her turkey, smeared it in gravy, then sloshed it into her mouth. Ripped to shreds, the roll met a quick end. Talking between chews, Sabrina went into professional mode, the expert who took pity on small-town family members. “Oh, you don’t have to worry on my account, Rita. I’m doing great.” A glance at Dermid promised that she’d get to him next. She took a breathtaking gulp of lemonade.

Rhona nibbled a green bean.

Dermid shoved his turkey around the plate.

Taking a breath, Sabrina glanced around, surveyed the room, and apparently, nothing more interesting caught her attention; she refocused on Derm. “I’m in charge of the Death with Dignity branch of the hospital where I work. It’s been the most enlightening experience I have ever had in my life.” Her eyes widened with innocent sincerity. “Really, you should try it!”

Rhona grabbed his husband’s arm and sported a hearty laugh. “Oh, we’re not ready to join Chippy quite yet.”

Hands waving, Sabrina corrected the mistake. “Oh, that’s not what I meant! Not you, of course. Not yet. Though I’ve had plenty of couples who didn’t want to be separated and made the brave decision to go out together.”

His jaw clenching, Derm tried to form coherent words. “How’s that work?”

A shrug, and Sabrina might have been dismissing a poor golf score. “Oh, you know how it goes. One partner gets cancer, something incurable, and can’t stand the pain anymore. Well, he or she is scared of letting go, so the other one offers to go along. It’s an immense act of love, something you professed Christians could take a lesson from.”

His thoughts crashing like boats in a squall, Dermid tried to reorient himself. “Why can’t the—” But Rhona’s arm squeeze intensified.

Leaning forward, she dropped her voice, directing her words to Sabrina. “Bet it was so hard to see your brother the way he was.”

Her hand slapped the table, a declaration being made, and Sabrina lifted her voice. “Damn straight! It wouldn’t be allowed in my wing! If I saw someone in his shape, I would’ve taken care of him long ago, not let him suffer for God knows how long in imbecilic uselessness.”

Silent, suddenly, the room seemed to hold its breath. Even Father McKenzie, caught in the act of blessing a child, halted in mid-cross.

Derm straightened and let the words of doom fall from his lips. “So, did you, Sabrina? Did you help ol’ Chippy out?”

After shoving her empty plate aside and taking a last swig of her drink, Sabrina matched her cousin’s stiff-as-a-post posture. “Yes, I did. And I’m proud of it. He wanted it! I asked him if he wanted to be out of suffering, and he said yes!”

Rhona dropped her head on her hands and rubbed her eyes. “We all want to be out of our suffering, Sabrina. But that’s not all there is. He loved Derm’s stories, his mom’s visits, and he even teased the nurses with winks at times. He was still a living man. A loving heart.”

Defensive, her jaw up, Sabrina stayed true to her convictions. “You’re just being puritanical, Rita. A Christian who believes in fairyland.” She stabbed her chest with a forthright finger. “I know what mercy looks like! I’ve helped people, lots of people, get free of agonizing pain and lonely suffering. Don’t you dare judge me!”

A soft voice, deadpan serious, rose from behind Sabrina. “No, that will be up to a lawful judge.” Father McKensie stood, his face as agonized as Dermid had ever seen it. “You just admitted before a room full of people that you killed an innocent man. For whatever reason, it is still against the law in this state. And God’s plan.”

Clearly disgusted, Sabrina pressed both hands on the table and started to rise, a volcanic power bursting to the surface.

Derm grabbed her arm and pleaded. “Not here, not now, Sabrina. Please, Chippy doesn’t want his funeral dinner to end like this.”

A sad shake of the head, and Sabrina freed her arm with a jerk. “Your delusions aren’t mine. I’m done with all that. And besides, I’m no longer an American citizen. I’m Norwegian. I’ve got rights you can’t even begin to understand.” With that, Sabrina rose and found her way to the front door.

Her head in her hands, Rhona suffered through a ragged sigh.

Being not only a servant of the Catholic Church but also a citizen of the United States, Father McKensie pulled out his phone and dialed a number that Derm could guess would ring at the nearest police station.

Murmured conversations, subdued and sad, finally and truly, reflected the death of a man. And of a splintered fragment of humanity.

Late that night, Derm tossed and turned in bed. The day’s events played through his mind like a nightmare on repeat. Finally, he sat up.

Looking every bit as disheveled as her husband, Rhona sat up. She plumped up her pillow and leaned against it, apparently reconciled to a long, sleepless night. “What do you think will happen to her?”

Derm shrugged. “I can’t even begin to imagine. They might offer leniency considering her mindset. She really thought she was being merciful.”

“Then every killer will claim they acted with mercy. If not for the victim, then for someone. Where does it end?”

Derm didn’t know. He flopped back on the headboard, saved only by the pillow this wife had just placed there. “I don’t know.”

Rhona’s voice rose like a wisp of smoke in the wind. “What did Vickie say when you saw her?”

His throat tightening, the vision of the old woman’s face rose before him. “She’s their mother. Her daughter killed her son. There’s nothing for her to say. She can only grieve.”

“God have mercy on her.”

Derm nodded. “On all of us.”

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