Short Story with Catholic Characters

Literary fiction can offer a "Catholic" vision without a detailed religious doctrine. Relatable and honest characters reflect human struggles and God's presence.

Enjoy this introduction to my latest literary efforts in my upcoming novel, Fly, Sparrow, Fly.

How Derm Got Involuntarily Volunteered

Derm’s full name was Dermid, which means “without envy” in some ancient language he didn’t know, and he supposed he lived up to his name pretty well, but he sure hated being told what to do.

He plunked down on a wooden bench outside the Oldtown US Post Office with a mural of Abraham Lincoln’s face staring at him from the west wall of The People’s Savings & Loan just across Main Street.

There was nothing for it but to wait for Braden, his oldest friend in the world, to show up and pass along the sewing circle’s newest decree. How that highly sensitive man had navigated through life for seventy years, managed the largest grain bin operation in the county, and stayed married to the town’s greatest busybody was a mystery beyond all comprehension.

At sixty-one, Derm wasn’t much different from when he was sixteen, or six, for that matter. Life just happened, and he made the best of each situation as it came along. If there was ever a case where he might admit to feelings of envy, it would be when a benevolent citizen corralled him into a good deed. Then envy would rear its monstrous head, and he’d wish he were a cold, careless man who—with a dictatorial expression and a steady hand—could direct someone else to accomplish the do-good t

Unlocking the mysteries of math and chemistry to bewildered students online and puttering around his woodshop in peace was his idea of clear-eyed decency. Heavyset with a bit of a belly, he preferred to move slow and stay calm. He’d act nice when he felt like it. He hated being asked.

His family had roots going back generations in Oldtown, so he knew the place well. With eleven thousand people, the town board liked to advertise that they had a “Farm Town Feel with City Advantages.”

Perfectly ridiculous.

Nearly all the big farm families had passed away generations ago. He stared at a stately mansion just off Main Street on Walnut Road, which had been converted into a modern apartment building. Garish yellow steps on the east and west sides led to tiny porches on each of the three floors. Bare, dirty windows, one with prickly cactus plants crowding the pane, depressed his spirits. Whatever happened to frilly curtains and flowers?

Land bought by huge corporations — even if a family man ran the day-to-day operation — was big business, feeding an international market. The memory of encountering a mammoth tractor on a narrow rural road last spring, his compact Ford Focus nearly tipping over an embankment, was enough to make him break out in an anxious sweat. Wonder if I could just stay home through harvest season…

An unshaven guy in a torn jacket, wearing oversized jeans, toting a sack filled with foodstuff and a pair of worn sneakers under his arm, stepped from the Do unto Others Food Pantry & Clothes Closet, jogged across the street, and leaped onto the sidewalk in front of Derm. Why the heck can’t he get a job and earn his keep like—

The guy tripped and started to fall.

Propelled from his comfortable seat, Dermid reached out and caught his arm.

Fear widened the stranger’s eyes.

Anguish twisted inside Derm. He plucked the dropped shoes off the sidewalk and handed them back. “You okay?”

The man, only a kid really, nodded in silence; a flush worked up his cheeks. He dropped his gaze and shoved the shoes back under his arm.

There’s a story there, something bad. Or sad. Probably both.

City people had moved in, bringing their troubles with them. Drugs and unemployment mostly. Lots of broken families with kids running wild. An image of sister-in-law’s family rose in his mind. Odd people, he would never understand, no matter how hard he tried.

He watched the young guy hurry away, heading toward Mike’s Repair Shop, until his view was blocked by a tall thin figure.

Braden ambled down the street with waves of gazes and hellos breaking in his wake the way a late summer breeze sent leaves fluttering. Everyone knew Braden. Everyone liked Braden. He was not only rich as Midas, but he was as kind as St. Teresa. Often as not, he’d be found in the food pantry stuffing vegetable cans and boxes of rice and beans into waiting bags. Without embarrassing commentary, he’d notice that a person’s shoes were worn, so with uncanny accuracy, he’d snatch the correct size from a back shelf and stuff them in along with the baby carrots.

Dermid shook his head even as a smile spread across his face. He didn’t consider himself an emotional man, in fact, he took pride in his Scottish reserve. But when it came to Braden, it was impossible not to love the guy.

The far-away look in Braden’s eyes drifted along as he made his way to the post office.

Feeling silly, Dermid offered a polite salute, in the hope that his friend wouldn’t walk by, completely forgetting their appointment.

As if waking from a dream, Braden’s gaze focused, and he directed determined steps right to Dermid. “Good morning, my friend!”

Fresh anxiety washed over Dermid. Braden was using his extra cheerful tone, the one he always used when about to impart momentous news: the acquisition of a new grain company, a new deal with foreign investors, or his wife’s latest project. Please, let him have bought half of China! Not Ada’s newest scheme.

“So, so, so!” Braden flopped down on the bench next to Derm like a scarecrow taking a breather from demanding crows. His gaze swept over Dermid and then sprinted across the street and fixed on Old Abe’s face. “You are the man I’ve been looking for.”

Dermid tried to speak but his throat had suddenly gone quite dry.

“Ada’s gone and had one of her brainstorms. One of her best!”

Unable to control himself, Dermid folded his arms over his chest and crossed his legs. His troubled niece, Syn, had told him that his body language screamed at her, and she could always tell when he was going to deny an earnest plea. Which he did most of the time, he had to admit. He tried to brace himself, frantically considering ways to head his friend’s request off at the pass. “Well, that’s nice. I wish I had time to be—”

“She’s nominated you as President of Restful Glen!”

Attempting to wrap his mind around being president of anything while an image of the town cemetery rose in his mind, Dermid found himself too perplexed to speak. He gurgled a bit, but that hardly helped matters.

Braden leaned back and stretched; his arms embraced the back of the bench, a man with a leisurely moment to explain the glory of life’s opportunities to his good friend.

Dermid couldn’t help but squirm. He didn’t want responsibility! Not even for dead people. Gosh, golly, how did Ada come up with these things? He stared at his friend, very aware that his eyes had narrowed considerably, and if Braden had dared to engage in eye contact, he would know immediately what Dermid thought of Ada’s idea.

But Braden was much too smart for that. He kept his head tilted up, his chin practically pointing at Old Abe in some kind of salute to the Great American Spirit—Hard Work! Honesty! Responsibility!

I am not falling for it. I am not doing any fool thing like—

Braden spoke softly but managed to run right over Dermid’s private battlefield. “Ten thousand five hundred twenty-four people have been buried in our cemetery, and families trust our community to see to the repose of their loved ones. It’s a sacred trust. You know the story of Tobit who risked his life to bury the dead, whereby his son was aided by the angel Raphael? It’s a beautiful example of virtue being its own reward.”

Finally, Braden let his gaze drop, and it landed hard on Dermid. “Our ancestors deserve respect even in death. They remind us of the past and warn us against a dangerous future. If we forget them and refuse to serve our community, what will be our reward?”

Dang blast it! I knew he’d come up with something I couldn’t refute. Not logically. Not even emotionally. Dermid’s shoulders sank along with his spirit. Good deeds were such a hard burden to carry. Mute, Dermid merely stared at his new work boots.

With a grand pat on the back, Aden accepted the silence as compliance and rose to his feet. “I know you, Derm. You’ve got a heart of gold buried under rich topsoil.”

Derm looked up and met his friend’s smiling face. He almost smiled but muttered a complaint instead. “I haven’t the foggiest notion on how to run a cemetery.”

Braden laughed. “No worries there, my friend. Ada is the treasurer, and her friend, Elspeth, takes all the notes and keeps track of things. They do most of the daily stuff. Someone just needs to run the meetings, suggest improvements, and be the caring face people come to when they’re looking to bury a loved one or find the final resting place of a long-lost relative.”

Oh, is that all? Rising to his full height of five’ ten”, Dermid towered a good four inches over the town nabob, and sucked in a deep breath, ready to slap down the crazy offer with every ounce of dignity he could muster. But as he stared into his friend’s eyes, behind the bold pretense of Old Testament Nobility, a plea for understanding glimmered in their depths. Two thoughts crashed in Derm’s mind simultaneously, demolishing the words on his lips. Ada can’t be easy to live with. I always admired Tobit.

Somehow, in the split-second hesitation, the battle was won, and both men knew it.

Braden’s smile rose to his eyes and beamed all over Oldtown Main Street. “There’s a meeting on the first Monday of the month at 6:00 pm in the Quilt & Sew Shop back room. You don’t need to bring anything. Elspeth will have the agenda all written out, and she’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

I bet she will. As his friend began to make his way down the street,  Dermid nodded, fully aware that he had been defeated from the get-go. His only comfort was getting home to his wife and telling Rhona all about it. His heart lighter, he grinned at the thought. Rhona, the love of his life, would dearly sympathize as he described this early morning foray into the messy reality of town life.

He’d sit at their polished kitchen table while she washed the last of the garden vegetables in the sink. And they’d talk it over, considering all the pros and cons, figuring out ways to make the whole thing manageable. She might even make him an apple pie to ease his pain. As Braden strolled down the quiet street, Dermid started for home. Perhaps virtue would have its own reward.

A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother.
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