Santa Clawed

private room. “Merry Christmas.”
    “What a beautiful amaryllis.”
    “I remembered that you liked the white.” Bill’s tie—little Santa Claus figures against a green background—gave him a seasonal air.
    “You remembered correctly.”
    Alex Corbett stuck his head in the room. “Two good-looking women.”
    “What are you doing here?” Racquel wondered.
    “Bill does the hospice’s tax work. I’m looking for a larger piece of land down here for them.”
    “No kidding.” Racquel was surprised.
    “You can depend on dying. When the boomers start to go, it will be a bonanza.” Aunt Phillipa put on her glasses to better admire the amaryllis.
    “Guess so,” Bill agreed.
    “Shame about Brother Christopher.” Aunt Phillipa was focused on dying. “He didn’t work here as much as the others, but he was a bright penny.”
    “Yes, he was,” Alex concurred. “We’re all upset. Bryson, too.” He nodded to Racquel.
    “He did mention it was a loss. I think doctors harden themselves to the inevitable. Although Brother Christopher’s inevitable came early.”
    “In which case,” Aunt Phillipa honestly stated, “I have nothing to complain about.”

T wo white five-foot tapers stood vigil next to the altar, the light from their flames making the huge brass stands glow. Two smaller white candles graced the altar, and the sconces on the wall flickered with candles. The monastery, built before electricity, had sconces throughout all the halls, as well.
    Life may not have been easier before electricity, but people certainly looked better in candles’ glow.
    The service for Brother Christopher, conducted with dignity, left all the brothers in tears, most especially Brother Sheldon. Brother Ed, standing next to Brother Howard during the service, noted that Brother Sheldon could weep buckets at a sentimental commercial. His whisper brought a stare from Brother Luther, who was in charge of the service.
    Brother Morris sang “Ave Maria,” a cappella. The beauty of his voice filled the chapel as the flames leapt higher.
    Brother Howard’s reception, also by candelight, allowed the men the chance to tell Brother Christopher stories, citing his peculiarities such as a fondness for Sour Balls. Such tiny things helped soothe the shock, the loss.
    Brother Speed watched as the others drank wine donated by Kluge Estate Winery and Vineyard.
    “Miss it?” Brother Luther bluntly asked.
    “Sure.” Brother Speed nodded. “But drink and drugs gave me a ticket to hell. Can’t do it.”
    “Takes a lot of discipline,” Brother Luther complimented him.
    “Not if you know it’s going to kill you,” Brother Speed replied.
    “I never thought of that.”
    “You never had to.”
    “You’re right. My journey was different. Bland. Boring even.” He looked Brother Speed in the eye. “All paths lead to God, even ones as different as ours.”
    “Indeed, Brother Luther, indeed.”
    Brother Sheldon, sitting in a straight-backed chair, tears flowing as freely as the wine, stiffened up as Brother Morris and Brother George came over.
    “He is with God,” Brother George, a note of unctuousness in his voice, said.
    Brother Sheldon may have been a candidate for the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, given his ability to change his emotions at breakneck pace, but he knew when he was being patronized. “Thank you, Brother.”
    “We’ll all miss him. He was good with the patients, good with those who came to visit them.” Brother Morris sighed.
    “But as Brother George said, he is with God, and no matter how terrible the end of his mortal life, he is now rejoicing.”
    “I’ll remember that,” Brother Sheldon said dryly.
    He believed it, but they hadn’t seen Brother Christopher’s body. He had. Awful though that was, he did have special status because of it.
    “I’d like you to do something.” Brother George leaned over.
    Brother Sheldon looked up. “Yes.”
    “Take a beautiful Christmas tree to Harry Haristeen. It seems the least we can do.”
    Brother Sheldon brightened. “I will. When would you like me to deliver it?”
    “Tomorrow.” Brother Morris stepped in. “I know she’ll be pleased to see you up and about, so to speak.”
    “I like Harry,” Brother Sheldon said.
    “We all like Harry.” Brother Morris smiled. “She’s a straight shooter.”
    “Anyone ever see her in a dress?” Brother George wondered.
    “Where did that come from?” Brother Morris was amused.
    “I don’t know. I’ve