Chapter 7
Fangs of Winter
Lord, have mercy on an old man. See, these old bones are paining with the cold, Lord...
Even on beautiful summer days such as this one the man who was once the revered Father Jonas felt the merciless chill gnaw away at his spine as if the jaws of winter were having a feast on his old person. Once in his youth he had lived in London while attending a Bible study program financed by the Parish. It had been late October and the wicked autumn draft in the old attic room he had occupied had wrapped him in a cold damp dread, like a rough wet blanket, that had soaked his spirit in morose thoughts. These days he felt just like that all over again. He remembered how he had cherished coming home from that awful city, returning to his beloved Willowe a month later... real God-fearing people, and winters the way the good Lord had intended them to be - cold outdoors and warm indoors. Not that it mattered anymore to Jonas where he sat or what season it was. His cold came from within himself.
He sat out on the porch of the Weeping Willows Nursing Home with a heavy quilt over his shoulders, gnarly hands shaking, and yellow teeth clattering. Comes with age, they say. Well, a lot of things come with age, he thought to himself as he peered out over the green lawn with its randomly deserted encampments of boccia games and croquet paraphernalia that none of the residents here were in shape to play. Sometimes the kids would play when they came to visit their old grandparents or great uncles or aunts. Not that he ever had any visitors. Being a man of the cloak, he had never married and his brother’s children were long dead. Their kids didn’t even consider him family anyway. Who wants to be bothered with an old ghost who haunts you for company or sympathy? Who can blame the young for not wanting the old to suck away their lives? A lot of things come with old age alright, including loneliness to keep you company and boredom to entertain you. Oh Lord, why must it be so dreadful to live when all I want to do is be by your side in the Kingdom of Heaven? Isiah Jonas shook his head. The effort made his neck creak and he flinched from the sudden discomfort. Why was he still here? Why wouldn’t God let a poor servant come home after a long faithful life? Our Lord sure does move in mysterious ways but this old man is tired, Lord. Dead tired to the very soul.
His gaze wandered over the azure sky and its fantastic seasonal cloudscapes building white empires of grace and joy in the heavens. He dreamed of coming home.
There was still something he was to do here on earth… Something the good Lord expected from him. So much stood clear after all these years. Had not 99 years of dedicated service been enough? Had he not been humble and meek in accordance with the Word, yet strong and fearless when called upon to act? And what good was he these days anyway? He was sick and frail, and even trips to the bathroom required planning and tremendous effort on his part. What good am I, Lord? He didn’t have a congregation anymore and he was nothing but an old fool to the nurses here in the home.
Maybe he was an old fool… Who was he to question God’s motives anyway? Well, he guessed that was another thing that came with old age; you kind of lost that sense of awe and respect for your elders.
He heard steps approaching from behind him. “It’s time for your medication, Father.” It was Nurse Maria. She was the nice one. Not like Nurse Leanne, who he made sure to forget in his prayers on occasion. Nurse Maria had big brown eyes and a smile that just lit up his gloomy day. He tried to smile at her as she came into view, but barely managed to move his upper lip into a snarl instead. “There, there! Don’t be an old grouch, Padre! You know the medicine is good for you!” Maria put the little cup of pills in his hand and helped him move them to his mouth. He tried to get them inside one by one, but he was shaking too badly and they all poured either into his mouth or onto the floor. “That’s OK, Padre” she said. “I’ll help you. Old Man Parkinson is really kicking your butt today, huh?” She picked up the pills and slipped them in his mouth one by one, following each up with a little swig of prune juice.
It’s not the Parkinson’s, he tried to say, it’s the cold… the Fangs of Winter biting me all over, but as usual no sound but a raspy murmur left his lips. He hadn’t spoken out loud in many years. “Now, Padre,” she chastised him gently, “don’t try to talk while you’re swallowing! Now you got the juice all over your nice shawl!” She fussed with him for a while, wiped his chin and straightened out his quilt, and then she sat down to read him the newspaper. This was his favorite time of the day. Whether it was like feeling he still belonged to the community by keeping up to date with what was going on, or whether it was Maria’s nice soothing voice keeping his thoughts company for a while, he didn’t know. Probably a little of both.
“Lookit, Padre,” she said, “they’re building a new church over by the Plaza! It’s like a whole town over there now. My sister got a job in the CitiBank in the mall last week. She said it’s really nice and that the…” He tuned the rest of the sentence out.
Who is building a new church, he wondered silently, his cloudy eyes asking the question he couldn’t voice. Methodists? Baptists? Protestants? Once that used to mean something, but as he grew older he came to realize how vain Man is to interpret the word of God to fit the teachings of their very own take on Christianity. In the end, there is only God and you anyway, and you have to live your life according to that truth and nothing else. But who was he to cast any stones? He had been a fierce defender of the Catholic faith and had looked, if not down, so at least frowningly upon the spiritually bankrupt branches of the pop-religions that bloomed during the 60’s. Nowadays he could care less. If you believed in God and lived your life as a good person you were going to be alright.
“… and here is a picture of the new priest. Michael O’Hara. Look, Padre. He almost looks like you! Well, like you probably did when you were young anyways.” She held the paper up to him so he could let his stare rest upon the young man with the curly hair proudly posing in front of the skeletal structure of his church. He didn’t look anything like Jonas himself had looked back in the day. Except for the conviction in those eyes maybe. It was a trait that came with taking up the cloak. O’Hara… He was Irish then and most probably Catholic.
She went on to read the latest news from around the world, the obituaries, the newborns and last , but not least, she read him the weather report. Sunny for the whole coming week. Chance of rain, less than 10%.
Old Jonas had a feeling that his inner spiritual weather report would read something else entirely. Not only for the cold that never left his bones, but because he had a feeling of something dreadful approaching in the distant horizon, like a storm brewing at the very edge of his awareness. In a sense he was looking forward to whatever may come. Maybe his last purpose here on earth would finally be revealed so he could finish his task and go home. He had always thought that putting that devil Cromwell to the sword had been his ultimate purpose. In later years he had realized that had not been it. Well, I’m ready, Lord. Let it come.
He started falling asleep with his pointy chin dropping onto his chest. As he drifted into unconsciousness, still lingering in the waking world, he felt Nurse Maria pull the quilt closer around him and walk inside. God bless her heart. He felt that tug again from afar, the dark clouds gathering up ahead, and he shivered. God bless us all, he thought before he at last floated into disturbing dreams.
