Storm Front by Robert Conroy Read Free Book Online Page A

world. He’d fought and been wounded in Korea; he’d earned a Bronze Star. He’d worked all his life, and retired from General Motors with a decent pension that so far included damn good health care. He’d married, had children, grandchildren, and now, great-grandchildren. If only his wife Catherine were here to help him enjoy it.
    Can’t have it all, he thought sadly. She’d died more than five years ago and his memory of her was still bright. His kids teased him that his mind wasn’t as sharp as it used to be and maybe they were right. But he remembered everything about Catherine. So what if he sometimes misplaced his car keys, or lost a library book, or couldn’t remember if he took his heart medicine—he remembered his past. He didn’t care much for the present and the future at his age was difficult to comprehend. The kids wanted him to go to a senior residence or even a nursing home, but he’d rather die before he’d let that happen. The trouble with nursing homes was that there were too Goddamned many old people and so many of them had Alzheimer’s or dementia. He had friends in nursing homes and some of them didn’t remember him.
    He liked being independent. In his own home he could grow his plants and flowers, and so what if he forgot to flush the toilet or occasionally peed on the floor. He wasn’t starving and he wasn’t hurting anybody. His home was a ranch, which meant he didn’t have to worry about stairs unless he went to the basement for some beer. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. He hadn’t bothered to shave today and who the hell cared. At least he’d taken a shower. Some old people stank. He didn’t want to be one of those.
    So finally Father Torelli finished the Mass and the organist hit a last discordant note. Hallelujah and amen. Baranski had prayed and suffered quietly through an overlong sermon they now called a homily. Didn’t matter what they called it, Father Torelli was a bore as a preacher. He remembered when the Mass was in Latin. At least then you could get a decent nap. Of course, Catherine always poked him awake when he began to snore. She was embarrassed and the kids thought it was funny, which got her upset. She tried to be angry with him, but it didn’t always work.
    He dutifully shook the priest’s hand and opened the door where he was slapped in the face with a blast of snow.
    “When the hell did that happen?” he asked in surprise and laughed. Like he had a choice; everyone else was laughing, too, even Father Torelli. Hey, it was funny.
    Fred Foley, his good buddy, answered. “It’s snowing, you big butthead. You spent so much time pretending to be praying that you forgot about the rest of the world.”
    Ted sniffed. “That just means I’m a better Catholic than you are. Right, Father?”
    Father Torelli laughed again. He’d watched the two old men argue ever since he’d been assigned to St. Stephen’s a year before. They were part of his environment. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re both great guys. Now kiss and make up.”
    Baranski thought that maybe the young priest wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. The sermons were awful, but the skinny kid was okay when he wasn’t trying to preach to the choir. Maybe he’d go to Confession and try to shock the priest by telling him he’d been practicing birth control at eighty.
    Foley looked out through the window in the door. “Can’t see a thing. Maybe we’d better wait until this clears up. Can’t last long at this rate.”
    That seemed like a plan, so the two older men and a handful of others sat down to wait out what was obviously a snow squall or shower, while Father Torelli made the very short walk back to the rectory. It was only a few feet away and the bulk of the building could barely be seen. Snow showers were frequent and intense, but, like a summer thunderstorm, let up after a short while and were forgotten.
    An hour later, they they’d run out of things to say and the snowfall hadn’t