Devan Brettkelly
Pastor David hadn’t acknowledged Sybil’s presence since he’d started speaking to her husband, though he stood so close that his elbow grazed hers and she could smell his coffee breath. Sybil stepped back so they no longer touched and inspected Pastor David. His wrinkled shirt was tucked haphazardly into the waistband of his ill-fitting khakis. Sybil pictured him rolling out of the hotel bed, plucking the shirt off the floor of his room, and waltzing downstairs a half hour late for the conference social. Hair unbrushed. Black belt, brown shoes. She took another glance around the floral wallpapered room. Hmph. Just as expected, Pastor David’s wife was nowhere to be found.
Not that her own husband was looking much better. Sybil peered up at her beloved Pastor Thomas. There was a fleck of something on his starched collar. A muffin crumb or bit of potato chip. He was always missing his mouth. She resisted the urge to reach up and brush it away.
A patch of dog hair on the back of his slacks had escaped her lint roller. It felt like their entire existence was coated in dog hair. What if the Sterlings saw? What would they assume about the state of their church? That their floors needed vacuuming, which wasn’t true. Sybil would eat off the carpet of their worship room, which was old and needed replacing but it was spotless. She kept the entire building and its grounds in ship shape. Cleanliness is, after all, next to godliness.
Thomas and Sybil had attended every annual gathering of the Maine Pastors Conference for the past decade. In the past it had always been held in Augusta, but the couple were delighted when they found out this one would be held in Cape Elizabeth. Thomas and Sybil hadn’t been to Cape Elizabeth since their honeymoon in 1968. Sybil had been barely nineteen and Thomas not much older. They were just kids then. Babies, really. They knew nothing about devotion.
Sybil was worried about their little church in Naples, Maine. Sybil and Thomas had accepted their roles as pastor and pastor’s wife almost two decades ago. The next death in the church was imminent; a man named Liam had recently been on hospice care after a battle with prostate cancer. Thomas had been visiting Liam daily. Liam’s condition caused Sybil’s thoughts to spiral into visions of losing their fellowship one by one until there was nobody left to listen to Thomas’s sermons.
They were struggling to attract young disciples, so Sybil pivoted to her attention to recruiting them. She had tried everything. Jesus-fueled summer barbeques by the lake, passing out flyers at the mall, loitering outside the movie theater. She searched far and wide until she accepted the truth — the teenagers were hanging out online. Sybil asked her atheist granddaughter to set up an Instagram profile for her. That was where she stumbled on the Sterlings and their #church.
The Sterlings had a congregation in Portland that was originally a similar size to their own. They had experienced a sudden and noticeable rise in wealth and patronage in the past few years. The Sterlings posted about their freshly padded pews, and there were plenty of asses seated in them. There was a photo dump of a Christian rock show; smoke from a fog machine clouded the pulpit. Sybil wanted it all. She had to know the Sterlings’ secret, whether it was a rich benefactor or some newfangled fundraising tactic. Perhaps it was something she and Thomas could replicate. Philanthropy is about shaking the right hand, after all.
***
Thomas could feel his wife’s attention in a distant way, like she was on the other side of a snowy train platform. Lately, he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything else besides grief. Pastor David’s words certainly weren’t breaking through, though Thomas still thought he managed to mutter “Uh, huh,” at the appropriate times. Thomas stared into a mole on David’s temple while his thoughts drifted to Liam’s bedside.
For the first several years of their acquaintance, all Pastor Thomas thought of Liam was that he was a quiet man, like Thomas himself. After church, Liam stood silently at his wife’s shoulder while she did the talking. Then Liam’s wife, Lisa, left him for another man which was the town scandal for many months. Thomas saw Lisa at the grocery store occasionally; she would duck her head and become fixated on a lemon or jar of pasta sauce. Thomas followed suit. Liam still came to church but skipped coffee hour. Sybil tried to encourage him to stay and enjoy the company of the congregation, but Liam politely waved her away with a shy smile and an excuse about getting home to his dog. Sometimes in the middle of a sermon, Pastor Thomas would look out to the white-capped sea of his aging disciples and lock eyes with Liam and his expression of gentle contemplation would cause Thomas to lose his train of thought.
One Friday afternoon in Spring, Thomas sat at the old oak desk that his grandfather built when he was a boy, struggling to write a sermon which at that moment had no point but would eventually be about the lessons one can learn from pets — about joy, loyalty, putting blind faith in one’s master. There was a knock at the door, a rhythm Pastor Thomas found soothing from the first tap and would grow to keep an ear out for whenever he sat at that desk.
“Come in,” Pastor Thomas beaconed. Liam entered the room in his sheepish way, glancing at Thomas and then back at the floor. A stench followed him into the room that was enough to make Thomas’s eyes water. Thomas’s first thought was that it was marijuana. Liam always had a tight smile netted in the corner of his lips and a twinkle in his eye, as if somebody had just told a dirty joke which Liam secretly found funny but was too shy to laugh at. He held this expression as Thomas offered the seat across from him. “Liam. Good to see you.”
“Hope I’m not disturbing your work.” Liam gestured to the papers on Pastor Thomas’s desk.
“Not at all. You are a welcomed distraction from a bad case of writer’s block. How are things?”
“Oh, more of the same. But the dog crossed paths with a skunk last night so apologies if you caught a whiff of that.”
Pastor Thomas tried to breathe through his mouth. “No worse than a strong cup of coffee.” He removed his glasses and set them on the desk, trying to figure out a delicate way into the conversation. He’d never been alone in a room with Liam before. Thomas figured Liam was finally ready to talk about his wife but didn’t know how to start. He had offered his counsel to Liam only once, saying his door was always open, and now he was pleasantly surprised to see Liam sitting back in the chair, lightly tapping one finger on his knee. Pastor Thomas couldn’t think through the stink. It occurred to him that some fresh air could dissipate the skunk smell as well as some of the tension. “I’m due to stretch my legs. Want to take a walk around the church grounds?”
Liam nodded gratefully and the two men walked out to the front of the church through the parking lot and towards the gardens. Liam cleared his throat. “Faith is in the car. She could join us if that’s alright.” He’d already turned towards his blue truck before he got an answer. He pulled the handle, and a reddish golden retriever came bounding out and into Liam’s arms. Liam fastened a leash around her neck and set her down on the pavement. She wiggled up to Thomas. “Heard you got into some mischief last night,” Thomas said, reaching down to scratch behind Faith’s ear. The smelly dog leaped up and left two perfect dirty paw prints on Thomas’s pristine khakis.
“Off, girl,” Liam said, yanking her away. “Sorry about that. It’s hard to keep her clean in Spring.”
“It’s mud season,” Thomas laughed, wiping the spots away as best as he could. “That’s alright. She’s beautiful and what a name. How did you choose Faith?”
“That was Lisa’s idea,” Liam said. Thomas hadn’t heard Liam say his ex-wife’s name in years. “She’s a big Faith Hill fan. She picked the name and that was about her only involvement with the dog.”
“Ah, yes. Lisa,” Thomas said. They started down a path that snaked through the forest which surrounded the church. “Have you been thinking about her?”
“Oh, from time to time,” Liam said, reaching down for a stick which he placed in Faith’s mouth. The two wrestled with it while Thomas paused for Liam to elaborate. “Lately I’ve been preoccupied by other things.” Faith tugged the stick out of his hand and knocked it against the back of Thomas’s legs
“What’s on your mind?” Thomas asked, though somehow, he already knew. He sniffed a morbid fear even stronger than the smell of skunk.
“Well,” Liam looked up to the sky. The secret smile had untangled itself and dropped from his lips. “I’m sick and it’s not looking good.” Liam told Thomas about his cancer diagnosis and how he’d kept it to himself. He’d tried to give it as little attention as possible so it wouldn’t dominate his life, but at his last appointment the doctor told him things were taking a turn for the worse and they would start more aggressive treatment. “The doctor told me she’s worried,” Liam said. “She told me I should get a plan in order.”
“A plan for what?”
“A hospice plan,” Liam said. “In case the treatment doesn’t take.”
Thomas let the news ache in his heart before he responded. He knew what he was supposed to say, that God would guide Liam through this hard time and if he put his trust in the church, all would be healed. He couldn’t bring himself to say any of these things. Mixed with sorrow, he felt a yearning to know Liam. There was something in the way he carried himself that Thomas had always felt drawn to. Every lumbering footstep Liam placed on the forest floor, like a thoughtful moose, was endearing to Thomas. “I would like to be a friend to you,” Thomas said. “I’m not a doctor so I’m no help to you physically, but maybe I can help your soul. We can talk about anything. Even death. I find that the more you speak about your fears, the less alone you feel.” They fell into silence and walked deeper into the woods. Faith crouched to shit and Thomas noticed how tired Liam looked as he pulled a little green bag from his jacket pocket. Thomas reached out for the bag. Their fingers touched as Liam allowed him to take it from his hand.
“I’m scared of the pain,” Liam said. “Of what will happen to my body after I’m gone. I don’t want to go into the dirt and I don’t want to burn to ash.” He shuddered.
Thomas wasn’t bothered by the thought of his own body deteriorating, but he was
repulsed by the visual of it happening to Liam. “Let us pray,” Thomas said. He whispered wishes like protective charms to Liam and the trees. The prayers felt insufficient.
***
Sybil went to the refreshment table to get Pastor Thomas a can of soda and a snack as a last-ditch effort to revive him before the Sterlings arrived. She settled on a fistful of pretzels and a wedge of cheddar cheese. Too much lactose would send him to the toilet and all would be for not. She brought the plate over to her husband just in time to see Pastor David waving a hand in front of Thomas’s face.
“Anybody home?” David said.
Thomas blinked. “I’m sorry, I missed your question.”
David scoffed. “I asked if you’re following my church on Instagram.”
“Lucky for me, my wife manages that business,” Thomas said. He turned and accepted the paper plate from Sybil. “Speaking of, can I have a word with you over here, dear?”
“Uh, oh,” David guffawed, like some nightmare cross between an anthropomorphic cartoon dog and a nosey neighbor in a sitcom. “Trouble in paradise.”
Thomas led Sybil over to an empty side of the room and said, “I’m worried about Faith. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Well, you had better snap out of it.” The thought crossed Sybil’s mind that what Thomas really needed was a good slap in the face to bring him back to reality, and although she had never laid a hand on Thomas or any of their children, if they weren’t in a room full of people she would have considered delivering one. “Focus, honey. We are on a mission.”
“What if she needs us? She’s all alone.” His eyes darted around Sybil’s face, searching for something he wouldn’t find. “What if she’s afraid?”
“She’s fine, Thomas.” Sybil sighed. When they’d left her in the room, she was drooling into a rubber cone filled with peanut butter. “She’s exhausted from the park.”
“Let’s go check on her,” Thomas said. “It will only take a minute.”
“No!” Sybil said a little too firmly. The Luddens and the McMickens flicked their gazes in her direction. Sybil made her voice sweet again and took her husband’s clammy hand. “No, honey. The Sterlings will be here any second. Let’s rejoin the party before we cause a scene.”
Thomas dropped his wife’s hand and walked directly out of the reception hall. There was no question about it, people were openly staring. It was all on Sybil now and she wasn’t about to let her congregation down. She squared her shoulders, smiled and smoothed her hands down the front of her cream skirt suit.
***
Over the past several months, Pastor Thomas had helped Liam weigh his options. Liam was in a great deal of pain but was still of sound mind. He could stay in the hospital bed and hope for a miracle — the treatments leaving him weak and nauseous until he felt that he had nothing left. Liam decided that spending his remaining time at home would bring him the most peace.
Thomas helped the hospice team turn the sparse dining room into a makeshift bedroom. They brought in a massive bed that had the ability to sit up and recline, raise and lower. They placed it by the window that overlooked the fenced-in yard. Thomas stripped Liam’s gingham comforter from the bed upstairs where he would never sleep again and brought it downstairs to make Liam’s final resting place.
“I want to watch Faith play outside,” Liam said.
Thomas took Faith in front of Liam’s window to play tug-of-war when it started pouring rain. Thomas wasn’t wearing a jacket and his button-down shirt instantly soaked through to transparency. He and Faith both froze in their wrestling positions, stick still in his hand and between her teeth. Thomas looked over his shoulder through the window and saw Liam propped up on pillows watching them, laughing. Faith leaped into a puddle, splashing Thomas before jumping on him. Thomas tackled her into the mud. When the two finally went back inside, they followed the sound of laughter to Liam’s bed, dripping on the dining room floor.
Liam admired them with tired eyes, smiling through his hand clasped over his mouth. “You two are like kids,” he said.
“She started it,” Thomas said, laughing. He took a towel off a stack of clean laundry the hospice nurse had left on the dining room table. He patted himself and Faith dry and checked his watch. He was meant to be home an hour ago. Liam’s cousin or niece or college roommate, one of the many relatives or friends who had taken on shifts as his caretakers, pulled into the driveway.
“I’d best be going,” Thomas said, regretfully. “I’ll stop in tomorrow, if that’s alright with you.”
“I’d like that,” Liam said, which was the most confirmation he could give. He reached
over the guardrail of his hospital bed and pet Faith’s ear. She climbed up on the side of the bed and stuck her face in his lap. Thomas reached to pull her off, worried she would dislodge the cannula from Liam’s nose. “Let her be for a minute,” Liam said. He kissed the top of Faith’s soggy head. “I want you take Faith home with you today.” It wasn’t a question.
***
Sybil had just elbowed up to a small circle of wives when the Sterlings made their grand entrance. The Sterlings weren’t much younger than Sybil and Thomas, but their faces had very few wrinkles. The oscillating fan blew Mrs. Sterling’s blonde feathered hair high to heaven.
Pastor Sterling’s red cap was pulled down low over his eyes and his white teeth ate up the remainder of his face. The Sterlings were both dressed in head-to-toe cream — and by some miracle, Mrs. Sterling was wearing the exact same suit as Sybil.
Sybil took a deep breath and marched right up to Mrs. Sterling, calling out as she approached her, “Good taste in suits.”
The vacant look in Mrs. Sterling’s eye turned to disgust as she realized the two were twinning. “How fun,” Mrs. Sterling smirked, turning her attention away from Sylvia and to the circle of wives.
“I’ve seen your church on the internet and I’m a big admirer. I’m Sylvia,” she said, jutting out her hand.
“Chastity Sterling,” she said, pressing her manicured hand limply into Sybil’s before looking away again to speak to a woman with similarly feathered hair.
Sybil was persistent. “You know, last time I was in Cape Elizabeth was for my honeymoon back in ’68. Isn’t that wild?” Chastity blinked back at Sybil blankly. “So, I’ll cut to the chase, Chas. Can I call you Chas?” Chastity shook her head. “Chastity it is. Excuse my language, but I’m trying my darnedest to get teens into church and then I see your photos on the internet and it looks like a Taylor Swift concert. Woman to woman, what’s your secret?”
Chastity’s eyes narrowed. She paused to look Sybil up and down. Sybil’s heart felt like a worm wriggling on a hook. Chastity clasped her hands and smiled, as if getting ready to play a favorite game. “You know what, Civil?”
“Sybil,” she corrected.
“Sure, dear,” Chastity said. “I’m about as parched as Moses in the desert. Why don’t you go fetch me a diet soda? When you get back, I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“Absolutely,” Sybil smiled kindly and went over to the refreshment table. When she returned, Chastity took the drink without a word of thanks and continued her conversation with the other wives. Sybil cleared her throat, “So, Chastity…”
“Civil, now that I’m looking over at my husband, I see Pastor Sterling doesn’t have a drink in his hand. He must be thirstier than Jesus of Nazareth up on that cross. Be a sweetheart and bring him a soda.”
“It’s Sybil,” she said, but she returned to the refreshment table.
“Make sure it’s diet,” Chastity ordered in a sugary tone.
***
Thomas and the dog were inseparable since the day he brought her home. She’d jumped up on Sybil and lapped at her face as soon as they entered the house. “This is Liam’s dog,” Thomas said. “Well, now I guess she’s our dog. Her name is Faith.”
Sybil managed to stammer, “You must be joking. There’s no way we’re keeping her.” Faith rammed her nose into Sybil’s crotch. “She’s misbehaving already.”
“A man is dying, honey. Have some compassion,” Thomas said. “Hey, I think she likes you.”
She gasped and pointed to Faith, who had climbed on to their sofa and proceeded to turn
one of Sybil’s prized embroidered throw pillows into a chew toy. “Look at her, she’ll tear this place to shreds.”
“We’re taking her in,” Thomas said. “End of discussion.”
Now the dog was accompanying them everywhere, even on their trip, which had to be rebooked and reconfigured to accommodate Faith. Luckily, the hotel had a room available that allowed dogs. When they arrived in Cape Elizabeth, they had some time before the social. Thomas suggested they take Faith out to the places they had visited as young newlyweds. It was a glowy early evening by the time they drove through the wrought iron gates of Portland Headlight. Lush lawns sloped down to rocky cliffs and the frothing sea. The lighthouse stood dutifully watching over them. They passed a group of tourists huddled around a food truck that sold lobster rolls and parked in a lot up on a hill. Gulls cried overhead as they got out of the car and meandered towards the lighthouse.
A miniature tennis ball rolled through the grass and stopped at Thomas’s sneaker. He reached down and picked it up. A long-haired dachshund came bounding over to retrieve it. The other dog’s owner waved, leaning against a tree across the lawn. The dachshund looked like a rabbit-sized version of Faith. They had the same coloring and wavy texture as her coat. Faith wiggled and sat back expectantly, the other dog seated next to her. Thomas hesitated and then reached down and unclipped Faith’s leash. He hadn’t ever done that before; he was worried she’d run away and wouldn’t come when called. He threw the ball and both dogs took off across the grassy field, their golden coats gleaming in the light. The dachshund scooped up the ball and trotted back to Thomas. Faith followed behind with her nose in the grass.
Sybil sat on a bench surrounded by beach roses and half-watched Thomas playing with the dogs. Her legs were crossed, and her mind was preoccupied, she jiggled the foot that hung in the air. She was anxious to get back to the hotel and iron their clothes for the social that evening. “It was silly for us to come all the way out here. We should go back and get ourselves cleaned up.” She eyed her watch and barked, “Five-minute warning.” She was aware that she sounded like a drill sergeant, but she reassured herself that she was a drill sergeant for God.
“Honey,” Thomas said, pausing with the ball in his fist to turn to her. “Here’s an idea. How about we skip the party tonight?” He gestured to the light shining on the water. “I mean, what a day. We could go over to that other beach we picnicked at. You remember the one? It had a funny name. Like an appliance or something. Iron… no. Cleaver?”
“Kettle,” Sybil said. “Kettle Cove.” She allowed the life of that memory to flood her enough to warm her body one degree. They had heard of the beach from Sybil’s cousin; it was a local’s secret back then. They’d had the hidden inlet to themselves. Sybil’s legs, young and sandy, stretched out a mile long on the blue and white striped towel. She was a good Christian girl — a modest dresser in the streets but by the ocean the rules were off and so were her clothes. She remembered the secret freedom she felt in her bathing suit. There was no virtue to be earned in hiding her body at the beach. There, Sybil could have the full power of her attractiveness on display without any of the guilt and Thomas’s hands, smooth from prayer, were suddenly filled with desire in every digit. She hadn’t felt anything close to that energy from him in a long time. That nineteen-year-old girl was still inside of her. She wanted Thomas to be happy — she wanted to be the one to make him happy. It would bring her happiness, too. But that girl was just one part of Sybil.
Sybil had to physically swat the memory away like a fly buzzing in her ear. “What are you saying, Thomas? The social is the whole reason we’re here. Think of the congregation. What we could do with the type of money the Sterlings have. There’s no way we’re skipping it. That’s out of the question,” Sybil scoffed.
“God is right there, honey,” Thomas said. He pointed to the dogs running across the field, trampling each other to get to the ball. “Can you see? Right there.”
—
Devan Brettkelly is a copywriter and short story writer. She graduated from Scripps College and holds an MFA in Fiction from Saint Mary’s College. Her work has appeared in Barely South Review, Change Seven, and Inverted Syntax. In 2020, Devan attended the Gushul Residency. She is also a hospice volunteer and an INELDA-certified end-of-life doula. She lives in Westbrook, Maine, with her girlfriend and their dog.