The Best Christian Short Stories

by Brett Lott

  ERIN McGRAW is the author of four books, most recently The Good Life (Houghton-Mifflin, 2004). Her stories and essays have appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, Good Housekeeping, The Southern Review, The Kenyon Review, and other magazines and journals. She teaches at the Ohio State University.

  RESOLVED

  MARSENA KONKLE

  "RESOLVED" FACES THE HARD TRUTH OF THE FACT OUR LIVES are inextricably entwined with the lives of others, and that even in the death of a loved one, we are still left to live our days alongside people for whom we cannot see a way to love. Though Christ's instruction to turn the other cheek might seem a possible answer in theory, it is only when we are at our darkest moments of the soul and are called to do so that our faith is truly put into action.

  —BRET LOTT

  When Theresa looked Miriam up and down with her lips pursed in disapproval, Miriam thought with a sinking feeling, So this is how today's going to go.

  "Bad idea?" Miriam asked, plucking at one of the fuzzy yellow sleeves of her sweater, which she had chosen in lieu of a black blazer, feeling the rightness of this decision as the soft material caressed her arms. It had been her husband's favorite, buttery yellow, like a shag carpet made of chenille, and she had meant to honor him at his funeral by wearing it.

  "Not if you're starring in a parade."

  Shame flushed Miriam's cheeks. She left the sweater with her coat, regretting now the sleeveless dress she wore underneath. She rubbed her chilly arms, waiting for Mr. Larkin, the tall funeral director whose gangly body and high-pitched voice appeared to be stuck in adolescence, to finish showing the stragglers to the remaining open seats. Miriam thought to approach Martha and Henry, her mother- and father-in-law, to hug them or murmur something comforting on the loss of their only son, but was discouraged by their closed expressions, by the way they stood apart from the rest of the group, feet planted solidly, arms crossed, not even speaking to each other. She was saved from her indecision by Mr. Larkin motioning that it was time to begin.

  Her brother, Steven, offered his arm and as they moved down the narrow aisle with the rest of the family following, silence spread outward like the waves from a stone dropped in a pond. She was aware of the suspended sentences, the heads turning her way, the eyes trying to gauge how the young widow was doing.

  Her husband's best friend stepped to the podium, faltering over his first few words, but gaining control. He talked awhile and then invited others to share as well. Henry had been pleased with this idea, of turning the funeral into little more than a memorial service where people could tell humorous or touching anecdotes about Paul. In another setting, Miriam would covet every story, over a cold beer, perhaps, in a dark restaurant or on someone's back porch after the sun had gone down, but here? It felt sacrilegious. The talk should be of Paul's soul, not the funny thing he did in fourth grade.

  Henry sat forward in his seat, hyper alert, eyes glued to whoever was bending earnestly into the microphone. Martha was weeping into a wad of tissue, but nodded her head gratefully every time someone tried to explain how much they had loved and would miss her son.

  Miriam's phone call to Henry and Martha several days before to tell them of Paul's unexpected death had been typical (aside from the topic), as fraught with missteps and peril as petting a porcupine.

  Over the course of her marriage, she had so rarely called her in-laws that when the need arose, she had to consult her address book for the number, dialing with shaking fingers, pushing the wrong buttons several times and having to start over again. The holes in the receiver bit into her ear and there was an eternity of echoing silence between rings. When Henry answered, she had the phone pressed so hard against her head that his voice exploded in her ear. Momentarily, she was unable to speak.

  "I said hello," he repeated. "Who is this?"

  "Dad," she said, the word sticking slightly, as it always did. It's me.

  "Miriam. You wouldn't believe the crank calls we've been getting this week. I can't prove it yet, but I know it's those damn teenagers next door, you know, the ones who—"

  "Is Mom there?" Miriam interrupted. "I've got news that I don't—"

  "Martha," Henry yelled without covering the phone. "Get on the other line, Miriam's got news!"

  Oh, God, Miriam thought, her heart beating somewhere in the vicinity of her toes. He thinks I'm pregnant.

  There was a click and the fumbling of a second extension.

  "Son?" Henry inquired, expecting Paul to be on the phone, too, which was a fair assumption. Often all four of them talked together so nothing had to be repeated. "Is Paul on the line?"

  "No," Miriam said. "Actually, it's about him."

  There was a silence in which Miriam half-expected them to guess or ask questions, but when they did neither, she continued. "We had a snowstorm last night, about nine inches, and he was out shoveling. Actually, he went running this morning before he shoveled, which makes it even harder to understand because he was in such great shape—"

  "What the hell are you babbling about?" Henry demanded.

  He's gone.

  "Gone? What do you mean, gone?" Their minds did not transition quickly from pregnancy to death.

  "Gone," she repeated.

  "He left you." It was not a question.

  And there it was. The ridiculously unexpected remark for which she was wholly unprepared, no matter how she tried to imagine and anticipate ahead of time the hostile labyrinth of Henry's mind.

  Laughter burst from Henry in response to something one of Paul's coworkers had just shared, and Miriam realized her mind had wandered. She drew her tongue across her front teeth to check for lipstick, then felt appalled for caring about such things. She squinted at the sculpted spray of flowers draped over the foot of the casket, as if that would help her focus.

  Earlier that morning, as Miriam's best friend, Esther, used a hundred pins to pull Miriam's hair into a French twist, they had talked about how many funerals they had been to. Esther's grandfather died when she was a child, but most of her relatives were either healthy or still living and dying in China. She had never even been to the funeral of an acquaintance. This was Miriam's fourth, counting both her parents and Steven's lover who had died of cancer when she was in high school. Two of her other brothers had died, too, and although she hadn't been present at either of their funerals, they were so much a part of her consciousness that sometimes she thought she must've been. Miriam couldn't fathom life without the occasional burial and trips to the cemetery every Memorial Day to tend the graves.

  When her father was buried, Miriam was only twenty-five and she had squeezed out a few tears, not because she would miss him, although she would in theory, but because she had already learned that's what one did at funerals. Her tears had ceased, however, the moment she saw Steven crying silently, both hands covering his face, his fingers pushing his glasses onto his forehead. Loneliness had pierced her, watching him struggle to contain himself, because she couldn't comprehend—hadn't anticipated—his grief. Despite their closeness, she might as well have been in a different country, so little did she understand what was taking place within him. She never did ask what their father's death meant to him, why it had hit him so hard. She was afraid she might not be strong enough to handle her older brother's pain.

  And here Steven was, slipping his arm beneath hers and giving her hand a squeeze. She shifted in her chair, returned the pressure, gave herself a mental shake. Pay attention, she commanded, too late, for now she was having to haul herself to her feet so she could follow the casket up the aisle and out into the cold day.

  Pulling into the winding road of the cemetery, Miriam watched the rows of gravestones go by, struck by how unfamiliar they looked. She hadn't realized how much she had come to know her family's cemetery, not only their actual graves, but the names and shapes of the markers of all the others buried there, too. She wondered again at her decision to do as Henry wished and exclude her priest from the service, which meant burying Paul here among al
l these strangers rather than with the rest of her family in the Catholic cemetery.

  When she stepped out of the car, she looked down the long procession of vehicles, each with a flag on its roof, snaking all the way back to the entrance and onto the main road. People began making their way slowly toward her, the sound of their car doors a soft staccato in the chill air.

  Mr. Larkin helped the pallbearers move the casket into place, and one of his assistants directed Miriam to a canvas chair where he draped a blanket over her knees. It was dark avocado, coarse and heavy. Martha squeezed into the chair next to her, and Theresa took the last one. The men would stand behind.

  Despite the biting wind, people gathered in loose clusters wherever snow had been adequately cleared rather than pressing close together for warmth. Miriam craned her neck. She spotted Esther, her hair pulled back in a matching French twist, staring into space, cradling her four-year-old daughter in her arms and swaying back and forth. The little girl was sucking her thumb, cheek pressed against her mother's shoulder.

  Over there was one of Paul's childhood friends. A few of her coworkers. His baseball teammates. As Miriam's glance traveled past groups of people, she caught numerous eyes shifting away from hers.

  She saw near the hearse a glimpse of white and, thinking it was Father Jake in one of his ornately embroidered robes, heat sizzled along her nerves at the thought that Henry would see him, although this was precisely what she had been searching, hoping, for. But it was only a woman in a long white coat.

  Paul's best friend took charge again, and while he read scripture and said a brief prayer—which was apparently acceptable to Henry, who reverently bowed his head—it didn't carry the weight or comforting authority it would have if Father Jake had been the one using the exact same words.

  Miriam tried to imagine what would have happened if she had defied Henry's demand for a non-religious funeral. Although her father-in-law was generally on his best behavior around her, twice now she had seen a latent fire beneath the surface, a hard core of anger, a cruelty she could not fathom.

  The first time was at her wedding, when she had turned to meet her father-in-law's gaze and in the reflection of his chiseled jaw, the calculating glint of his eyes, she saw herself as something to be wiped off the bottom of his shoe. It wasn't just that he disagreed with her faith. It was personal.

  The second time had been a few days before, in the showroom of the funeral home, over a rush of forced air, where fluorescent lights buzzed.

  Caskets lined the room, each partly open to display fluffs of material and small pillows. Each model gleamed, whether red, metallic, or plain wood. Miriam felt suddenly hot and shrugged off her coat, holding it tightly against her chest.

  Martha gripped Miriam's arm. They made eye contact and Martha's lips twitched upward, not an expression to cheer or even to encourage, but one that took the other in, acknowledging the unique yet connected blow each had received. Her mother-in-law's grip was fierce, belying her unremarkable eyes that rarely seemed to have life in them. She was a large woman, bent under layers of extra flesh, which had also led Miriam to judge her as soft and ineffectual. Miriam felt surprise and shame for not believing all along that Martha possessed reserves of hidden strength.

  Mr. Larkin seemed ill at ease. Rather than leaving them to look at the caskets on their own, he talked about each one in nervous detail, pointing to the durability of steel, the timeless beauty of mahogany, the fold-away handles for pallbearers.

  Martha moved to a casket the color of honey and ran both hands back and forth along the smooth top.

  "You'll also notice that in each casket are displayed the different linings. You can choose the fabric as well as style. Satin, for instance, or linen . . ."

  Steven stood close to Miriam, arms crossed over his slightly protruding belly, watchful and listening.

  " . . . velvet, tucked, shirred, fitted . . ."

  Henry interacted with each casket, examining finishes, jiggling handles, pressing one or both hands into the depths of the box as if to test his weight against the comfort of the various cushions, unaware of the way his movements made Mr. Larkin's hands flutter.

  "How do people decide?" Miriam asked no one in particular.

  "Whatever seems most important to you," answered Mr. Larkin. "Some people like one wood better than another, others like stainless steel. Some decide based on the color of their spouse's hair—"

  "Are you kidding me?" she said.

  He shrugged as if to say he had nothing to do with it.

  "Finances," Steven said. "Money is a factor, too."

  Henry looked up from his examination of bronze fixtures. "Price is not important."

  "Actually, it's a serious and valid consideration for Miriam," Steven contradicted.

  "I'll pay for it. Price will not be a factor for my son."

  "What?" Miriam was taken aback. "Why would you pay? I can't let you do that."

  "No arguments." He glared at her, then turned back to examine a little treasure drawer, where loved ones could stash jewelry or ball caps or notes or whatever else they could think of.

  She looked helplessly at Martha, who was no longer rubbing her hands back and forth, but stood with her palms flat against the coffin lid. Steven merely raised his eyebrows and shoulders ever so slightly.

  "Which one do you like?" Mr. Larkin asked her.

  "None of them."

  His hands rose like sparrows, alighting on the knot in his tie.

  "Here," Henry proclaimed. "This one's good. Solid." His knuckle thumped the side twice. "But I don't like the gold hinges and designs. Silver would be better." The lid had a ropelike molding, the sides heavy with gold applique. The wood was dark walnut, the color of their kitchen cabinets.

  A noise escaped from Miriam, which she tried to turn into a convincing cough.

  "This is the one." Martha's voice, unheard until this moment, was barely more than a murmur, but every head swiveled as if she had used a megaphone.

  "This is the one," she repeated, her hands once again caressing the plain, honey-colored casket. "And Henry will pay for it." Her voice assumed such authority that even he didn't protest.

  "Okay," he said, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and going back on his heels. He nodded in Mr. Larkin's direction. "That one. And I'll pay."

  Back in his office, it didn't take long for Mr. Larkin to gather the rest of the information he needed. Behind him, a window revealed an expanse of dull clouds, yet his mahogany desk, lacquered like one of his coffins, managed to capture enough light to glint painfully against Miriam's eyes. She was glad to finally thank him and shake his hand, but when she stood to go, Henry leaned back in his chair, extending his legs and blocking the doorway.

  "Now let's talk about the funeral," he said.

  "Yeah, we'll do that now," Miriam said. "We've got an appointment with Father Jake—"

  "How about you sit down and we deal with it here. There's a nice room here that I'm sure Ted—can I call you Ted?—would let us use for the funeral." He turned to the director, who paled. "Isn't that right?"

  Again, Miriam looked to Martha for help, but she was sitting with eyes focused on the floor, not listening, or simply incapable of taking part. Had her mother-in-law's earlier decree been a fluke? Miriam swayed slightly and touched the edge of Mr. Larkin's desk for balance. Had Henry really said this was costing him too much to not have a say in where the funeral was held? Surely not. She dropped back into her chair.

  "Paul wanted a Catholic funeral," Steven said.

  "What do you know about it?" Henry demanded.

  "He and Miriam talked about it. Specifically."

  Miriam nodded. "We did. We both wanted our funerals at Immaculate Heart."

  "I didn't raise my son to be a holy roller. Now that he's dead," he paused for effect, "it's time for you to show me and my family some respect."

  Martha closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest.

  "Just because you don't share the
same faith as your son doesn't mean you have the right to say that," Steven said, standing, as if ready for a fight.

  Miriam had never heard this tone of voice from her brother. Her father-in-law's face had gone white, his thin mouth a slice of red above a thick chin. He shifted to get out of his seat, and Miriam popped out of her chair.

  "You know what?" she said, "I don't think Paul would want us to fight over this. Let's just have the funeral here. I think that would probably be best." She reached for Steven's hand and pushed at him, gently, until he sat down. "Would that be okay, Mr. Larkin? Do you have a room we could use?"

  He nodded and she sat back down, pressing her palms flat against her knees to hide their trembling. She could feel Steven staring at her in disbelief.

  Yes, she thought, with hard-earned fortitude, as she listened to the simple prayer being said over Paul's grave. It's better this way.

  When the casket was lowered, Miriam stood to drop the first handful of cold dirt on top. This was one of the only things she had insisted on. Her family had always witnessed the lowering of the casket, and she could not be swayed, even by Mr. Larkin, who felt the newer tradition of walking away before that happened was for the best.

  She had expected the dirt to be frozen hard, but it felt strangely warm and damp. Just this side of mud. She looked at her hand in surprise and before she knew what she was doing, brushed a finger across her right cheek. Theresa, after dropping a rose and crossing herself, dug a tissue out of her purse and handed it to Miriam, who looked at it blankly. Theresa took it back and used it to wipe Miriam's face. Miriam closed her eyes at the unexpected tenderness with which Theresa touched her.

  A gust of wind blew her coat open and she felt her bare arms cold against the slippery lining of her coat. Her yellow sweater was lying in the trunk of the car.

  Across the open grave she could sense Henry watching her and was careful to avoid looking directly his way.