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The Last Chaplain

By Carl M. White

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THE LAST CHAPLAIN
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE

“THE REFRIGERATOR”

Like an inchworm, John worked his way across the floor toward the kitchen. Push the walker ahead, take a step with the good leg, drag and half slide the bad leg. Then push the walker ahead again, on and on, inch by inch.
How simple it used to be—get out of bed, put on slippers and a housecoat, and walk to the kitchen to get a glass of cranberry juice from the refrigerator.
He tried to start every day with a fresh glass of cranberry juice. His wife frequently said that if all she brought home from the store was cranberry juice, John would be happy. She could buy the whole store and forget the cranberry juice, and he would complain.
That was pretty much true. He loved his cranberry juice first thing in the morning, and he wasn’t waiting around for Josie to get there to get it for him. He could get it himself one inch at a time.
John pushed his walker across the grey, limestone floor toward a built-in Sub-Zero refrigerator/freezer unit with red oak doors that matched the cabinets. It was a u-shaped, gourmet quality kitchen with black granite countertops and high-end appliances and finishes. As John approached the refrigerator, he spoke, “Cranberry juice.”
The screen on the front of the appliance lit up, and a soft feminine voice responded. “There is one 64-ounce bottle of Ocean Spray Cranberry juice. It is approximately half full. Would you like to know the expiration date?”
It wasn’t the fridge talking; it was the house computer system, of which the fridge, the washer and dryer, the dishwasher, the freezer, the heating and air, the TV and the internet and the phone systems, the indoor and outdoor lighting systems, and the window shades and blinds—among other things—were all controlled. John could call up a bath at a precise temperature from his recliner. The grandchildren were really impressed.
Frankie was not. They had come to live in this high-tech wonder of a house nearly six years ago. Frankie died three years later. She never did like the house. She felt like it was watching, listening, like they were never really alone.
“Don’t talk to that refrigerator,” she would tell John in an exasperated voice.
John figured, why not? For some reason when John talked to the refrigerator, he liked to call it Freda.
“It’s not a person,” his wife would say. “It’s just a computer. Don’t treat it like it’s real.”
John never saw the harm. Now, all these years later, he would rather talk to the refrigerator than just about any of his regular visitors. With Freda, he knew where he stood. There was no ambiguity, no duplicity, no reason to suspect a hidden agenda. He asked for information; Freda gave it.
“Yes, Freda, what is the expiration date of the cranberry juice?” he asked.
Freda answered. “February 3, 2026. John, would you like an inventory of the refrigerator’s contents and the expiration dates of items soon to expire?”
“No thank you,” John answered.
It would probably be the most delightful conversation he would have all day.
The kitchen door chime sounded. Josie entered in a rush like she did every morning. Josie was a 42-year-old African-American private home healthcare nurse who carried around a few extra pounds on a short, 5 foot 4-inch frame. Because John was between daily caretakers, Josie had to come by every morning to see that he was up, fix breakfast, and tend to his meds.
“Pastor John, now you know the rules. You’re not to get out of the bed until someone arrives. You’re a fall risk!” she said firmly.
John ignored her. He reached out to open the refrigerator door, and the small juice glass he was also trying to hold fell from his grasp, shattering as it hit the floor.
“You see, Pastor John, that could have been you falling to that floor, and that could have been your hip, or your head, shattering. That’s why you’re not supposed to get out of the bed without someone here to help you,” Josie rattled as she retrieved a broom from the pantry.
John was irritated. He was irritated by the sound of her bossy voice, that he was dependent on help, and that he still couldn’t hold on to a small glass, months after his stroke. The truth was the Reverend Doctor John A. Grant was irritated with life.
He was alone. His best friend and wife, Frankie, didn’t survive a two-year ordeal with cancer. His four children and five grandchildren were scattered to kingdom come, and he hardly saw them. Thirty-seven years of pastoral ministry had ended in disaster. A stroke had nearly left him an invalid, and he was dependent on the charity of others. To put it in words he would not say aloud—life sucked!
John slowly turned and started moving his six-foot-one frame toward the breakfast table. John didn’t carry any additional weight, consistently weighing in at about 150 pounds. He had always taken pride in his physical fitness, though he was never athletic. Today he carried even less weight, down to about 120.
“You not talking today?” Josie asked.
John inched along, silently. “Not to you,” he thought to himself.
“Okay, okay, you can keep as silent as you wish. I guess after all those years of preaching you used up all your words and you just don’t have any left to say.” She was trying to goad him.
John wasn’t biting. He just continued along like an inchworm all the way to the table.
Josie was not letting up. “Okay, have it your way. You can be as quiet as a church mouse for all I care, but you are going to listen to me.”
She retrieved another glass and reached into the refrigerator to get the cranberry juice. The refrigerator said, “The expiration date on that Ocean Spray Cranberry juice ... “
“Hush up! If I want to know the expiration date, I’ll look on the label,” Josie snapped.
John spoke up. “There is no need to be snippy with Freda. She didn’t do anything,”
“Oh, oh, I see how it is. You care about the refrigerator, but you won’t talk to me!”
John said nothing. Now he was goading her.
Josie put the glass of juice in front of him. “Here’s your juice. Now, Pastor, you’ve got a new day sitter coming this morning. She’ll be here in a few minutes. You’ve got to promise me you’ll treat this one nicely. The last three all quit, the third one after two days. Two days! That’s a record, even for you.”
As Josie talked, she opened her bag to take his vital signs.
“That last girl left here saying that this was a godless house and that you were a crazy man. Now Pastor, we just can’t have that.” She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm as she spoke.
John thought to himself, “Get me a person with some faith—real faith—not just superstition disguised as faith, and it will all work out.”
Josie put down her stethoscope, wrote down his numbers, and took his now empty juice glass and poured more cranberry juice. “Use this to take your meds,” as she put down a small paper cup with six pills in it.
There would be more pills at noon, even more at dinner, and yet more at bedtime. This was his life now. Pills in the morning, pills in the evening, pills at suppertime, he thought to himself along with the tune of “Ragtime Dolls.”
The back doorbell rang.
“That’s her now. I mean it Pastor John; you treat this one right. I’m a healthcare professional, not a caretaker. You’ve got to make this work.” Josie scurried to the back door.
Lisa came in.
She was 31 but looked a little older. She had lived life hard in her younger years, but now, she was settled. She was about five foot seven and could stand to lose a little weight. She had shoulder-length auburn hair that she liked to wear pulled back in a ponytail. She was pretty in a cute sort of way, with a warm, fun-loving kind of smile.
This was a good paying job, though the hours were long. That was 6ine with her. She did not need idle time.
Plan and fix meals, administer meds, wash clothes, do light housekeeping (there was a regular housekeeper), do the grocery shopping and provide transportation when needed. And all of this was for a retired pastor. She hoped that this old man wouldn’t hit on her like her last client, an 80-year-old with octopus arms and hands.
Josie said, “Dr. Grant, this is Lisa Smithy. She is your new day sitter.”
Lisa smiled and extended her hand.
John looked up at her, and looked down, not saying anything while reaching out a limp right hand.
Josie, always in a hurry, said, “Come on girl, I’ll show you around.”
John started eating the cereal and fruit Josie had placed before him while the two women disappeared down the hall to the west side of the house. He reached out and touched his iPad 7 on the table. With a few touches, he had the morning paper before him. For the next 15 minutes, he slowly chewed and read while Josie’s irritating voice introduced Lisa to the various features of this high-tech home.
“Smithy,” John thought. His mind reached back into his memory of over 25 years as pastor of the large, downtown church. “Smithy. I wonder?” he thought. He knew time was running out and he needed to find someone he could trust.
A few minutes later Josie and Lisa came back into the kitchen.
“You’ll find the pantry behind that door, and all you have to do is tell the house system you’re out of this item or that, and it will be added to your shopping list. Sync your phone to the system, and the list will be sent to your phone.”
“Like Alexa?” Lisa asked.
“Like Alexa on steroids. That computer on the desk is linked to the main house computer. On the pin board behind it is a menu for the next few days and a list of the vendors who service the house. You’ll get to make out the next menu. This one you’re stuck with.”
Josie sighed, “I shouldn’t have to tell you all of this. I’m a healthcare professional. Bob Burns will give you more details and take you through the steps of voice recognition so the computer will respond to your commands. In the meantime, you’ll just have to ask Pastor John to talk to this blasted machine for you.”
Lisa looked at Pastor John, quietly peeling a banana on the other side of the room. She whispered, “Does he talk?”
Josie looked over at him and back at Lisa, whispering back, “Oh yeah, he talks, but you don’t listen to everything he says, okay? And you don’t have to answer all his crazy questions. You’re not being interviewed for this job. It is yours already.”
John smiled slightly. His hearing was just fine. And he was going to interview her.
Pastor John and Josie had what appeared to be an adversarial relationship, but down deep he appreciated all she had done for Frankie and for him. On her part, Josie had great admiration for Dr. Grant. He was a compassionate man with a great mind. Life had just been hard on him these past few years. Josie had been helping the Grants since Frankie had first gotten ill. She really loved that woman, and she loved the pastor.
But she was a healthcare professional, not a caretaker, and she had other clients to see today. She did not have time to be a tour guide.
“Look,” Josie said, “Mr. Burns will be here sometime this morning. He will show you the rest of the house and explain everything else to you. In the meantime,” she pointed toward John, “he’s all yours. He has had his meds and is finishing his breakfast. He will want to take a shower. All you’ll have to do is lay out some clothes for him and help him with his socks and shoes. By the time he finishes, he’ll be worn out and ready to get in his recliner and take a nap.
“Are you good?” Josie asked her.
“I’m good,” Lisa said, standing up tall with a confident smile.
“Okay, then. I’m out of here.” Josie scurried over to the breakfast table to get her things. “John darling, I’m leaving.”
Then she leaned over to John’s ear and spoke softly but firmly. “You treat this girl right. We can’t do this again.”
Josie straightened up, smiled a half sincere smile at John, with a twinkle in her eye. John looked up at her and returned a half sincere smile and the twinkle, and Josie was gone.
The kitchen door chimed as she bolted out. Lisa turned and looked at John. He was back to his banana and reading his iPad as if she wasn’t even there. Lisa thought to herself, “I can do this.”

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