Time to Kill at the Holy Water

A Short Story

The years went by like unmoored boats borne on a river current.

Paul Nizan, Antoine Bloye

I didn't want to arrive at Serenity Meadows too early, and the morning paper bored me in a hurry, so with half a mug of coffee left I turned on the outdoor channel. What I got was the middle of one of those fishing shows with a pair of rustic anglers with names like Jethro and Clem-one fat and one skinny, resembling Abbot and Costello-out on their boat on some dismal Southern swamp after big-mouth bass.


Right away, the skinny one hooked a fish and took three or four seconds to crank it in.

"Ain't that a pretty fish,'" the fat one said.

"Man, that sure is one pretty fish," the skinny one answered.

"Ain't they all though?"

"Oh yes, oh yes."

"Ain't that pretty? Look at 'im! Look at 'im!"

"I am lookin', pardner."

"That ol' boy hit that ol' Tapdancer right up on the surface!"

"Right on top! Dang if he ain't a pretty fish!"

"Ain't he?"

"He is!"

I punched the Off button and never even finished my coffee.


Whenever I visit my father-in-law at the Serenity Meadows assisted living home-and I go once a week, on Wednesday or Thursday-I'm met by a little old lady called Sal, short for Sally I presume. On decent days, spring through early fall, unless it happens to be raining, Sal sits in a rocker on the front porch. Every time a new arrival pulls into the parking lot she stops