Father St. Moritz was walking back from the funeral service with his younger brother Paul, apart from his mother and his brother and a handful of relatives, it became too obvious their grandmother was a well-liked woman.
The two brothers were walking the grounds back to Paul’s car. Much was bothering John about his grandmothers’ death. No one wanted to talk about it or explain what happened; he was more than curious about the circumstances leading up to her death.
Father St. Moritz slipped his hands into the pockets of his black, tweed coat. “Has anyone said anything to you about how she died?” John asked. “No one has said anything to you?” Paul looked strangely at his brother. “Not at all, Mum told me she died of a heart attack, other than that she told me nothing.” John replied. “That’s not what I heard, she didn’t have a heart attack, mum told me she choked on popcorn.” Paul said. “Then why did she tell me she died of a heart attack?” He questioned his brother, at a loss for words, Paul could only shrug in reply. “Are you going to be at the wake?” John was hoping to change the subject. “Sorry I can’t make it, I told Mr. Pratt I would return to New York City after grandma’s funeral.” Paul explained. “But I thought you were here on holiday?”
“Come on, John, you’re the man of the cloth, I thought even you would understand, not everyone can stand to be surrounded by death all of the time; this hasn’t been the most festive of occasions.” Paul smirked. “Are you okay, since I told you our grandmother died . . . I don’t know . . . you just seem to be . . . distant?” Paul said. “I’m not sure I know how to reply to that, you were always grandmas’ favorite, and with me . . . I don’t think she liked me much.” John frowned. Lost in another world, he looked passed his brother and focused on his grandmother’s coffin. “What about you, John, what do you think, if anything?” Paul called out to his brother. “Huh?” Suddenly he was dragged away from his thoughts. “The wake, will you be going?” Paul asked. “Of coarse I’m going to be there, mum needs me to help out.”
“There you go again, always trying to paint me, like I’m the bad guy in front of the family, at least I make more money than you.” Paul laughed. “I wouldn’t say that too loud if I were you.” John looked back at the burial site. “Don’t tell me you are afraid of old grandma finding out that you’re a vicar and not a priest; she’s dead, John, I don’t think she cares.” He chuckled. “Don’t laugh, Paul, if you were her least favorite like I was, you’d be frightened too.” John replied. “Whoever said she didn’t like you?” Paul asked. “She did, after you were born I heard her say to mum that she should have sent me to live with the gypsies, and said one grandchild was enough.”
“Please, John, that grumpy old bat drank about two pints of Irish Whiskey every day; I wouldn’t take her at her word if I were you!” Paul laughed. “Trust me, I spent more time with her and she definitely hated me.” John exclaimed. “All right then, if she hated you so much, then why was she holding onto your picture when she died?” Paul pointed out. “She was probably watching Judgement at Nuernberg, the more she watched that movie, the more she hated me.” John explained. “I still think you’re wrong. There is no way she hated you.” John and his brother joked as they were walking back to his car.