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By Kay Hanifen
Carrie’s head throbbed. It had been hurting since the bus got stuck in the snow, but the steady thrum of pain drove her to distraction. She knew she should pay attention to her congregation’s stories, but the constant pain made it hard to focus and to say the right thing. Ramona was always better at that anyway. Carrie might have become the preacher, but Ramona always knew just what to say to help people. She would have known what to say to Kate after her story, providing comfort without hurting her more than she was already suffering. God, she missed her wife. But Carrie was here, not her better half, and her aching head made the words come out wrong.
If she closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough, she could imagine Ramona’s gentle hands soothing the pain away.
But as much as she hurt, John was hurting more right now, and he needed comfort.
As soon as he finished the story, he threw the taxidermized head to the ground. “That was how he died. Oh God, that was how my dad died.”
Carrie crossed the room to kneel in front of him. “Your father?”
John wiped the tears away, but they were soon replaced by more. “Mom always said he died in a hunting accident, and never elaborated beyond that. I-I always thought she was keeping something from me, but oh God, no one deserves that. My dad sucked, but even he didn’t deserve that.”
Her knees protested as she got back up, but what part of her body wasn’t protesting these days? “Can I give you a hug?”
His arms shot out and wrapped around her waist. She gently rubbed his back. “It really happened,” he repeated. “I don’t know how I know this, but it happened like I said.”
She glanced over, searching for the Innkeeper, but he was conspicuously out of sight. Figures.
Ever since they arrived, she’d been working on theories about this place. It wasn’t an ordinary inn; that was for sure, but it didn’t fit within any mythological or theological framework that she knew. She had been tallying a mental pros and cons list of each one that seemed similar.
At first, she thought the Innkeeper might be one of the fair folk. That would fit with the insistence on hospitality and the sharing of food so wonderful, it was almost otherworldly, but the Innkeeper was blatantly lying about some things, which the fair folk could not do. She thought of Zeus and how he represented the practice of xenia, ancient Greece’s laws of hospitality. These laws also required sharing meals with guests, but it still didn’t quite fit. There were stories of angels unaware, but that was usually people in need of help rather than a helper. And the stories of angelic intervention were quick incidents with plausible deniability, not an elaborate house and a Christmas Eve dinner.
There was one conclusion she had come to, one that seemed to make the throbbing in her head worse every time she thought about it, but she didn’t want to voice it yet. If she did, she would just cause a panic, and it wasn’t like it would do anybody any good anyway.
She just wanted to go home.
But right now, her congregation needed her.
The song on the record player ended, and the violin notes of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” began to play. But it wasn’t the usual song. Electric guitars joined the chorus alongside “Carol of the Bells.” Carrie had always been fond of Christmas Carols, but this composition by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra was her favorite, especially after she heard the story behind it. It had been the basis for a sermon or two in the past.
“Do you know what inspired this composition?” she asked softly.
John picked up his head. Tears still streaked down his cheek and she wiped them away. “Hm?”
“This song. It’s called ‘Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24’ and it was inspired by Vedran Smailović, known as the Cellist of Sarajevo. After twenty-two people were killed by mortar shells while waiting in line for bread during the Bosnian War, he kept a vigil, playing music for twenty-two days in bombed out buildings and under threat of sniper rifle. In the midst of all the horrors that surrounded him, he did something to give it beauty.” Once again ignoring the protest of her knees, she knelt in front of John to be on his level. “You’ve also been touched by the awfulness of the world, and instead of letting it turn you cruel, you decided to fight for something you believed in. In the face of darkness, you became a light. I’m sorry that your dad never got to appreciate the ways that you shine.”
He gave her a watery smile before wrapping his arms around her again. “As much as it hurts, I’m glad I know now.”
Over his shoulder, she watched Maven move in closer and pat his back. “Hey, uh, I’ll lay off the vegan jokes from now on, okay?”
He chuckled weakly and straightened, wiping his eyes. “Finally got tired of beating a dead horse?”
Maven laughed. “I think we’ve had enough animal cruelty for tonight.”
Carrie tried to get up, but felt her knees lock into place. Great. She cleared her throat. “Erm, old lady needs a little assist here.”
“I’ll help,” Mildred and Rich said in unison, leaping into action, helping pull her to her feet. Carrie was so blessed to be surrounded by such wonderful people.
She grabbed a cookie as she sat down, savoring the shortbread as she watched her friends talk all around her and listening as the final notes of the song faded away. She thought of the lone man playing music as the bombs crashed around him, defying the horrors of war in the only way he knew how: by making something beautiful.
This, she thought, was the expression of her faith. She was a rather unconventional (and some would say borderline heretical) reverend in that she never believed that Christianity was the only path to get into heaven. After all, the many families of those boys abandoned to die alone in the AIDS ward had been Christian, and many of the kindest nurses who tended to them had been atheist. No, she never saw her faith as the only path, not when she knew for a fact that there were more things in heaven or earth than dreamt of in any philosophy.
Instead, she expressed her faith by trying to be a light in the darkness, a hand to help, love in the face of hatred.
Her path to becoming a reverend had been as unusual as she was, but then again, so was Jesus and his teachings back during His time, not that she compared to Him. She was simply following in His footsteps and standing by her beliefs even in the face of the establishment pushing back.
Her eyes met Kate’s. She had learned to get comfortable with eye contact over the decades, but it still made her cringe internally. She felt bad for causing Kate’s outburst. They had never agreed on much, but she should have at least tried to see things from Kate’s point of view. Everyone wants to feel heard, after all.
She flashed Kate an awkward smile, and the other woman abruptly looked away. Still angry then...
Carrie would apologize, but she didn’t really know what she said wrong. The apology would ring hollow and insincere and therefore, be unproductive. Ramona would have known just what to say.
God, she missed her. She just wanted to go home to her wife’s embrace.
“Carrie,” the Innkeeper said softly. He seemed to appear right next to her as though from thin air and held a wrapped gift in his hands. Their host was so familiar. She was certain she saw him in the AIDS ward when she volunteered, but if that was true, he hadn’t aged a day. Maybe it was his father that she saw. Smiling softly, he handed her the wrapped gift. “I think it might be your turn.”
The rest of the group fell quiet, all eyes on her as she carefully unwrapped the paper like disarming a bomb. When she saw the book of folklore, she burst into tears and held it to her chest.
“What is it?” Rachel asked, getting to her feet in alarm.
Carrie just shook her head and held up the battered hardcover. “It’s something I never thought I would see again. This book saved not only my life but Ramona’s.” When she opened it to the inscription, fresh tears fell on the page.
Carrie,
I know we technically can’t get married, but I don’t care. We can wear the rings and call ourselves wives, and maybe someday it can be official. Until then, I will be the happiest woman on earth if I can call you mine.
Love,
Ramona
P.S. Check the entry where it all began.
Forty years ago, she opened the book to that fateful page, suspecting what she would find based on the lump in between the pages. A ring fell out, and Ramona, on her knees, picked it up and placed it on Carrie’s left finger. The moment it was legalized, they were officially married and spent eight joyous years as wives.
Even now, the indentation of the ring remained on the book’s most important entry. Weeping, she hugged it again to her chest and prayed that this was a sign from Ramona.
“Didn’t you bury that book with her?” Ronnie asked, his voice full of soft wonder.
She nodded. “I did. It saved our lives, and I guess a part of me hoped it would protect her in the afterlife."
Erica furrowed her brows in confusion. "How could a book of folklore save your life?”
Carrie smiled. “Ramona and I never told anyone how we really met. If you weren’t there, it would sound made up, so we just said I stopped someone from mugging her. I guess now, I have nothing to lose by telling you all. She was the love of my life, and you all should know just how brave she was.”
