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By Kay Hanifen
Rich let out a breath at the end of Reverend Lane’s story. He always saw her as this sweet, grandmotherly figure, but apparently, she and her wife were badasses. Then again, they had been openly gay for decades, which was pretty brave in itself. He wished he could have even an ounce of that courage, but he knew what he was.
The fire in the fireplace crackled, making him flinch. The smell of smoke still nauseated him even after all these years. But it wasn’t nearly as bad as the odor of cooking meat, especially barbecued pork. That was enough to send him retching into the nearest toilet.
This fire, though, smelled of gasolene, and it gave him an awful headache.
“I’m surprised,” Kate said, and everyone held their breath, waiting for her to say something offensive, as she was wont to do. “I would have expected for Ramona to share her story as a testimonial.”
“What do you mean?” Bethany asked, her voice a low warning.
But nonetheless, Kate barreled on, apparently oblivious to the glares sent her way. “It’s just a wonderful story. A stripper escapes her shame and finds Jesus. Like Mary Magdalene."
Rich had gotten the lecture from Reverend Lane that Mary Magdalene was not, in fact, a prostitute. She was a wealthy woman who had helped support Jesus’s ministry, and it wasn’t until Pope Gregory I conflated her with Mary of Bethany and the unnamed sinful woman who anointed His feet that she was depicted as a sex worker. Jesus had been kind to prostitutes and adulterers, of course, but Mary Magdalene was not one of them.
He and Mildred made eye contact, each grabbing a cookie in lieu of popcorn in preparation for this spirited debate.
“Shame?” Reverend Lane growled, her eyes growing stormy. “You think she was ashamed of who she was? Or do you think I was? Because I never, for one moment, felt any shame about the woman I loved most in the world.”
Kate’s eyes widened. Apparently, she hadn’t realized just what kind of mistake she had made. “Carrie, I didn’t mean to imply—”
The reverend cut her off. “Yes, you did. And I think that’s the difference between us. I never want anyone to feel ashamed for who they are. I am a follower of the Jesus who dined with prostitutes and tax collectors, the Jesus who comforted the ill and risked getting infected with leprosy to heal those cast out by society.”
She got to her feet, practically shaking with rage. Rich had never seen the reverend angry before, and it was unsettling, like a gentle family dog suddenly going rabid. “Yes, I am not a conventional preacher by even liberal Episcopal standards. And do you know why? It’s because I didn’t build this church for them. I built it for Ramona, and myself, and anyone else who had ever been outcasted by society.”
She slowly advanced upon the older woman. Rich wondered if things were about to be physical. Could he break up a fistfight between old ladies? Should he? “I never wanted Ramona to feel ashamed of herself or her past. I only ever wanted her to see herself as the wonder I saw her as. I mean, where were you, Kate, when children of God were being rejected by their Christian families and abandoned to die alone in AIDS wards? Because I know where Ramona was. She was right by my side, studying to be a nurse when she wasn’t volunteering and protesting. She held the hands of the abandoned and pretended to be their mother when they cried out in their delirium. She comforted them until the very end. Were you there too? Or were you passing judgment from on high?”
“Carrie, that’s not fair,” Kate protested.
“Maybe not. But most things aren’t fair when you get down to it. And I am sick of your self-righteous—ugh!” She swayed, clutching her head. In moments, Rachel and the Innkeeper were at her side. Rich reached out for her but couldn’t bring himself to approach and risk getting in the middle of this fight.
“Carrie, are you okay?” Rachel asked softly.
“I just want to go home,” the reverend replied miserably. “I need to be with Ramona.”
Ronnie got to his feet and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “As soon as the roads are cleared, we’ll get you home.”
Reverend Lane shook her head. “No, that’s not the one I’m talking about.”
Rich and John exchanged worried glances. He was hardly a medical doctor, but this kind of delirium was a bad sign, wasn’t it? They all knew she likely had a concussion, but what if it was worse than that? What if she had a brain bleed or something and they were all trapped with nowhere to take her for treatment?
“I’ll take her to her room,” the Innkeeper said, gently wrapping his arm around Reverend Lane.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Erica said. “She might have a brain hemorrhage. We need to keep her alert.”
Reverend Lane sighed, still clutching her head. “It’s not like anyone will be able to do much. Not until the storm ends.” She looked up at the Innkeeper, her expression almost childlike in its vulnerability. “It will pass soon, won’t it? I just want to go home.”
The Innkeeper nodded. “And I’ll be sure to keep you comfortable until it does.” With that, he led her out of the living room.
Silence fell over the remaining ten people. Maven was the one who broke it. “Nice going, Kate,” she practically growled. “You really had to insult her dead wife like that?”
Kate had the good sense to look abashed. There was little love lost between her and Maven. The former saw Maven as impetuous and disrespectful of her elders while the latter saw Kate as a self-righteous know-it-all. But this time, Kate didn’t look like she was gearing up for a fight. “I really didn’t mean to—”
“Yeah, you just don’t know how to keep your judgment to yourself,” Maven retorted.
“Hey Maven, lay off,” Brenda cut in.
The look Maven shot her was downright murderous. “So you’re taking her side?”
“I don’t think there’s a side to take,” Rich said, finally finding his voice. “And I don’t think Reverend Lane would want us fighting like this.”
“She looked ready to throw hands to me,” Maven replied.
“You’re right,” Kate said softly.
Maven blinked. “What?”
“I said you’re right. I shouldn’t have said what I did to her.” She got to her feet. “I should apologize.”
“Maybe give it a couple minutes,” Bethany said from her corner of the room. “Let her cool down some.”
Kate sighed, defeated, and returned to her seat. “You’re probably right.”
Rich felt a pair of eyes on him and glanced down. The cat—Nicodemus, wasn’t it? —sat staring at him like he was a tin of tuna waiting to be opened. He’d noticed it focusing on Erica when they arrived, but apparently, it was now more interested in him. He might have just been on edge, but he didn’t like the way Nicodemus’s gaze seemed to see right through him. His eyes were just as unsettling as the Innkeeper’s. People and their pets tended to look alike, so he wondered who got it from who.
“So, who’s next?” Erica asked brightly.
Rich didn’t want to go next. He truly did not want to go over to the tree, pick out a present, and open it in front of everyone. But his body seemed to move of its own accord. He got to his feet, reached under the tree, and picked up a small box. It felt like watching a car crash. He wanted to do something, anything, to stop it, but he was helpless in the face of this compulsion.
Guilt turned to nausea in his gut. He knew what his story would be, and he dreaded telling it, dreaded the judgment that everyone would pass once they learned who he really was.
With shaking fingers, he untied the bow and tore away the wrapping paper. Then, he opened the lid of his box.
“Coal,” Maven said, rolling her eyes. “Real original.”
But it wasn’t just a lump of coal. The name, “Lance,” had been scrawled inside the box in charcoal and carved into the lump itself. At first glance, this was a cutesy Christmas prank. Don’t know what to get your coworker? Just give them some coal and say they were on the naughty list. But this was more than just a prank.
It was a threat.
Someone in this group knew who he was and knew who Lance was, and they wanted to remind him of the worst thing he had ever done.
As much as he wanted to chuck the gift into the fireplace, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t let his anger get the better of him. Not again. Never again.
A storm of shame and guilt raged inside of him, and he felt like a Coke bottle filled with mentos and ready to explode. He needed to get the story out.
He owed that much to Lance, at least. “Okay, I guess it’s my turn to tell the story.”
