Mava climbed back to street level and crossed the bridge. Once on the opposite bank, she descended to the north edge of Fall Creek, and turned to face away from the river. She could see the upper story of St. Vincent’s Hospital, with a cross at the peak of the roof over its main entrance. As the setting sun peeked out from behind a cloud, it shone directly on the white cross, making it reflect a silver-gold hue. Had Nick noticed the cross? Did he think of a church, a hospital or another place of refuge? Mava needed to find out. She trudged up the riverbank, across the street and through St. Vincent’s main door.
A few people lingered in the lobby, putting on hats and gloves. A faint scent of disinfectant hung in the dry interior air. The pale green walls, the crucifix on the wall, the picture of St.Vincent next to the main entrance transported her back to student days, only four and half years ago. She’d changed so much since then.
She turned to her right, walked down a hallway, and entered a door marked “Men’s Medical”. A young nurse wearing a pointed white cap looked up at her. At first, her gaze was blank, but she blinked her eyes and the flash of recognition crossed her features. “Mava! I heard you’d enlisted. And now you’re back.”
Mava tried to manage a smile. “Hello, Veronica. Yes, I did enlist, and was stationed in Europe for a couple of years.”
“So glad you’re safe. Are you visiting someone on our ward?”
“Ron, don’t think I’m crazy, but I’m hoping that I will recognize one of your patients. One of my coworkers is missing, a former soldier. He may be suffering from combat stress. He may not even know who he is.”
Veronica’s jaw dropped. “We have a patient that walked into the lobby yesterday, without a coat, wet shoes…no identification and unable to give us his name. He has a superficial gunshot wound to his right forearm.”
“Is he a youngish man?” Mava’s heart pounded.
“I would say so. He sleeps mostly. Sometimes he eats a little. Hasn’t said much of anything.”
“Can I see him?”
Veronica looked uncomfortable at the suggestion. “He’s not supposed to have visitors. Doctor’s orders.”
“Please, Ron. His brother is sick with worry.”
“Maybe you should bring his brother here.”
“It would be difficult. His brother had polio, has a hard time walking.” Mava tried to appear calm. Come on, Ron. I need to see this man now! Don’t get all pious on me.
Veronica bit her lip. “All right. You can have a look at him. I just peeked in a minute ago, he was asleep.” She pushed back her chair and stood.
Mava followed her to a bed at the farthest end of the ward, behind a screen. The corner of the ward was shadowy, and white sheets covered the patient up to his chin, but she could make out the features and the reddish-brown hair. No blood on the white sheets, no irregular shapes indicating splints or casts. Just a young man who appeared to be sleeping.
“Nick.” She said his name aloud, without thinking.
Nick’s eyelids fluttered, and he searched the room for the face belonging to the voice. His features wore a puzzled expression for a moment. Finally, he smiled. “Mava.”
“You remember me.” Mava struggled to keep her emotions in check.
Nick struggled to sit up. He looked at the bedclothes, the screen surrounding his bed. He lifted his right arm and looked at the bandage. His gaze came back to Mava.
“I know your name is Mava. But how do I know it?”
“We worked together at Ayres. You were Santa.”
Nick’s eyes widened. “How could I forget the prettiest girl at L. S. Ayres? Yes, the Santa Cottage…and the eighth floor.” Nick looked at his surroundings, focusing on Veronica. “I’m not exactly sure how I got here. A hospital? Am I sick?” He paused.
Mava shook her head. “No, you’ve experienced something, but you’re not sick. Not in the physical sense.”
“I think Christmas must be over.” Nick looked at Mava. She nodded.
“Are we into the new year yet?” He focused on Mava’s eyes.
Veronica spoke up. “I’m encouraged! You have a sense of time. No, still several days to go until we ring in 1946.”
“Good.” Nick glanced at Veronica before stretching his arms overhead. “Because I’ve been making a plan for New Year’s Eve.” He winked at Mava.
She hoped the lighting was dim enough to hide her blush.
Self-Frosting Anise Cookies
These have been a favorite in my family at Christmas-time since my earliest childhood memories. The recipe has been passed down from my grandmother. These cookies are inexpensive to make and are relatively low in calories.
2 eggs (let warm to room temperature)
1 cup sugar
3/4 teaspoon anise extract
1 cup all-purpose flour
Grease cookie sheets.
Beat eggs on high speed in medium bowl for 4 minutes. (Don’t skimp on any of the beating time.) Gradually add sugar, beating on high speed an additional 10 minutes, until thick. Add anise extract. Beat flour into mixture on low speed.
Drop dough by rounded teaspoonfuls onto prepared cookie sheets. Place in COLD oven and let set 8 to 12 hours or overnight.
Remove cookies from cold oven. Preheat oven to 350°F. Bake for 9 to 12 minutes (cookies will be dry but should not be brown). Use metal spatula and remove to wire rack and let cool completely, then store in covered tin.
Makes about three dozen
Into the Light Darkness Falls
By C. A. Paddock
One by one the members of our winter solstice circle walked to the fireplace and threw into the Yule log fire regrets, sorrows, sins, losses, angers, deaths, fears, illnesses, and failures from the past year—torn pieces of paper crumpled, stacked, folded, balled up—and watched as they were consumed by the flames. An absolution for the past year’s shadows that darkened each member, a symbolic release of what was no longer wanted to make way for the new year and the return of the light.
When all were done, we recited in unison, “May the darkness of our soul’s night be consumed by the year’s coming light.”
The solstice ceremony continued as we spoke aloud our creative and evergreen moments as well as the sacrifices we made during the past year. Near the end, Julie, my best friend and youngest member of the group, slipped out to prepare for the final part of the ceremony. We sang “Here Comes the Sun” (maybe not as well as the Beatles, but still in tune and in harmony) as she walked into the room dressed in a long white gown with a red sash belted around her waist. Perched on her head was a wreath made of small fir tree limbs placed with six lit plastic candles. Here was St. Lucia bringing light and sustenance to help us make it through the dark winter nights. Light from the candles reflected off the edges of the silver tray she carried which was piled with small s-shaped St. Lucia buns. She stopped to offer each person one of the saffron-infused raisin treats. Finally, she placed the tray with the remaining buns on a table decorated with red tapered candles and poinsettias. The celebration of the coming year’s light came to an end.
The next morning I got up feeling renewed and ready for the rest of the holidays. As I was cleaning out the ashes from the fireplace and removing a chunk of the Yule log to save for next year’s celebration, I reflected on how many years we had been gathering to celebrate the winter solstice.
It began ten years ago when Julie and I were talking about how we were both disillusioned with our respective churches. We wanted to be a part of something that not only acknowledged our Christian upbringings, but also affirmed our beliefs of the interdependence of all living things. So, Julie and I formed a group to explore this desire. Our group members came from different religious backgrounds, but we all sought one thing: to be able to celebrate our spirituality in our own way and to acknowledge the many universal truths that all religions share. To this end, we created rituals and gatherings to celebrate these truths. The winter solstice was one of our most popular ceremonies and for many, the start of thei
r holiday seasons.
Even though I still celebrated Christmas and all its trappings, it’s the winter solstice that made me feel closest to the mysteries of the universe. I loved it even more when it was held at my house. It’s a chance to decorate with holly branches from my backyard, evergreens, mistletoe and lots of poinsettias.
Being preoccupied with my thoughts, I wasn’t exactly paying attention to what I was doing until I noticed a few pieces of unburnt paper from the night before. As I pushed them back under the grate so they would burn next time, my eyes focused on the charred pieces. I realized with a growing sense of dread that the words “killed someone” and “River” had been untouched by the flames.
I stared at those words as my heart beat faster and my breath fell in line with its beat. Was I seeing those words correctly? I knew I was betraying a trust by just reading them. But murder was beyond that trust, wasn’t it? I flashed on the ceremony the night before and what each member had said. I couldn’t remember anything that would indicate a killer among us. Maybe this was a metaphor for overcoming a bad trait for purposes of the ritual. That was most likely the case. However, my mind kept going. What if I was wrong and whoever wrote it might get away with killing someone? But, it was hard to believe that someone in the group could succumb to such darkness.
I averted my eyes from the fireplace while I considered what to do. I couldn’t go to the police. What would I say? Someone in my winter solstice ceremony group wrote that they killed somebody, but I didn’t know who wrote it, who was killed or when it happened. And when the police heard the part about the fire ritual they would suspect we were some kind of devil worshipers and question the group as a whole.
Who could I even talk to about this? Anyone in our circle might have written this, except me. That left six others. But what if I confided in the very person who wrote it? I could give away the whole thing. But I couldn’t just ignore it either. How could I meet with this group again knowing that one of them had written this and possibly committed one of the worst things imaginable?
On instinct I ran to the hall closet and grabbed a work glove and a plastic zip lock bag. I returned to the fireplace and gently removed the scrap of paper and dropped it into the baggie. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it, but I wanted to keep it if I needed proof. Proof of what, I didn’t know yet. I took the bag over to the oak roll-top desk in the corner of the dining room and placed it in a top drawer.
I walked into the kitchen with my mind still racing. I needed something to help me calm down. After breaking open a bottle of Oliver rosé wine, and nearly drinking the entire bottle, I decided that before I said anything to anyone, I needed to have a conversation with Bob. My husband wasn’t part of the group and he was always the objective one when my worries and imagination ran amok. Maybe he could help advise me about what to do and tell me if I was crazy or what. But first I needed to outline the possibilities.
I grabbed a spiral notebook leftover from our kid’s school days, found a clean sheet of paper and wrote down everyone who had been at the ceremony. When I finished, I reviewed the seven names: Anne (that’s me), Julie, Sue, Morgan, Edith, Jackson, and Maya. Then I went back and started filling in what information I knew about everyone, except for me, of course.
I stared at the list and still couldn’t fathom any one of them killing someone. And what about the word “River.” What river? The White River? They were always finding bodies in the only waterway that ran through Indianapolis. But surely if someone in our group had anything to do with one of those bodies, the police would have been investigating. And wouldn’t we have heard about it?
I needed to talk this out with Bob. I tipped the bottle of rosé and let the last drops slide over my tongue and down my throat. I plopped down on the loveseat my parents gave us when we got married and began to rub the loose blue threads on the arms while waiting for Bob to get home.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I felt was a tapping on my shoulder.
“Anne. Anne, wake up. You must have had a busy day.”
“What? Huh?” I opened my eyes and looked up at Bob. He was smiling and holding the Oliver Winery bottle.
“I said you must have had a busy day, drinking the entire bottle by yourself!”
The words “killed someone” started to fly through my mind again and I sat up. “Bob, I’m so glad you’re home! You won’t believe what I found in our fireplace today!”
I proceeded to tell him about cleaning the fireplace and finding the charred paper. I went through the list I made so fast that he had to stop me several times. He even made me repeat the whole thing so he could “understand me right.”
“I really need to talk this through with you,” I told him, trying to slow down and catch my breath. “I don’t know what to do. Should I call the police, or should I talk to everyone first? What if someone is dead and their family doesn’t know? Or the body hasn’t even been found yet? I can’t believe that anyone I know would do such a thing.”
“Whoa, there. We don’t even know that someone was killed. Let’s back up and start with the piece of paper. Can you show it to me?”
I went to the dining room, retrieved the plastic bag, and handed it to him. Bob stared at it for a few minutes as if he thought the entire phrase would come to him.
“At first, I was going to ask you if you recognized the handwriting. But I can see it’s been typed. Is that unusual?”
“Not really. We want everyone to come prepared for the ceremony, that’s why we send out a prep guide the week before. Most people bring their symbols to share, but a few may do it on the spot. Those people usually scribble out their regrets and disappointments on ripped pieces of paper just before their turn. Others have neatly folded stacks ready to go. Those strips could be typed just as easily as handwritten.”
“What about the fire ceremony itself? I know the fire burning is symbolic, so could it be that someone just wrote those words to symbolize a loss or death of a part of his or her self—and maybe that realization came to them when they were sitting by a river.”
“Possibly. But why would you call a part of you ‘someone’ and capitalize ‘River’ that way if that’s what you meant. I would have written ‘killed my ego down by the river,’ or something like that.”
“OK. So, there’s a good chance that this isn’t symbolic. And if someone did die, maybe it was an accident or something that happened a long time ago. Let’s go through your list one more time and see if we can figure this out before you do anything.” Bob glanced down at the list I had written. “First there’s Julie…”
I interrupt Bob before he could say anything else. “I don’t think Julie could have done it. Julie’s one of our closest friends. I’ve known her since high school and then we became good friends when we went to Butler. She would’ve told me if she accidently killed someone.”
“Maybe something happened at one of her parties that she managed through her event company.”
“‘Parties Done Right’ doesn’t mean ‘Parties to Kill Someone by the River.’ Even if something awful had happened at one of her parties, I’m sure she would have told me about it and gone straight to the police.”
“Alright but remember someone here last night had to have written it. And we know it wasn’t you. I think we need to keep her on the list until we figure out what this means.” Bob picked up the list and read the next name.
Sue—registered nurse, works for Life’s Journey Hospice Care. Originally from Michigan but has lived in Indiana for twenty years. Married with three grown children.
“Sue. I know Sue, too,” Bob said, “from all she did for your dad six years ago. I can’t imagine someone who is so kind and compassionate, killing another human being. Though, I suppose in her job she sees lots of suffering and the whole point of hospice care is to ease a person’s suffering and let them die with dignity. I know I have heard of nurses who ‘help’ their patients along, but that just doesn’t seem like Sue.” Bob raise
d his hands and made air quotations with his fingers when he said help.
“I agree with you. Sue came every day at the end and always talked directly to Dad even when he was out of it. Her voice was so soothing and caring. I don’t know what we would’ve done without her.” My eyes started to tear up as I thought of the last days with my dad. “Besides if she did something like that, it would be in a hospital bed, not a river, don’t you think? And she’s been with our group since that first winter solstice after Dad died.”
“Right. Let’s move on. What do you know about Morgan?”
“I don’t know much about him. Julie knows him better. He’s a psychologist who specializes in dream therapy. Julie met him in a group she used to be in where everyone analyzed their dreams. She’s been his client for a couple of years now. His office is in the front part of his bungalow in Broad Ripple. His partner, Jeffrey, lives with him, I believe. Here again, I can’t imagine someone whose job it is to help others would kill someone. But I will have to ask Julie about him.”
“Maybe this is about one of Morgan’s dreams,” Bob reasoned. “No need to bring in the police for something that was only a dream.”
“I guess that is feasible, since this is the first time he’s participated.”
Bob looked at the ruled paper again.
Edith—professional violinist with the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra. Friend from First Unitarian Church. Founding circle member.
“Next is Edith. She was the first person we met when we started going to church. She’s a vital part of the church and community. But she can be rather outspoken in certain situations. Remember the time she got up in front of the congregation during the announcements and declared that if people didn’t start signing up to help with Coffee Hour, she would sell all the cups and urns and give the money to the Martin Luther King Street Food Pantry?” He chuckled.
Homicide for the Holidays Page 15
