Tangled Lights and Silent Nights

by Kelly Stone Gamble

  I started walking across them as well. Each post moved a little as I stepped on it, but the posts were so close together that their rolling motion was blocked by the next posts. After a couple of steps, it was easy to balance and follow along. “Whoa. Alligators and monsters? Are you sure it’s safe?”

  Theresa giggled. I had never heard her do that before, and even in the dimming light, I could see that she had a big smile. She said something softly as she held up her arms to do the same exaggerated, balancing walk that Keisha and I were doing.

  I couldn’t pull my eyes off of Theresa as I continued stepping across the posts—it was so cool to see her finally having fun. “What did you say, Theresa? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

  Her eyes met mine.

  My stomach lurched.

  The post under my foot mushed and rolled. It gave way as if I had stepped on someone’s leg instead of hard wood. A sizzling buzz hissed from my left. It was the tail of a rattlesnake, vibrating. To my right, between Theresa and me, the snake’s fist-sized head lifted. I had stepped on the middle of a long rattlesnake stretched out between two posts. The snake, at least five feet long, gaped its mouth wide open. Its fangs were too close to Theresa. She stumbled backwards onto her back on the ground. Her head raised. She stared at the snake’s darting tongue inches from her feet.

  I’m not sure how, but suddenly I was holding a squealing Keisha, high off the ground with my left arm, and I was reaching toward Theresa with my right. She watched frozen, staring at the snake organizing its body into a coil.

  Ethan materialized, with his back to me, between the snake and me, holding a long stainless-steel barbeque fork in one hand. I was relieved that he was with us but terrified he would get bitten. He bent over the snake. His broad back and shoulders obscured my view of his hands, but I could see the tines of the fork in front of the snake’s head. Ethan was luring the snake or distracting it with the fork. I sensed, rather than saw, Ethan’s hands moving, slowly and then with shocking fierce force. In a flash the snake’s head whipped out and away from Theresa, the long fork dropped to the ground, and Ethan took several side steps. In the dim light, he held the snake’s struggling tail with both hands, just high enough so that the head was still on the ground.

  The snake scrambled to crawl away, but all it could achieve was a desperate, continuous zig-zag motion on the ground with its head. Ethan moved farther away from us, one sure step at a time, never taking his eyes off the snake, never giving the snake more than its small piece of earth to work against. When he reached a sidewalk bordered by a low stone wall, Ethan stopped walking. Slowly, he took one hand off the snake. He waited a few seconds as if to make sure he could manage to keep his hold with one hand. With his free hand he reached down to the wall, grasped a large rock and brought it down with frightening force onto the snake’s head. He struck the head two more times making it a flattened smear on the cement.

  Dad stepped up with a shovel and pressed it onto the snake’s body just below the head. “You can drop it if you want. I’ll hold it until it stops.”

  Ethan dropped the snake’s tail, and the body whipped around, seeming as strong as it had been when it was alive. Ethan’s mother took Keisha, now chattering about the snake, from my arms. Mom wrapped her arms around me.

  Ethan squeezed my shoulder with one hand. “Are you okay?” His voice was clear and steady.

  “Yeah.” My voice shook.

  He looked over my shoulder toward his mother. “Where’s Theresa?”

  “She’s okay,” his mother said. “I checked her. Thank God, no one was bitten.” She stepped forward, still holding Keisha, and reached for Ethan.

  He accepted her embrace. “Where is she? Theresa?”

  His mother looked around for her and said, “Maybe she went into her room.”

  Ethan pulled away, “I’ll go see her.”

  Ethan’s grandmother stepped a little closer to Dad, who still had the writhing snake clamped down with the shovel. “I’ll put some kindling on the barbeque coals—make a little fire to burn the head so none of the pets get ahold of the fangs or poison glands.”

  Ethan pushed back out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind him. “She’s not in there.”

  Everyone stilled, even Keisha stopped her retelling of the snake story.

  For frantic minutes we darted in all directions, calling Theresa’s name and searching the grounds with flashlights and cell phones.

  I collided with Ethan’s mother in front of the house. She glanced at me with a start and punched at her phone. “I’m calling 911.”

  Ethan’s voice came out of the darkness. “I’ve got her. She’s okay.” He walked past us carrying Theresa like a baby. “She was in her climbing tree.” We followed him around the side of the house to the back porch. He settled into a chair with Theresa still in his lap. As if there was some silent signal, everyone hushed and gave Ethan and Theresa space. His grandmother turned her attention to her fire building. Mom, Keisha, and Ethan’s mother went into the kitchen and started making dish-rattling, clean-up sounds. The snake’s body was still now, and Dad was digging a hole—I guess to bury it.

  I stood, uncertain where I should go, unable to take my eyes off Ethan and Theresa. She lay quiet, eyes closed, still curled against him. Ethan caught my eye and patted the chair next to him. As I approached, he pulled my chair flush against his. I quietly collapsed into it.

  Here we were in the same spot we’d been only minutes earlier, but so much had changed. I caressed his arm that lay on the arm-rests of our pushed-together chairs. The same arms that minutes ago had been so strong and courageous were now gentle and comforting. He shifted and put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer. I rested my head against the front of his shoulder, placed one palm on his chest, and felt the steady beat of his heart.

  He kissed the top of my head and then leaned his cheek against my hair. “Everything is all right now. We’ll sit here until we feel better.” His grandmother must have plugged in her Christmas lights because we were suddenly surrounded by red, green and blue lights.

  Theresa opened her eyes and gazed straight into mine. I had smiled at Ethan’s words, but her sad expression flattened the budding relief I was feeling.

  With one palm still on Ethan’s chest, I rested my other hand on Theresa’s knees. “It’s okay, Theresa. The snake is gone. It can’t hurt anyone now. Ethan saved us. He was so fast and brave and smart. Everyone is okay.”

  I hoped my words would bring a smile, but instead two giant tears flowed from her eyes. She didn’t make a sound, but her chest heaved up and down.

  Her tears made my own eyes well. “Theresa, what’s wrong? Are you still scared?”

  She shook her head.

  From somewhere in the house, “Oh Holy Night” started playing.

  Ethan squeezed my shoulder. And he began to speak to Theresa in a tone that reached into my heart and made me realize when a man’s deep, strong voice becomes gentle and comforting, it carries a magical strength. His words touched the deepest part of me. “Theresa, you feel sad that I killed the snake. It hurts you to see things die.” It was in that moment that I fully absorbed the dimensions of Ethan.

  Theresa gasped a sob, gave one jerky nod, and pressed herself closer to Ethan.

  His gentle voice crooned. “It’s okay that you feel sad. I feel sad, too. If I would have had a way to capture it and take it to a wilderness, I would have done it. But I killed it because I was afraid if I let it go free, it might have returned when I wasn’t here, and it could have bitten you or Keisha.”

  She reached both her arms around his neck and wept hard, loud sobs.

  Patiently, for at least half an hour, he assured and comforted her. Until finally the tension flowed out of her body, her arms released his neck and collapsed onto her chest.

  The Christmas
music from inside the house continued to drift out, and the colorful lights blinked into the darkness around us. The night air grew a little cooler, but close to his chest with his arm around my shoulders, I felt warm. I loved the earthy scent of him—his body, his breath. I loved the steady beating of his heart beneath my palm. I loved the sound of his voice and the kindness in his words. I loved that he could be frighteningly brutal when it came to protecting his loved ones but heart-tugging tender when it came to comforting those same loved ones. I loved him.

  And I will love him forever.

  Books By Brenda

  Polarity in Motion by Brenda Vicars

  Polarity in Love (to be published 2019) by Brenda Vicars

  Faking Lucky by Q. D. Purdu (penname for Brenda Vicars)

  The Light we Found by Q. D. Purdu (Penname for Brenda Vicars)

  About Brenda

  Brenda Vicars has worked in Texas public education for many years. Her jobs have included teaching, serving as a principal, and directing student support programs. For three years, she also taught college English to prison inmates.

  She entered education because she felt called to teach, but her students taught her the biggest lesson: the playing field is not even for all kids. Through her work, she became increasingly compelled to bring their unheard voices to the page. The heartbeat of her fiction emanates from the courage and resiliency of her students.

  Get In Touch:

  https://twitter.com/BrendaVicars

  www.brendavicars.com

  https://www.facebook.com/brenda.vicars.12

  https://www.facebook.com/Brenda-Vicars-509794745822839/

  Yuletide Homicide: A Liz Boyle Short Mystery

  by Kate Birdsall

  It’s two-thirty a.m. and still snowing when I climb down from my Cleveland Police Explorer. The wind from Lake Erie blasts ice into my face as I duck under the yellow crime-scene tape. “You caught the Edgewater snowman, Boyle?” a uniform asks as he hands me a clipboard..

  “Yup. Lucky me.” This isn’t my regular shift, and a straightforward homicide isn’t my usual kind of case. I volunteered to take Christmas Eve overnight because everyone else has family shit to do. I would just as soon not spend the holiday with mine. That’s just how it goes.

  I sign in then glance around. There’s a city salt truck stopped in the middle of Detroit Boulevard, a group of unis surrounding what appears to be a frozen Santa atop a snow bank, and a gaggle of other unis working to block the road. “Castor here?” Rick Castor, head of homicide, called me to the scene.

  He nods. “By the body. I sure as shit hope the news doesn’t show up. Dead Santa makes for sad kids.”

  “Indeed.” I catch Castor’s eye, and he ambles over my way.

  “Someone made the naughty list.”

  I laugh. “Did you just make a joke?” Castor has never been one for humor.

  “I did. I mean, you kind of have to, right? It’s a dead Santa. Here’s what we know: round two o’clock, salt truck was following the plow. Driver saw Mr. Claus’s torso sticking out of that snowbank. Looks like the plow churned it up or something.” He shakes his head. “This city is something else.”

  I nod and pull my hat down over my ears. “Why are we thinking homicide?”

  “Gunshot wound to the chest.”

  “That’ll do it. Any witnesses other than salt guy?”

  “Nope. This one’s going on the shelf.”

  “We might figure it out. I’m on it.” It would be a Christmas miracle.

  “Right. You working solo?”

  “It’s Christmas.”

  He grins. “Happy effing holidays, Boyle. Keep me posted.”

  Four hours later, just as we’re clearing the scene to reopen Detroit Boulevard for holiday traffic, I get a text from my partner, Tom Goran: You working?

  Instead of replying, I call him. “Of course I’m working. What else would I be doing?”

  “Merry Christmas to you too.”

  “Why are you calling me?” We love each other like siblings, but I’m cold and grumpy and need about sixteen shots of espresso if I’m going to keep working this case.

  “I figured you might want some help.”

  “Don’t you have Christmas stuff?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got a couple of hours. What’s happening? I can help you over the phone.”

  “I just rolled my eyes at you, Goran. I caught the dead Santa up by Edgewater. It’s cold as shit out here. My hands are numb—”

  “Are you wearing gloves and your poofy coat?”

  “Just rolled my eyes again. Of course.” I fill him in. “ME’s office just took the body. It’s gotta thaw before the postmortem, and that could take a couple of days. We think he died sometime late on the twenty-third. And here’s the kicker—we found one of those red money buckets not far from the body. I’m thinking he was a bell-ringer. No ID.”

  “Money still inside?”

  “Yup.” I wave at a uniform as I climb into my truck. I start it and crank the heat up. “There’s not a lot of blood, so it’s clear that Santa died somewhere other than where the salt guy found his body.”

  “Hmmm. You checking with the Salvation Army?”

  “Of course. Right now, I’m heading back to do paperwork. Hoping to get out of there in time to do Christmas.” I turn the headlights on and shift into Drive.

  “Family?”

  “Hell no. Christopher still isn’t talking to me, and I can’t deal with my mom. I’ve got plans with Josh and Jacob and Cora. The J’s are having a get-together.” I head east on Detroit.

  “You and Cora going together?”

  “I’m picking her up, yeah.”

  “Not what I meant. You two have fun. And call me if you need my massive and methodical brain.”

  I laugh. “Merry Christmas, Tom. Love to Vera and the girls.”

  “Merry Christmas, Boyle. Stay out of trouble.”

  I get back to the squad room, make a pot of coffee, and start the crime board before calling the Salvation Army. When I’ve been on hold with the national office for sixteen minutes I thumb through the murder books on my desk, considering the calls I need to make next week. That double-murder in Little Italy… I grab my notebook and write myself a reminder. Interview woman at laundromat. Police work doesn’t take holiday time, and those cases are more urgent than I want them to be.

  Seven minutes later, someone answers the phone. “Salvation Army Cuyahoga County, this is Brenna,” the woman says. She sounds bored and out of breath at the same time.

  “Hi, Brenna. This is Detective Elizabeth Boyle with Cleveland Homicide. I have a couple of questions.”

  “Is this going to take a while? I have somewhere to be.”

  “It shouldn’t take long. Can you tell me whether your employees sign in and out for their shifts?”

  “Yeah, we use a phone app.”

  “Can you verify that all of your employees working in the past three days are accounted for?”

  “Yeah, I know they are, because I just did stupid payroll. They’re all here. And they’re done for the season now, so they’re getting their last checks next week. I can’t believe I came in on Christmas for this.”

  Spoken like a woman who truly believes in the spirit of giving. “And you know for sure that everyone working in the past three days clocked out for their shifts?”

  “I just said that.”

  I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Do you have anyone who routinely dresses as Santa for the job?”

  “What? Dresses as Santa? Yeah, a lot of ‘em do. I don’t keep a list.”

  “Okay, Brenna. Thanks for your time. Will you call me if you think of anything or if someone doesn’t pick up a check?”

  “It’s all direct deposit, but yeah, whatever
.”

  I give her my number and thank her again for her patience. I probably sound as sarcastic as I feel.

  I finish my reports, email them to Castor, then head home to feed the cat and attempt a nap. Josh texts me to remind me that the get-together starts at five, so I let Cora to know I’ll pick her up at six. It’s always good to be fashionably late to fashionable people’s parties.

  Cora and I used to date before our relationship ended in a decidedly dramatic way. I admit to screwing it up—I was drinking too much, not taking the antidepressants it turns out I need, and getting too immersed in work. After I tried to atone for my sins a while back, she decided to be friends with me for reasons I’ll never understand. I’m not the most lovable person in the world.

  I keep my word and pick her up at six o’clock.

  “Are you sure it’s casual?” she asks. She looks fantastic in leggings, a long sweater, and tall boots. In true Cora style, she has the sweater pushed up to show her tattoos, full sleeves on both arms, and her hair is in a messy bun, revealing the top of her neck and back piece.

  “Of course it is, and you look great. It’s just people sitting around and talking about smart things. I’m surprised I was invited. Were you planning on wearing a cocktail dress?” We chuckle together as she hems and haws before running upstairs to grab a striped scarf, coming back down, and making an ostentatious show of draping it around her neck. We laugh louder.

  I watch her apply lipstick. You have the most beautiful mouth in the universe.

  “Go warm up the car. I know it takes forever to get warm.”

  I do as I’m told. As I’m waiting for her, a text message from Castor comes through: Got reports. Thanks. Merry Christmas.

  I reply in kind. Cora climbs into my VW—which is becoming something of a clunker these days—and puts on her seatbelt. “You caught a case. You have that look.”