The next few weeks
were for me, as the Christmas season so often is, the best of times
and the worst of times. On the one hand, it was nice to be finishing
up my graduate teaching class, getting Christmas cookies from several
professors, and even putting aside momentarily the tragedy of the
rejected thesis. On the other hand, though, it was painful to hear my
two roommates sharing their excitement about going home to spend time
with their families, while my own parents…
I shoved aside this
recurring thought as I packed my thin suitcase and other traveling
bags. I reflected instead on another thing that added to the stress
of the holiday: one of my roommates had graduated this December and
was starting her new job in Prague, and the other was getting married
in a month. As a single student in my third year of grad school, I
could never afford the apartment rent myself. I knew that at least
some portion of my holiday would have to be spent in coming up with a
new place to live.
Fortunately, though, I felt some of these
anxious thoughts draining away as my plane to New York City drifted
high into the untroubled sky. Reaching for my suitcase, I pulled out
a well-worn book with a green cover: The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes. I had to admit that my concern over the thesis was more than
just a professional one; I felt connected with my topic on a very
personal level. It was amazing that, no matter how many times I read
these stories, they never got old. I turned to the seasonally
appropriate story, The Blue Carbuncle.
I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand.
Oh yes, I thought. The world is not a total loss. Not yet. Not while it is always 1895.
Some hours later, I was frantically locating my luggage
while responding to the enthusiastic greetings of my aunt, uncle, and
cousin who had come to the airport to meet me. My Uncle Oakes, my
father's brother, was an attorney with dark, balding hair and a
straightforward manner. His wife, my Aunt Clarice, was a sweet-faced
lady who worked as a substitute teacher in an elementary school.
Their daughter, Jeanette, had inherited her father's dark hair and
her mother's sweet personality, and had just completed her first
semester of nursing school. I hadn't seen any of them since
summertime, and it was nice, though somewhat bittersweet, to see them
again.
Luggage safely stowed away in the trunk, the four of us
were soon on our way to the Ingham family's ancestral home, as I
called it, deep in the quiet, cold countryside of upstate New York.
Snowflakes capered blithely across the car windows as we enjoyed the
beautiful view, Jeanette and I chatting and comparing our respective
semesters. I found myself relaxing in her cheerful presence, and
before I knew it, the high gables and old-fashioned turrets of my
grandparents' house could be seen ahead, cutting sharply into the
darkening sky.
We spent a festive Christmas Eve together,
attending a candlelight service in the tiny, old-fashioned village
chapel, then returning through the cold air for hot chocolate and
cookies in the high-ceilinged kitchen. However, I felt a sort of
anticipatory tension in the air, which was soon explained to me by
the arrival of my other uncle, Mordred Ingham, who unfortunately was
a source of a lot of family contention. Black-haired and pale-faced,
he had never married, and was a professor of biochemistry at Columbia
University. Although I knew it was foolish, since childhood I had
never been easy in my uncle's presence. He was a very silent,
solitary person, with bright eyes that could be quite startling in
his pale face. And I could never understand why the heck my
grandparents had named him after the chief antagonist in the King
Arthur legend.
Snow was falling thickly by the time everyone
started retiring to bed. My grandfather was looking anxiously out the
window. "Hope the roads don't ice too badly," he said, closing
the curtains.
The power chose this moment to go decidedly and
ominously out.
Jeanette squealed, and I heard Aunt Clarice
stumbling around in the dark. I have never been an emotionally
demonstrative person, but even I felt a chill at being suddenly
plunged into blackness.
"It's all right, everyone! Don't
panic!" came Uncle Oakes' reassuring voice. "Only a little
power outage." There was a spluttering sound, and his face
appeared, framed by the light of my grandmother's oil-lamp.
Fortunately, the country house was equipped with a steady generator,
and my two uncles soon got the power up and running again.
I was
grateful for the restored heat as Jeanette and I snuggled into our
beds in the upstairs guest room that had always been reserved for the
young people of the family. Memories of Jeanette and I staying in
this room in happier days flooded my memory as I looked up at the old
wooden rafters.
"This house has such an interesting history,"
I explained to my cousin as she switched off the light. "You know a
lot of it was rebuilt of course. So much of it was destroyed in that
fire in 1895." I smiled secretly to myself as I said that date. I'd
always thought it was special to have such an important family matter
take place in that particular historical period.
"It is an
amazing house," Jeanette agreed. There was silence in the room
until she said, with a confidential air, "So, Shirley, have you met
anyone special at Crosby University yet?"
I felt my face go a
little pink. "I don't know what you mean, Jeanette," I
began.
"Oh yes, you do," she said, with a friendly teasing
air. "Unless you're still in love with Sherlock Holmes, like you
used to be."
"I--what?" I sat straight up in my bed,
knowing my face was now a lovely festive shade of red. "Jeanette,
you weirdo, I was never in love with--"
"Oh, come on,
Shirley," she said, laughing at my reaction. "Don't be ashamed
of it! When I was 10 I had a huge crush on Peter Pevensie from the
Chronicles of Narnia."
"Yes, well," I said, slumping back
down onto my pillow. "I am significantly older than 10, my
dear."
"So you admit it," she said.
"I--no!" I
exclaimed. "You're weird, and you're imagining things. Sherlock
Holmes is a fascinating character, yes, but he's an imaginary
person who never existed. At least in the viewpoint of the Crosby U.
English Department, that is," I added with a note of regret in my
voice.
"Mom said you were planning to write your graduate
thesis about him," said Jeanette.
"I was planning to," I
admitted. "But certain superiors had other ideas."
"Aww,
I'm so sorry!" my cousin sympathized. "Some people are blind,
that's all there is to it. Sherlock Holmes or not, I'm sure any
thesis you write would be awesome!"
I smiled in spite of
myself. "Thanks, Jeanette," I said. "Now it's time for you
and your absurd notions to get some sleep." I mean it, I added
mentally, for I feared the impending assignment of that most dreaded
appellation: screaming, squealing fangirl!
"Whatever," said
Jeanette. "'Night, cuz."
"'Night," I replied,
snuggling deeper in my warm covers. In spite of the teasing, Jeanette
really was a sweetie, I reflected as I slipped into slumber. My last
waking thought was a regret that we had drifted apart of late, as had
the entire family. I prayed that this Christmas would give us a
chance to reconnect with each other.
"What?"
"I
didn't say anything."
Confused shuffling noises were coming
from downstairs, and there was an heightened excitement in the air
that my sensitive nature picked up on immediately. I rubbed my eyes
in the dim light, and saw that it was sometime in the very early
morning. Vaguely I saw Jeanette crawling out of bed and hunting
around for her slippers.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"I
don't know," she answered, turning to me with a white face.
"Shirley, I'm scared."
"Scared? What--" I began, but
was cut off by the entrance of my Aunt Clarice, who flung our door
open dramatically.
"Oh, girls, girls, girls," she cried,
running across the room and pulling both of us close to her. "Oh,
thank heavens you're alright!"
"Aunt Clarice, what on earth
is going on around here?" I said sharply, feeling her and
Jeanette's panic enter my own heart.
"Oh honey, it's your
uncle!"
"Oakes?"
"No, Mordred. Oh, it's too
horrible! And on this night of all nights!"
"What? Is he
sick?"
"No, girls," said my aunt, twisting her trembling
hands together. "Your Uncle Mordred…is dead!"
