'But Owen-' Barb Wiggin said.
'No, no, Barbara,' Mr. Wiggin said. 'If Owen's tired of being the angel, we should respect his wishes-this is a democracy,' he added unconvincingly. The former stewardess glared at her ex-pilot husband as if he had been speaking, and thinking, in the absence of sufficient oxygen.
'AND ANOTHER THING,' Owen said. 'JOSEPH SHOULD NOT SMIRK.'
'Indeed not!' the rector said heartily. 'I had no idea we'd suffered a smirking Joseph all these years.'
'And who do you think would be a good Joseph, Owen?' Barb Wiggin asked, without the conventional friendliness of the stewardess. Owen pointed to me; to be singled out so silently, with Owen's customary authority, made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck-in later years, I would think I had been chosen by the Chosen One. But that Second Sunday of Advent, in the nave of Christ Church, I felt angry with Owen-once the hairs on the back of my neck relaxed. For what an uninspiring role it is; to be Joseph-that hapless follower, that stand-in, that guy along for the ride.
'We usually pick Mary first,' Barb Wiggin said. 'Then we let Mary pick her Joseph.'
'Oh,' the Rev. Dudley Wiggin said. 'Well, this year we can let Joseph pick his Mary! We musn't be afraid to change!' he added cordially, but his wife ignored him.
'We usually begin with the angel,' Barb Wiggin said. 'We still don't have an angel. Here we are with a Joseph before a Mary, and no angel,' she said. (Stewardesses are orderly people, much comforted by following a familiar routine.)
'Well, who would like to hang in the air this year?' the rector asked. 'Tell them about the view from up there, Owen.'
'SOMETIMES THE CONTRAPTION THAT HOLDS YOU IN THE AIR HAS YOU FACING THE WRONG WAY,' he warned the would-be angels. 'SOMETIMES THE HARNESS CUTS INTO YOUR SKIN.'
'I'm sure we can remedy that, Owen,' the rector said.
'WHEN YOU GO UP OUT OF THE 'PILLAR OF LIGHT,' IT'S VERY DARK UP THERE,' Owen said. No would-be angel raised his or her hand.
'AND IT'S QUITE A LONG SPEECH THAT YOU HAVE TO MEMORIZE,' Owen added. 'YOU KNOW, 'BE NOT AFRAID; FOR BEHOLD, I BRING YOU GOOD NEWS OF A GREAT JOY . . . FOR TO YOU IS BORN ... IN THE CITY OF DAVID A SAVIOR, WHO IS CHRIST THE LORD' . . .'
'We know, Owen, we know,' Barb Wiggin said.
'IT'S NOT EASY,' Owen said.
'Perhaps we should pick our Mary, and come back to the angel?' the Rev. Mr. Wiggin asked. Barb Wiggin wrung her hands. But if they thought I was enough of a fool to choose my Mary, they had another think coming; what a no-win situation that was-choosing Mary. For what would everyone say about me and the girl I chose? And what would the girls I didn't choose think of me?
'MARY BETH BAIRD HAS NEVER BEEN MARY,' Owen said. 'THAT WAY, MARY WOULD BE MARY.'
'Joseph chooses Mary!' Barb Wiggin said.
'IT WAS JUST A SUGGESTION,' Owen said. But how could the role be denied Mary Beth Baird now that it had been offered? Mary Beth Baird was a wholesome lump of a girl, shy and clumsy and plain.
'I've been a turtledove three times,' she mumbled.
'THAT'S ANOTHER THING,' Owen said, 'NOBODY KNOWS WHAT THE TURTLEDOVES ARE.'
'Now, now-one thing at a time,' Dudley Wiggin said.
'First, Joseph-choose Mary!' Barb Wiggin said.
'Mary Beth Baird would be fine,' I said.
'Well, so Mary is Mary!' Mr. Wiggin said. Mary Beth Baird covered her face in her hands. Barb Wiggin also covered her face.
'Now, what's this about the turtledoves, Owen?' the rector asked.
'Hold the turtledoves!' Barb Wiggin snapped. 'I want an angel.'
Former kings and shepherds sat in silence; former donkeys did not come forth-and donkeys came in two parts; the hind part of the donkey never got to see the pageant. Even the former hind parts of donkeys did not volunteer to be the angel. Even former turtledoves were not stirred to grab the part.
'is so important,' the rector said. 'There's a special apparatus just to raise and lower you, and-for a while-you occupy the 'pillar of light' all by yourself. All eyes are on you!'
