later. Mama had often urged me, “Bailey Ruth, honey,
Wiggins placed his fingers in a tepee.
I was afraid I understood the direction he was going. I tried for a bland smile. “I’ve changed a lot since I arrived here. After all, Heaven encourages grace in all matters. I’m much more reflective.” I hoped I didn’t sound defensive. I repeated with assurance, “Reflective.” Such a dignified word, though I suppose no one would ever think of me as dignified. I almost told him I’d recently reread
“Rash.” He wasn’t talking about measles or poison ivy.
I waved a deprecating hand, hoped my nail polish wasn’t too vivid. I wanted him to take me seriously. “Such a long time ago.” My tone invited him to join me in rueful dismissal of impulsive behavior.
I wondered if he was thinking about the time I lost my temper at a faculty meeting and told the principal he was an idiot. Of course I had justification. Of course I lost my job. It all turned out well. I got a job as the mayor’s secretary. The principal had put Bubba, the mayor’s oldest son, on probation and Bubba missed his chance to be quarterback at the state championships. I loved being in city hall.
Nothing happened in Adelaide that I didn’t know about.
He flipped to another page. “Forthright.” We gazed at each other with complete understanding. All right, so I called a spade a spade. I liked forthright better than tactless.
“Daring.” He shut the folder.
“I would hope”—I tried to sound judicious—“that a willingness to take chances might be just what the department is seeking. In appropriate circumstances.”
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“Mmm. That is always a possibility.” Wiggins dropped his hands to his desk, reached for a pipe from a rack. As he tamped sweet-smelling tobacco, he looked thoughtful. “A good-hearted emissary is always prized. No doubt you are offering your services for the best of reasons. It wouldn’t do to send someone seeking adventure.” I tried to banish all thoughts of adventure from my mind. Adventure? Of course not. I gazed at him sincerely, eyes wide, expression soulful, an approach I’d always found very effective when I’d explained to Bobby Mac that the latest crumpled fender was an utter mystery to me, that certainly I thought I’d had plenty of room to back out. “I truly want to be of help to someone in dire straits.” My pronouncement had a nice ring to it and I hoped
He nodded, his green eyeshade glistening in a golden glow. “Very well.” Now he was businesslike. “Where do you want to go?” When fresh out of college, Bobby Mac and I had spent a summer hitchhiking through Europe. It was the most glorious impecunious ragtag holiday that could be imagined. I’d loved Montmartre. What fun it would be to return, to see the street artists, drink coffee in an outdoor cafe, visit the Moulin Rouge . . .
“Possibly Paris.” My shrug was casual.
The pause might have been described as pregnant. “Paris,” he said finally.
“Paris.” I clasped my hands together to keep from wriggling on the bench.
He plucked a pencil from his shirt pocket, tapped it on the desktop. “How’s your French?”
“Oh.” I looked into chiding brown eyes. “I’d thought it would be like here.” In Heaven, everyone is understood, always, whether they speak Urdu, Cherokee, Yiddish, Welsh, Hindi, or any of the world’s 6,800 languages.
G h o s t at Wo r k
“Ah”—he waggled an admonitory yet gentle finger—“that is the crux of the situation. There is not here.” I suspected this was more profound than I could manage. I’m bright enough, but I have my limits. Deep thoughts remain precisely that, deep thoughts, and I don’t have a shovel.
“Once in the world again, some”—Wiggins didn’t name names, such as Bailey Ruth—“might find it a struggle not to revert.”
“I see.” This useful phrase had seen me through many puzzling moments on earth. Revert to what?
“So”—now he was brisk—“should we enlist you—” Was I going to be given rank and serial number?
“—it will be with the clear understanding that your mission is for others, not yourself. Moreover, we will go over the Precepts before you depart. Now, where would you like to go?” His brown eyes were sharp.
I had a moment of inspiration. “Where would you like to send me?”
“Bailey Ruth”—approval radiated from him—“that reflects a splendid understanding of our program.” Wiggins reached for another folder.
I basked in a glow of rectitude. Certainly I was not in this for myself. I felt noble. I would charge forth and do my best wherever I might be sent. I bade a silent, regretful farewell to visions of Paris.
London, perhaps?
“We’ve given some thought to the matter.” He was thumbing through several sheets that looked to be densely typewritten. “It seems quite likely that for your first task you would feel more comfortable in familiar surroundings. We are sending you to Adelaide. ” He was as pleased as if he’d presented me with a beribboned box of Whitman’s Samplers. Whitman’s Samplers were always a favorite in Daddy’s drugstore. I wondered if the store was still there . . .
Even though Adelaide, Oklahoma, pop. 16,236, was a long way
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from Paris or London, I smiled and felt a quiver of anticipation. I loved Adelaide and its rolling hills and soft- voiced people, Mississippi kites making watchful circles in a hot August sky, sleet crackling against windowpanes in February. It wasn’t Paris or London, but I’d do my best. Would I know anyone? Of course, my daughter, Dil, lives there. It would be such fun to pop in on Dil—
“First, however”—his tone was emphatic—“you must master the Precepts.” He waggled a roll of parchment.
