Merry, Merry Ghost

I looked down. The directory, firmly gripped in my hand, apparently moved of its own accord a few feet above the ground.

I swirled into being. My suede coat kept me warm from the chill wind. I wiggled my fingers in soft suede gloves. I felt justified in appearing. Clearly I should avoid the possibility of an airborne parish directory disturbing a visitor to the cemetery.

I walked briskly, admiring Christmas wreaths on many of the graves. The ECW hosted a wreath-making coffee the first Saturday in December in the parish hall. I always added holly berries and frosted pinecones to mine. We placed fresh, fragrant wreaths at the graves of those who no longer had family in Adelaide to remember them.

I hurried up the marble steps of the Pritchard mausoleum. Whenever I visited the cemetery, I always stepped inside to stroke the marble greyhound at the head of Maurice Pritchard’s tomb and slide my fingers on the stiff whiskers of the marble Abyssinian at the head of Hannah Pritchard’s tomb. Paying tribute to Maurice and Hannah’s dog and cat is an old Adelaide custom purported to bring good fortune.

I loved the feel of the cold marble beneath my fingers. “Here’s for luck.” Repeated homage had turned the greyhound’s head shiny and added a gloss to the cat’s whiskers.

A deep voice boomed. “Precept Five.”

Air whooshed from my lungs. “Wiggins!”

“Precept Five.” In a rat-a-tat clip, Wiggins quoted: “‘Do not succumb to the earthly temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.’” A heavy sigh. “I am exceedingly disappointed, Bailey Ruth. I overlooked your appearance in Wal-Mart. No harm done. But this latest contretemps—”

Contretemps…What a cosmopolitan word choice for a rural train station agent. Perhaps Wiggins might share some of the uplifting experiences he’d enjoyed as the director of the Department of Good Intentions that had no doubt expanded his vocabulary. I’ll bet he’d been to Paris. I pushed away a pang of jealousy. After all, those in charge received perks not available to foot soldiers. Certainly I was happy to bloom where I’d been planted, as dear St. Therese of Lisieux sweetly advised. Moreover, much as I would have thrilled to be helpful in Paris, I loved returning to Adelaide.

I sensed Wiggins was quite near. Just before a summer storm, purple-black clouds banked up against the horizon. When the storm unleashed sheets of rain and the fury of the wind, thunder rattled louder than a cannon and lightning sizzled. The senses reeled from the impact.

I felt a similar explosion was imminent.

“—reveals without any doubt that you are not now and will likely never be suited to serve as an emissary from the department.”

I expected any instant to have a return ticket on the Rescue Express thrust in my hand. Tears burned my eyes. My lips trembled. I’d tried my best to fulfill my duties and now I undoubtedly faced an unceremonious return to Heaven. I felt buffeted by embarrassment, discouragement, and frustration.

So I blurted out the truth.

“I don’t like being invisible all the time. In Heaven, I’m me. You know me.” He had a file inches thick on Bailey Ruth Raeburn. “I want to be a part of things and talk to people and laugh and have a good time. I understand that solitude is good for the soul.” I’d read that somewhere. “Everyone can profit from moments spent in quiet contemplation.” Contemplating what? Being in the moment? I’d better not go there. Quiet contemplation sounded as appealing as sitting on an ice floe. There was never a moment I’d spent that wasn’t better if it was shared. Sailing with Bobby Mac. Laughing with family and friends. Grieving with those in trouble. Dancing cheek to cheek. “I need to be with people. When I’m not here, I feel separated from everyone.”

I held the parish directory up high. I wished I knew where Wiggins lurked. Had that last sigh come from behind me? Above me? I made a full turn, waving the directory like a knight’s banner. The directory was incontrovertible evidence of my transgressions against the Precepts, but if I was on the verge of dismissal, I was going out in style. “Here’s the directory and I think you should be proud of the efforts I made to obtain a copy. If I don’t know how to find the people around Susan Flynn, how can I discover whether they want to harm Keith?” I might as well make my attitude clear. If I stayed on the job—faint hope—I had to be out and about and discover the good and the bad about those who surrounded Susan. If I was going to be on the earth, I’d do my best not to be of the earth (a nod to Precept Eight), but if circumstances required, I fully intended to swirl into being. “I have to find out about Jake and Peg and Tucker and Gina and Harrison and Charlotte if I’m to be on guard for Keith. That means sometimes I may have to be here, just like I am in Heaven.”

“Heaven”—his voice was stern and seemed to come from the foot of Maurice’s tomb—“is not here. Precepts One, Three, and Four.”

I stamped my foot. Wiggins was being dense. “I can’t spook around never talking to anyone.”

The silence was absolute. Had I crossed Wiggins’s Rubicon? If he decried the term ghost, how did he feel about spook?

“Wiggins”—I talked fast as the beat of hummingbird wings—“the directory is essential.” I felt my cheeks turn pink, a redhead’s unmistakable response to stress. Standing in the pale warmth of afternoon sunlight shining through the mausoleum’s entrance, my curls stirred by a chill wind, I opened the directory. I flipped to Susan Flynn’s picture, then my eyes settled on the photograph above her. I thumped the directory. “Look at this. Now I know who Jake is. She’s Jacqueline Flynn. I didn’t know her last name. But that makes sense. Her husband was Susan’s husband’s brother. She was at the house when Keith came.” And none too pleased when Gina suggested the will might be changed. “Here’s the listing for her daughter, Margaret. That’s Peg. So I’m making a start.”

“I will admit”—his tone was grudging—“that your actions were well-intentioned.”

I tried to pinpoint Wiggins’s voice. Was he standing near the greyhound now? “Susan told her lawyer to get proof about Keith.” I flipped to the first pages of the directory. I didn’t have to go far. Wade Farrell was on the vestry. I found the F’s. “Wade and Cindy Farrell, 1106 Arrowhead Drive. He’s Susan Flynn’s lawyer.” Was Wiggins listening? Was he still here? “I’m sure I can find out a huge amount from Susan Flynn’s files in his office. As soon as she has proof that Keith is her grandson, she will have the lawyer draw up a new will.”

“A new will?” The sharp voice was right at my shoulder.

I jumped. “Wiggins, you scare me to death. Well, of course, not actually.” But my laugh was hollow. “Don’t hover about and shout. Won’t you please join me?”