Christmas…Oh dear Heaven, Christmas was the most special season of the year. Cold and gray outside? When I listened to the jingle of the Salvation Army kettle, I felt warm as toast. Jammed among sharp-elbowed shoppers in a suffocatingly hot store? That cashmere sweater was perfect for Aunt Mamie. A broken oven and twenty-three expected for Christmas dinner? Bobby Mac pulled out the grill, bundled up against a forty-degree north wind, and that day’s rib eye steaks were ever after celebrated in family history.
My eyes sparkled as I recalled some of my favorite things:
Sugar cookies shaped like stars and iced in red.
Main Street ablaze with green and red lights and plenty of tinsel.
Strings of holly.
Carolers on a crisp starlit night.
Cutting down our very own Scotch pine out in the country.
Bobby Mac holding Rob in one arm, Dil in the other, and small hands reaching up to place a wobbly star atop the tree.
Presents wrapped in bright red and gold foil.
Crimson poinsettias massed behind the altar and on the ledges by the stained-glass windows and in the narthex.
The exquisite peace and hope of Mother and Child in the manger.
I was swept by that wonderful feeling of the season when workaday cares recede and we glimpse a world bright with love. “Ooh, Christmas.” Every Christmas Eve, Bobby Mac (a robust tenor) and I (an energetic soprano) entertained Rob and Dil with our duet of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” as we pulled a sled laden with gifts into the living room. A two-foot-tall stuffed reindeer with a shiny red nose was harnessed to the sled.
I came to my feet, quickly attired in my best Mrs. Claus suit and floppy red Santa hat, and belted out my most spirited version of “Rudolph.” Tap was popular when I was young, and the wooden floor of the station a perfect venue…four slap ball changes, four shuffle hop steps, a shuffle off to Buffalo…Sweeping off my Santa hat, I ended with a flap cramp roll and a graceful bow.
Flushed with success, I lifted my gaze to Wiggins.
He sat, brown eyes wide, expression bemused.
Had the man never seen a hoofer before? Had I blown any chance for adven—to be of service? Had my impetuous nature once again landed me in trouble?
His lips curved in a broad smile. His eyes shone. “That takes me back. Indeed it does. I saw Bojangles in Chicago in 1909. I never miss any of his shows.”
I made a mental note to check the jazz schedule for Bill Robinson’s next starlit performance. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a show with the Milky Way as spots.
“Only you, Bailey Ruth, would remember Christmas with a tap dance.” Wiggins’s tone was admiring.
I think.
Abruptly, he gave a decided nod. “That’s why your dossier kept reappearing.” He reached out, pulled a candy- cane-striped folder close to him, flipped it open.
I craned to see. There was my picture, a sea breeze stirring my flaming hair as the
Wiggins patted the top sheet. “You have the true spirit of Christmas and that is what I need here, despite your impetuous nature.” He turned and thumbed through a stack of folders in various colors. He opened a black one.
I didn’t dwell on his qualifying phrase. Christmas spirit I could supply in plenty.
His face was grave when he faced me. “This situation”—he tapped the folder—“is murky. Your previous task was clear-cut: a lovely damsel visited with a body on her back porch. Of course, I didn’t expect the action you took…” Some of his enthusiasm seemed to drain away. He gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t know if the department should take a chance again. But”—hope lifted his voice—“possibly in this instance nothing will be required of you except calm overseeing.” He nodded decisively and repeated with vigor, “Calm overseeing,” as if I might have trouble hearing.
I decided not to be offended.
“On balance, you might be perfect for this visit. You love Christmas and you have a youthful heart. I was especially touched that you spun stories for Dil and Rob about Santa’s workshop and who might need a particular toy. You helped them feel the spirit of giving. Whatever happens, you can beam love on a dear little boy, an orphan whose future is uncertain.” Wiggins’s tone fell to a puzzled mutter. “Surely Keith’s protector has the best of intentions. She is kind and caring.” He pulled a map close, marked a path in red, muttered, “Adelaide obviously is her goal. However, no contact has been made at the house.”
“The house?” I figuratively rolled up my sleeves. This time around Wiggins could give me the background, prepare me for my task. I pushed away the uneasy sense that no matter how prepared I might have been on my previous mission, I would have been tempted to flout the Precepts if I felt the need. This time, however, I would be on my best behavior.
For starters, I would avoid appearing. The rich swirl of colors that preceded my transformation from spirit to earthbound creature had an unfortunate effect on viewers.
I would remember that carrying discrete objects while not in the flesh was equally unnerving to them.
I would be particularly careful not to speak aloud when I wasn’t there.
I wasn’t concerned about the Precept prohibiting consorting with another departed spirit. Whatever my mission, it couldn’t possibly involve a departed spirit. It would be easy to observe this stricture.
However, I felt a qualm. Other of the Precepts could easily pose a challenge. The life of a spirit is fraught with
