Ghost in Trouble (2010)

I lounged on a deck chair, comfortable in an orange polka-dot bikini. A breeze fluttered the brim of my wide-brimmed straw hat. Unlike the sun, Heaven’s golden light never burns, but a lovely white straw is always flattering to a redhead. Oh, you’re wondering about Heaven. Heaven, Montana? Heaven, Florida? Not even close.

I said Heaven. I meant Heaven. Quite possibly that calm statement either amuses or offends you. The worldly dismiss Heaven as a fable. With kindly, condescending smiles or cold sneers, they refuse to face up to the Hereafter. Their choice is to whistle while Rome burns. That’s fine. They can tap-dance until the curtain falls, but they mustn’t expect to take any bows. However, I would be lacking in candor—never one of my failings—if I didn’t frankly state that Heaven is my customary residence.

I am Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma, population 16,234. My husband, Bobby Mac, and I were lost in a Gulf storm on Serendipity, our beloved cabin cruiser. Bobby Mac was—and is—a fishing fool. It was his determination to track a tarpon that led to our precipitous arrival here in the latter part of the last century, but we’ve never lost our love for sea, sand, and serenity.

Today the Serendipity, as bright and fresh as on her launch day, rocked in a swell in turquoise waters. I enjoyed happy memories and admired Bobby Mac’s muscular back as he struggled against the strength of a determined tarpon.

Bobby Mac and I fell in love in high school. I was a skinny, redheaded sophomore and he was a black-haired, laughing senior. We are still in love and having fun a lifetime and beyond. He’s definitely the handsomest man in Heaven, but most of all I treasure his boisterous eagerness. Bobby Mac never met a steak he couldn’t eat, an oil well he wouldn’t drill, or a beautiful woman he didn’t notice. Of course, he always assured me I was the loveliest of all. What a guy, then and now.

I was content, drowsing in the golden light, enjoying the gentle rock of the boat, occasionally waving to friends in other boats, feeling quite sublime.

A telegram sprouted from my hand.

I knew at once the telegram must be from Wiggins. Who else still tapped a Teletype to make contact? Wiggins had sent me a telegram! Nicely enough in Heaven, there’s never a need to wait. A message arrives at once. A friend remembered suddenly appears. Wherever you want to go, there you are. Solitude is yours if you wish. Companionship is available instantly. In need of spiritual rousing? Saint Teresa of Avila strides along a mountain path, smiling, talking, welcoming everyone. Ready to laugh? Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz’s new skit is as funny as their long-ago movie about the vacation trailer. Want to perfect your culinary skills? Julia Child’s kitchen is simply Heavenly and her reminiscences of World War II derring-do riveting. You suddenly recall your childhood friend who helped you staff a lemonade stand on hot August days? Why, here she is, smiling, arms wide. Perhaps you always wanted to play the piano? Fingers flying, ragtime pounds.

I jumped to my feet. “Bobby Mac, a telegram!” I tore open the yellow envelope, read aloud, my voice rising in eagerness, “‘Urgent Delivery to Bailey Ruth Raeburn. Skulduggery afoot in Adelaide. Come at once if interested. Wiggins.’”

At the bottom of the telegram was Wiggins’s special stamp of a shiny silver locomotive bearing the legend: Department of Good Intentions.

Bobby Mac held tight to his bending rod as he looked over his shoulder. “Are you sure, sweetheart? You had quite a challenge when you helped Susan Flynn.”

I flapped the telegram, dismissing the past. “Everything will go better this time.” Wiggins, who can be a bit stiff, had actually unbent with an approving smile after my last adven—mission to earth.

Bobby Mac grinned. “What are the odds? You have a talent for trouble.”

I blew him a kiss and zoomed away. Bobby Mac understood. He couldn’t resist the lure of fishing. As for me? I was already excited.

Skulduggery.

How Heavenly.

Dashes of pink and gold highlighted the arched clouds at the entrance to the Department of Good Intentions. There was a welcoming glow, warm as a friendly smile.

As I’m sure I’ve explained before, the department is under the supervision of Wiggins. In the early days of the twentieth century, he was station agent at a train depot. When he came to Heaven and was given the opportunity to continue assisting travelers (and all earthly creatures, whether they know it or not, are surely travelers in the best sense of the word), he joyfully re-created a small, redbrick country train station with a wooden platform and tracks running away into the sky.

When the signal arm dropped and the Rescue Express thundered on the rails, sparks flying, dark smoke curling to infinity, my heart raced. I wanted to leap aboard immediately, a blithe spirit.

The first time I’d approached the department, I’d felt anxious. I had no idea whether I would be welcome. Happily, Wiggins had immediately made me feel at home. In fact, he’d commented that he’d been expecting me.

Wiggins obviously had been well aware that I wanted to offer my services to his department. He knew how grateful I was to the brave and generous sailor who’d saved my life when I was a girl and I fell off an excursion boat en route to Catalina. I still remembered the shocking coldness of the sea. A deckhand jumped into the water and saved me. Thanks to him, I enjoyed a full and happy life. Ever since I arrived in Heaven, I’d been eager to offer help to someone in trouble.

Wiggins and the Department of Good Intentions gave me that chance, sending me to my beloved hometown in hilly, south-central Oklahoma. I knew the terrain, understood the mores.

Admittedly, there had been a few mishaps. Perhaps I’d become visible—not a desired status for a Heavenly emissary—a bit more often than the department wished. You will note that I avoid using the term ghost. Wiggins insisted that we consider ourselves emissaries. Ghosts, you see, have an unfortunate reputation on earth and evoke quite pitiful reactions of fear and shock. In any event, I had appeared a good deal more than Wiggins considered desirable. Moreover, he remained doubtful about the pleasure I took in the new styles. I’d pointed out that a naked emissary or, Heaven forfend, an emissary droopily draped in an ill-fitting sheet, would surely be more shocking. I’d simply taken advantage of the ease afforded me as a traveling spirit. All I had to do was envision clothing and I was clothed. I saw no reason to eschew fashion. What was the moral worth of appearing as a frumpy emissary?