The Body in the Bouillon

Ben was one of the angels and did not fidget too much until it was time for him to appear to the shepherds keeping watch over their flock by night. Faith thought of her own public debut, a nonspeaking role as a tree in first grade. She'd felt she was destined for better things. Ben seemed to be handling his first foray with an equal lack of stagefright. The only hitch had been when he had removed his halo during the processional, saying loudly that it itched him. Tom was watching his flock while seated to one side of the pulpit, and his eyes searched for Faith's as Ben's group started to sing 'The First Nowell.' There seemed to be a tear or two in his and she knew there were in hers. Chat squeezed her hand.

It was a lovely pageant, and Pamela Albright, kneeling unobtrusively in front of the children and gently supplying a line here and there, deserved a medal. The kings arrived and the congregation welcomed them with a rousing rendition of 'We Three Kings.' More than one dear friend of Faith's seemed to stumble over the 'Sealed in the stone cold tomb' line, and the lady herself skipped the verse altogether.

Near the end of the pageant the three Queens arrived, an addition Pamela had suggested after discovering Norma Farber's poem 'The Queens Came Late.' Samantha Miller stepped forward and read it now:

The Queens came late, but the Queens were there with gifts in their hands and crowns on their hair. They'd come, these three like the Kings, from far, following, yes, that guiding star.

They'd left their ladles, linens, looms, their children playing in nursery rooms, and told their sitters: 'Take charge! For this is a marvelous sight we must not miss!”

Faith thought she would have felt the same way: not wanting to miss anything. It was what life was all about. She listened to the gifts the Queens brought—'a homespun gown of blue, and chicken soup—with noodles, too—and a lingering, lasting cradle-song.' Then she heard the last lines:

The Queens came late and stayed not long, for their thoughts already were straining far—past manger and mother and guiding star and child a-glow as a morning sun toward home and children and chores undone.

Faith folded her hands over her for-the-moment flat belly and said thank you, then stood up with the rest of the congregation to sing 'Joy to the World.'

“How about Sophie?'

“How about Sophie who? Sophie Tucker? Hagia Sophia?”

Tom had been on the edge of sleep and he was tired. A few hours after the pageant there had been the candlelight service; then when they got home, Chat was waiting with champagne, ginger ale for Faith, and some caviar from Petrossian's she'd secreted in the back of the refrigerator. The three of them had sat by the tree talking and savoring until late. There was the Christmas Day service tomorrow and Ben would be rousing them in what seemed like a few minutes to see what Santa had brought.

“How about Sophie as a name for the baby? Like a little French schoolgirl? Or maybe Emma? Emma Woodhouse? Emma Bovary? Emma the Laura Ashley perfume?'

“What makes you so sure this is going to be a girl?'

“I don't know. It just feels like it's going to be a girl.”

Tom rolled over and drew Faith close to him. 'Well then, why don't we name her Pandora after her mother and be done with it?”