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 café, 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.
8
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 9
Ca ro ly n H a rt
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. “After you have familiar-ized yourself with them, we’ll have another visit and I’ll give you your specific assignment.” He bent his head forward, looked at me sternly. “You will be on probation as you undertake your first task.” I almost whipped back a quick “Not to worry,” but decided upon looking into his serious brown eyes that he might not appreciate snappy retorts. Instead I simply repeated approvingly, “On probation.” The tension eased from his face. “That’s the right attitude. You will find that attitude is everything, Bailey Ruth.” I couldn’t have agreed more. It was my job to be sure he had the right attitude about me. I nodded soberly.
“If you successfully complete this assignment, we will welcome you as a full-fledged emissary.” He pushed up the rim of his eyeshade, looking perplexed. “I suppose . . .” The words trailed off. He gave a shake of his head, his mustache quivering. “I scarcely like to bring this up. I find the topic distasteful.” He looked pained.
I attempted to look pained as well, though I had no idea what dreadful behavior we were contemplating.
“Ghosts.” He pursed his lips in disapproval. “I deplore that characterization of a Heavenly resident dispatched to be of service.” I offered quickly, “We aren’t ghosts.” I tried to keep the hint of a query from my voice.
He thumped a great fist on his desk and folders bounced. “Precisely. Never. Stories of apparitions and rattling chains foment the most inaccurate imaginings on earth. It is of foremost importance 10
G h o s t at Wo r k
that you do not, in the pursuit of your duties, create situations that will further these mistaken beliefs.”
“Oh.” I was fervent. “I would never do that.”
“Subtlety is the key.” Wiggins appeared troubled.
I wondered if he was remembering unfortunate episodes with previous emissaries or if he feared I might be lacking in that quality.
“Subtlety, of course.” I was as world-weary and wise as Barbara Stanwyck. Turner Classic Movies had given me a whole new world to emulate. Actually, here in Heaven she’s quite approachable.
The flush faded from his face. He nodded benignly. “I will take that as a solemn pledge.”
I raised my right hand. If the man wanted a pledge, I was ready.
“Very well. We won’t talk of ghosts.” His nose wrinkled in distaste. He glanced down at his papers, thumbed through a stack. “Oh yes. I should mention that we sometimes have missions that do not succeed. Not”—he spoke quickly to preclude any misunderstanding—“that we would ever characterize any volunteer as a failure. Oh, Heavens no. But”—and he clapped his hands together—“there is a foolproof means of achieving success.” My expectant look was a model of the pupil eager to hear the master’s declaration.
“Adhere to the Precepts.” His nod was emphatic.
I was fascinated by the quiver of his walrus mustache.
“For example”—his look was stern—“there is an absolute stric-ture prohibiting casual contact with family members, such as your daughter, Dillon. We do not want the living preoccupied with the dead. It simply doesn’t do.”
“Of course not.” I was righteously indignant. Besides, I felt quite close to Dil without making a special trip to earth. One of the lovely aspects of Heaven is that whenever anyone on earth thinks of you, you are there with them for that instant. Why, Dil had thought of me just this morning. She was driving too fast and clipped a hedge as she 11
Ca ro ly n H a rt
came around a curve. As her husband cringed, hearing the scrape on the fender, she’d grinned. “If it had been Mama, she would have leveled that bush. Hold on, Mike, we’re late.” I didn’t share this with Wiggins.
“However, there will be a special familial aspect to your first visit.