I gave my reflection a two-finger salute, a remnant of my days as a Cub Scout mom, and felt a thrill as I swung around the soft cumulus corner. Suddenly I was confident. I hurried, passing a cool rushing stream and tall pines.
Ahead of me, nestled against a green hill, was a little red-brick country train station. A train whistle sounded in the distance. I smelled coal smoke, saw a dark spiral curling into the sky, and heard the clack of great iron wheels.
Was I going in the right direction?
Not more than a half dozen feet away, a small white arrow pointed toward the steps. On the arrow was painted bailey ruth.
Oh, I was expected. I took the steps two at a time and laughed aloud as I reached the platform. Wooden carts were lined up against the wall, filled with luggage of all sorts, the kind that speaks of faraway places, satchels and grips and great leather trunks, tagged and plas-tered with travel stickers. I was already eager. Maybe I would get a ticket to adventure, always keeping in mind, of course, that the objective was to help someone in travail, not to provide me with excitement. Certainly I understood that.
I rubbed my hand along the top of a leather trunk. Mama and Daddy had owned a trunk just like that one.
Suddenly a florid-faced man with a huge walrus mustache appeared directly in front of me. He wore a high-collared white shirt.
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Substantial suspenders and a wide black belt with a heavy silver buckle combined to hold up gray flannel trousers above sturdy black shoes. Arm garters between his elbow and shoulder pulled his shirt cuffs up a trifle. Pencils poked from his shirt pocket. He looked in charge, the man I was meant to see. Heaven is like that. People appear. Who and when depends upon what you are seeking.
A stiff dark cap topped his curly brown hair. His round face was made heavier by his mustache and thick muttonchop whiskers. Pen-etrating brown eyes seemed to look into my soul. “Bailey Ruth, I’ve been waiting for you. I’m Wiggins.” He reached out both hands to fold mine in a warm clasp.
“For me?” I wished now I’d not tarried. But, as Wiggins well knew, Heaven offers so much. The wondrous glory of God and His angels permeates every thought with love. There are people to cher-ish, books to read, plays to see, songs to sing, colors and nuances and beauty to absorb, God and all God’s creations to adore.
He beamed at me. “I knew you’d come.” The train whistle sounded nearer. The acrid smell of coal smoke tickled my nose. I looked around the platform. “I wasn’t expecting a train station for the Department of Good Intentions, Mr. Wiggins.”
“Simply Wiggins, please. As for my station, isn’t it beautiful?” He gazed around with innocent joy. “Since my section of the department could be whatever I wanted it to be, I chose a station just like mine used to be. I was the station agent. I helped people travel, make the right connections. When I got to Heaven, I felt right at home when I was asked if I’d like to keep on helping. There are many other sections and they are all different. But we know that you love to travel. So, here you are.” His smile was avuncular. I don’t suppose I’d ever had a proper use for the word, but it suited him. He was jolly and made me feel jolly. I smiled in return.
“I’m glad to see a smile on your pretty face and glad that you’ve come. However.” He dropped the word like a boulder and peered at 5
C a r o ly n H a r t
me from under thick beetling brows, his gaze questioning. “Am I correct in understanding that you want to go back to earth?” I tried to look properly solemn, though I could have tap-danced with excitement. “That’s right. I want to help someone in big trouble.”
“Admirable. Sterling. Inspiring.” He was nodding, his walrus mustache quivering. “Right this way.” His hand was on my arm and he shepherded me into the main waiting room with its great wooden benches. We passed through to an office with station agent above the lintel.
He waved me to a seat on the hard wooden bench to the right of his desk. He carefully hung his hat on a coat tree, replaced it with a green eyeshade, and settled behind the huge oak desk. The stacks of paper and folders on top of the desk were geometrically aligned.
A telegraph key was fastened to the right side of the desk next to a sounder to amplify the sound of incoming messages.
The desk sat in a big bay window that overlooked the platform.
From his seat, Wiggins could look out and see the track in both directions. The windowpanes showed not even a trace of grime despite the inevitable soot from coal-burning trains. The left side of the office faced the waiting room and had a ticket window. Blank tickets rested in a slotted rack. A clutch of rubber stamps hung on the wall.
He sat comfortably in his four-legged oak chair, tapped a folder. “I know a bit about you.” He tugged at his mustache, eyes intent. “You grew up in Adelaide, Oklahoma. Your daddy, Paul, had the drugstore on Main Street. Your mama, Kate, kept you rascally kids—” Four of us, all redheaded as a woodpecker—Sammy, Joe, Kitty, and me. We were rambunctious as colts and got into our share of scrapes.
“—bright as new pennies and in church every Sunday. You were the liveliest of them all.” His gaze was searching. “Inquisitive.” It was a pronouncement.
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I nodded. After all, how else would I ever know what was going on?
His gaze was thoughtful. “Impulsive.” I’d been known for responding first, quick as a lightning strike, thinking later. Mama had often urged me, “Bailey Ruth, honey, think before you speak.”
Wiggins placed his fingers in a tepee.
I was afraid I understood the direction he was going. I tried for a bland smile. “I’ve changed a lot since I arrived here. After all, Heaven encourages grace in all matters. I’m much more reflective.” I hoped I didn’t sound defensive. I repeated with assurance, “Reflective.” Such a dignified word, though I suppose no one would ever think of me as dignified. I almost told him I’d recently reread Walden. It was our book-club selection. We have a lovely book club, but that is not ger-mane at the moment.
“Rash.” He wasn’t talking about measles or poison ivy.
I waved a deprecating hand, hoped my nail polish wasn’t too vivid. I wanted him to take me seriously. “Such a long time ago.” My tone invited him to join me in rueful dismissal of impulsive behavior.
I wondered if he was thinking about the time I lost my temper at a faculty meeting and told the principal he was an idiot. Of course I had justification. Of course I lost my job. It all turned out well. I got a job as the mayor’s secretary. The principal had put Bubba, the mayor’s oldest son, on probation and Bubba missed his chance to be quarterback at the state championships. I loved being in city hall.
Nothing happened in Adelaide that I didn’t know about.
He flipped to another page. “Forthright.” We gazed at each other with complete understanding. All right, so I called a spade a spade. I liked forthright better than tactless.
“Daring.” He shut the folder.
“I would hope”—I tried to sound judicious—“that a willingness to take chances might be just what the department is seeking. In appropriate circumstances.”
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“Mmm. That is always a possibility.” Wiggins dropped his hands to his desk, reached for a pipe from a rack. As he tamped sweet-smelling tobacco, he looked thoughtful. “A good-hearted emissary is always prized. No doubt you are offering your services for the best of reasons. It wouldn’t do to send someone seeking adventure.” I tried to banish all thoughts of adventure from my mind. Adventure? Of course not. I gazed at him sincerely, eyes wide, expression soulful, an approach I’d always found very effective when I’d explained to Bobby Mac that the latest crumpled fender was an utter mystery to me, that certainly I thought I’d had plenty of room to back out. “I truly want to be of help to someone in dire straits.” My pronouncement had a nice ring to it and I hoped dire straits conjured up a vision of a hapless victim stalked by an Alfred Hitchcock villain.