“Whatever you say, Martha.” I turned to find Melanie snickering behind her hand.
I pointed at my wife. “Hey, Winnie. What about Melanie?”
Winnie looked away from the crowd of women surrounding her, all holding up some piece of material or ribbon or sparkly thing for her approval. An inspired look came over her face. “Melanie! That’s right! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I didn’t think of her before. Melanie will be our innkeeper’s wife! Get it? The wife of our real-life innkeeper will be the wife of our Bethlehem innkeeper?” She was all aflutter at her casting genius. Watch out, Steven Spielberg. Here comes Winnie Wyandotte.
“Good thinking, Winnie,” I said. I cast a sly grin and a wink at Mel.
She stuck her tongue out at me.
The next four hours were spent in a flurry of costume-fittings, line rehearsing, and petty arguments. Casting had been finalized with the exception of Mary, a rather important part in my estimation—but that’s me—and the Baby Jesus. A casting-call had gone out earlier in the week for any babies who might be visiting the area, but the blizzard had efficiently closed down that avenue. Even if there were some babies holed up somewhere in town, I doubted there were many parents or grandparents who would allow their baby to be held by feuding senior citizens in below-freezing temperatures, Baby Jesus or not. As Dewey succinctly summed up our situation, “We’re up a stump without a paddle.”
And so the afternoon progressed. Bristol arrived after an hour or so, taking an inordinate amount of time to lock up the church, I thought, but I couldn’t blame him for putting off the bedlam that awaited him. Just as another argument between the ladies sprouted forth, I noticed Bristol across the room motioning to me. I quickly excused myself and sidled over to him and away from Winnie and Sadie’s noisy discussion over the kitchen table about the advisability of using duct tape painted gold as a headband for our shepherds.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much. Just thought you might want to know what Dewey and Winnie are cooking up for this evening.”
I groaned. “That’s right. She mentioned something about him playing a special role tonight. Doesn’t involve explosives, does it?”
Bristol grinned and took a sip of his coffee. “No, at least not the part I know about. But could be just about as disastrous, I suppose. You know those angel wings the ladies have been hovering around—excuse that pun—for the past few days? The ones that Dewey thought was a giant moth?”
“How could I not?”
“Right. Well, seems that Winnie’s won out on the ‘who gets to be the main angel’ role.”
“Yeah? Does that mean something special?”
“Well, aside from the obvious honor of being the one who gets to wear the chicken-feathered angel wings, she’s going to fly.”
“Fly?” I thought about that for a minute. “I know Winnie can be willful at times, but I don’t think even she can will herself to fly.”
“No, but Dewey can hoist her up and let her hover over the scene.”
“You mean on his shoulders? Good grief, man, I don’t mean to speak ill of Winnie—she’s a great lady and all—but Dewey’s not going to balance her on his shoulders, husband or not. Just isn’t possible.”
“Now that’s a picture,” Bristol said. He set his cup down on the windowsill, put his hands in his pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Nope, Pastor. Even better than that.”
“Well, tell me, man! Out with it. He doesn’t have a jetpack, does he?” That’s all we needed: Winnie Wyandotte squirting around the skies over Road’s End like some balloon that got loose while someone was blowing it up.
“No, nothing that exotic. They’ve got a rope and pulley set up in that oak tree back there. You know, the one right over the spot …”
“Yeah, I know. Right over the manger scene.”
Bristol nodded. “Yep. They’re going to cover it up with a backdrop of some kind. The ladies’ve been working on it for a coupla days now. I think they painted Bethlehem on it or some such thing. Anyway, Dewey’s planning to haul her up and let her hover over Mary and Joseph and the baby. They’ve even got a spotlight ready to shine on her.”
“We’ve only got the one spotlight, Bristol.”
“That’s the one.”
“You mean they’re planning on taking the spotlight off Baby Jesus and shining it on Winnie hovering up there instead? That’s not very nice.”
“Well, she’s got lines, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. Seems there’s a lot about this Nativity I don’t know.” I sighed. “Anything else? Fireworks? Shuttle launch?”
“Well, I didn’t want to mention it, but you probably need to know this.” He hesitated just a second then blurted it out. “Winnie’s singing.”
“Oh, good grief. Not again. Haven’t we been through all this? Wasn’t Wilford’s funeral enough for her?”
By now Bristol was almost bent in half with laughter. “Apparently not, Hugh. In fact, I think she got a whiff of stardom up there—and now, well, you know what they say. You can’t hold a good woman down.”
I couldn’t help snickering.
“Or in Dewey’s case,” he said, slapping his knee, “up.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Shortly after that, the last-minute activity moved to the church. Costumes were ironed and doo-dads were sewn, glued, stapled, or duct-taped on. The men installed the backdrop outside—large sheets of hinged quarter-inch plywood painted with scenes of Bethlehem and the desert in the distance. Someone, Bristol, I suspected, had cut some palm trees shapes out of plywood and attached them to the front of the backdrop at irregular intervals. I had to admit that for a bunch of amateurs, the townsfolk of Road’s End did a commendable job of preparing scenery for their production.
Placed in front of the backdrop was the stable scene. Three walls of papier-mâché rocks simulated a natural opening in the hillside; a partial wall and low-arched doorway of similar rocks completed the front side. Other items—a crudely-constructed manger, an old wooden bucket, bales of straw—were scattered here and there to enhance the feel of a simple stable. A rudimentary ladder built with lengths of tree branches and bound with leather straps leaned against an outside wall and led to the thatched roof. Sand was scattered over the snow, and I admit it was a good-looking set. It embarrasses me to think I expected anything less from these people. They are, after all, intelligent men and women who possess their own talents. How dare I assume that their work would be inferior simply because they were older?
Dusk fell and one by one, lanterns were lit around the setting. Pools of soft light dotted the landscape as I walked around the yard, taking in the preparations and complimenting folks on their hard work. I could see Mel inside the church lighting the candles in the windows. The flickering wicks created a warm glow through the wavy-glassed panes and illuminated the pine wreathes that hung on both sides of the windows. I walked into my office, spent a few minutes preparing some thoughts for the service after the program, and then joined Mel in the sanctuary.
We walked slowly down the aisle and sat down on the steps in front of the pulpit facing the pews and held hands in the darkened room. I took a deep breath. The scent of pine boughs and candle wax wafted through the sanctuary; the candlelight cast a golden blush across the polished seats. The Christmas tree, dressed in white and blue lights, stood sentinel in the corner behind us.
We were both in our costumes—mine consisted of an ingeniously arranged multi-striped brown sheet tied with a rope at the waist. Melanie’s outfit was similar, only solid blue, and she wore a scarf over her head and a pair of dangly earrings. We had a few minutes before our presence was required.
“Did you ever think you’d be back in the pulpit again?” Mel leaned her head on my shoulder and rubbed my hand with her thumb.
I thought about that. “No, I didn’t, but I don’t regret it.” I glanced down at her, lifted the scarf, and kissed her temple. As always, I smelled lavender. “Do y
ou?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I mean we planned to have a simple retirement—quiet, peaceful, free of aggravation.” I motioned around the room. “And here we are, not only involved in a church again, but a failing one, at that. We’ve seen more commotion in the last day and a half than we ever saw in the military. We have an older congregation, all set in their ways and … and stubborn.”
“Isn’t that what ‘set in their ways’ means?”
“Smarty-pants.”
Mel stood and pulled me up with her. “Yeah, well, they are stubborn, but they have their reasons, and they’re good folks, and I think we’re blessed to be a part of their church.”
I heaved myself upward and gave her a hug. “That we are, honey. That we are.” I checked my watch. “Okay, it’s time. Are you ready for this?”
She smiled up at me and shrugged. “No, but then will we ever be?”
“Good point.”
Hand in hand, we walked back down the aisle. I opened the heavy front door, and we walked out into the dark night, the blast of cold air penetrating our thin costumes within seconds. We rounded the corner, then stopped and soaked up the sight ahead of us. Milling around the lantern-lit scene were at least a dozen costumed residents. I could see Leo, George, and Bristol dressed respectively as a wise man, shepherd, and Joseph. It looked like Joe Rich and Rudy Wallenberg were also shepherds. Frank was dressed as something between a shepherd, a wise man, a stable boy, and some sort of medieval clown, but his eyes were open and for the moment, that’s all that mattered. Sherman DeSoto had also earned a role of wise man—largely by default, since he was the only one we were sure could keep Sophie under control. Sophie was kneeling on the ground chewing her cud; I could see Sherman getting ready to climb atop her and I said a quick prayer that no one got trampled, kicked, or thrown into a bordering county during the next hour.
Once Sherman was in place, Sophie slowly stood and ambled over to the northern end of the churchyard. No lanterns pierced the dark over there, so none of our visitors could see the gaily costumed men and women or the leggy exotic animal milling about waiting their turn to take the stage. Just as well.
There were several ladies moseying around as well, all gussied up as either angels or Bethlehem townsfolk in different degrees of lavishness. Most of them were barking orders to one another, their husbands, other women’s husbands, the camel, and anyone else with ears. Those who weren’t yelping orders were being yelped at. Someone—Ruby Mae, I think—motioned for silence and pointed to the road where a few visitors were starting to gather. Quickly, the ladies gathered their gowns/sheets/shower curtains around them and scampered after Sophie.
Earlier, George and Dewey had set up five rows of folding chairs along the edge of the yard to accommodate our guests. I thought a hundred chairs was a bit optimistic, but I hated to dampen their spirits by suggesting that fewer chairs were needed. Better that they find out themselves than have me burst their bubble of good will toward men.
A large donation box was prominently displayed at the opening of a shoveled entrance someone had cleverly engineered as the only path from the road to the production. Sadie Simms stood next to the box, dressed as a cranky angel-in-charge-of-the-funds, and pointed at it once in a while just in case someone didn’t take the hint and make their donation before stepping over to the chairs. After they placed their money in the box, they got a cheerful “Merry Christmas” and a pat on the back, but woe to those who came without cash. I found out later she passed out IOUs for those who hadn’t thought to bring their wallets. Subtle. Those who had purchased tickets ahead of time were escorted to the front row.
Four of the women, including Winnie Wyandotte, were dressed in white. Aside from Winnie, who stood out from the pack of ordinary angels by virtue of her genuine chicken feather wings, they were all similarly-dressed to the women of the town, only in white. I must say Winnie’s wings looked pretty good considering they’d been shot to smithereens just a few nights before. I cringed to think of Dewey hoisting her over the scene via the pulley he’d worked on all week, but that was out of my hands. Dewey knew what he was doing, and if he didn’t, well, he was the one who had to go home with her.
I looked around but didn’t see Emma. “Guess she decided not to come,” I said to Mel. She put my hand to her lips and kissed it lightly but said nothing. She had hoped as much as I did that Emma would relent and come to the service that morning or the program tonight.
Winnie spotted us and flittered our way, wings bouncing, and motioned that it was time to take our places. She led us over to the north end of the backdrop where the inn had been painted. Our orders were to putter around doing “innkeeper things” until Mary and Joseph arrived. I picked up one of the lanterns and a pine branch and pretended to paint the side of the inn. Mel used a primitive broom someone had fashioned from a tree branch and straw and swept our imaginary front stoop. “Wonder who they found to play Mary,” I said. “Or Baby Jesus, for that matter.”
“We’ll see soon enough,” Mel said and pointed toward the audience. “And none too soon. The natives are getting restless.” I followed the direction she was pointing and to my surprise and joy every chair was filled. We had our standing room only crowd and thanks to Sadie, probably some nice donations. Now all we had to do was put on a program without cause for a civil suit or criminal charges being filed against the church, the town, or me.
I peered over my shoulder; it appeared that everyone had assembled at the far end of the yard. Someone turned on a portable CD player and the strains of O Little Town of Bethlehem drifted toward us. All eyes turned in the direction of the music; the light from a lantern began to bob and weave toward us.
For a split second, I was ten years old again and standing in a smaller version of a Nativity costume. From the age of six to around fifteen, when I told my parents it was either wise man or nothing, I carried around a staff and herded invisible sheep in my shepherd getup. I never once spoke a word. Once in a while, I got to be the “lead shepherd standing in awe at the host of angels overhead,” as our church musical director referred to that coveted role. I still didn’t have any lines, but at least I got to stand at the front of the pack and cringe as the brilliant light shone around us from above.
No matter how many times I stood on that stage or shivered outdoors when they held the performance on the church grounds, I felt an aura of the supernatural surrounding me. We were indeed on holy ground and the re-enactment of the most miraculous birth of all mankind never failed to transport me back two thousand years to the night that our sinless Father chose to set aside His heavenly home and power and glory to enter the sin-filled world of man as a powerless infant. Even as a child, I wondered why anyone would do that. Why would the Creator of all there is give up the beauty and perfection and holiness of His rightful domain to live among the killers and thieves, liars and cheaters, whoremongers and gluttons of this world? Of course, I didn’t think in those terms precisely—I was too young—but still, the wonder of our Heavenly Father’s loving gesture never failed to astound me. And here I was, decades later, participating once more in the re-enactment of the arrival of Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem, the birth of Jesus Christ, and the visits by the shepherds and wise men. Only this time, I had lines.
I glanced over at Mel. Even dressed in a blue sheet, she looked gorgeous. Her face glowed with an inner light that I knew had nothing to do with the lanterns. It was due, I know, to her love for Jesus; being a part of this church production was more than just a seasonal ritual for her. It was an honor—as it was for me, as much as I argued with Winnie to get out of the role of innkeeper. But just as I was always happy I took part in my church’s nativities when I was a youngster, I was happy to play a role in our church’s observation of His birth—even if I had to be the one to turn Him and his parents away from the inn.
The lead lantern—probably Joseph, a.k.a. Bristol—grew closer and I could see a second one following close behind. That would be the s
hepherds. A third lagged behind a few feet and hovered above them both. That last one was probably Sherman and Sophie. It was slow going for the group. I’d seen Bristol shoveling a path earlier in the day; nevertheless, the ground was still slick with packed snow. I hoped no one broke their hip, arm, neck, leg, or back before the night was over. And that included Sophie. Housing a healthy camel was strange enough; housing one with a broken limb or two just didn’t appeal to me.
Since our conversation at the inn after church when Bristol told me about Winnie’s plans to hover and sing, he’d hinted a couple of times that there might be some more surprises in store for me. Frankly, I hoped he was joshing me. I didn’t know how many more surprises I could handle.
A second or two later, my hopes were dashed when the first shock of the evening stepped into the yard of the inn and headed straight for Mel—more specifically, Mel’s broom.
It was a goat.
Chapter Forty-Nine
A goat. And a sheep. Make that four sheep. Yippee. Where did they find four sheep? And a goat? I wasn’t even sure there was a goat at the stable on the night of Christ’s birth, but then I’m not exactly sure which animals were there. Thinking back on it, I realized that a goat was as appropriate as a sheep or a cow. But I drew the line at a goat running roughshod over four sheep rampaging through the quiet streets of Bethlehem in their attempts to escape. That was too painful to contemplate.
Obviously the livestock had jumped the gun. Mary and Joseph were not yet at the inn where I would turn them away, let alone at the stable where Mary would give birth, and already the animals had arrived, with four shepherds in hot pursuit. Even that could be explained—even overlooked—if the animals hadn’t made a beeline for anything edible. As Mel flailed away at the goat gnawing on her broom, the sheep split off in four directions—each on an individual mission of some sort, each with its own pursuer. Joe, Rudy, George, and Frank scrambled over and around one another in heroic, but generally ineffectual attempts to corner their quarry. The goat “bah-h-h-ed” between bites of broom, while the fleeing sheep bleated pitifully and headed straight for the crowd. Chairs flew, women scattered, men shouted, and children bawled. In less time than it took to yell “runaway livestock!” Bethlehem had been transformed from a sleepy little desert town with no room at the inn to a Pamplona-like free-for-all.
Misstep (The Road's End Series Book 1) Page 28