Barb Wiggin wrung her hands.
But if they thought I was enough of a fool to choose my Mary, they had another think coming; what a no-win situation that was—choosing Mary. For what would everyone say about me and the girl I chose? And what would the girls I didn’t choose think of me?
“MARY BETH BAIRD HAS NEVER BEEN MARY,” Owen said. “THAT WAY, MARY WOULD BE MARY.”
“Joseph chooses Mary!” Barb Wiggin said.
“IT WAS JUST A SUGGESTION,” Owen said.
But how could the role be denied Mary Beth Baird now that it had been offered? Mary Beth Baird was a wholesome lump of a girl, shy and clumsy and plain.
“I’ve been a turtledove three times,” she mumbled.
“THAT’S ANOTHER THING,” Owen said, “NOBODY KNOWS WHAT THE TURTLEDOVES ARE.”
“Now, now—one thing at a time,” Dudley Wiggin said.
“First, Joseph—choose Mary!” Barb Wiggin said.
“Mary Beth Baird would be fine,” I said.
“Well, so Mary is Mary!” Mr. Wiggin said. Mary Beth Baird covered her face in her hands. Barb Wiggin also covered her face.
“Now, what’s this about the turtledoves, Owen?” the rector asked.
“Hold the turtledoves!” Barb Wiggin snapped. “I want an angel.”
Former kings and shepherds sat in silence; former donkeys did not come forth—and donkeys came in two parts; the hind part of the donkey never got to see the pageant. Even the former hind parts of donkeys did not volunteer to be the angel. Even former turtledoves were not stirred to grab the part.
“The angel is so important,” the rector said. “There’s a special apparatus just to raise and lower you, and—for a while—you occupy the ‘pillar of light’ all by yourself. All eyes are on you!”
The children of Christ Church did not appear enticed to play the angel by the thought of all eyes being on them. In the rear of the nave, rendered even more insignificant than usual by his proximity to the giant painting of “The Call of the Twelve,” pudgy Harold Crosby sat diminished by the depiction of Jesus appointing his disciples; all eyes rarely feasted on fat Harold Crosby, who was not grotesque enough to be teased—or even noticed—but who was enough of a slob to be rejected whenever he caused the slightest attention to be drawn to himself. Therefore, Harold Crosby abstained. He sat in the back; he stood at the rear of the line; he spoke only when spoken to; he desired to be left alone, and—for the most part—he was. For several years, he had played a perfect hind part of a donkey; I’m sure it was the only role he wanted. I could see he was nervous about the silence that greeted the Rev. Mr. Wiggin’s request for an angel; possibly the towering portraits of the disciples in his immediate vicinity made Harold Crosby feel inadequate, or else he feared that—in the absence of volunteers—the rector would select an angel from among the cowardly children, and (God forbid) what if Mr. Wiggin chose him?
Harold Crosby tipped back in his chair and shut his eyes; it was either a method of concealment borrowed from the ostrich, or else Harold imagined that if he appeared to be asleep, no one would ask him to be more than the hind part of a donkey.
“Someone has to be the angel,” Barb Wiggin said menacingly. Then Harold Crosby fell over backward in his chair; he made it worse by attempting to catch his balance—by grabbing the frame of the huge painting of “The Call of the Twelve”; then he thought better of crushing himself under Christ’s disciples and he allowed himself to fall freely. Like most things that happened to Harold Crosby, his fall was more astonishing for its awkwardness than for anything intrinsically spectacular. Regardless, only the rector was insensitive enough to mistake Harold Crosby’s clumsiness for volunteering.
“Good for you, Harold!” the rector said. “There’s a brave boy!”
“What?” Harold Crosby said.
“Now we have our angel,” Mr. Wiggin said cheerfully. “What’s next?”
“I’m afraid of heights,” said Harold Crosby.
“All the braver of you!” the rector replied. “There’s no time like the present for facing our fears.”
“But the crane,” Barb Wiggin said to her husband. “The apparatus—” she started to say, but the rector silenced her with an admonishing wave of his hand. Surely you’re not going to make the poor boy feel self-conscious about his weight, the rector’s glance toward his wife implied; surely the wires and the harness are strong enough. Barb Wiggin glowered back at her husband.
“ABOUT THE TURTLEDOVES,” Owen said, and Barb Wiggin shut her eyes; she did not lean back in her chair, but she gripped the seat with both hands.
“Ah, yes, Owen, what was i
t about the turtledoves?” the Rev. Mr. Wiggin asked.
“THEY LOOK LIKE THEY’RE FROM OUTER SPACE,” Owen said. “NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THEY’RE SUPPOSED TO BE.”
“They’re doves!” Barb Wiggin said. “Everyone knows what doves are!”