Christmas Angel

Christmas Angel by Allison Thorpe In my thirteenth winter I thought the all-time, absolute, best thing in the whole world would be to play the angel riding on top of the Metcalfe Clothing Factory float in the town's Christmas Day Parade. A fairyland of silver and 22 snow, the float was surely the finest, and the angel was clearly the star. A vision in white fluff and lace that billowed with the pleasant December breezes, the angel waved in serene smiling elegance, compassion and joy at her fingertips. And above all the blinding whiteness shone a halo of gold tinsel like some heavenly host beaming out the Lord's birth. Stacy Metcalfe was always the angel. It was her father's float. Four years ago, the Metcalfe family had taken our little burg in raging storm, bringing with them the glowing Stacy, two spoiled five-year-olds, a Nanny, a mother who went all the way to Louisville to do her shopping, and a handsome father who converted the old tobacco warehouse into a thriving clothing factory . Half the town owed their smiles to Jack Metcalfe. As they say down at the pool hall, "It's the Homemaker's Club that sets the table, but it's the Metcalfes that bring the food." Mama says they would be throw-back fish anywhere else, but I'm not sure the Metcalfes know that. Year after year I stood in front of Josephine's Dry Goods Store with MaeDell Hunter and the other girls watching the boys drool all over themselves and wished it was me up there on that float. I wished it was me and that the Christmas Day Parade would just go on and on forever. Well, one winter enough powers heard me and I figured it was my turn. Mrs. Metcalfe divorced her husband and flew off to the Bahamas, demanding Stacy spend the holidays with her. Mr. Metcalfe held a lottery and threw it open to the whole county. MaeDell Hunter and I quit speaking, along with most all the other girls. Seems it was a popular wish. I'll never forget that parade. It had everything—a record number of threewheeler RVs driven by the Road and Gun Club, a host of makeshift church floats on flatbeds that had hauled tobacco only yesterday, the 4-H kids led a herd of brave cows and one spunky rabbit, and Doodle Judson had his new pickup waxed to gleaming and jacked up so high folks could see the whole parade underneath it. That was the year the town bought a new water truck. Velma the dispatcher put a big red bow on the hood and it led the parade. Bobby Ray Pritchard's wife took a headlong dive off the front of his old Buick where she had been kneeling like some praying madonna when he stopped sudden because Grandpa Gabby's flag blew out of his grasp. Grandpa was the town's oldest citizen and claimed he had carried that flag in the Civil War. I remember clear as a summer brook seeing MaeDell Hunter standing in Josephine's warm doorway kissing Hedrow Wilson. She claimed she was kissing with her eyes open and saw me go by, but I know better. I didn't just pass by; the float stopped right in front of her for a lifetime and she never opened her eyes once. We broke records that year for a lot of things, including the weather. Coldest parade in history, Grandpa said, and I believed him as I watched my thin angel dress whip about showing my longjohns to the world. I was the only angel to wear a stocking cap under the halo. My gloves held no compassion or joy, and icicles formed on my nose. I did have a wonderful smile though. It was frozen in place. The faces behind the frosted windows smiled back. It was also the longest parade on record; it just went on and on forever. The animals went home halfway through. I ended up hating Grandpa Gabby and Billy Ray's wife, and my feet still haven't forgiven me. Even now, years later, moved...