Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

“Some call them beggars and thieves. They say the women are good for nothing but telling fortunes.”

“They are human beings with souls, like the rest of us,” Parson Wigger reminded me.

“I agree. You only have to convince a few hundred of your fellow citizens.” I didn’t have to remind him that his own popularity in Northmont was not too high at that moment.

April came back from her tour of the wagons, and we drove away with a wave to Parson Wigger. “He’s really tryin’ to help those people,” she said. “That Volga thinks highly of the parson.”

“She’s Lowara’s wife. She must have been a child bride. I treated her son and never even knew she was the mother.”

“There’s an old woman in one wagon who tells fortunes,” April said with a giggle.

“She tell yours?”

April nodded. “Said I was gettin’ married soon.”

“Good for you.” April was some years older than me, in her mid-thirties, and not the most beautiful girl in town. I figured the old gypsy woman was a good judge of human nature.

On Christmas mornin’ it was snowin’ gently, and from a distance down the street Parson Wigger’s church looked just the way they always do on greeting cards. I wasn’t that much of a churchgoer myself, but I decided I should show up. Last Christmas I’d spent the entire day deliverin’ a farm woman’s baby, and an hour in church sure wouldn’t be any harder than that.

Parson Wigger was out front, bundled against the cold and snow, greetin’ the people as they arrived. I waved to him and stopped to chat with Eustace Carey, who ran one of Northmont’s two general stores. “How are you, Doc? Merry Christmas to ye.”

“Same to you, Eustace. We’ve got good weather for it-a white Christmas but not too white.”

“Folks say the gypsies are comin’ to the service. You heard anything about it?”

“No, but it is Christmas, after all. Nothin’ wrong with them comin’ to church.”

Eustace Carey snorted. “What’s wrong is them bein’ here in the first place! I think they hexed old Minnie to get permission to camp on her land. These gypsy women can hex a person, you know.”

I was about to reply when a murmur went up from the waiting churchgoers. A single crowded gypsy wagon pulled by a team of horses was comin’ down the center of the street “Looks like they’re here,” I remarked to Carey.

It was obvious then that Parson Wigger had been standin’ in the snow for exactly this moment. He hurried out to the wagon and greeted Lowara and the others warmly. It seemed that all the gypsies had come, even the children, and after the parson shook hands with them, they filed into church.

“I don’t like ’em,” Carey said behind me. “They look funny, they smell funny, they got funny names.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Eustace.”

We followed the gypsies into church and took our seats in one of the front pews. I glanced around for April, then remembered that she’d be at the Catholic church, on the other side of town.

After a few moments’ wait Parson Wigger came out wearin’ his traditional long black cassock and white surplice. He carried a Bible in one hand as he mounted the pulpit and then began to speak. “First of all, I want to wish each and every one of my parishioners-and I feel you are all my parishioners-the very merriest of Christmases and the happiest of New Years. I see 1926 as a year of promise, a year of building our spiritual lives.”

I’d never been a great one for listening to sermons, and I found my eyes wandering to the double row of gypsies down front. If the sermon was boring them too, they were very good at masking their feelings. Sitting right behind them, and none too happy about it, was old Minnie Haskins, who’d given them permission to use her land.

Later, when Parson Wigger had concluded his sermon and prayer service and we’d sung the obligatory Christmas hymns, I sought out Minnie Haskins in the back of the church. Despite her years she was a spry little woman who moved about with remarkable agility. “Hello there, Dr. Sam,” she greeted me. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you, Minnie. How’s the leg?”

“Fit as a fiddle!” She did a little kick to show me. “A touch o’ rheumatism can’t keep me down!” Then she pulled me aside as the others were leaving and whispered, “What’re all them gypsies doin’ here, Doc? I’m in enough trouble with folks for lettin’ them camp on my farm. Now they come to church!”

“It’s Christmas, Minnie. I think they should be welcomed at church on Christmas Day.”

“Well, lots o’ folk are upset with Parson Wigger for invitin’ them, I’ll tell ye that!”

“I haven’t heard any complaints yet except from Eustace Carey.”

“Well, him an’ others.”

Carey joined us then, still grumbling. “Soon as I can get the parson alone I’m goin’ to give him a piece o’ my mind. Bad enough fillin’ the church with gypsies, but then he takes ’em right down front.”

“Where are they now?” I asked.

“Would you believe it? He’s taken them up in the steeple to show them the view!”

I followed them out to the sidewalk, and we looked up through the fallin’ snow at the towerin’ church steeple. Though each of its four white sides had an open window for the belfry, no bell had rung there since its days as a Baptist church. The Baptists had taken their bell with them to a new church in Groveland, and Parson Wigger hadn’t yet raised enough money to replace it.

As we watched, the gypsies began comin’ out of the church and climbin’ back onto their wagon. “They can’t read or write, you know,” Carey said. “No gypsies can.”

“Probably because they haven’t been taught,” I replied. “A little schoolin’ for the youngsters like Tene would help.”

“Well,” Carey said, “I’m still goin’ to talk with the parson about this, soon’s I can catch him alone.”

I glanced around for Minnie, but she’d disappeared, swallowed up by the fallin’ snow. We could barely see across the street now, as the fat white flakes tumbled and swirled in the breeze. I could feel them cold against my face, clingin’ to my eyelashes, and I decided it was time to go home. Just then Volga Lowara came out of the church and climbed into the wagon. The driver snapped the reins and they started off.

“I’m going in to see the parson now,” Carey said.

“Wait a minute,” I suggested. I could have been wrong but I didn’t remember seeing Carranza leave the church. He might have stayed behind to talk with Parson Wigger.

“The heck with it,” Carey decided at last, his hat and coat covered with fat white snowflakes. “I’m goin’ home.”

“I’ll see you, Eustace. Wish the family a Merry Christmas.” It was somethin’ to say, avoidin’ obvious mention of the fact that his wife hadn’t accompanied him to Christmas services.

I decided there was no point in my waitin’ around, either. As Carey disappeared into the snow I started in the opposite direction, only to encounter Sheriff Lens. “Hello there, Dr. Sam. Comin’ from church?”

“That I am. A snowy Christmas, isn’t it?”

“The kids with new sleds’ll like it. Seen Parson Wigger around?”

“He’s in the church. What’s up?”

“Funny thing. I’ll tell you about it.” But before he could say more the familiar figure of Parson Wigger appeared in the church doorway, still wearin’ his long black cassock but without the white surplice. For just an instant a stray beam of light seemed to reflect off his thick glasses. “Parson Wigger!” the sheriff called out, startin’ through the snow for the church steps.

Wigger turned back into the church, bumpin’ against the door jamb. It was almost as if the sight of Sheriff Lens had suddenly terrified him. The sheriff and I reached the back of the church together, just in time to see Wigger’s black cassock vanish up the stairs to the belfry.