My thanks to Monica Rose for proofreading and helpful suggestions.

This is a work of adult fiction so that's a caution that covers everything. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.

 

 

Jack had decided upon a real razor today instead of electric one.  It was the day before Christmas and there was some nostalgia in the air.  Sure, he had an electric razor, but there was no romance in using this droning device, especially on such a special occasion.  When the kids were still at home and it was oh so many years ago and Jack was still much younger, still before the war and even afterwards, he was preparing for his early Sunday morning ritual in the kitchen before church.  He usually washed his face with hot water while at, but on weekdays he washed in cold water only.  So here he was with his suspenders over a white undershirt, standing in front of the hook on the wall while sharpening his razor.  The sound it made as it slid over the strop, zhhhhh up and shhhhh down, zhhhhh up and shhhhh down, was rather soothing.  Sharpening till it was well – razor sharp.  The kids were sipping their tea or eating Sunday morning wafers meanwhile.  After the razor was sharpened enough, it was time for soap foam.  It was a kind of magic, especially for little Al.  Jack was putting some foam on his nose and he was squealing in delight while it was great fun both for elder Becky and oldest Rick too.  Then followed the shaving itself, starting with putting a thick foam on the face, then taking razor in a hand with little finger protruding and then removing it with the razor in some tricky movements.  Sometimes making funny faces or sometimes stretching the skin with left hand and later the residual soap was wiped off with hot wet towel.  And voila!  Daddy was shaved clean and he looked some few years younger and mommy was kissing him on the cheek while kids were applauding and afterwards he clapped some Old Spice over his hands and hands over the face and kitchen was engulfed in this special Sunday morning aroma.

That was years ago.  Kids were growing up.  First was Rick who left for medical studies in Boston, Becky followed him in three years, and Jack with Dorothy were dreading them bringing home their significant ones and then coming with their kids too.  It wasn’t meant to happen.  Rick was drafted the year after the college and was killed four months later somewhere in Korea.  The same year, while studying at college, Becky was coming home from the library and was assaulted and killed.

From a big family once, only junior Al was left.  Since his Junior High he was different, not like other boys, and constantly surrounded by the bunch of girls he didn’t fancy them but rather preferred to be one of them.  First his parents thought it was just a phase and Al will grow it out but… Nothing helped – neither his elder bro’s nor dad’s attempts to man Al up or mom’s scolding. He was simply different.  He had almost no friends at school. He was ignored by the most and bullied by some.

Al went to the same college as his siblings had but he wanted to be a teacher.  Both Jack and Dorothy expected him to work in some middle school with a bunch of young single women around.  They hoped it maybe could help and change Al’s attitude and one day he’ll meet a girl who could change him into the man. It wasn’t meant to happen.

 

 

Meanwhile something very important had happened. That was important for the country and for the world too. US was the only country that had magic motherlods all three of them. The very first one discovered in the middle of the nineteenth century was the weakest one while later on 1888 and then nine years later another two very powerful motherlods were discovered all three on the slopes of the highest Appalachian Mountains. The production of wishes in those adits was established and country was supplied with wishes that were especially useful in wars. Few years later the Ragnarsdottir‘s book was published with all possible wish’s formulations in it. Another sixty years passed and Americans got used to wishes that were the last straw in hopeless situations. Then there was a MIT incident on 1956. That’s scientists of MIT got permission to investigate the magic motherlod #2 and a month later motherlod #3 both in Northern Gem adit of Penobscot Mining Company. Both motherlods were destroyed. Adit was functional still but there was no magic in it anymore though scientists still had no clue what’s going on and what the magic itself is. Was it a coincidence or not but the same year MIT published the study by Aydin Gamerlan “Reality shift using personal wishes”. It was published in limited edition of 500 numbered copies.

It was the first week of March 1958 just some week after the Prestonsburg bus disaster with 27 deaths. Sure a lot of people were discussing why no wish was used to save those people. Then again the wish of the kind “I wish my kid was alive” never worked though such wish could be fulfilled as a reality shift of some other wish. There were few conditions for reality shift. The event couldn’t be older than a couple of days or it would be not the reality shift but just another reality and there were no such powerful wishes in the world. The wish had to be personal while it was the way the wishes worked.

There was a special agent Philip Crammer who was made responsible for all this magic stuff after MIT incident. Wasn’t it an irony that agent Crammer was one of those who supported scientists in their pursuit to get an access to magic motherlods? Now he was left with magic motherlod #1 and producing two wishes per month as compared to four wishes every day before MIT incident.

Prestonsburg bus disaster case was already lost. One it was too late and two Phil had no clue how it could be solved even if he had read Gamerlan’s book. It was about magic and everything magic was obscurantism and nothing more.  So now Phil was sitting in one of Boston’s café and sipping hot chocolate and considering about tendering his resignation because he simply no way could cope with all that magic. At the next table sat some students of one of universities. It could be nothing interesting and special but they were talking about Prestonsburg and Gamerlan’s book. That was a reason for Phil to become all ears.

“It was mentioned only in one paper,” one girl said, “that one chubby lady fell out of her bed and her femur was fractured. Her husband helped her into the car to give her a ride to the hospital but his car broke and he called for the taw. When the taw driver was maneuvering around their car the school bus appeared and its driver was too young and inexperienced to avoid the collision without getting the bus into the river.”

“So what?” another girl asked.

“Don’t you see the clue?” the first girl replied.

“Well…” the girl #2 started but she had no answer. Then she said “Maybe bus driver? He was the one that was inexperienced.”

“I think that’s taw driver,” the third girl suggested.

“You go the right direction,” the first replied, “but go further.”

“Say it at least,” the second girl snapped.

“It’s chubby lady. In the same paper it was mentioned that she was actually fat – 240 lbs.” The first girl replied. “If she had wished she was slender, what lady wouldn’t want that, she wouldn’t fell of her bed and fracture her femur and there would be no need to drive her to the hospital and then call for the taw and school bus wouldn’t meet any obstacle on its way to avoid collision with and get into the river.”

“That’s simple?” Phil asked unexpectedly aloud turning in his seat to face the girls while the girl #1 wasn’t a girl at all but a young man.

 

 

Al was recruited for service in the FBI called by its employees simply the Office.  He wasn’t Junior Al anymore as his mates at school and in the college were used to calling him.  Now he was special agent Alistair Miller working in pair with another special agent Philip Crammer his recruiter actually. They both worked with obscurantism according to Phil or other words wishes that were distributed by FMF at FBI.

The wish – it’s an ordinary looking piece of paper with a unique number and a couple of signatures, nothing special really, plain paper with typed title and short description. The most desired thing for Al to use to convert him into the girl he really was. They both, Phil and Al had their emergency wishes with them, but those were for emergency and not for desire of whole life. Al was afraid to touch his wish while he was afraid to wish unconsciously.

Philip knew what Al’s desire was. And he felt bad that probably he, Philip Crammer was partially responsible along with MIT scientists that all those wishes were now a rarity and no one could use a wish to fulfill some agent’s desire. Phil felt especially bad during their last case in the middle of November when young man shot a couple of girl scouts in the wood after he had mistaken them for deer. The light was already low and the rain was drizzling and young man’s fingers were stiff while the girls had lost from their group and actually moved in opposite direction from their mates. Shotgun was loaded with buck pellets and there was no way the hunter could miss the twenty feet shot. FBI agents had to find the way for hunter never to become one. The hunter was the only one who survived so he had to make a wish to change him. Al said the only way to prevent his new self to become a hunter was for hunter to wish he was a girl. That was late fifties of twentieth century and the girl could become a hunter though hunting girl was rather exception than the rule.

First young man thought agents were joking. Then he started to complain shouting and cursing he wasn’t a fairy and he didn’t like men. Phil said no one will force him to be with men after the change and what was a key moment in this magic thing that no one will remember him as a man, only those who were with him when he voiced the wish.

The young man was so reluctant that the wish made him an ugly girl, not tomboyish ugly but rather un-pretty.

“Why uglify your life when you have a unique opportunity to make it almost perfect?” Al complained while he was very upset afterwards.

 

 

Christmas is special time for special agents too and they come to their homes and they visit their parents.  It was already late afternoon when Al got to his parents’ home.  As a student in the college, he had worked as Santa at department store.  Now, as his salary was far more than he could expect as a teacher, he decided to be Santa for kids in his neighborhood and brought his own Santa’s costume.

A few hours later after Christmas Eve’s supper was over and all presents were placed under the tree, Al put on the white beard and heavy rose blush on his cheeks and changed into Santa’s costume.  He made a really good Santa.  And though his natural voice was in a high register, he was good at drama and managed to sound “real” as Santa too.

 “Ho-ho-ho!  It’s still time for you to make a Christmas wish, if you have been a good girl this year, Dorothy,” Al said in Santa’s low voice while his mom adjusted the lapels of his coat.

“Oh, Santa!  I wish my son would make us, his parents, grandparents,” mom almost whispered.

“Mom, please,” Santa answered in Al’s voice.

“It’s just my wish,” his mother said, “just a wish.”

 

 

Despite the fact that it was Christmas Eve for the rest of the world, it was an ordinary Thursday for special agent Philip Crammer.  Maybe there was still some nostalgia anyway from his childhood left, so he made himself a cup of hot chocolate before he was ready to go to bed.  Sure, his hot chocolate was real, not that surrogate from a powder in the can.  He used a cheese grater to shred two chocolate bars and added it to half a cup of boiling table cream and stirred till the chocolate dissolved completely.  His mom usually added some vanilla at the end, but since his chocolate bars were vanilla flavored already, there was no need to add anything.

He inhaled that heavy hot aroma of chocolate and vanilla and sipped just one drop of hot thick liquid.  It tasted as good as what by his mom used to make.  He put the cup on the night table and was ready to slip under the sheets when the phone rang.

“Hello?” Phil answered.

“Phil, it’s Stan.  We have a case in Vermont, Crystal Lake near Barton on US5, school bus and Greyhound, eighty-seven including drivers,” the voice said.  “I’ve sent a car to your place.  Where is Al?”

“Visiting his parents.  Kingston, Rhode Island, Conant lane.  Don’t remember the house number,” Phil replied.

“Rhode Island?  Oh my…”

“You said him he’s free till Monday.  What did you expect?  Sure, he went home.”

“Ok, no problem.  Kingston you say?  Aha… We have Quonset Point there twenty miles away.  Ok.  Wait for Al in Burlington airport and rent the car there.  What else?  Ah… We need this case.  After the Prestonsburg failure, Office needs this case solved and aired…”

“Aired?  Stan, I’m not sure we’ll make it and you talk as if it’s solved already,” Phil complained.

“You both are the best, Phil. And Al was the one who offered the solution for Prestonsburg school bus crash. It sure was too late but people at FMF confirmed his solution was perfect.”

“Stan I’ll do everything but it’s the only thing I can promise. I don’t have a clue about all those wishes. That’s Al’s field and I can’t ensure Al will succeed.”

“I know Phil you will. I just want you to know the airing isn’t my whim.”

 

 

There were too many rumors about wishes and how government and dignities were using them for their selfish purposes. Some people were convinced that Robert McNamara actually was a woman who wished to be a man the same like Edith Hoover was really a man who wished to be a woman. FBI needed some positive usage of those wishes for public needs and the best material were disasters with the human factor involved. The role of special agents was to find that person the personal change of which will shift a reality and in a new course of events the disaster would be omitted.

The physics of the wish magic was that spectators will know both the old and the new realities. Airing the wish being processed made all who watched the TV eyewitnesses and acknowledged of the wish use for public welfare. There were magicians, who worked for Federal Magic Fund actually, and they acknowledged both realities too, that one before the wish and another after the wish was spelt. But who believes in magicians these days?

 

 

Good Burlington Air Base was part of an international airport, not some secluded air base in the middle of the desert.  Renting the car still was a little complicated at 2 in the morning on the Christmas day.  The office was closed but there was a piece of paper with phone number glued to the door.  Phil had to wait no more than twenty minutes for the manager to arrive.  Phil got a Plymouth Belvedere and was happy with his choice.  He liked non-descript cars.

While waiting for his partner, Phil made the last call to Stan using the National Guard’s secure phone line.  No news there, except he learned that Al would arrive in twelve minutes.  This was good news.  There was time enough to warm the car, who liked driving a car on a cold winter night with fogged glasses?

Al arrived exactly twelve minutes later but…

“What’s with your face, Al?” Phil asked.

“What?  I don’t understand sir.”

“Your face is red.  It’s like painted.”

“Oh…  This…” Al exclaimed, “I was Santa for neighborhood kids tonight, sir.”

“You need to take it off.”

“I’ll run into the airport, just for a minute, sir.” Al replied.

It was already 2:45 AM when Al got back.

“Why so long?” Phil asked.

“Christmas, sir.  By the way, Merry Christmas, sir!”

 

 

Barton is almost ninety miles away from Burlington.  It’s two hours ride in summer.  Now it was winter and night.  Everything was white and shimmering.  It was good that it was Christmas night, so their car was almost the only lonely wanderer on the road, no cars to overtake and no cars with blinding lights to pass.  It was also good that the road was not only plowed but de-iced too.

Al used cotton pads and some cream from a jar to clean his face.  One problem solved, thought Phil.  Meanwhile, Al extracted a gingerbread man from his suitcase.

“Want some sir?” Al asked politely, “I have coffee in vacuum flask too.”

“Coffee would be nice though I can’t drink while driving,” Phil said.

“We could switch seats,” Al offered.

A couple minutes later, Phil was sitting in the shotgun seat and enjoying hot coffee in thermos cap.  “Mom’s?” he asked.

“No, Dad’s,” his younger partner replied.  “Mom suggested that I drink milk while, you know I was kind of Santa, but Dad said it was bad idea for staying awake all night.”

“Oh, that’s good now.  Please thank you mom and dad for me,” said Phil, biting off gingerbread man’s arm.

Meanwhile, snow had started to fall again and the high beam of the headlamps made the falling snow look like a white wall surrounding the car.  Al switched to low beams and dropped the speed to almost thirty.

“Night’s long, we’ll be in Barton well before dawn,” he said, kind of apologizing to his partner.

It was almost six in the morning when they passed Burke and they saw a sign that US 5 was closed and a detour to Barton and beyond went through Westmore.

“Don’t turn,” Phil said, “it’s probably because of our case.  Probably a couple of miles left.”

Actually, it was almost eleven miles away and half an hour later when they noticed the single police car on the road.  Snowfall had stopped and the crescent moon was shining over the lake on the right side of the road.

“Where is it?” Phil asked after all official introductions.

“Here,” deputy sheriff William Parton motioned his hand in direction of the lake.  “When we got here, we found everything the same as you see now.  The witness, the plow trucker Rob Martens, said the greyhound had overtaken him just behind the Barton, some mile and half away, both buses were on ice and in a tremendous fire when Rob arrived at this turn.  A few moments later, the ice broke and the buses went under water.  He used the car’s headlamps to light the lake though he said there was no movement here.”

“Rob plowed all possible traces from Barton down to this turn,” another police officer Matt Kiesling said, “and later trying to light the lake and making an U-turn he’d destroyed all other traces on the other side of the turn.”

“So what are your plans now?” Phil asked.

“National Guard will start an underwater rescue operation in the morning,” William Parton said.

“Well guys, we’ll go to the town.  Though I feel we have not much what to do here,” Phil said.  “I’m sorry but it’s probably another dead case.”

 

 

The special agents rode to town, Phil behind the steering wheel this time.  The road was plowed with almost all snow thrown over the shoulders of the road.  In town, the main street and sidewalks were neatly shoveled already in this early hour of Christmas day.  They had the address of the trucker and they were about to question him.  “Just to be sure,” said Phil.

The plow truck was standing near the sheriff's office.  There were some other cars too.  Phil noticed the beat-up Nash 600, which obviously stood out.  A little snow was over all the cars but this one was covered with a thick layer of snow on the driver’s side as if the snow was thrown over by plow truck.  It was impossible as the driver’s side was turned away from the street.  Phil put his hand on car’s hood, it was cold as ice while the plow truck’s hood was still warm.

“Let’s find Rob Martens first,” Phil offered.  “The deputy said to look for Water street on the left, drive down the street till the crossing with Church street, and behind the crossing and the bridge look for Park street on the left side again.”

“Let’s go,” Al agreed, “maybe he isn’t already in the bed after the night shift.”

 

 

Rob’s house was the first one on the Park Street and there were still lights in the kitchen, so both agents knocked on front door without hesitation.  The door was opened by a young woman.

“Mrs. Martens?” Phil asked and after the woman nodded her head, he continued, “Special agent Phillip Crammer and this is special agent Alistair Miller.  We need to question your husband Robert Martens.  Is he available?”

“Yes, he is.  Please come in,” the young woman replied.  “Is this about that terrible accident?” she asked.

“It is,” said Phil.

They all went to the kitchen where Rob Martens was finishing his late-night dinner.

“Good morning Mr. Martens.  We are special agents Phillip Crammer and Alistair Miller,” Phil introduced themselves again.

“Would you like some coffee?” Mrs. Martens asked.

“Oh, thank you, that would be kind of you, Mrs. Martens,” Phil said

“We have some questions, Mr. Martens, regarding the incident on US 5.  Besides to what you’ve said to police officers, is there something that you’d like to add?” asked Al.

“It was everything as usual and the only unusual thing was that inferno over the lake.  And no, nothing unusual really…”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Martens made coffee for both Phil and Al and served it, offering cream and sugar.  In Rob’s answer, there was no uncertainty so most probably there wasn’t much to question him about.  Both agents were enjoying their coffee in silence when Phil remembered something.

“There is a beat-up car, a Nash I guess, near the sheriff’s office.  Do you know something about it?  Why one side of it is under the snow, for example?” he asked.

“Sure I do.  It’s Nathan’s car.  It stops whenever Nathan tries to drive it.  Usually, it’s a trifle any other guy but Nathan would repair in a minute. Tonight, I found him in his car on the road and almost ran into him because, you know the snow on the shoulders, and his car was in my way without a single light showing.”

“Why didn’t you mention it before?” Phil asked.

“You were asking about something ‘unusual’ and this is way too usual.  I tow him to town or over to Burke where his aunt lives whenever something happens to his car on the road.  And whenever I meet him, his car isn't running.”

“So, Nathan’s car was sitting on the road before the turn where buses collided?” Phil asked.

“Yes, exactly that,” Rob Martens confirmed, “and, as I’d said, I almost ran into him because I was blinded by light of the fire.”

“If it was on the road, how does it happen to be at sheriff’s office now?”

“I towed him in on my way to town,” Martens explained annoyingly, “as I do every time.  He was sitting in his car and when I got there, Nathan was a real icicle.”

 

 

In this team of two, Phillip was surely the senior partner.  In his early fifties, he had more than thirty years of experience in law-enforcement.  Starting in the New York City police department, he was sent to Europe immediately after the end of World War 2 to deal with former SS, SD and Gestapo officers.  After he returned to the states, he was adopted into the FBI.  A real professional one could say.

Alistair had planned to be a middle-school teacher.  No one could envision him as special agent, never in their life.  But he had a talent, an intuition.  The most people knew nothing about FBI investigation procedures and Al wasn’t an exception.  But his intuition was exceptional in unraveling and solving accidents and tracking that single point in the sequence of events where a new starting point could be set using one single personal transformation wish.  But, in the FBI, Al was like a poet in the army.  He needed a guide, or rather a shepherd, who could do all job of inquiry and investigation.

By now, Al was somewhat experienced in questioning and, if there was a need, he was the Good Cop of the pair.  It was in his nature.  He was good in drama, but acting in real life wasn’t his quality.

 

 

It was almost nine in the morning on Christmas day when both agents stood in front of Lola’s Pub where, in the basement’s bedsit, lived bartender Nathan Williams, now the main suspect and possible zero key of the bus collision on US 5 in the late hour of Christmas Eve 1959.

Nathan was already up and tidying his place when Phil knocked on his door.  He offered to meet in a couple of minutes in the pub because he had keys and could wait on both agents there too.

“We are not to accuse you,” Al started, “but we have to know what happened last night.  Have you been here since yesterday?”

“Yes, I was,” Nathan started, “A few guys were here, all locals.  I wanted to close the pub as early as possible because I had promised my aunt Helga to come over to her house in Burke for Christmas Eve supper and then attend service.  I had presents ready for her and her kids.  The last local bus to Burke is at eight.  The guys… I couldn’t so simply kick them out.  And I was late for the bus.

"The only way to get to Burke was to drive my car.  The engine started on the very first attempt.  I thought that it was because it was Christmas and I prayed I would get to her house.  It's only sixteen miles away.  But no such luck, it stopped a couple of miles from home, and so abruptly that I stomped on the brakes all the way to the floorboards.  I'm not good with cars or other machinery, so I simply tried to start it up again, but it would not.  There was something clicking inside, but nothing else and then there was smoking coming from under the hood.  So I quickly raised the hood and there was that stench of burning rubber and I disconnected the wires from the battery.

”I couldn’t start it so I tried to pull it on to the shoulder.  There was already almost an inch of fresh snow on the road and a deep snowdrift over the road shoulders.  I managed to pull that thing to the shoulder though.  The snow stopped and it was getting colder.  My hands were already cold and stiff like wooden sticks and I myself felt very cold.  There was no way I could make it those two miles back to the town.  I expected Rob, Robert Martens that is, would drive his plow truck and tow me home.

“While I was sitting in the car I dozed off while waiting for Rob.  After Rob had put me into his truck and I’d warmed up a little, he said that two buses had collided down the road and then went through the ice and then under the water.  No one survived.  It’s so horrible,” Nathan’s lower lip started to quiver and shortly tears were rolling down his cheeks.  A few minutes later, he had calmed enough to continue.

“Once I was home, Rob made me some hot tea with a lot of sugar and then poured into me three shots of Crown Royal I’d bought for my uncle and I passed out till this morning.”

“Eighty-seven,” Phil said few moments after Nathan had finished.

“What’s eighty-seven?” Nathan asked.

“There are eighty-seven victims in mentioned two buses collision,” Phil explained in expressionless voice.  “One bus was a Greyhound from Montreal to Boston carrying people who were trying to get home for Christmas.  The other was a school bus from Derby with the North Country Union high school band and choir coming home after a concert in Montpelier at a retirement home.”

Phil’s voice, even without any accusation, sounded like one and there was a pure terror displayed on Nathan’s face.  This was Phil's part being the bad cop.

“Let’s try to rebuild the situation on the US 5 last night,” Phil continued.  “Greyhound was coming down the road from Barton and driver had noticed a car at the side of the road before the turn to the right.  Because of that car, the driver switched his headlights from high beam to low beam.  At the same time, the school bus driver coming from Burke didn’t see the high beam glow and was sure the road was free for him to cut the left turn edge a little, causing an almost perfect head-to-head collision of two buses at the angle of the turn.  That was enough to lock both buses side-by-side and momentum pushed them into a direction opposite to the turn.  This is over the lake or rather over the ice.  Gas tank of one of the buses erupted and both buses were engulfed into the fire immediately.  The fire was tremendous and it melted the ice in seconds which resulted in both buses going under the water.”

There was no evidence, no traces, and no witnesses actually.  What Phil had said actually was a bluff.  But Phil was a cop and it was the way he worked with suspects.  The emotional part of the story was usually the way to put the suspect into the trap.

“Not everything is lost,” Phil said.  “One single wish making you a little different and all eighty seven victims could be alive and with their families again.”

“Anything…” Nathan whispered, “I’ll do anything to turn time back.”

The trap sprang.

“We have to call the office for details first,” Al said unexpectedly, unexpectedly for Phil anyway.  There was a rule – don’t question your partner in front of others and especially in front of the suspect.

 

 

“WHAT?” Phil asked trying to keep his voice low and stay calm after they left the pub.

“I really have to call the office,” Al said, “it’s not our usual case of guy and his machinery that leaves the road clean after the guy wishes he was a girl.”

“Is that your intuition?” Phil snarled.

“Not this time, sir.  You were about to let him make a wish that he was a girl?  He’s already one almost.  If he’s a girl then she would be a waitress at the same pub, she’d still be late for the bus and her car would be the same piece of junk.”

“Why not, Al?  I still don’t understand…”

“Well… If he was in the army, turning him into a girl leaves him out of army and the accident situation would not occur.  If he was driving some heavy machinery like a truck, bus or loco making him a girl eliminates the accident situation too.  Nathan, as a girl, would not change the circumstances of this particular accident.”

“So, what now?” Phil asked.

“As I’ve said.  I need to call the office and, if the answers are positive, we’ll need to go to Montpelier for airing.”

“I have a scrambler,” Phil said, “so you may use any public phone, even that in the pub.”

“Oh no, no way!  Someone may overhear me and it would be a disaster.  Let’s go to sheriff’s office.”

“The sheriff’s office is more crowded than the pub at the moment.” Phil complained.

“Officers are not patrons.  We can ask them to leave me alone to make the call.  I hope to fit it into twenty minutes,” Al offered.

 

 

Al didn’t fit the call into twenty minutes nor even into forty minutes.  He was back with his left ear red from more than two hours of pressing the receiver to his head and it was now past noon.  He didn’t say much, just offered to drive to Montpelier, with Nathan and him in the back seat.  During the ride Al was talking with Nathan and Phil didn’t hear much of their conversation.  Besides, Phil wasn’t much for the whole wish thing anyway as, according to him, it was some kind of witchery and didn’t suit a special agent.  The time was used to explain to Nathan what wish he was about to make.

Usually, guys were complaining, shouting, crying or cursing after they were told what they had to wish.  Later, after a bit of the bad cop, good cop thing, the guy was all set up.

In this case, Nathan just said “Ok.”  That’s all.  No crying, no complaining.  He just accepted it.  Phil didn’t hear what Al and Nathan were talking about but he could swear that there were even some giggles here too.  He even checked in rear view mirror maybe Nathan was already turned into a girl. No, he wasn’t and Phil again heard what he could swear was the giggle.

 

 

In Montpelier, a studio was already waiting for them.  They were made up with a thick layer of stage powder and the bluish lipstick that was used for better contrast on TV.  Two cameras were set up, one for the studio host and Nathan and another off to the side to make a record for the office with both agents visible.  The sound system would be turned off immediately after Nathan’s wish to prevent the airing of curses which was a usual thing for those witnessing the change.  Nathan was provided with a wish in a special protective sleeve.

The airing started.  The studio host introduced himself and then Nathan.  Then the accident that had occurred previous night on US 5 was described.  The pictures of both buses were shown, not the actual same buses but those like them.  Then followed the part about victims, not all victims were known, but more than a half of them were kids from both buses.

“Nathan Williams is not guilty and he is not even a suspect,” the studio host said at last, his manner of speech rather precise as he spoke to the camera, “he did not cause the collision though his presence did interfere with one of the buses.  This man has agreed to change himself drastically so he would not be present at the accident as he was the last night.  This drastic change for one man will cause some minor shift in reality to allow the buses to pass safely in some other place.”

There was a deathly hush in the studio.  Nathan extracted the wish from its protective sleeve and kept it in his right hand.

“I, Nathan Patrick Williams, wish I was a girl named Natalie Prudence Williams.”

The air in the study shimmered, kind of like a hot road in the summer.  There were gasps and some curses as well in the room.  The wish in Nathan’s hand disappeared in this shimmer and he wasn’t he anymore while it was she, Natalie, who was staring at Al with her eyes open wide.

“Did I say everything right, honey?” she asked softly.

“You did it perfect, baby,” Al replied the same soft way.

“Did I miss something?” Phil asked.

“I had to wish to be Natalie’s happy husband to extract her from Barton.  I had to make my wish before the ripples of her wish settled.  I wished to be her husband prior her becoming real though after Nathan’s wish was already aired.  I’ve checked this in the office and they have agreed with me it’s the only possibility for Nathan/Natalie to be somewhere else on Christmas Eve.  My inner voice said me Nathan was really she so…”

“So Al proposed to me in the car,” Natalie finished Al’s sentence. “And I said ‘Yes’.”

“U-huh…” was the only very intelligent Phil’s answer.

There was that feeling or actually not a feeling but knowledge, that there had been no bus collision on US5 a night before or at any time in the past.

“What now?” Phil asked.

“We still are partners,” Al replied.

“I’m asking about you being a husband and… ”

“I know what you are asking.  I feel good.  Calm and kind of happy… No.  I’m really happy like I’ve wished, not just kind of.”

“And your desire?” Phil started, “you know the one you really were…”

“The desire is still here,” Al put his hand on his heart. “I’m not the first on this path and not the last. I’ll not change this even if given an opportunity now. I can’t risk Natalie’s future.”

“We’ll cope with it together,” Natalie interfered.

“Isn’t that a sort of sacrifice?” Phil asked.

“We both are agents, special agents,” Al replied, “and it’s meant for us to sacrifice our lives if needed.”

“And we still have go to Burke to Aunt Sophie,” Natalie added, “there we’ll need your real sacrifice – I expect you to talk about sport with my Uncle.”

“Oh, noooo…”

“Well.  You two take the car and I’ll take the bus to Burlington,” Phil offered.  “And… Merry Christmas!”

 

 

Natalie and Al’s twins Becky and Rick were sitting at the table in the kitchen and munching their Sunday breakfast of wafers with strawberry jam and whipped cream.  Pop Jack was here with his suspenders over white undershirt standing in front of the hook on the wall while sharpening his razor sliding it over the razor strap, zhhhhh up and shhhhh down, zhhhhh up and shhhhh down…

The kids were mesmerized by the unusual view of their Grandfather.  After the razor was sharpened enough it was time for soap foam.  It was kind of magic.  Jack put some foam on both their noses and the kids were squealing in delight.  Then followed the shaving itself starting with putting a thick foam on the face and then removing it with the razor in some tricky movements sometimes making funny faces or sometimes stretching the skin with his left hand.  And voila!  Pop was shaved clean and he looked some few years younger and Granny was kissing him on the cheek while the kids were applauding and afterwards he clapped some Old Spice over his hands and hands over the face and kitchen was engulfed in this special Sunday morning aroma.