Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (10 page)

“A mild sedative. It's important that you rest for a day or so: no visitations, Agnes, and put that mask back on. You want to die?”

Hezekiah rubbed the back of her hand, and then he brushed some damp, stray hairs out of her face. “Please, Agnes. It's just ten minutes.”

Agnes smiled at him in a way that reminded me of the way she smiled at our father.

I left the two of them with Agnes breathing in the life-saving medicine and Hezekiah standing over her like she was Cleopatra on her barge. I half expected to come home and find him fanning her.

N
ot my problem? How could Vidalia even think such a thing? Agnes was more my problem than any one else's. I handed her prescription to Bob Smith, the pharmacist. Fresh from pharmacy school, he was a recent Bright's Pond acquisition and a nice enough fellow, but a lot of people looked at him with suspicion on account of his being so young. They sometimes treated him like a child and would ask him to check, double check and even triple check the pills he handed out. And with a name like Bob Smith, it just made him all the more suspect, especially since Bob knew some folks most private medical conditions. He knew who took tranquilizers and who got pain medication.

“Will you wait for it?”

“If that's okay. The doc said she needed it right away.”

“About ten minutes.”

I walked away from the counter, wondering why in the world it took so long to drop a few little pills into a bottle and type up a nametag.

An hour later, Agnes had nearly recovered from her crisis. Doc Flaherty told me he would have hospitalized any other patient with her symptoms, but moving her would have been more traumatic. When I told Agnes, she countered with, “I probably get better quicker at home anyway. Hospitals only make you sicker; bacteria factories, that's what they are.” Although I couldn’t dismiss her opinion, I lived with the concern that one day home remedies were not going to cut it.

H
ezekiah spent the rest of the day and clear through the next week working in the basement. Every once in a while he wandered up the steps holding one suspicious looking instrument or other. Some of my father's equipment was pretty gruesome looking and would have turned even the strongest of stomachs.

I managed to keep Agnes visitor-free until Friday morning, when Cora came by with Studebaker.

“I’m sorry, Griselda,” Cora said, “I heard you were keeping folks away this week, but I—”

“It's okay, Cora, you come on in.”

Studebaker helped her with her coat and hat. She left her unbuckled boots on and padded into the viewing room. She wore the same, thin, flowered dress she had worn every time I’d seen her.

“Cora's feeling kind of poorly,” Stu whispered.

My heart sank.

Cora sat in the rocker near Agnes. Studebaker and I hung back and let them talk. Within minutes Agnes was deep in prayer, so I walked into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.

Afterwards, I offered Cora a cup of tea, but she declined and explained that she wanted to get home.

“I won’t be making it to the potluck,” she said. “First one I’ve missed in forty-five years.”

Stu helped her down the porch steps and into his car. I lingered as they drove away.

O
ur potluck dinners always started around six o’clock, which was late for some of the parishioners. Most folks in Bright's Pond had finished supper by five-thirty, especially in the winter months. But they made an exception once a month and staved off their appetites for an hour or so to accommodate the men who didn’t make it home from work until then.

The Bright's Pond Chapel of Faith and Grace sat like an old mother hen right across the street from the Sparrow Funeral Home. Back when it was still a funeral home it was especially convenient for moving the casket over to the church for services—if that's what the family wanted. Agnes had a good view of the comings and goings from her bed and often reported to me who she had seen entering the church on an off-day, that being any day but Sunday or Wednesday evening when the men gathered for their weekly prayer meeting. I never could understand why no women were allowed at those meetings, and I harbored an image of the men sitting in a circle on metal folding chairs with their Bibles on their laps discussing the latest football game instead of praying. But what did I know?

Our Daddy went every single Wednesday and always came back happier than when he left, which at one time led our mother to believe there was some hanky-panky going on and that Daddy wasn’t really praying or talking sports. But he managed to allay her fears.

“Now you know you’re my little puddle duck. Trust me, honey. I’m not doing anything but praying.” Then he’d kiss her and her left leg would lift slightly off the ground as he pulled her close.

The church building, constructed around 1900 from gray, Pennsylvania fieldstone dug from nearby quarries and hauled on sledges by horses, had always been a place of worship. It still had the original bell hanging in the tower, although the bell, which at one time called people to worship or signal a death in the town, was no longer used.

I left for the church a few minutes past six.

“I’ll bring you back some food and goodies,” I told Agnes.

“It's the one thing I miss more than anything else,” she said.

The potlucks and most every other occasion were held in the fellowship hall, a large rectangular room with coat racks lining one side and chairs and tables set out in a way that made for the best traffic flow. The potluck committee, chaired by Vidalia Whitaker and Ruth Knickerbocker, assembled three long tables side by side and served the food buffet style.

Now you can think what you want but there are few things in life that can stack up against a church potluck. A person could derive sustenance from the aromas alone.

Vidalia set a casserole of steaming macaroni and cheese on the table between the scalloped potatoes and a ham. “You were able to come, Griselda, I was afraid you wouldn’t. I heard about Agnes.”

Funny how your eyes close sometimes and a small sigh escapes your heart without you even making the conscious decision to do it. “She's fine now, but I’ll probably leave early.”

“Oh, she’ll be all right. And you’re just across the street.” As usual, Vidalia was right. For these occasions Pastor Speedwell
had the phone company install a telephone in the kitchen, and we always kept the ring on its loudest, just for Agnes's sake.

Vidalia turned the ham. “That's better. Now everyone can see those pretty pineapples and cherries all shiny in that brown-sugar glaze.”

“It's a nice ham,” Ruth said. She padded up beside us, carrying a Full Moon pie in each hand. “How's your sister, dear?”

“Fine, Ruth. Doc said she needs to rest this week, and then she’ll be back to her usual self.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Zeb brought four pies, but I think we should just set out two at a time. They go so fast. I’ll leave the other two in the kitchen.”

The noise level in the room increased as more and more folks dribbled in, some carrying armfuls of food and others armfuls of children. Clay Gilmore dropped a basket of rolls on the table.

“Thank you, Mr. Gilmore,” Ruth said.

He tipped his hat.

By six-forty every seat was taken and folks looked half-starved as we waited for Pastor Speedwell to arrive. Food wasn’t served until Pastor prayed.

Sheila Spiney sat down at the piano and started playing
That Old Rugged Cross
, and pretty soon everyone was singing, singing and swaying. Just as we belted out the last stanza, Pastor and his wife entered through the back door, followed by their four boys, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. You can make your own observation on that one.

Darcy and the boys took their usual seats, and Pastor stood with his Bible tucked under his arm. He was a nice enough fellow, tall and lanky as a Slim Jim with curly black hair, high cheekbones, and a way of talking that hovered somewhere
near hellfire and brimstone. But he was never able to whip the congregation into the Holy Spirit frenzy I think he dreamed about.

I was still standing with Ruth and Vidalia when he started to pray. He went through the usual routine, thanking God for the blessings of living in a country free from war but careful to ask for special mercies of safety for the two young men Bright's Pond sent to Viet Nam, at which point their mothers began to cry.

He thanked the Lord for the meal we were about to eat and the many hands “that so lovingly prepared it” and was winding up to put his Amen on the end when Cora Nebbish bounced into the room like a cheerleader. A collective gasp rose through the congregation as she stood in the middle of the room.

“Hello, Sister Cora,” Pastor said. “Are you all right?”

“I thought she was on her deathbed,” I heard Janeen Sturgis say.

Cora took a few steps closer to Pastor but not without laying a hand on every shoulder she could reach. “I’ve been healed. I’ve been healed,” she said with each touch. “Agnes prayed and I got healed. My heart never felt stronger—never ticked stronger.”

Doc Flaherty, who always carried his medical bag, went to her. “Now, now, Cora, you got to take it easy.”

“Not anymore. Agnes healed me. Praise God for Agnes.”

That was when Hezekiah showed up wearing a brand new suit and a smile about as wide as Montana. “It's true. Cora was just with Agnes and Agnes prayed and all of a sudden, Cora took a deep, long breath and started to cry, saying she felt the touch of God all warm and tingly.”

“Just like me,” Studebaker said. “Did it feel like a zillion fire ants were crawling all over your insides, Cora?”

“Sure did, Studebaker, like a zillion fire ants. Hallelujah!”

Doc pulled out his stethoscope and made Cora sit down. Pastor Speedwell put his hand on her shoulder.

“It's true,” he said, “I can feel the energy pulsing through our dear, dear sister.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Doc said.

The congregation quieted down, so quiet I could hear the steam rising off the casseroles.

“It's true,” Doc said pulling the stethoscope from his ears. “Cora, your heart is beating like a twenty-year-old girl's.”

Tears started to flow down Vidalia's cheeks, and Ruth was so overcome she dashed into the kitchen crying, “It's a miracle. It's a miracle. Agnes did another miracle.”

Cora rose and took Pastor Speedwell's hand. “She did it, Pastor. Agnes saved my life.”

Studebaker joined Cora and kissed her cheek. “Another miracle.”

And, I thought, more ammunition to fire at the sign/statue debate. Then, in the blink of an eye, the sound of pots and pans crashing to the floor turned everyone's attention from Cora.

“Oh, my sweet Lord,” Ruth screamed from the kitchen. “Oh, my gracious Lord in Heaven.”

All heads turned to the clatter. Me and Hezekiah and Vidalia rushed for the kitchen. I thought Ruth Knickerbocker had keeled over, taking half the kitchen with her. But we were stopped in our tracks as Ruth, who I will admit was glowing, appeared in the doorway.

Ruth walked slowly to the center of the room carrying a Full Moon pie. “It's … it's Jesus. It's Jesus himself come to put his blessing on Cora's healing.”

“What are you talking about, Sister Ruth?” Pastor said.

“The pie! Just look at this pie. It's got Jesus's face right on it and … and he's smiling … I … I think.”

“Now, hold on there, Ruth,” Pastor said, “we can’t go saying—” He looked at the pie. “Holy cow and jumpin’ Jehosephat!” He smacked himself in the forehead. I averted my eyes in time to see Darcy cup her hands over her youngest boy's ears while the other three sat with mouths open wide. They weren’t accustomed to hearing such obscenities spew from their father's mouth.

“It does look like Jesus,” Pastor said.

The people gathered in a circle around Ruth and Cora and Pastor. Hezekiah and I stayed back.

“It's not everyday Jesus comes to call,” Hezekiah said.

“It's a pie, Hezekiah, just a pie. Ruth and all the others are just seeing what they want to see.”

Apparently, the golden dewdrops on the meringue had arranged themselves in a pattern that if you looked at it just right you could see the face of Jesus.

“A miracle,” Ruth said. “We’ve been blessed with two miracles tonight.”

Cora, even though her heart was beating like a child's again was still seventy-two and needed a little help to stand. She looked long and hard at the pie. Sheila played
Amazing Grace
, pianissimo, and the second Cora nodded and declared, “It's Jesus,” everyone started to sing and sway as the music swelled. There was weeping in the fellowship hall that evening, weeping and singing, weeping and singing.

Zeb walked out from a corner and took a long, hard look at the pie and put his arm around Cora, “Imagine that, Jesus showing up in one of my pies. I didn’t see it when I pulled it out of the oven.”

“The Good Lord honored you, Zeb,” Cora said.

Zeb reached down and kissed Cora's cheek. “Seems appropriate, seeing how you’re my waitress.”

When the singing stopped, Ruth held the pie toward Cora. “I think Cora should get the first piece. It is her miracle, after all.”

Ruth walked past Hezekiah and me and I caught a glimpse of the pie. I don’t know. All I saw were oddly spaced lemon meringue dewdrops. Although, just as Ruth passed by and the fluorescent light of the fellowship hall hit the pie at a different angle, I thought I might have seen a nose.

I glanced at Hezekiah who had craned his neck around me to see. His smile had disappeared, and he slinked away. It had been a while since I had seen him looking so dejected. Where was his miracle?

N
ow as you might expect, the Jesus pie created quite a stir in Bright's Pond, and nobody ever did get around to cutting it, much less serving and eating it.

Ruth brought it into the kitchen after the excitement died down but returned to the dining area in a fluster of emotion.

“I can’t do it. I just can’t cut into it. There's just something wrong about the whole notion of eating Jesus pie.”

Pastor Speedwell draped one of his long arms around Ruth's shoulder. “It's fine, Sister Ruth, ain’t nobody here who could blame you. Fact is I couldn’t eat that pie either.”