Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (13 page)

“How come you’re not so upset about it anymore, Agnes? It's like you … well … like it's all okay now all of a sudden.”

“Okay about what, Griselda?”

“Oh, don’t be that way. You know perfectly well about what.”

She rolled a meatball around her plate with her fork. “It wasn’t helping being upset. Letting them have their sign is just another way to—” she took a labored breath “—to take care of them.”

After supper I cleaned up the plates and left them in a sink of soapy water. I put food away and brought Agnes a large piece of pie, and then I decided I still had time to drop a load of laundry in the washer. Laundry seemed endless at our house—endless. I often stepped over piles in the viewing room as Agnes would change and leave her clothes wherever they fell. Sometimes, Hezekiah would carry the clothes into the laundry room, but he never washed them and that was fine with me. I didn’t like the idea of him handling my sister's clothes like that, particularly her underwear.

Once the washer was full and the plates soaking and Agnes situated in front of the TV with pie and M&Ms, I headed down the street. The wind had quieted with the sunset. A crowd had already gathered inside the Full Moon for dinner or coffee before the meeting.

Zeb spied me the second my foot landed inside. A wide smile lit up his face. “Griselda,” he called, “come sit at the counter.”

He poured my coffee and tried to talk to me, but the place was so busy he couldn’t finish a sentence. I signaled him that it was okay, drank my coffee, and headed outside.

The Dixieland band—a group of seven men—had assembled on the lawn. They wore red coats with shiny silver buttons and hats made of leather and cloth. The tuba player stood next to his instrument that sat on a chair. He didn’t look very happy.

The headlights from a dozen cars illuminated the tarp that kept the sign under wraps. Studebaker was standing near it like he was guarding Fort Knox.

“What are you doing, Stu?” I asked.

“A couple of boys were by here earlier,” he said. “They tried to lift the tarp, so I’m keeping my eye on it.”

“You’re a good man, Stu. True to your cause.”

I caught up with Ruth Knickerbocker in the crowd filing into the town hall.

“Everyone is so excited,” she said. “It's like static electricity in the air.”

“Sure is.”

“I imagine Agnes is awful excited,” said Ruth. She took off her hat and coat.

“Oh, excited isn’t the word for it.”

Just then, the reporter Dabs Lemon stopped me.

“You’re the sister,” he said.

I sucked freezing air into my lungs. “Yes, I’m Agnes's sister if that's what you mean.”

“Can I ask a few questions?”

Did I have a choice?

I motioned for him to follow me into the building. There were no treats or coffee that night as Zeb agreed to stay open past eight. Everyone had gotten their fill at the café anyway.

“First, I need to tell you that I don’t believe in all that miracle stuff and prayer nonsense, so don’t go thinking you’re gonna sell me your religion.”

I snorted a small laugh. “Then why are you here, Mr. Lemon?”

“The story. It's a mighty fine human-interest story. And … my boss sent me.”

“So how can I help you? Agnes is the one who prays.”

“I know. I’ve gotten the history from Studebaker Kowalski, but I want to know the real Agnes,” he said. “Tell me about the real girl … woman.” He poised his pencil on a small, yellow legal pad like I was about to solve the riddle of the Sphinx.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Lemon. What are you asking?”

“Well, you live with her. You care for her. What's it really like for a seven-hundred-pound woman to be a hero, a hero that can’t leave her house, can’t even enjoy her one night of recognition? How fat is she anyway? I mean I can’t picture seven-hundred pounds of anything let alone a woman.”

“Agnes doesn’t consider herself a hero.”

Janeen Sturgis grabbed his elbow. “Oh, she is so a hero, a true hero. Let me tell you how her prayers helped me.”

She pulled him far enough away that I didn’t have to listen.

Vidalia sidled up next to me. “Let's sit together.”

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Like I said, Griselda, I couldn’t let you come alone.”

I squeezed her hand. “I guess we should find a seat.”

Within minutes the room was jam-packed and Boris was upfront with Stu. Boris had settled down the room and was just about to bring the meeting to order when Eugene Shrapnel nearly stumbled through the door.

“Oh, ye den of vipers,” he shouted.

Ivy Slocum was first to her feet. I could see from the look on her face she was not about to take any grief from Eugene that night.

“Shut your mouth, now, Eugene Shrapnel. You got no business here.”

“That's right,” shouted Bill Sturgis. “Just get on home with yourself.”

“One day,” Eugene said with a finger raised above his head, “one day you’ll regret your actions.”

He stamped his cane on the floor but was quickly ushered out by Nate Kincaid, who never said much, but was big enough that words weren’t necessary.

Vidalia took my hand in hers and leaned close. “I am so sorry, baby girl.”

Boris pounded his gavel.

Many of the formalities of the usual town meeting were dispatched with haste since everyone was anxious to get to the unveiling. Dot Handy scribbled notes so fast I thought I saw sparks. Boris turned the meeting over to Studebaker.

He wore a crisp, brown suit with a herringbone pattern and a yellow and white polka dot tie.

“Looks like he pulled his burial suit out of moth balls,” I whispered to Vidalia.

Stu cleared his throat. “I don’t have to tell you why we’re here.” Applause drowned his words. “But I will anyway.”

More applause and a whistle.

Stu took five minutes to explain all about the sign and Agnes and the miracles, including the Jesus pie. He even thanked Jack Cooper for having the good sense not to toss the thing in the trash. A collective amen filtered through the crowd as Stu explained that the pie was fed to the birds.

I found out later that he suspended the tin from a string and tied it on a branch of the willow tree out back of the
church. Zeb said he didn’t want it—said he couldn’t see baking another pie in it—so now it shines in the sunlight like an ornament.

“And now,” Stu said, “without further ado—” He chuckled a second. “I’ve been wanting to say that my whole life. Without further ado, I suggest we all head outside for the unveiling.”

The second the doors opened the band started playing
When the Saints Come Marching In
. The crowd assembled around the sign. Vidalia and I managed to work our way closer to the diner and joined Zeb who stood in the cold with only a white apron over his clothes.

“Pretty exciting, huh, Grizzy,” he said.

A drumroll drifted through the cold air, and Stu climbed onto the trailer and unknotted the rope that held down the tarp. The tarp dropped. Cheers and applause went up as the headlights shown like moons in the starry night.

Stu stood next to the sign like a proud fisherman as Dabs snapped a few shots. Then Stu turned his attention to the large blue sign with gold lettering and flowery embellishments.

“Welcome to Bright's Pond,” he read. “Home of Agnes Sparrow.”

“Sparrow?” shouted a voice from the crowd, followed by other exclamations. “You better look again, Studebaker. That sign don’t say Sparrow.”

Stu shushed the band that had started playing the
Stars and Stripes Forever.

“It says Swallow,” Bill Tompkins shouted. “They got the wrong dang bird. Ain’t no swallows in town, only Sparrows.”

Zeb, Vidalia, and I moved as close to the sign as we could. Studebaker looked at the sign with a face that showed every emotion known to the human race. Every couple of seconds
it would contort into something different and turn redder. Steam rose off his neck.

Boris leaped onto the trailer. “Swallow. It says Swallow, Studebaker. The name is wrong.”

“I can see that now,” he said. “You don’t got to bring it to my attention.”

“Didn’t you bother to look at it before tonight? The sign's been sitting out here the better part of two weeks. And in all that time you never bothered to look under that tarp?”

“Yeah,” said Bill Tompkins, “how come you never checked the sign? This is your fault, Studebaker.”

“Now hold on,” said Stu. “It ain’t my fault. It's the sign company's.”

I believe it was then that the band started playing a terrible, but still distinguishable, rendition of
Nearer My God To Thee
, as Studebaker was about to go down with his sign.

“We aren’t paying for no wrong sign,” said Fred Haskell.

“Of course not,” said Stu. “I’ll call them first thing in the morning. We’ll get this fixed.”

Zeb snickered and put his arms around mine and Vidalia's shoulders. “That's too bad. Poor Stu. I shouldn’t laugh.”

Plenty of laughter came from other directions that night, including a small pack of teenagers who lurked near the town hall steps. I saw one of them form a snowball and was just about to let loose when Mildred grabbed his arm. Good old Mildred Blessing—always on the lookout for troublemakers.

“Well, at least this mistake will spare Agnes for a few more weeks,” I said.

Vidalia held my hand and squeezed. “It ain’t just a mistake. Never really is, Griselda. You know what I mean?”

Folks drifted away after they filed past the sign like mourners paying their last respects. Janeen and Frank Sturgis
lingered a moment. “It's only three letters,” said Janeen, “and it is a bird; at least they got that right.”

Frank reached up and shook Stu's hand, “I’ve got to give you some credit, pal, when you screw up, you really screw up.”

Stu dropped Frank's hand like a hot rivet. “I told them Sparrow. S-P-A-R-R-O-W. It's not my fault.”

“I can’t watch this no more,” said Vidalia. “It's just too painful to see that man so humiliated.”

“Yeah,” said Zeb, “I better get back to the café. Cora's probably going nuts in there with orders. You coming, Grizzy?”

“Nah, I better get home and tell Agnes what happened.”

“Come on,” said Vidalia. “I’ll walk with you as far as my house.”

We walked a full block before it came to me. “I didn’t see Hezekiah all night. Thought for sure he’d be here.”

“He ran off with that Olivia Janicki again,” said Vidalia with a tiny tinge of venom. “Been seeing a lot of that … that … woman.”

“I heard, but I didn’t know it was a regular thing.”

Vidalia folded her arms against a cold wind that whipped up.

“I ran into Doc at the market the other day, and he said he saw them coming out of Personal's Pub hand in hand.”

“He told Agnes he wasn’t a drinking man,” I said.

“Maybe not, but that Olivia, well, you heard the tales.”

Vidalia brushed by a rhododendron that was growing too far out onto the sidewalk. “You don’t suppose they could of found each other, and maybe this is all part of God's plan for them?”

“You mean like two lost souls brought together by destiny and now that they found each other they’ll settle down, start a family, and live happily ever after?”

“Something like that.”

I chewed on it a second as we made the turn onto Vidalia's street. “Sorry, but I can’t imagine Olivia having a soul.”

We stood outside Vidalia's house a minute, and she asked me inside for cake, but I had to hurry back to Agnes. I wanted to tell her what happened before anyone else could get to her.

“Look for me tomorrow,” said Vidalia, “I’ll stop by the library.”

I
found Agnes asleep with the television on and half a ham sandwich in her hand. She woke when I removed it.

“That you, Griselda?”

“Sure, Agnes. Just got home.”

She straightened herself the best she could. “I must have dozed off.” She tried to twist her shoulders but that was never easy for her.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“How did it go?” she said in a sleepy, little girl voice. “The people get their sign?”

I twisted the lid onto her M&Ms jar and helped organize her blankets.

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

I pulled her left leg as straight as I could. “You’re gonna get sores in the folds of your skin again, Agnes, if you don’t keep that leg straight. I’ll put some ointment in there.”

“You’re stalling. What happened?”

“The sign company messed up—spelled your name wrong.”

“What? Really?”

“Yep. Instead of Agnes Sparrow, it said Agnes Swallow. S-W-A-L-L-O-W. You should have seen poor Stu. You’d a thought he had his pants pulled down and his heart ripped out at the same time. I thought he might cry.” I pulled Agnes's notebook out from under her pillow. “It was quite a sight with the band playing and all. You might want to add him to your latest prayer list.”

“Now ain’t that a shame.” Agnes said. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound sarcastic. It's just that—”

“I know. It's hard not to laugh, but I felt bad for him, too, especially when Boris started yelling at him.”

“Oh, that is a crying shame. So what are they gonna do?”

“Send it back to be fixed. Everyone was pretty upset.”

Arthur strolled past, and I picked him up and sat on the edge of the bed.

I grabbed a large tube of A&D Ointment from the bedside table and slathered some of the oily goo in between the folds of heavy and, in places, discolored skin on Agnes's thighs. I think she might have put on another fifty pounds in the last five years.

“It's late,” I said when I finished. “And since you were already asleep when I came in, I think we should just call it a night.”

“I’m not done talking,” Agnes said. “Was Hezekiah there?”

“Didn’t see him. Which surprised me. I thought for sure he would be. But then I heard he's been seeing a lot of that Olivia Janicki, and it was suggested they might have … had other plans.”

“Now, that goads me. I had a feeling he might have found a girlfriend the way he's been leaving early lately—but Olivia Janicki? Suppose he knows she's got a reputation a mile long.”

“I hate to say this, Agnes, but I don’t think he cares about that.”