Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (14 page)

T
he next morning around ten, I parked my truck on top of Hector Street and tuned into Rassie Harper before heading to the library. I waited for Vera Krug's
Neighborly News
. I wanted to hear if Ruth had gotten to her about the sign fiasco. As much as I hated to admit it, it did make good news.

A thick, blotchy rain started to fall, and even with the truck heat going full blast, I felt shivery. Ivy's dog sprinted across the street with what looked like a steak in his mouth. Ever so often he’d go by Personal's and snag a meal from the trash. It only made Personal angry because that dog never cleaned up the mess he left in the alley. Ivy, of course, blamed Personal for not feeding the dog out the front door like Sylvia did at the bakery.

“Here she is, ladies and gentlemen,” said Rassie, “that winsome woman of the airwaves with all your small town news—Vera Krug.”

“Thank you, Rassie. And I hope your wife is feeling better. For those of you who don’t know, she's been down with the flu. Anyway, I got some juicy news today, folks, so turn up your radios, and you might want to grab another cup of coffee. Go on, now, I’ll wait.”

And she did. There was a full sixty seconds of dead air before Rassie hollered. “Vera, you can’t do that.”

“I’m sorry, Rassie. Just wanted to make sure all the people were ready for my lead-off story.”

“I’m sure they are, dear.”

Vera cleared her throat. “This first story might be hard for some of you to, hm, swallow—especially all you folks up in Bright's Pond.” She laughed right out loud over the airwaves.

I sucked all the oxygen out of the truck cab.

“Seems there was an unveiling of the new Bright's Pond welcome sign last night, and well, wait till you hear this folks. They got the wrong dang bird, as Bill Tompkins said during the ceremony. The sign was supposed to read, Welcome to Bright's Pond, Home of Agnes Sparrow, but the sign company wrote Agnes Swallow—S-W-A-L-L-O-W.”

I heard Rassie Harper spit coffee.

Vera shushed him. “That's right, ladies and gentlemen, you heard it corrr-ectly,” she said. “The sign company wrote swallow, and don’t that beat all, especially considering how that Agnes likes to
swallow
.” She laughed liked a hyena. “Oh, Johnny Carson could do ten minutes on it.”

“Agnes Sparrow?” Rassie cut in, “Ain’t she that fat woman who's supposed to do miracles? I hear she's so fat she can’t leave her house.”

“That's right,” said Vera, “but I don’t believe that nonsense about the miracles. That's why I never reported on her before. My sister-in-law, Ruth, keeps telling me stories, but I found them all too hard to … SWALLOW.” She laughed again like the Wicked Witch of the West.

My heart sank, not so much because of the news, but because of the way they made fun of Agnes. Nothing ever changed; even grown-ups were heartless.

W
hen I arrived at the library I found the Society of Angelic Philanthropy waiting outside like a flock of quails. I had forgotten they were coming; they met once a month or so to plan their latest charity.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I plum forgot about you, ladies.”

“Oh, that's all right, Griselda,” said Tohilda Best, Personal's wife. The thing is Personal didn’t know about Tohilda's
membership in the society and would probably split a gut if he found out she gave a portion of his profits to help the less fortunate.

Tohilda came from a backwoods family. She and Personal met during deer season, not that backwoods folks paid any attention to Pennsylvania's hunting rules and regulations. Personal had said that the minute he saw her field dress a six-point buck, he knew she was the one for him.

The Society ladies set up in the periodicals section because there were tables and they could spread out notes and maps— some of them hand drawn by mountain folk. I usually kept the library door locked while they met because they were, after all, a secret society. But I remembered Vidalia would be dropping by so I warned Tohilda.

“Oh, that's okay,” she said. “We can trust Vidalia.”

I put on coffee and went about my business until Tohilda and Sylvia approached me.

“Excuse us, Griselda,” said Tohilda, “but we were wondering if we could ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

“It's about that Hezekiah fella. We were thinking about putting him on our list to receive shoes and socks. What do you think?”

“I think that would be fine—mighty fine. I think he spent all his money on that suit he wore to the potluck and didn’t have money left over for shoes.”

“I saw,” said Sylvia. “He was wearing those awful clodhopper boots. Looked like they were a size too small at least, and the leather's been chewed through by rats. He wasn’t wearing any socks at all.”

I hadn’t noticed. But it was decided right then to provide Hezekiah Branch with a new pair of shoes and socks to go with them.

True to her word, Vidalia showed up an hour later to return three books and check out six more. The S.O.A.P. finished up their meeting as I stamped Vidalia's books. They always cleaned up the area and left silently like it was some sacred part of their meetings.

“So do you know who they’re blessing this month?” Vidalia asked.

“Hezekiah for one. Asked if he could use some shoes and socks.”

Vidalia laughed. “I’ll say. I told that boy to buy some socks, but he claimed he never wore them—made his feet sweat.”

“Looks like he’ll be getting some now.”

Vidalia looked around the empty library. “Sure is quiet in here. How long you staying open?”

“I’ll be here until dinner. It's term paper time. Some of the high school kids will show up later.”

Vidalia smiled. “Send them my way if you think I can help.”

“Always do.”

I walked Vidalia to the door. “So what time did Hezekiah get home last night?” I asked.

“It wasn’t until a quarter to three. I got to have a talk with him. If he's gonna start keeping those hours he’ll have to find another place to live.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Vidalia pursed her lips. “I know. I’m just worried about the boy. I’m just so glad Agnes keeps him busy all day.”

“I’ll say. He's been working in that basement for days. I haven’t been down there. But if the amount of trash he's burned in the backyard means anything, it should be clean as a bowling alley by now.”

Vidalia thought a moment. “It ain’t that I begrudge Hezekiah his time out. I know a man needs certain things, but I just
wish he’d steer clear of that hussy, speaking of trash, you know what I mean.”

Vidalia had no sooner left than I heard a knock on the library door. Nobody ever knocked unless it was locked. I opened the door and found Ruth Knickerbocker standing there with a plate of lemon squares and two baskets of fried chicken.

“Griselda, I come to apologize to Agnes.”

“Agnes? Apologize for what?”

“For yakking to my sister-in-law about that whole sign thing and for telling that blabbermouth about Agnes in the first place. I’m afraid—” She took a breath. “I’m afraid I might of started something, because Vera called me this morning and said I could expect a call from Rassie Harper about having me and Agnes on the show by something she called remote. I think it was remote.”

“Slow down, Vera.” I pulled her into the library.

“Remote,” she said. “I never heard of such a thing. Sounds like something straight out of Jules Verne.”

“First of all, Agnes won’t go on any radio show, and secondly, why does he want you too?”

“That was Vera's idea. She said it would be fun for me, and she made Rassie agree.”

I invited Ruth behind the checkout counter and poured her a cup of coffee.

“Oh thank you, dear, but I couldn’t drink any more coffee. I’m as nervous as a butterfly—flitting here, flitting there, standing outside in the cold like an idiot. Do you think Agnes will be mad at me? You think she can reverse miracles? I mean I’d hate to get that terrible bleeding ulcer back on account of me blabbing to Vera.” She placed the food on the counter. “That chicken is probably cold as ice now. I was standing outside waiting for those society ladies and Vidalia to leave.”

“I’m sure it's fine, Ruth. Your chicken is real good, hot or cold.”

“Thank you, dear. But let's stick to the problem.”

“There is no problem. You just tell Vera to tell Rassie that you and Agnes will not appear on his radio show.”

“You mean he can’t force us to do it?”

“Of course not, Ruth! It's a radio show, not jury duty.”

“Well, that despicable Rassie Harper is always going on about Richard Nixon. So I was afraid maybe he had some pull, you know, and could make us be there—like it was court.”

God bless her soul. “I’m sorry you got so worked up, and the next time I see Vera I’ll have something to say to her.”

“I can’t stand her myself, you know,” said Ruth. “She's just got this odd power over me and makes me say things I don’t mean. I only told her about Agnes because I was hoping it would turn her to Jesus, but she always laughed at me.”

“Then why did you tell her about the sign?”

Ruth started to cry. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose into a pretty blue hanky with lace trim she pulled from her shirtsleeve. “I don’t know, Griselda. I don’t know why I went and spread that news. It's like the devil got to me.”

“I’d say you were just being human. And to tell the truth, it is kind of funny—Agnes Swallow, imagine that.”

We laughed and Ruth started to relax. “Think I’ll have that coffee now.”

“And another thing, Ruth. Agnes really can’t make you grow another ulcer.”

“Are you sure? Seems to me if a person can pray for an ulcer to go away, she can pray for one to come back.”

In some strange way, it made sense. People were always thinking of miracles in terms of really, really good things happening. Why couldn’t an ulcer or cancer or any other affliction be just as miraculous if it served God's purpose?

“She won’t, Ruth. Agnes won’t ask God to give you another ulcer.”

“That's what I was worried about.”

“I know. Now you go on home and forget all about Rassie Harper and Vera.”

“Okay, I will. And please give that food to Agnes, will you, Griselda?”

“Sure.”

Actually, I fed it all to the high school kids later that day.

I
took the slow way home that evening and drove past Personal's in time to see Hezekiah opening the pub door for Olivia Janicki.

Olivia blew into town about four years ago on the back of a Harley-Davidson with her arms wrapped around the waist of a Hell's Angel. He was the biggest man I had ever seen in my entire life. They rumbled up to the café that Friday night and when they walked through the door you would of thought Marilyn Monroe had seen fit to visit Bright's Pond.

Every head in the place turned and craned to get a better view of the buxom blonde and her friend. Or he could have been a bodyguard for all we knew. She wore a pair of leather pants that looked painted on, and when she took off her leather jacket, well, if you’ve ever seen those cartoons where the character's eyes bug out, you get the picture. That went for the women as well as the men, except the men had a hard time averting their gaze no matter how loudly their wives clicked their tongues.

The woman's breasts filled out her baby blue sweater and made her tiny waist all the smaller. She and her friend sat at the booth behind the one I shared with Vidalia without making much eye contact with anyone. It looked like they’d been
arguing. Anyway, Cora rushed right over, seeing as how they were new customers, and I was pretty certain Cora wanted to make a good impression for the Full Moon. She treated all newcomers with preference.

Vidalia grabbed my hand across the table. “Look what the wind blew in.”

“I’ll say. They must be lost, looking for Jack Frost or something.”

“Did you notice his jacket? It says Hell's Angels on it. What do you suppose that means?”

I craned my neck, and sure enough there it was blazoned across his back in big, red, embroidered letters—HELL'S ANGELS. Underneath that was a creepy image of a skull with wings. And below that it read, PHILADELPHIA, although the PH and A were hard to see.

“I’ve heard about them—a motorcycle gang. They have chapters all over the country.”

Vidalia leaned closer. “Suppose they’re here to make trouble?”

I didn’t think so, especially when I heard him order a bowl of vegetable soup and a Coke and she asked for a cheeseburger and Tab.

“You from Philadelphia?” asked Cora as she scribbled their order.

“Uh, huh,” he grunted.

The woman seemed more personable. “That's right, honey. Philly.” Then I watched her pull gum out of her mouth and, I was pretty certain, she stuck it under the table.

“I’ll be right back with your food,” said Cora, “and you might want to save room for a piece of Full Moon pie. It's famous here.”

The man laughed a deep, booming laugh. “Full Moon pie. I had me a big, old piece of full moon pie just yesterday.”

Cora looked like she’d been zapped with a paralyzing ray. It took her a second, but then she got the stranger's meaning and hurried away.

“Shut up, Gizzard,” said the woman, “You are so ignorant.”

“I hope they leave soon,” Vidalia whispered.

I shushed her, and we sat there like common gossips sipping coffee, eating pie, and listening in on their conversation. As it turned out I was correct; they had been fighting. He was mad because she gave him wrong directions, and she was mad because he never appreciated her.

About forty minutes later, Gizzard went to the bathroom and never returned. I heard the motorcycle start up and rumble away. The woman ran to the door and hollered. “Gizzard, you S.O.B., I’ll kill ya for this.”

The woman turned around to a sea of wondering eyes and open mouths, including Vidalia's and mine. She sat down and poked at her pie.

“You all right?” Vidalia asked her.

“That scum rode off and left me,” the woman said.

“He’ll be back, won’t he?”

“Gizzard? Nah, he's gone for good.”

Vidalia squeezed into the booth, and I joined her. “What will you do?” I asked.