Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (17 page)

Hezekiah excused himself. “I better get on down the basement. I’m starting on that little room today.”

Agnes screwed up her face. “Now remember, I’m pretty sure most of what you’ll find in there is just a bunch of stained rags and trash. You can just burn it all.”

“No problem, Agnes. I’ll have it clean as a whistle in no time.”

Hezekiah headed for the basement.

“I was dying to ask him where he was all day yesterday,” Agnes said. “Weren’t you?”

An image of Hezekiah with Olivia flashed in my brain. “No, not really.”

Agnes grabbed her notebook and pens and Bible. “I’m expecting Cora and Janeen today. I think Cora just needs some reassurance, and I can’t figure out what Janeen wants. She called me Saturday and said it was of vital importance.”

“Hard to tell with her. Could be a hangnail or a misplaced bobby pin.”

“Sometimes folks just need a sounding board,” Agnes said.

“I forgot there was something I wanted to tell Hezekiah. That leak upstairs is back; maybe he can help Fred fix it once and for all.”

“Okay, I got to get to my notebook. I’m gonna add the Pearly Gates Singers.”

“Good idea.” But before I could get to the cellar the doorbell chimed. Thinking it was either Janeen or Cora I opened the door. It was Filby Pruett.

“Morning, Griselda. I need a couple more shots of Agnes. Close-ups. I want to get her face just right.”

I heard Agnes grumble.

“Let me see if she wants to have you in.”

“Tell her it's important if I’m going get the statue finished by Memorial Day.”

“Memorial Day?”

“Yes, that's what Studebaker said. He wants to unveil it at the Memorial Day celebration.”

I watched the little twerp contain a snicker. I got the distinct impression that Filby was not in the project for love of Agnes.

“Just a minute,” I said.

Agnes was already shaking her head no when I went inside.

“What should I tell him?”

“Just tell him to use what he's got. I don’t want my picture taken anymore.”

It didn’t matter. Filby was standing behind me with his camera poised and ready to flash.

“Please, Agnes, just two pictures. One head-on and one profile. Then I’ll be gone.”

“Make it quick,” she said.

“Well, I am sorry, Agnes,” Filby said, “it's a lot of face, and I can’t seem to get some of them neck folds exactly right.”

“Filby,” I said, sounding like a scolding mother.

“Ah, it's all right,” Agnes said. Then she burped.

I pushed some stray hairs behind her ears and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Filby snapped his pictures and left without saying another word.
Or taking a breath
.

“Now I got to go, Agnes. Hezekiah will get your lunches today. I’m expecting the high schoolers again later, but I’ll be home for dinner—fried chicken tonight, I think.”

Agnes dug her hand into her candy jar. “That's fine.” She opened her notebook, and I watched her write Pearly Gates Singers and the date they were coming.

After I pushed the logs back in the fireplace and added two more I put my hat and coat on and had my hand on the door when Hezekiah sneaked up behind me. I turned around with a start. “You scared me, Hezekiah.”

He held a bundle of fabric. It looked like an old faded baby blue sweater with mother-of-pearl buttons, covered with some kind of large dark stain.

“What's that?” I asked, still examining his puzzled look.

“I can’t say with any certainty, although I’m pretty sure it's a lady's sweater. I found it in that old World War II ammunition box in that little room down there.”

“So?”

“Well, look at it, Griselda. That ain’t chocolate sauce all over it, and someone went to a lot of trouble to hide it down there.”

“Then what is it?”

“Looks like dried up blood to me. Especially if I turn it over and look under here. It's still discolored but look—” he pushed it toward me— “it sure looks like blood.”

“What? Well maybe it belonged to my father and—”

“Nah, your father kept his stuff too neat, and I don’t think corpses bleed all that much.”

“Then my mother.”

“Could be, but it still doesn’t make sense to hide it.”

“Then just burn it with everything else. I’m sure it's nothing.”

“It's a lot of blood, Griselda, and that ain’t all. I found shoes down there with the same stain—girl's shoes.”

My heart started to pound. “Maybe my father had to work on an accident victim and that was what she was wearing.”

Hezekiah looked past me a second. “That sounds logical. But like I said, your father wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of hiding this stuff.”

I grabbed the sweater from Hezekiah. “Maybe Agnes knows something, even though I think you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

Agnes had her eyes closed and her hands on her opened King James. “Agnes,” I said, “Hezekiah found this downstairs. Do you know anything about it?”

She opened her eyes. For the briefest second I thought I saw horror cross her face.

“I
s that what you two were discussing just now? Agnes said. “I never saw it before.”

I shook my head. “Me neither. I think Daddy must have left it there—used it for a rag or something.”

“Probably.” Agnes squirmed like she did when her legs ached. “Just burn it with the other garbage. And the shoes too.”

Hezekiah looked at the sweater. “Seems to me a sweater this bloody should have a reason, a good reason. And those shoes … someone, a little girl, I think, was walking in blood. They ain’t no bigger than this—” he held out his fingers about six inches apart— “and they got buckles, stretched out buckles, and the heels are all crushed.”

Agnes took a rattled breath. “Just get rid of it, Hezekiah. There ain’t no use in standing here second guessing who, what, or why.”

“Don’t get so excited, Agnes,” I said, “or you’ll get into a coughing jag.”

“I’m not excited. There is just no reason on God's green earth to stand here discussing some old, stained sweater. This
was a funeral home after all, and you’re liable to find anything down there.”

“Okay, okay, Agnes. Please.” I watched her face turn pink, starting at her neck.

Hezekiah shook his head. “I’ll do as you say, Agnes, but I think—”

“Well it don’t matter what you think,” Agnes said.

He carried the bundle back to the basement.

“Make sure he burns that stuff, Griselda.”

O
ur basement was never a pleasant place because that was where our father prepared bodies for burial. My mother had no trouble going up and down, even bringing Daddy a sandwich or cups of coffee and sitting awhile to chat while he did his job.

“After you seen so many dead, naked bodies,” she had said, “it stops being a problem. It's like they aren’t there anymore.”

The basement smell hit me like a freight train. It was a strange mixture of dust, chemicals, mold, and dampness—if damp had a smell. I had to knock back some cobwebs as I made my way through the maze of rooms. I found Hezekiah in the little room at the south end of the basement. The sweater was laid out over a metal box with the little shoes by it on the floor.

“Make sure you burn that stuff,” I said.

Hezekiah was on his knees rooting through some other boxes. “Griselda, look at these.” He showed me the shoes.

For a second I thought I might have seen them somewhere before but I couldn’t be sure. “Sad, aren’t they? I still think they must have belonged to a child our father buried.”

Hezekiah shook his head. “Why would he have stuffed them in this box?” His foot tapped a small, green, metal box with the word AMMUNITION stenciled in white.

For the first time since Hezekiah's arrival to Bright's Pond I heard softness in his voice, but also uneasiness, almost like the items he found made him nervous.

“He must have had his reasons. Please just burn them and forget about it.”

W
hen I got back to the viewing room I found Agnes straining to get out of bed. “Oh, good, you’re still here. Help me out of this bed. I got to move.”

“Come on.” I grabbed Agnes by her two arms and pulled. She lurched as far forward as she could and tried to throw her legs over the side of the bed. The thick folds of skin were like waves as they rolled off. Once she got to her feet I grabbed her walker and placed it in front of her. Then I grabbed a handle of nightgown behind her and led my sister down the hall.

“So what do you think about it?” I asked.

“What?”

“That sweater.”

Agnes stopped moving and huffed. “I don’t think anything about it. Just an old sweater that got left behind.”

When we reached the kitchen Agnes grabbed a couple of lemon squares off a pretty pink plate on the table. “I do love Cora's lemon squares.”

I waited until she swallowed them. “Let's get you back to bed. You could stand a change of clothes too.” So I arranged Agnes's blankets and helped her into a fresh nightgown—a frilly one with tiny flowers all over it. When she lay down she looked like an acre of tea roses.

“Now I should get to the library.”

“Okay, Griselda. I’m expecting Cora any minute. Or Janeen. Hope they both don’t come at once. I hate it when I have a waiting line.”

I met Janeen on the porch.

“Morning, Griselda,” she said. A gust of wind blew up and knocked her hat to the ground. She bent down. “I’m sure looking forward to seeing Agnes this morning. I got some terrible news, terrible news.”

“Oh, no, what's the matter, Janeen? Is it your health?”

“Not about me at all. It's my sister, and you know about sisters—how special they are.”

I smiled. “Yep, they can be special.”

“Anyway, you know I have a sister, Francine, lives in North Carolina since that no-count husband of hers went there six years ago to raise alpacas or camels or some such nonsense with some guy named Maurice.”

“Yes, I remember you were awful upset when she left.”

“Anyway, it turns out that crumb bum and his—” she made the sign for imaginary quotes “—business partner got into hot water and now they’re both sitting in jail. Seems they were—” she leaned close and whispered “—growing that mari-joo-wana down there.”

“Well, I don’t see what Agnes can do about that.”

“She can pray that Francine comes to the good senses the Lord gave her and come back home where she's loved.”

I nodded and opened the front door. “I think she's waiting for you.”

“Agnes,” Janeen called, “you are not gonna believe …”

That was all I heard. All I wanted to hear.

“Good bye,” I called from the front door.

I
parked on top of Hector Street and tuned into the Rassie Harper Show.

“… loyal listeners, two weeks from today, March 27, we are heading to Bright's Pond to bring you an exclusive interview with Agnes Sparrow.”

“That's right, Rassie, and all you folks out there in radio land.” Vera chimed in. “We’re going by remote to the home of Agnes Sparrow, miracle worker and the fattest woman in the Pocono Region.”

“Maybe the whole East Coast,” Rassie said.

They had a good chuckle, and my stomach ached. Why in heaven's name would Agnes have agreed to such a stunt?

“Now on to other news,” said Vera. “I am proud to announce that our own Rassie Harper has arranged for … now I hope some of you are sitting down for this. I know how excited you can get … . Rassie has arranged for the Pearly Gates Singers to appear in Bright's Pond next month, April 12, the Wednesday after Easter.”

She paused a moment, and it sounded like she might have sipped coffee. “So even if you don’t live in Bright's Pond, and I know that's most of you God-fearin’ listeners, you might want to drive on up there and take in the show. Tickets will be sold at the door, first come, first served, so get there early. And stay tuned to this station, WQRT, for more info.”

Then she took a deep breath and moved on to gossiping about some woman named Trina Lovelace who got caught at the Lamplighter Motel with Grant Fingerhut, the owner of the largest Buick dealership in the region.

I dropped the truck into gear and drove the mile and a quarter to the library. It was cold for the middle of March, so I had the heat going full blast. My feet still felt cold. I hit a
bump and the glove box fell open spilling most its contents on the floor, including a baggie filled with green stuff.

I pulled over and examined it more closely. It had a pungent, sweet smell but looked a lot like oregano. There was no mistaking it. I was holding a small quantity of grass, weed, reefer, pot. Whatever you called it, it was still illegal.

Now, I know, what a coincidence that Janeen's husband had just gotten nabbed for growing the weed, but it's the truth. Things happened like that sometimes.

My first thought was to take it to Mildred Blessing, but I thought twice on that, what with the upcoming publicity on the Rassie Harper Show. I decided the last thing we needed was some scuttlebutt about us having pot in our possession.

So, I tucked it into my coat pocket, thinking that the only person it could belong to was Hezekiah. I took another whiff. Why in the world would anyone want to smoke it? Zeb tried it in high school and even offered me some out back of the football field while we were cutting Social Studies. I will admit, I took a hit, but I couldn’t hold it in my lungs very long and just blew it out. Ten minutes later I was admiring the fancy buttons on Zeb's shirt.

I stuffed the bag into my pocket, dropped the truck into drive, and headed down the hill toward the library. Headlines flashed in my brain, “Local Librarian Arrested for Possession of Mari-Joo-Wana.”

N
othing eventful happened at the library that day. Mildred Blessing stopped by to peruse the hard-boiled detective novels in the stacks. She loved them, especially Mickey Spillane, and Sam Spade. I wondered if she might have smelled the pot and came snooping. But I was just being paranoid. She checked out two books.

“How's the dog case coming?” I asked as I stamped her books. “Catch him yet?”

“Nah.” She looked pensive. “I had him three days ago, though, sitting in the back of my cruiser, ready to go to the big house, when he lammed on me.”