Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (23 page)

“No,” I said, hanging up the phone. “I better get dressed and get down there. You and Vidalia stay with Agnes.”

“Get that radio tuned in, Hezekiah,” I heard Agnes say on my way upstairs. “You might have to put it near the window to get good reception.”

I
was about a block away from the diner when I saw the WQRT truck with a long antenna sticking up from the roof and what looked like some kind of radar dish.

Shoot, they must be on the air already
. I picked up my pace and pulled open the café door. A small crowd, which I knew would grow larger, had already gathered. Everybody was talking at once. Rassie had set up his console on one of the booth tables. It was an odd-looking thing with lights and knobs and microphones. He sat in the booth with a pair of black headphones on his head.

Vera, with her own set of headphones, sat across from him, looking pretty uncomfortable. The Full Moon Café was not known for its spacious booths.

“Here she is now, folks,” Rassie said, “the sister of the famous but ailing Agnes Sparrow. I’m sorry, dear, what's your name?”

I felt a slight nudge from the back. It was Zeb of all people pushing me to talk. “Griselda,” he said.

“So, Griselda, you mean to tell me that all these folks in this diner claim to be witnesses of some kind of miracle or another?”

“Pretty much,” Zeb said. He poked his head around me. “If it wasn’t for Agnes we wouldn’t be standing here today inside Zeb Sewickey's Full Moon Café, Number 12 Filbert Street, Bright's Pond, Pennsylvania. Just look for the bright full moon. It's always on.”

“Zeb,” I said, “stop doing commercials.”

“That's okay, Griselda,” Vera said. “This place will be famous. You’ll have folks coming from miles away to see it.”

“Too bad Jack Cooper fed the Jesus pie to the birds,” Zeb said. He practically yanked the microphone away from Vera before he realized it was connected to the console.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Rassie said practically laughing. “Jesus pie?”

“That's right,” Cora chimed in. She had managed to get between Vera and Zeb. “Zeb here baked one of his famous Full
Moon pies, and when it come out of the oven, the dewdrops formed the face of Jesus. It was nearly—holy.”

Rassie had a quick laugh. “So what you are saying then is Jesus himself came to Bright's Pond.”

“That's right,” Zeb said. He pulled himself up to his full height. “I was just in the back trying to get another pie to come out the same way, but it ain’t working. Just ordinary dewdrops.”

“I want to hear more about these so-called miracles,” Rassie said into his microphone. “And I’m sure my listeners do too.”

Cora raised her hand and waved. “Oh, oh. I got a miracle,” Cora said, “Agnes prayed and my heart was healed. Doctor said I didn’t have long to live. I was in heart-failure.”

“No foolin’,” Rassie said. “Just like that—” he snapped his fingers “—and your heart is healthy.”

“Well, it took three times, three times of praying, and then I got all tingly like a zillion fire ants were inside my body. The next thing I knew I was skipping up and down steps—good as new.”

Rassie laughed. “I think what we got here folks is a town full of liars.”

“Now hold on, Mr. Harper,” I said.

“Wait, Griselda, speak into the mic.”

“It happened just like she said. Cora got the bad news and she went to Agnes for prayer and—I guess it does sound fantastic—but even the doctors couldn’t believe it at first.”

That was when just about everyone in the café started talking at once. They were shouting out about what Agnes did for them and had gotten so loud and so adamant that Rassie went to commercial break, flipped off his headphones, and stood up.

“Shut up, all of you. I can’t do a proper show if you’re all going to yak at once. Make a single line down the center of the diner if you want to tell about a miracle.”

Five minutes later the line reached out the door. Now it wasn’t that all those folks received a miracle. Most of them just wanted a chance to talk on the radio and say they knew Agnes Sparrow.

Ruth Knickerbocker sidled up beside Rassie. I had taken a seat on one of the spinning stools. My heart raced a bit faster when I saw she wanted to talk.

“Do I talk in there?” Ruth said.

“That's right. Now this is a treat. Standing here beside me is none other than—” He looked at Vera.

“Ruth Knickerbocker, my sister-in-law,” Vera said.

“Vera's sister-in-law, Ruth,” he said into the mic. “You got a miracle to tell us about?”

“I sure do.” She wobbled slightly. “Goodness, gracious, I’m all atwitter. Never been on the radio. It's what they call remote.”

She was proud of overcoming her fear.

“My miracle is that Agnes asked God to heal my bleeding ulcer. Doctors kept giving me pills, tranquilizers, and that awful tasting antacid, but nothing worked.”

“So you decided to see Agnes,” Rassie said.

“That's right, Rassie.” She put her hand over her mouth and giggled “I’m just so tickled to be here. Anyway, it was while my Bubby Hubby was so darn sick and—”

“Bubby Hubby?” Rassie said.

“Bubba, her late husband, my brother.” Vera said. “He died from a tumor on the brain.”

“Well, how come Agnes didn’t make his tumor go away?”

“She couldn’t,” Ruth said.

“Hear that folks? Agnes can’t heal them all.”

“Well, then, there’d be nobody dying, and the town would get so full we wouldn’t have room for all those people. Ain’t you just so silly, Rassie.”

“He refused to go to the doctor,” Vera said, “until he went stone deaf, and by then it was just too late.”

Rassie's voice softened. “I’m sorry.”

“So anyway, Mr. Harper, I grew this bleeding ulcer from all the stress of the brain tumor, and I went to see Agnes. Within three days it was gone. No more pain.”

Person after person stepped to the mic and told one story or another about Agnes. Some of the stories got repeated, but it didn’t matter. Rassie still poo-pooed the whole thing.

He eventually tired of hearing about the miracles and turned his attention to Agnes. “I hear she weighs nearly a thousand pounds.”

“No, she doesn’t,” I said.

“But she is fat,” Rassie said.

“Oh, my yes,” Vera said into her mic. “My sister-in-law Ruth Knickerbocker, who just spoke about her bleeding ulcer, says Agnes is as big as a whale. The last time they weighed her they had to load her into a truck and take her down to the granary and have her put on the scale.

Rassie laughed. “That's hysterical. How does a woman get that big? I mean if she has to get weighed at the granary, where does she take a bath? The water tower in Shoops?”

I saw a button on the console that said power off, so I flipped it. “That's enough. Take your show and get out.”

“Now, hold on, Griselda,” Rassie said. He flipped the dial back to the “on” position. “I still got an hour left and I’m sure all these folks have stuff to say about your sister, and I got an audience listening to this show.”

“Leave. Now. You’re just making fun and laughing like you were in junior high school.”

Rassie sounded no smarter than the kids who used to laugh at Agnes.

“Go on,” I told Rassie. “Get out of here and don’t say another word about my sister.”

“Griselda's right,” said Janeen Sturgis, “you can’t poke fun at our Agnes, just ’cause she's fat. That's why she prays.”

“Wait a second, wait a second,” Rassie said. “What do you mean, that's why she prays?”

“Well, that's what we all figured on account of her being so gosh darn huge and all. She can’t do nothing else, so God gave her the gift.”

“Gift?” Rassie motioned for Janeen to get closer to the mic.

“Sure,” hollered Fred Haskell from the back. “Agnes got a gift, and she uses it for us.”

Janeen took hold of the microphone like she was Dinah Shore. “God made Agnes fat so she could stay home and pray.”

“Ah, come on,” Rassie said. “Agnes turned into a blimp ’cause she ate too much.”

That was when the manure really hit the fan, and no matter what I did to adjust it, the manure kept blowing in Agnes's direction. That mean old Eugene Shrapnel came limping out of the men's room bringing a stink with him that made everybody rub their noses.

“Sinners!” he yelled. “You’re all sinners and partakers of sorcery and witchcraft, I say. Agnes Sparrow is nothing more than the devil's handmaiden.”

Well, I don’t have to say how that perked up Rassie Harper. I never saw a man smile wider in all my days. I thought his partial plate might pop across the room.

“And who are you, sir?” he asked.

Eugene squirmed closer, taking tiny steps with his crooked cane. “My name is not important. I am God's agent, here to say that you all better stay away from that woman.”

“But why?” Rassie asked. “Please, sir, speak into the mic.”

“I just said it, young fella. Agnes Sparrow is in league with the devil.”

“You mean the miracles never happened?”

Eugene cackled. “I ain’t saying that … ain’t saying that at all. Miracles do happen, wonders do occur, but they ain’t from the Lord God Almighty.”

Vera looked shaky. “Then who?” she asked.

“The devil. Satan hisself has dominion in this world. Satan hisself, that's who.”

Rassie sat back down and started to laugh. “Oh, come now. I don’t believe in any of this stuff. Satan is a myth like Santa Claus.”

Eugene's shifty eyes burned. “I been telling these folks the sky is gonna fall if they keep up with Agnes Sparrow. You mark my words. The sky will fall.”

Then he shook a finger at Rassie. “Leave now, before you get swayed to their side.”

The café fell silent, except for Hazel Flatbush, who started to cry. “I just come in for scrambled eggs and toast. I had such a morning with my boys, I only wanted some peace and quiet and eggs I didn’t have to scramble myself … and … and I wasn’t expecting this.”

Cora comforted Hazel with a raspberry Danish and more coffee with a shot of whipped cream. “There, there, dear, it's all okay.”

Ruth moved next to Hazel. “You eat your eggs, honey.”

I pulled myself up to my full height and said, “Now you see what this has started? Get on out of here, Eugene.”

“The man is entitled to his opinion,” Rassie said.

“Maybe so,” Zeb hollered from the kitchen, “but he's the only one who believes that bilge water he spews.”

Rassie ignored him and said something about a station break and twisted a couple of dials on the console.

“Well, how about this?” Rassie said. “How come Griselda here ain’t fat like her sister? And how come she don’t have the gift? Does God only give it to fat people? Maybe the weird little man is right. Maybe you are all in league with the devil.”

Just then one of the men who came with Rassie twisted some knobs and an eerie, haunted house sound floated through the café.

Zeb pushed through the quieting crowd. “Maybe you better go, Mr. Harper.”

Rassie flipped a couple of buttons on the console and whipped off his headphones. “You can’t kick me out. I’ve got a show to do.”

Zeb moved a step closer. “But this is my café, and I can pull the plug on your show.”

Rassie and Vera exchanged glances. Vera said, “Maybe we better pack up before it gets too ugly.”

“I need to call the station before those commercials end. Tell them to put on a Best of Rassie Harper.”

“Go on, make your call and then pack up,” Zeb said. “You got no right coming here and making fun of Agnes like that.”

There was some grumbling from the folks who didn’t get a chance to speak into the microphone, but they made way for Rassie and Vera and their crew to leave. I stood to the side and watched Zeb give Rassie a Full Moon pie on the sly. “Be sure to mention it on your show.”

R
uth and I sat in the truck for a while that morning. I needed to catch my breath. The previous few hours had left me feeling like I’d been taken down to Peevy's sausage factory and run through the grinder. I stared at our front porch: the gray steps leading to the gray, chipped floorboards: the old, broken light fixture suspended from the porch roof, the small, bronze sparrow on the door.

“That was ugly,” Ruth said. “How about that Eugene?”

“He's just a pain in the butt. Twisted, deluded, and maybe even a little scared.”

“I guess, but he sure is mean. What about that Rassie? I think I might hate him.”

“Yeah, but he got the Pearly Gates to come.”

“Do you think they’ll still come? I mean I wouldn’t be surprised if Rassie cancels it on account of what happened.”

I chuckled. “Are you kidding? He loved every minute of it. I’m sure the people listening got a big laugh too. It's the kind of stuff that keeps folks tuning into shows like his.”

“Really?”

“Yep, the Pearly Gates will appear as scheduled, mark my words, as Eugene would say.”

We sat for another minute. The mountains were veiled in an early spring mist so that only the tops could be seen poking through the clouds like funny party hats. It was like they knew that a perfectly silly episode had just been written into the history of Bright's Pond.

I glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see Studebaker pull up in his baby blue Caddy. Boris was with him. After them, the Sturgises parked, and I saw Cora making her way up the street on foot. All of them, no doubt, wanted to see Agnes.

“Here comes trouble,” I said.

“Why would they come up here?”

“Probably to check on Agnes and talk about the show. I bet Boris thinks Bright's Pond has just become famous or something.”

I jumped out of my truck and stood in their way. “I don’t think you should go in just yet,” I told Stu and Boris. “She needs to rest.”

“Well, is she all right?” said Stu. “I heard she got poisoned—some sort of ptomaine or botulism.”

“I heard she fell and broke her hip,” Boris said.

“No, no, nothing like that.” I was forced to drag the lie out even further. “It's only a stomach thing. Twenty-four hours ought to do it.”

Cora caught up with us. She was puffing a little and looked a little red in the face. “I come to see Agnes. I heard she had a stroke.” Boris grabbed on to her elbow when she wobbled just a bit.