Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (31 page)

“Shut up. Shut up. Stop telling me this.”

I cried. I stood there and cried.

Hezekiah went to the cot and sat on the edge. He pushed his hands through his now long hair. “I didn’t get my miracle, Griselda. How can you say that? God ignored Agnes's prayers. He said no. It's like he wanted me to kill Vidalia, right? Ain’t that right? Or he would have stopped me.”

“Don’t blame God for your crime, Hezekiah. He didn’t grab your hand and help you plunge that knife into Vidalia's heart. You did it. You did it all by yourself. I think God did answer Agnes's prayers—just not the way you wanted. He stopped you good. You’ll never kill again. You got your miracle all right, and it cost my friend her life.”

Hezekiah looked up at me. I watched the color drain from his face. His chest rose as he sucked in a breath and then let it out slow.

I
returned Stu's car to him before heading to the café. I knew Ruth was probably still waiting for me. She was that kind of friend.

“Thanks, Stu. It made the trip easier.”

“You’re welcome, Griselda. It seemed to take a mite longer than I expected.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I had another errand in Shoops.”

“That's fine, Griselda.”

Stu invited me inside his house but I declined and we stood on his porch a few minutes.

“I was just down at Zeb's. Word is spreading like wildfire, Griselda.”

“About Hezekiah?”

“Yep. Some of them folks like Janeen Sturgis were saying that it's all Agnes's fault. Eugene Shrapnel is a little too happy if you ask me.”

“But Agnes couldn’t know.”

“Maybe she should have, Griselda.” Stu looked hard at me. “I’m sorry. It's been a long day.” He kissed my cheek. “It's gonna be okay.”

“I better get on down to the Full Moon.”

T
he café was nearly packed out. Hezekiah and Agnes had become the talk of the town. I looked for Ruth and spotted her near the back.

“There she is,” called Nate Kincaid, “let's ask her.” He grabbed my arm. “Hey, Griselda, how come Agnes let that man go live with Vidalia? Didn’t God give her a warning?”

I looked into his eyes. “No, Nate. Agnes was just doing what she thought was right. She had no reason to believe Hezekiah was planning to—well, to do what he did.”

“It could of been any of us,” hollered Dot Handy.

I pushed my way through to Ruth, who looked about as sad as I had ever seen her.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Ruth. I had something to do.”

“What? Ain’t nothing I can think of more important than planning Vidalia's memorial service.”

“I’ll have to tell you later.”

“What? What are you talking about Griselda? And why do you look so pale?”

I scanned the café. All eyes were set on me. “I didn’t expect this,” I said. “Maybe we should go back to my house.”

“They sure are mad, Griselda, like they want Agnes to confess a crime or something. That Eugene Shrapnel was here saying how he warned us all, warned us about putting faith in Agnes. Said she was the devil.”

“Oh, Ruth, you don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t. Least I don’t think I do.”

Ruth stirred her coffee, coffee she wasn’t really drinking. “Now, Griselda, you know I love you and Agnes, but she did invite the fellow to stay at Vidalia's and you got to admit that she claims to have a connection to God and all.”

“Ruth, Agnes never claimed such a thing. That's your idea. Agnes never wanted the glory. I told you all that. God saw fit to grant those miracles, not Agnes.”

“Folks still think she should’ve known better.”

Zeb made his way to us. “Hey, Griselda. Can I get you something?”

“No. I just stopped by to help plan Vidalia's service with Ruth but—”

“You might want to do that some place else.”

“What? You angry too?”

“Me? Nah, I’m just looking out for you is all. I didn’t think you’d like all this talk. Folks sure have changed their feelings about Agnes all of a sudden.”

That's when I heard sobs coming from the counter. It was Hazel Flatbush. She turned toward me. “Poor Vidalia. Poor, sweet Vidalia. She never deserved such a fate. Never.”

I had to resist an urge to comfort her for fear she might turn on me and spew some nonsense about Agnes.

“Tell Hazel to come to the service Sunday, right after the regular church service, will you, Zeb.”

Zeb nodded, and I watched him whisper to Hazel. She nodded her head and glanced at me for a fraction of a second, but in that fraction I knew she shared the town's sentiments. Once again I shared Agnes's notoriety—by proximity.

I grabbed Ruth's hand. “I need to go. We can finish this at my house.”

“I think I’ll stay. Maybe you just need to go see Pastor and tell him to do a run-of-the-mill memorial service, especially since there's no body to view.”

A bodyless funeral was rare in Bright's Pond. Most folks thought cremation went against the biblical example of burial. Some even thought that God wouldn’t be able to resurrect them after they were turned to ashes. My daddy only sent out one body that I know of for cremation, and that was only because the family couldn’t afford to buy a cemetery plot.

I
found Pastor at the church working on his sermon. His study was a stuffy little room with dark furniture and uncomfortable chairs. Bookshelves lined the walls and smelled like dust and old paper. Pastor sat at a cluttered desk, looking like Bob Cratchit.

“Afternoon, Pastor,” I said. “I was wondering if we could talk a minute.”

“Certainly, Griselda. I imagine you’re here about Vidalia Whitaker. Terrible news, just terrible.”

“Yes, it is terrible. Hard to believe. I keep expecting her to come walking down the street.”

“It takes time, Griselda.” That was about as comforting as Pastor Speedwell could get.

“We need to plan something for Vidalia.”

“Yes. Will the casket be delivered here?”

I moved some newspapers off a chair and sat down. “No casket. Vidalia's being cremated.”

“Cremated? My goodness. Did she want that?”

“Her daughter said that was her wish.”

Pastor shook his head. “I find that a little hard to believe.”

“Winifred's already made arrangements,” I said. “We still need a memorial service.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Winifred is probably leaving Monday with the ashes so I thought we should just have a simple service right after regular church tomorrow.”

“That's fine. You want to take care of getting the word out. I’m sure Ruth will help.”

“I will, Pastor. I’m sure pretty much the whole town will turn out. Everyone loved her so.”

“She was an easy person to love, Griselda.”

Tears threatened again but I held them off. “Would you also ask Sheila to play
In the Garden
? It was her favorite hymn.”

“Of course.”

That was that. No fanfare, no drawn out eulogies. Just a few words and a song.

“Thank you, Pastor.” I stood and turned to leave.

“Griselda?” he called after me. “Would you like to say a few words about your friend?”

This time I couldn’t stop the tears. “Can I tell you that tomorrow?”

The hymn repeated in my mind as I walked home.

And he walks with me and he talks with me

And he tells me I am his own

And the joy we share as we tarry there

None other has ever known.

“You’ll never have to leave the garden now, Vidalia.”

I
t was nearly four o’clock when I got home, and I figured Agnes would be hungrier than a bear after hibernating. But she managed for herself. I found her eating a bowl of leftover stew and bread.

“I think this has been one of the worst days of my life,” I said, flopping onto the sofa.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come home. I thought you’d be back before now. Had to make my own lunch—wore me to a frazzle. Hezekiah hasn’t even been by.”

She still didn’t know.

She barely moved a muscle when I told her.

“Agnes, did you hear me? I just said Hezekiah killed Vidalia.”

“I heard.”

A
gully-washer. That's what my father would have called the downpour that Sunday. It rained in slanting sheets all morning long. I stood at my bedroom window and watched as small potholes and divots in the lawn filled with water. It rained so hard, I thought the pond might rise and spill into the yard. Once, many years ago, it came up to our back door—an unwelcome guest. It took three days to get the water out of the kitchen and basement. Our house smelled from mold for months. I hoped this wasn’t that kind of storm.

Arthur mewled and batted the glass.

“Sorry, Bub, not today.”

Agnes wolfed down three scrambled eggs, four slices of scrapple, and a large apple turnover, before she said a word. “Not the best day for a memorial service. Hope folks turn out.”

“They will. Everybody loved Vidalia.” I sighed. “Everybody.”

I gathered dishes and dropped them into the sink. The rain had no intention of letting up. Looking through the kitchen window was like looking through a waterfall.

“Did you hear anything about this storm?” I asked as I scrunched her big pillow.

“No, you can’t trust that weathergirl. I was thinking, Griselda, I’d like to sit on the sofa.”

“Okay, 1, 2, 3—up.” I pulled on her shoulder and she wobbled to her feet and grabbed onto her walker. “At least you’ll look like spring in your bright flowery housedress today, even if the weather won’t cooperate.”

“It's just a little rain. Good for the trees and flowers. Are the tulips coming up?”

“A couple of inches already, and the crocuses are wild this year. Hundreds of them around town.”

“That's nice. I do miss seeing them.”

She flopped onto the sofa, and it buckled into a strained smile. “Guess you’re going to church and all.”

“Of course.”

I changed Agnes's sheets and found a clean blanket. The laundry had been piling up for a few days. “I’ll wash sheets later after Vidalia's service.”

Agnes's breathing was labored. I could see it pained her.

“I’ll set up the nebulizer before I go. You can have your treatment while I’m at church. And please, try and stay away from the M&Ms this morning. They only irritate your stomach and then you get heartburn and that makes you cough.”

“I’m not a baby.”

I buttoned my coat. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” She never made eye contact with me that morning. It was as if seeing me, really looking at me, would bring on feelings she didn’t want to have. Just as I turned around, she asked, “Griselda, are they sure?”

“About what?”

“Hezekiah. Are they sure he did it?”

I pulled the rocker close to her and sat down. “It looks that way. Like I told you last night, he confessed.”

“He really did it then. He took a knife and—”

“Yes, Agnes.” I swallowed and watched a shock wave pass through her body like high tide.

“It makes me sick to imagine.”

“I know. I never in a million years thought that he was capable of something like that.”

“He fooled us. Fooled me.”

“I need to get over there and talk to Pastor Speedwell. He asked me to say a eulogy or at least a few words.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe I’ll just tell folks what she meant to me.”

“Say something from me too.”

I couldn’t tell her that some of the townspeople were blaming her and the worst thing I could do was mention her name and start a ruckus at church. But I wouldn’t lie to her. I just nodded my head and said, “I better get going.”

P
astor Speedwell delivered a somewhat sedate sermon that Sunday about the Good Samaritan. When he finished he moved away from the podium and stood at floor level. He raised his hands over the congregation.

“And now may the grace and peace of God be yours.”

But instead of the usual mad rush to the back of the church, everyone sat stock still like a nuclear explosion had just happened and they were waiting for instructions.

Winifred and the boys sat between Ruth and me. Winifred kept her mother's ashes on her lap throughout the entire service and had to keep slapping Tobias's hand because he kept wanting to open the urn.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” Winifred said in quiet tones. “That's your Nana in there, and we’re here to say a proper good-bye.”

“But how did they get Nana inside that jar?” Tobias asked.

She slapped his hand again. “Hush up, boy.”

After Sylvia played a quiet and restful rendition of
In the Garden
and Hazel Flatbush stood up spontaneously and sang a solo, Pastor motioned to Winifred. I pulled Chester off her arm, and she brought the urn to the front and placed it on the Communion table. She looked out at the congregation. Anyone could easily see that Winifred Strange wanted to be just about anywhere else but there. Pastor stood beside Winifred and prayed, and then she returned to our pew and draped her arms around her boys.

“We come here today,” Pastor said, “to say good-bye to our friend and neighbor Vidalia Whitaker so savagely killed by a wolf in sheep's clothing.”

Winifred clapped her hands over her sons’ ears while others in the congregation stifled sobs.

“Wolf?” Jasper York hollered, “I didn’t know it was a wolf.”

“No, no, Jasper,” Harriett said. “It's just a figure of speech, dear.”

Pastor continued, “Yes, my friends, evil was with us. But now that evil is sitting behind bars where he will rot until he is dead and buried in the cold, cold ground or until the day Christ Jesus comes to carry us all home.”

Winifred squirmed, and I squirmed along with her.

He talked another five minutes or so until I heard a loud sigh behind me. It was Janeen Sturgis sitting with her head on her husband's shoulder. Frank shrugged her off and stood up.

“All I want to know is how come she did it. How come Agnes let that man into our town? We accepted him like he was a long lost relative on her say so and now Vidalia is gone. It's Agnes Sparrow's fault.”

“That's right,” Janeen said. “Agnes took him in. She should of known.”