Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (33 page)

“You’re right. I don’t believe it.” My heart sped a little at the thought of so much hatred directed toward my sister.

“Well, you’ll have to take the sign down, Stu. Maybe that will stop some of this lunacy.”

Studebaker looked at me like I had just sold him to gypsies. “But, Griselda, the sign means everything.”

“Oh, Stu, let's just give this some time. I’m sure in a few days things will get back to normal and that silly old sign will still be there and people will still bring their troubles to Agnes.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes. I really think so. Now go on home and stop worrying.”

“I’ll tell you this. I’m driving on out there, and I’m going to park right next to it. If anybody tries to take it down—they’ll have to go through me.”

Stu took off toward the interstate, and he spent the entire night out there guarding that sign even though nobody came along to tear it down.

I told Agnes what Stu said. “I don’t care if they take that silly old sign down and smash my statue to a million pieces.”

“Smash the statue?” Ruth said. “Don’t you think this is getting out of hand?”

“Of course it is,” I said. “They’re feeling out of sorts over this.”

“Like they lost trust,” Agnes said. She pushed her pie away.

All of a sudden, Ruth decided she had to get home to Russell. He didn’t like being home alone at night and, after all, she “hardly saw him all day.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said from the porch. “I’ll be home all day. I’m closing the library.”

“Okay, Griselda, good night now.”

I watched until Ruth disappeared around a corner.

T
he next morning I decided to tune into Rassie Harper's show. I told Ruth not to tell Vera Krug anything. But telling Ruth to keep a secret was like asking Al Capone to stay out of Eugene's roses. I parked up top of Hector Street like I usually did, even though I could have listened at home with Agnes.

“There's sad news out of Bright's Pond,” Rassie said, “and here to tell you all about it is that winsome woman of the airwaves, the original newsy neighbor herself, Vera Krug, with your Neighborly News.”

Canned applause sounded over the airwaves.

“Good newsy morning, you all,” Vera said. “And I do hope it's a good morning. Now, I know you folks down in Bright's Pond are waking up to some sadness after what happened to your own good neighbor Vidalia Whitaker last week.”

Rassie broke in, “But before we can get to that, we need to break for a station spot from my good friends at Hal's King of Burgers.”

I listened for thirty seconds as the King of Burgers hollered about how tasty his burgers were until Vera came back on.

“For those of you who don’t know, Vidalia Whitaker was brutally murdered in her own home—stabbed to death by one Hezekiah Branch. He was that man she took in. Nothing but a street person, a hobo, a murderer.”

Canned sounds of shock exploded.

“Now cut that out, Rassie,” Vera said. “This is a sad moment for Bright's Pond. No one ever got murdered down there before this, and they’re saying it happened on account of that fat woman, Agnes Sparrow.”

“The miracle worker?” Rassie said.

“The very same. Folks in town are saying that Agnes invited the murderer to stay at Vidalia Whitaker's boarding house and that she, being a good friend to God and all, should have known. God should have told her he was a bad man.”

“Well, that makes sense.”

“Sure does, Rassie. Makes lots of sense to me. My sister-in-law Ruth Knickerbocker says the people in town are so upset they’re planning on taking that new sign down—the one out on the interstate that says Welcome to Bright's Pond—Home of Agnes Sparrow.”

“Oh, right, the one they made such a fuss over. The one that came to town with that great big mistake.”

“That's right. Now they’re gonna take it down.”

“Can’t say that I blame them none,” Rassie said. “About time those folks learned the truth about that woman. She ain’t no better than me and you. She is not a miracle worker.”

“So true, Rassie, but maybe we should have a moment of silence for Vidalia Whitaker before moving on to other news.”

The airwaves went silent for a minute. I dropped the gearshift into drive and headed to Vidalia's house. A taxicab was parked in the driveway, and the driver was loading suitcases into the trunk.

“I would have driven you to the train station, Winnie,” I said.

“I know that, Griselda, but under the circumstances, I think it's best we just go, quiet like. I’ll be back in a month or so.” She helped the two little ones into the backseat and then grabbed onto Tobias's hand before he could sprint away. “I left the electric on and the phone. We’ll probably need it when we come back to—to pack things up.”

My friend looked so sad standing there holding a box marked “Mom's pictures.” The driver offered to help, but she said, “No, I’ll carry them.”

I reached out to hug her. “I am sorry, Winnie. Agnes is too.”

“Well, she should be, don’t you think?”

I pulled away and opened the car door. I waved as they backed down the driveway and waited until the car was out of sight.

T
he Bright's Pond Savings and Loan sat on the corner of Fifth and Filbert Streets. It was the only bank in town. The chief teller, Mavis Turnbell, had her nose in everybody's finances. She knew how much money everybody in town with an account had, who they wrote checks to, and how much money they made, including me and Agnes. Agnes received a regular check from the government, considering she couldn’t work, and we were saving the money in a nice little nest egg.

We had talked on several occasions that the day might come when Agnes would have to go to Greenbrier, especially if her breathing got bad or her heart condition grew worse and she needed round-the-clock help.

I needed to cash a check for groceries. Mavis took it and stuffed a small red and blue envelope with the green bills.

“Well,” she said. “I expected Vidalia's daughter this morning to come and close out her account. Vidalia saved up a pretty penny. I’d say her daughter is gonna be mighty pleased—if it all converts to her, you know what I mean.”

Mavis was a tall, gangly woman with a face that looked like an axe head when she stood sideways.

“Winifred left already to go back to Detroit. She and her husband will be back in a month or so. I’m sure she’ll settle matters then.”

“That's good enough, Griselda. I can’t imagine what she must be going through. Can you? Imagine your Mama getting stabbed by some hoodlum.”

I shoved the envelope in my pants pocket.

“Thank you, Mavis.”

“Well, you just tell Agnes I’m sorry for her, too. It must be terrible to have God take away her miracle-working ability like that.”

“I’ll tell her.”

T
he sentiment at the grocery store was not much better. Every person I bumped into had something to say about Agnes.

Hazel Flatbush was squeezing a head of lettuce. I parked my cart near hers as I picked a bunch of bananas and then eyed the apples.

“Oh, Griselda,” she said, “I was supposed to see Agnes today but I can’t make it. Would you be a dear and tell her?”

I smiled.

Hazel pushed her cart down the aisle to the loose potatoes. I picked up my pace and snagged three Empire apples, a bag of carrots, and a large stalk of celery even though I only needed a small one.

As I rounded the corner to the cereal aisle I saw Janeen yakking to Sylvia Spiney. I grabbed a box of Rice Krispies, tossed them in the cart, and sailed right by them. “Oh, Griselda,” Janeen called, “how are you?”

“I’m fine, Janeen, how are you?” I nodded to Sylvia.

“I suppose I’m all right … considering.”

“Considering Agnes, I suppose.”

She ignored my comment. “My sister called last night. Her rat of a husband has been put in jail and she's decided to stay in North Carolina and not come here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe she just wants to be near her husband and work things out.”

She harrumphed. “No, that can’t be it. I asked Agnes to pray that she would come here and now—well now she isn’t.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

I finished my shopping, but I got an earful from several other people, including Stella Gordon at the five-and-ten-cent store.

“I think it's just terrible what folks are saying about your sister.” She dropped a pound of butter into her cart. “How can they blame her for what happened? It ain’t like she told that Hezekiah fellow to go and kill Vidalia.” She checked a box of eggs for cracks. “Now I personally never went to Agnes for prayers or miracles. I don’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo, but I got to say, Griselda, if I did, I wouldn’t let this keep me away.” She examined a tube of Oscar Meyer liverwurst, “My husband loves this stuff. Can’t stand it myself but to each his own, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, Stella, yes I do, and thank you for what you said about Agnes.”

She tipped her cowgirl hat. “Sure thing, buckaroo. Any old gal can make a mistake—even one with close ties to the Maker.” Then she winked and went on her way.

Ruby Fink checked my groceries without saying a single word until I pulled out my money to pay her. “Folks is scared, Griselda, real scared. That Eugene was just in here a while ago. Said the sky was falling. Told us all to repent of ever going to see Agnes.”

My heart sank right down into my shoes as she spoke “Called her a she-devil,” Ruby continued. “Folks is scared. It's like they don’t even trust each other anymore. Darwin told me not to take any checks for a while, just in case it's true about a curse befalling Bright's Pond.”

Darwin Crump owned the Bright's Pond Piggly Wiggly, a satellite of the big one down in Shoops. Crump was a strange little man with crooked teeth, gray hair, bushy black eyebrows, and a chin the size of a piece of toast. He was one of Agnes's most vocal tormentors as a child, and as far as I knew, he never grew out of it.

T
he drive home felt long and lonely. The town looked lonely. People were out and about as the day had turned bright and warm. Fred Haskell's plumbing truck was parked out front of Studebaker's house, and Grace Harkness was sweeping the street along the front of her property, while the Orkin man sprayed around the foundation. She wasn’t taking chances that year. Grace hated those tiny ants that invaded nearly every property in town the minute the temperature rose past fifty. There was nothing out of the ordinary, yet there was something in the air—a sense that life had changed.

F
our days had passed and not a single soul came to Agnes for prayer, not even Studebaker or Hazel Flatbush, who used to come at least once a week. She always had something to gripe or complain about—a troublesome bunion, ornery child, her husband's bad breath. Hazel brought it all to Agnes.

Stu surprised me with his silence, but I think he was just so worried over the sign coming down he didn’t have time for anything else in his brain.

I saw Harriett pass by the window once or twice. She would stop and stare, like she was trying to make a decision. but then she’d walk off.

Janeen Sturgis and Sheila Spiney behaved the same way. They would pass by, stop, stare, and then run off like a swarm of wasps chased them.

“Look at that,” Agnes said. “What's wrong with them? They think God went out of business on account of Hezekiah Branch?”

The only real visitor we had all week was Mildred Blessing. She stopped by to tell us that Hezekiah had been sent back to Philadelphia to face even more charges. It seemed Vidalia was not his first victim.

“He’ll be in the big house a good long time,” Mildred said. “Won’t have to worry about him showing his ugly mug in our town ever again.”

Agnes squirmed in her bed and said, “I still can’t believe it sometimes, though. He seemed like such a nice, quiet man.”

“They’re the ones you have to watch out for,” Mildred said.

B
y Friday Agnes had grown quiet, and her prayer book hadn’t moved from its place on her table.

“You still going to pray for those folks?” I pointed to her book.

“I got to, Griselda. I made a promise. It's real hard right now, though. I feel like a parched desert inside. And every day I don’t pray I feel more and more dry. It's a terrible cycle.”

“You don’t have to stay on that merry-go-round, Agnes. You can stop praying for them—at least like you do, with all the pens and books and people coming around.”

Agnes pushed scrambled eggs around on her plate and then just about inhaled a Jimmy Dean sausage patty. “But I got to keep praying.” She swallowed. “It's what I do.”

I finished the last of my eggs. “They’ll come around, Agnes. Try not to worry. The people will come to understand that you didn’t cause Vidalia's death.”

Agnes started to breathe hard and reached for her inhaler. After two puffs she tossed it across the room. “That's just it, maybe I am responsible.”

I retrieved her medicine and set it on her prayer book. I sat down on Agnes's bed. For that second I didn’t care that the shift in the mattress always made her wince. “What in tarnation are you saying, Agnes? You couldn’t have known what was in Hezekiah's mind. He's a sick man.”

Agnes puckered her lips and looked at me—hard. “But I think he knew something about me.”

“Yeah, he knew you were the miracle worker. That's all.”

“No, it isn’t. He knew the day he found that sweater and those bloody shoes.” I moved to the rocking chair. “They were mine, Griselda, and I think he knew it.”

“Yours?” My heart sped like a trip hammer.

“He was right. It wasn’t chocolate sauce all over that sweater.”

My brain reeled. “Hold on. I can’t hear this now. I’m going to make us coffee, and then we’ll discuss whatever is on your mind.”

“Suit yourself, Griselda, but coffee won’t change the truth.”

I stood in the kitchen while the coffee brewed, actually a veiled ploy to get away and collect myself. I certainly didn’t need coffee. But I made it anyway and set a pot and two cups on a metal tray decorated with an old Pepsi Cola advertisement.