by Joyce Magnin
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.
“Don’t know. Don’t suppose you got a hotel in this stupid, little town?”
Vidalia looked at me, and I knew exactly what she was thinking.
“I don’t know if that's a good idea,” I said.
Vidalia reached out her hand to the woman. “My name is Vidalia Whitaker, and I run a boarding house of sorts down the street. You’re welcome to take a room.”
The woman reached into her pocket and pulled out three, one-hundred dollar bills. “Ain’t got much money.”
“You got enough and more to stay,” Vidalia said.
“I’m Griselda Sparrow.” I shook her hand. “You’ll be fine at Vidalia's until you can figure things out. You got family in Philadelphia that can come get you?”
She laughed and jabbed her fork into the middle of her pie. “Nah, I got no people.” She looked out the window. “Not even Gizzard wants me, and believe me, it ain’t like he was some catch, the miserable, no-good, cheatin’, bas—”
“You been together long?” Vidalia asked.
“One whole month.” She pulled herself up like that was something to be proud of and poofed her already high hair.
“Come on,” said Vidalia, “I’ll take you home.”
Three days later, Olivia started taking orders at Personal's. About two months after that, Vidalia threw her out and she took a two-room apartment on top of Zack's Feed and Grain Store.
Now four years later it seemed she had poked her fork into Hezekiah's heart and twisted it around the prongs. I parked the truck outside of the pub and waited a few minutes, thinking that maybe Olivia was working that night and Hezekiah would come out soon. When he didn’t show I was filled with the oddest sensation that I can only describe as … jealousy.
11
Sunday morning arrived chilly, but with the promise of sunshine. Clouds that had been hanging over Bright's Pond for days disappeared and left behind a clear blue sky.
I stood at my window and watched as robins fresh from Florida perched and sang in the dogwood trees. I made a mental note to hang suet cakes and fill the birdhouses with seed. The snow line had receded, and blotches of ground and grass appeared like little tufts of hair on an otherwise bald head.
“Spring is coming.” I picked up Arthur. “Won’t be long now, boy, and you’ll be out cattin’ all night.” I snuggled him close to my cheek. “Just like Hezekiah.”
Agnes coughed. “Griselda,” she called, “you up?”
“Guess I better get down there and fix her some breakfast.”
Arthur mewled his agreement. He was hungry too.
“I’ll be down soon. Got to get dressed first.”
Sometimes I grew weary of feeding hungry bellies that never got full. But I pushed that feeling inside to save it for another day. Right then I had to make breakfast and get off to church. Sunday worship had become more of an obligation, an opportunity to see people I ordinarily don’t see during the week, than something deep and spiritual. I felt closer to God at the library or strolling through the backwoods looking for teaberries and wild mushrooms than I did sitting on a hard pew.
I opened my closet door and stood there like an idiot scanning the contents and knowing full well there was nothing new or attractive inside—just the same old clothes I’d worn for years. Although the sun promised to shine bright today, I knew I’d be more comfortable in jeans and a sweater than a dress. I only owned two. Vidalia had given them to me after her daughter moved away—both leftover and discarded things with flowers and lace around the collar and sleeves— one purple, the other blue like a robin's egg. It didn’t really matter. Not everyone dressed up for church, although there were a few diehards who thought a woman entering God's house in pants was akin to murder.
“Griselda,” Agnes called. “I got to get to the bathroom.”
I pulled a brush through my hair, took a final look in the mirror, shrugged, and headed downstairs.
“Took you long enough this morning,” Agnes said. “My bladder's about to burst.”
“I’m sorry. I overslept a tad and wanted to get dressed for church.”
I pulled Agnes up by the shoulders and slipped her fat feet into slippers that used to be soft and pink but were now gray with crushed heels. She clambered to her feet like an elephant, and I led her down the hall.
“You seem so stiff this morning. You feeling all right?”
“A storm is brewing. I can always feel it in my knees, like bone on bone.”
She finished in the bathroom and opened the door. I grabbed a handle of nightgown and led her back to bed. “You sure it's gonna rain? The clouds are gone and the sun is shining.”
“Don’t matter. There's a storm brewing out there. You’ll see.”
Agnes dropped onto the couch with a huge thud, and the sides of the red velvet sofa lifted off the floor. For a second it looked like the sofa might have grimaced.
“What do you want to eat this morning?”
“I was thinking some sausage and eggs with toast and jelly and some of them home fries you made the other day would be good.”
“All right. You just sit and I’ll get to it.”
“Turn the television on, please. It's just about time for Sheila Makefield.”
Sheila Makefield was Agnes's current favorite television preacher. She sometimes listened to the PTL Club, but she couldn’t stand that woman who wore too much makeup and cried all the time.
“I just don’t see how you can say you’re so close to Jesus and do all that crying,” Agnes had said. “But I do like it when they sing.”
Sometimes a few of her visitors would leave money on the bedside table, and Agnes would put it in an envelope marked “charitable giving.” When she had saved enough she’d have me deposit it and write out a check, sometimes for as much two hundred dollars, and send it to the PTL Club.
When we were girls, Agnes would hurry home from church and turn on the TV, blaring out Kathryn Kuhlman. Agnes thought Kathryn was the best thing since M&Ms and watched her religiously.
“She's got that way of talking at me, you know, like it goes right through my skin and bones and muscles and makes me feel all scared inside, but a good scared.”
This morning, I put on a pan of sausage to fry and scrambled six eggs in a bowl with a splash of milk.
“Maybe you could toss some of that cheddar cheese on the eggs,” Agnes called.
I fed Arthur while the sausage fried and washed a sink full of dishes.
Agnes enjoyed her breakfast while Sheila Makefield sang and preached and hollered about forgiveness and righteousness. I slathered butter and jelly on her toast and wondered why God made a world full of unrighteous people to begin with. He had to know we’d all fall short.
“Now, I got to go, Agnes. Take your pills, and I’ll get the nebulizer ready.” I gathered up her dishes.
“I don’t need that today. My lungs feel good, Griselda, real good.”
“I think you should continue the treatment. That's why your lungs feel good, Agnes. You don’t want to spoil that.”
“Bring me another cup of coffee before you go.”
After Agnes was satisfied, I headed across the street. I spied Vidalia at church and squeezed in next to her on the pew. Thin, red velvet cushions used to soften the hard wood, but over the years they had become so worn and tattered we had to toss out most o
f them. Some of the pews still had them, and they were usually the first to fill, especially on a cold morning. There was talk of replacing the cushions, but it seemed every time Ruth Knickerbocker made plans to buy the velvet she needed to make new ones, a toilet needed replacement or a tree fell in the back. Necessity always won out over comfort and aesthetics.
“Morning, Griselda,” Vidalia said. “It's a fine, sunny morning.”
“It sure is, Vidalia, and about time. I thought the sun had forgotten about us.”
“Now, now, Miss Sparrow, the sun will always come back.” She smiled.
Vidalia looked real nice in a crisp, navy dress with white trim and a white belt to match. She wore a little navy hat with a dainty veil that covered her eyes and nose. She slipped her white gloves off and stuffed them into her purse and tucked it next to her on the pew. I never carried a purse. Never knew what I needed to put in one that I couldn’t carry in a pocket.
The sanctuary filled up as the clock neared ten. I had hoped to avoid conversation about the sign that morning, but I should have known it would be impossible. Janeen Sturgis took a seat behind me and tapped my shoulder.
“How's Agnes? Is she terribly upset about the sign having the wrong name on it?”
“Not particularly, Janeen. She's okay.”
“Well, I for one am just appalled. Appalled that such an error could have happened in the first place. That Studebaker Kowal—”
“Now don’t go blaming Stu. It wasn’t his fault. I’m sure he gave the right name to the company.”
“But he should of checked,” said Ruth who had just slid into my peripheral view. She motioned for Vidalia and me to inch down a bit so she could fit.
Edie and Bill Tompkins sat in front of us. Edie turned around and smiled, letting a whiff of coffee breath into the air that mixed with her Jean Nate’ and made my nose itch. “You tell Agnes not to worry. We’ll get the sign fixed and it’ll be out there on the turnpike in no time, telling all the world that Bright's Pond has a prime citizen to be proud of.”
I could hear Vidalia's thoughts, and they pretty much matched my own. Fortunately, Sylvia started the prelude before Boris, who had just spied me, could climb over people's feet to get to me. He signaled something, some weird semaphore with his bulletin.
“I think he wants you to meet him after the sermon,” Vidalia said.
Pastor Speedwell, dressed in his three-piece, black suit, followed by Fred Haskell and Frank Sturgis, entered from the side door onto the platform. Fred stood at the podium while the other men sat in the fancy chairs with high backs and crimson velvet cushions. They always seemed to get their cushions refreshed.
“Let us sing together hymn number 134, Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” Fred said and nodded to Sylvia, who started playing while we all scrambled to find the page and get to our feet. The congregation was not up to its usual voice that morning, and the singing sounded a lot like a bunch of drowning cats. I suppose every church has that one voice, though—that one off-key, clunker voice that is so much louder than the rest. The tin ear in our congregation was Eugene Shrapnel, although no one ever told him not to sing. That wouldn’t be right, not even when it came to someone as surly and silly as him. My mother told me it ain’t the quality of the singing that counts because all God hears is angels singing and their beautiful voices drifting through the gates of heaven.
After that hymn plus two more, Frank replaced Fred at the podium and began the congregational reading of the Scripture—Romans, chapter thirteen. He read a verse and then the people read one and then he read one and so on until Fred finished up with a resounding recitation of verse 14: “But put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to fulfill the lusts thereof.” He emphasized the word lusts like it had special meaning for someone in the crowd.
I think it worked because as the offering was taken, I noticed someone had placed two white dice into the basket.
“Has to be Nate Kincaid,” Vidalia whispered.
She was most likely correct. Just about everyone in town knew Nate had frequented a floating crap game down in Shoops. I imagine it was hard for him to give up his dice. Stella had her arm around him and was patting his shoulder.
Pastor Speedwell took his place at the podium and cleared his throat about six times before he spoke his first word. He nodded to his wife and children and then looked out over his flock. He raised his Bible over his head and launched into a sermon so full of hellfire and brimstone it made Ruth cry.
“Why does a flamingo stand on one foot?” he called out. Then he waited a second, letting the peculiar question float around the room. “I’ll tell you why! Because if he lifted the other leg he’d fall down … flat.” Pastor slapped the podium with his free hand, and it shook for a good minute. A couple of mothers pulled their startled children close.
No one knew whether it was a good idea to laugh because Pastor was so serious. “And some of you—” he said and pointed the Good Book at us, “don’t even got a leg, not one leg to stand on. You hear what I am saying to you?”
Poor Nate rested his head on Stella's shoulder.
Pastor went on like that for the better part of an hour, and then he wound down. He nodded to Sylvia and gestured for all of us to stand.
“Hymn number 72,” he said. “Are You Washed in the Blood?”
We all remained standing while he raised both hands out over the congregation and said a benediction.
“And now may the Lord bless thee, and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.”
The benediction was always my favorite part of any sermon, and probably the reason I went to church—not to get yelled at about my sins but to have the pastor pray a blessing over me in the way I had always imagined Jesus would.
Vidalia and I escaped into the sunshine after shaking Pastor Speedwell's sweaty hand and before Boris Lender caught up. “I never got a chance to talk to you after the other night,” he puffed. “I am so sorry about the mistake. That Studebaker—”
“It wasn’t his fault,” I said, “and I wish people would stop making it so.”
Boris took a step back. “I just wanted you to know it’ll be fixed and back in town in about two weeks.”
“That's nice, Boris. Now I better get home to Agnes. She always expects the bulletin.”
“You tell her I said hello, Griselda, will you do that for me?”
“Sure, Boris.”
The air was warmer as Vidalia and I walked across the street. “I didn’t see Stu,” she said.
“I know. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since—”
“I do hope he's all right. I hate to think of him sitting all alone in his house feeling poorly about that stupid sign.”
“Well, if I know Studebaker, he's probably down in Scranton making certain they do it right this time.”
Vidalia laughed. “You know, I bet you’re right. I bet he followed them back and is standing over them like a drill sergeant.”
“And speaking of no shows, I didn’t see Hezekiah, either.” He had been attending church kind of regularly—if you can call two weeks in a row regular.
“Never came home last night,” Vidalia said. “Probably stayed the night at Olivia's.”
My heart skipped a beat. I hated the way talk of Hezekiah had started to affect me. It was out of my control, but for some reason just the thought of him produced strange feelings inside—feelings I wanted to have for Zeb but couldn’t muster.
Vidalia grabbed my arm. “Where’d you go? I lost you there for a second or two.”
I pushed my glasses up on my nose. “I’m sorry, Vi, it's just that … well, lately … oh, I don’t know …” I didn’t want to tell her what was really on my mind. “I was just thinking about Agnes. I better get inside and give her the bulletin and fix her lunch.”
Vidalia looked into my eyes. “Uh, huh, you do that. And let me just tell
you, Griselda, you better think twice before you allow yourself to get hung up on Hezekiah.”
“I’m not hung up on him.” I took a breath. “I better get inside.”
Agnes was still watching television. Her face was red like she had suffered an asthma attack while I was gone. She held on to her emergency inhaler.
“Did you take your treatment?” I handed her the bulletin.
“I’m okay, Griselda, just a little coughing fit. It might have been the spices in the sausage.”
“Well, I think you should take a treatment just to be safe. You’ll feel better and, and so will I, Agnes.”
I changed clothes, tossed in a load of laundry—whites with plenty of Clorox. For lunch I made Agnes her usual tuna sandwiches and soup with Fritos and milk. My stomach was a little upset so I opted out of lunch and continued separating laundry. The phone rang. It was Vidalia.
“Griselda,” Vidalia said, “did you know anything about the Pearly Gates Singers coming to town?”
“Pearly Gates Singers? No, I never heard a word about it. When did that happen?”
“I just ran into Ruth at the market—had to pick up coffee and bread—and she told me.”
“How did Ruth know?”
“Well, you’re about to find out. She's heading to your house.”
I hung up and turned my attention to Agnes, who was swallowing the last of her sandwiches. “Did you know about the Pearly Gates Singers coming to town?”
She choked and spit her last bite onto her plate. “What? When? I never heard a word.”
“Vidalia said Ruth Knickerbocker told her and is coming over here to tell us.”
Agnes let out a little whoop and holler.
“Imagine that, Griselda, the Pearly Gates—here … in Bright's Pond.”
The doorbell chimed.
“That must be Ruth,” I said. Sure enough I opened the door and there was Ruth looking like she had just snagged the last of the Full Moon pie.
I grabbed her hand. “Come on inside and tell me about it. Vidalia just called.”
“Ah, I told her not to, but news like this is hard to keep down, I suppose.”