Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

by Joyce Magnin

“I’ll think about this one. I’ll get us some breakfast. Those folks are liable to show up early, now, the way things are going.”

  I put coffee on and checked the thermostat. A cold front had moved in overnight. I fed Arthur who kept looking at me like he had all the answers. And then I stood like a member of the walking dead and stared out the kitchen window as the coffee pot bubbled. Most days, I loved to look out over the mountains and dream of a day when I would travel past them. But not that morning. That morning those mountains were so wide and so tall and so high I believed there was no force in heaven or earth that could get me to the other side.

  Agnes and I ate breakfast. I slathered her toast with raspberry jam and salted her eggs while she drank juice.

  “I thought I could do it and give God the glory, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew I couldn’t.”

  I bit the end of a triangle of toast. “That's good jam. Ruth brought it the other day. She said it's made by hippies in Binghamton.”

  “Best jam I’ve ever had,” Agnes said.

  “Well, speaking of jam. I still have to tell Rassie Harper.”

  Agnes waved her fork. “Ah, phooey. Rassie can go fly a kite. I can’t be the first person to cancel at the last second.”

  “I suppose, but he's going through all that hassle of coming here. Might make it a little tougher.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Maybe we could just pretend we’re not home and he’ll go away.”

  “Agnes. We can’t do that.”

  Fortunately it was not Rassie Harper standing on the other side of the door, but Ruth and Vidalia both in their Sunday clothes.

  “Now don’t go getting your dander up,” Vidalia said before I could even open my mouth. “We tried to stay away, but—” she stopped. “What's the matter, Griselda? You look like someone just kicked you in the stomach.”

  “Oh, Vi, I just don’t know what we’ll do. Agnes wants to cancel the radio show.”

  “Why?” Ruth said, practically jumping over me. “Is something wrong with her—and on the day of the radio show?”

  “No, Ruth. Agnes is fine. She just changed her mind is all.”

  “Oh, good, it's nothing too serious,” Ruth said as she squeezed between Vidalia and me. “I thought we were gonna have to kiss the Pearly Gates Singers goodbye.”

  Agnes was sitting up, and Hezekiah, who must have slipped through the back door, was helping her into the old pair of slippers.

  “You go on now and cancel the show,” she said. “I really don’t want that Rassie to even see me.”

  Ruth pulled my arm. “You can’t let her do this, Griselda. She already agreed.”

  “What's this all about?” Vidalia said. “I mean I’m pleased that Agnes came to her good senses, but why now?”

  “I decided that Griselda was right all along,” Agnes said. “It's just not proper for me to go on the radio and toot my own horn like that.”

  “But, Agnes,” Ruth said, “you made a promise. I’ve never known you to go back on any promise. You can’t do it. Rassie’ll sue you … take you to court or something.”

  “Nah, I’d never fit in the witness chair, and the jury could never take it serious. He won’t sue. I never signed a contract or anything.”

  “Don’t fret, Ruth,” I said. “Agnes is right. We can’t go advertising the miracles and such.”

  “You got to understand, Ruth,” Agnes said, “my prayers are for the people of Bright's Pond. That's what I told God when I started, and it isn’t right for me to draw attention to myself, you know?”

  Vidalia coughed. “I agree with Agnes. I never liked this whole radio foolhardiness from the beginning.”

  “I’m sorry about this, Ruth,” I said. “But don’t you see what could happen if Agnes went on the air? I’d have more people at my door than I could count.”

  “That's right,” Vidalia said.

  Ruth sat in the rocker with a thud. “What in the world are we gonna tell Rassie Harper and that sister-in-law of mine? They’ll have a field day with this—whatever a field day is. I never did understand that one. Vidalia, do you know what that means?”

  Vidalia shook her head no. “I think we need to figure out what we’re gonna tell them and then be done with it—field day or no.”

  “Well, we certainly can’t tell the truth,” Ruth said. “Vera will hold it over my head like an albatross for the rest of my life.”

  Vidalia squeezed Ruth's hand. “No, dear, it's an albatross around your neck and that isn’t the situation. I think you mean sword of Damocles, and then I’m not certain that applies either.”

  Ruth gave Vidalia a quizzical look. “Sword or albatross, it all means the same. She’ll never let me live this down.”

  The doorbell chimed.

  “I’m doomed,” Ruth said.

  “Now, now, it won’t be as bad as all that,” Vidalia said.

  I raced to the door, and sure enough, Rassie Harper, Vera Krug—I just assumed it was her having never met the woman—and three strange men stood on our porch. Rassie was not what I imagined from listening to him over the airwaves. For one thing he was a lot shorter than I expected and nearly bald, except for tufts of dark hair above each ear and hanging down the back. His pot belly probably was the result of drinking too much of the Budweiser he advertised. He smelled like cigarettes and wore a baby blue tee shirt that said something I can’t repeat.

  Vera, on the other hand, was exactly what I would have pictured, if I had ever taken the time to imagine her. She was wearing tight beige Capris that went smartly with her tight, hatchet face with the long nose and beady eyes that darted around like a lizard's. She wore an orange coat and orange knit hat.

  Rassie reached out his hand, and I shook it just to be polite. I closed the door before they could get a foot inside. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but Agnes—” my mind raced; what could I say? “—Agnes isn’t feeling well and we’ll have to cancel the show.”

  “What?” Vera said. She definitely had a radio voice and a real-life voice. I much preferred the radio voice. “You can’t do that. We had an agreement.”

  “Well, we got no choice. Agnes is sick as a dog. I can’t even let you in. You could catch something.” I was sliding down that slippery slope of lies. “Doc said she was highly contagious, so unless you feel like spending the next twenty-four hours having explosive diarrhea and vomiting—”

  Rassie backed off. “Okay, okay. But I have a show to do, Miz Sparrow. I got to be on the air in less than one hour.”

  Ruth came outside and shut the door behind her. “Hello, Vera.”

  “Good morning, Ruth. What are you doing here? I thought Agnes was contagious with some kind of intestinal thing.”

  “Oh, well, ah… Griselda needed help,” Ruth said. “You got any idea what it's like to be around a seven-hundred pound woman with dia—”

  “All right, all right, I get the picture.” Vera grimaced like she had swallowed bile.

  “Now, listen to me,” Ruth said. She all of a sudden sounded like a woman in charge—more like a woman determined not to spoil the chances of the Pearly Gates Singers coming to Bright's Pond. “I was listening at the window. You could take the show down to the café. Folks there will love to tell you all about the miracles. Just ask for Cora or Zeb.”

  “Ruth,” I said. “We don’t want—”

  “Now don’t you worry, Griselda. Folks can tell all about how they got their prayers answered. It will be fine, just as fine as a spring shower.”

  “Come on, men,” said Rassie without even giving it a second's worth of consideration. “Let's go. We got a show to do.”

  “Where's this café?” Vera asked like she had never set foot in Bright's Pond. Ruth and I shared a smirk.

  “Ah, you remember, Vera, it's just down the road. Look for the big, full moon hanging over a building that looks more like one of them stainless steel campers than a restaurant.”

  “Oh, this has got to be rich,” Rassie said.
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  “Well, no choice,” Vera said, as the entourage headed for the station truck.

  “Does this mean we still get the Pearly Gates Singers?” Ruth shouted.

  Rassie opened the truck door, “Yeah, yeah. We’ll just come back next week and put Agnes on the show.”

  “Over my dead body,” I whispered to Ruth.

  “Maybe they’ll get enough of a show down at Zeb's.”

  Now I was really worried. “I better call Zeb and warn him.”

  Ruth came in as far as the radiator and put on her coat and scarf. “I think I’ll go on down there. Maybe I can help.”

  “Good idea.”

  I rejoined Agnes and Vidalia. “They left. I told them Agnes was sick and they seemed to buy it. Ruth sent them all down to the café. They’re gonna do the show from there.”

  “Really,” Vidalia said. “All those folks will start blabbing on and on about how Agnes saved them from death's door and the like.”

  “I know, I know. But what can I do? Maybe it will all sound so silly no one will ever believe it.”

  “Okay,” Vidalia said, “but do you think it's a good idea leaving Ruth down there by herself?”

  “You’re right. I’d better call Zeb and let him know.”

  Agnes reached for her M&Ms while Hezekiah tended the fire. “Maybe I should go down and keep an eye on Ruth,” he said.

  “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 wei
ghed 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.