Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

by Joyce Magnin

  “My goodness gracious,” Ruth said. She grabbed my sleeve. I thought she might faint dead away. “They’re—they’re all Negroes.”

  “Black, Ruth. They’re black, but you knew that, didn’t you?”

  She took another breath. “Well no. I just assumed that they were like the rest of us.”

  “They are like us. Now don’t go embarrassing yourself or the town.”

  I recognized Ezekiel Moses Ramstead right off from a record album. He played piano and guitar.

  Boris pushed his way through the growing crowd. He reached out his hand to the biggest of the four men.

  “Welcome, welcome to Bright's Pond.”

  “My name is Marvin Smith,” the man said. His voice was low and booming like it had come out of a cave. “And this is Abel Washington.”

  Abel stepped forward. “Groovy.” Then he made the peace sign and stepped back.

  Ruth gasped for air. “Are they Communists too?”

  “No, now settle down, Ruth. They’re musicians.”

  Marvin put his hand on the drummer's shoulder. “And this is Sticks Monroe. He plays the drums.” Sticks didn’t say a word, smile, or move.

  Marvin introduced the last of the quartet. “Ezekiel Moses Ramstead, our piano player.” All Ezekiel said was, “Your town is out of sight, man.”

  Boris shook all their hands.

  “I have a question, man,” said Marvin. “Who's this Agnes Sparrow chick? We saw that sign coming over the hill.”

  Studebaker, who had just arrived, said, “She's our miracle maker. Agnes has made more miracles come true in Bright's Pond than anyone, anywhere.”

  “Even Jesus?” Sticks said.

  “Well … n . . no, of course not,” Stu stammered. “But plenty right here.”

  Janeen moved forward and leaned into the four men. “But it seems that Agnes might be losing her connection.”

  I thought Marvin was going to bust his shirt buttons he laughed so hard.

  “Then why you got a sign out there advertising her?”

  Boris and Stu looked like they couldn’t figure out if it was more important to defend Agnes and their sign or forget about it and get the singers into the church. They chose the church.

  I turned to Ruth, who was still paralyzed by the sight of the Pearly Gates. “Ruth, how come you didn’t say hello?”

  She reached out a little, leather-bound book. “Autograph?”

  But it was too late. Boris and Stu had already shepherded the men away from the fans and into the church.

  I helped Ruth across the street into our house. “Now you get a grip on yourself, Ruth. They’re just men like any other.”

  “Glory, no,” Ruth said. “They’re the Pearly Gates.” She took a breath. “I couldn’t even say hello.”

  “You will tonight. Now come on in for tea and a slice of pineapple upside-down cake.”

  “I saw the whole thing,” Agnes said. “That Marvin is a big man now, isn’t he?”

  “You know about him?” Ruth asked.

  Agnes pointed to our HiFi. “Got one of their albums in there. Haven’t played it in a long time, but it has their pictures on it. ’Course they were younger when that record came out.”

  “I never bought any records,” Ruth said. “We never had a HiFi so I didn’t see the point.”

  Ruth opened the side of the mahogany-colored cabinet. “Right on top. Yep, that's them.” She ran her finger along the side and the album jacket opened revealing more photos of the group. “Look at that. They’re black as coal.”

  “Ruth,” I said, “you’ve got to get over that.”

  “Well, it ain’t like I mind. I mean we got Vidalia, and I love her to pieces. I don’t even think about her being colored anymore. I just didn’t know it about the Pearly Gates. I mean, wouldn’t you think a group with the word pearl in their name would be white?”

  “Oh, Ruth, come help me make tea.”

  “Lookie there,” Agnes said at about five after six. “A line is forming. Looks like a hundred people already.”

  “Really?” I looked out our window, and sure enough there was a line that stretched clear down to the Sturgis's house. I recognized most of the people from church or around town but there were some I didn’t.

  “Looks like Vera Krug's advertising paid off. I do believe I see some out-of-towners.”

  “Well, it ain’t every day a singing group like the Pearly Gates makes it up the mountain. They’d rather play the big places in Wilkes-Barre and Scranton.”

  “Maybe we better get going,” Ruth said. “I want a good seat.”

  “Okay, but let me get Agnes settled. Hey, has anyone seen Hezekiah?”

  “Not since earlier,” Agnes said. “Was he planning on going to the concert?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  Agnes scratched between the folds of skin on her arm.

  “I told you not to do that. Doc said you’ll get infections. I’ll put some talc in there before I go.”

  “And the backs of my knees,” Agnes said.

  The doorbell rang and Ruth went to answer it while I took care of Agnes's itchy spots.

  “It's Vidalia,” Ruth called.

  “I thought we’d sit together,” Vidalia said. “I looked for you in line.”

  “We were here,” Ruth said.

  “I can see that.” Vidalia looked stunning in a yellow pants suit with a baby blue blouse. She chose a funky hat for the occasion—a floppy thing with a wide bill that made her look a little younger.

  “You gals ready?” she asked.

  “Just a couple more minutes,” I said.

  Ruth refilled the candy jar while I tucked Agnes in.

  “All set,” I said. “Let's go.”

  The doorbell rang again.

  It was Pastor Speedwell and his skinny little wife Darcy, who looked like she had just been blown around in a windstorm. She stared at Agnes like she was looking at a sideshow freak. Darcy was one of the few folks in town who had never gotten over Agnes's size.

  Pastor, who was carrying his Bible tucked under his arm, said, “I just came by to tell you that we’ll miss you at the concert tonight, Sister Agnes.”

  “It's going to be a real hootenanny,” Darcy said, and I knew in that moment Darcy Speedwell was in for a surprise.

  “Ever hear them?” Agnes asked, looking at Darcy.

  “No, but Milton told me they’re real good. They sing all them old-time gospel songs and Nee-gra spirituals. I ain’t never heard a Nee-gra spiritual before.”

  My toes curled. “You’re in for a treat, Darcy. A real treat.”

  Ruth, who had gone to use the second-floor bathroom, came back.

  “Well, hello, Pastor,” she said. She smiled at Darcy.

  “Hello, Ruth. I’m glad you’re here,” Pastor said. “I wanted to thank you for making it possible for the Pearly Gates Singers to come to our church.”

  “You’re as welcome as a dandelion in winter,” she said. “I can hardly believe it myself. That Rassie Harper sure came through for us even if the radio show turned out to be—” she glanced at Agnes and then me “—well, not what we expected.”

  Pastor took a step closer to Agnes. “Now, how are you? Word around town is that you might be feeling a little … off.”

  Agnes coughed. “I’m fine, Pastor. Just fine.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.” Pastor nodded to his wife, and she walked to the door like a trained dog.

  “Oh, don’t you worry about tickets, Griselda.” Pastor said. “Just come around the back. I made sure the front row was roped off for you and Ruth.”

  “And Vidalia,” Ruth said. “And Hezekiah, if he's coming.”

  “Of course.” Pastor took Agnes's hand. “God bless you, sister.”

  “Thank you.”

  After Pastor Speedwell and Darcy left, I made sure Agnes was comfortable and had everything she wanted and needed for the next hour or so. “You sure it's okay if I go? I know you don’t like me leaving you alone.”<
br />
  “I think I’ll be fine. It's such a special occasion.”

  “I’ll come home right after.”

  I scrunched up her favorite pillow and crammed it behind her neck, and then I switched on the speaker the way Studebaker showed me. We could already hear the noise from the crowd gathering at the church.

  “Hear that?” Ruth said. “It sounds like a full house.”

  Vidalia, Ruth, and I entered through the back door and filed through Pastor Speedwell's study. Sure enough the entire front row on the left side was empty. I looked around for Hezekiah, but I didn’t see him.

  “I wonder where he could be?” I said it out loud even though I didn’t mean too.

  “Who?” Vidalia asked.

  “Hezekiah. I thought he would come.”

  “Me, too,” Ruth said. “I saw him at the Full Moon, and he said he would come if he could.”

  Hezekiah had been missing just about everything since he started running with Olivia, missing church and leaving work a little early, even though we didn’t keep him to a schedule.

  I spied Zeb making his way to the front.

  “Can I sit with you, ladies?”

  “Sure,” Ruth said. Then she whispered to me. “I bet he's missing Cora tonight.”

  Pastor Speedwell looked uncomfortable on the raised platform that night. His podium had been removed to make way for the group and their instruments. It was like watching a man with no arms try to climb a ladder.

  But after some stammering and awkward glances he got to the point. “The Bible says we are to make a joyful noise unto the Lord. And from what I hear about these folks about to perform, that's just what we’re gonna do. Let's welcome the Pearly Gates Singers.”

  A long round of applause with some folks on their feet, rang out as the men entered from the side. I glanced at Sheila Spiney who would ordinarily be at the piano. She detested any applause in church, believing that it took the glory away from God. This time was no exception if her puckered, sour puss meant anything.

  “Those Gates boys look so nice,” Ruth said with a nudge to my spleen.

  They wore dark suits, but somehow I could see all the colors of the rainbow shimmering like abalone in the sun.

  “Look at them suits,” Vidalia said. “Um, um, um. Like oil in a puddle. Reminds me of my Drayton. He wore such pretty colors.”

  Then without so much as a throat clear, they started playing and singing and shouting. The music bounced and ricocheted all around the sanctuary that night.

  They sang This Little Light of Mine, but let me tell you, it wasn’t the Sunday school version. They were jumping and shouting and pouring sweat over that little ditty of a tune, so much so that Darcy, who was sitting in the front row on the right, looked like a woman with the vapors and had to fan herself with a leftover bulletin. I noticed Pastor snap his fingers once, but he recovered quickly from that display and folded his hands on his lap.

  It wasn’t until after their third song, Take Me to Beulah Land, that Melvin spoke up.

  “All God's children got hands and feet. How ’bout usin’ them? Come on now, get up, and clap your hands.” He started clapping and walking back and forth across the platform as they started the music.

  No soap. What the Pearly Gates didn’t know was that the congregation of the Bright's Pond Chapel of Faith and Grace was about as animated as a pound of slugs in summer. The only folks who shouted back, or raised their hands, or clapped were the out-of-towners, and even they got embarrassed after a while. Most of the people in Bright's Pond wouldn’t dance if they caught fire.

  The only person I saw who expressed any emotion that night, besides the Singers, was Ruth. She had stars in her eyes, and every once in a while she swayed—just a bit.

  But I got to hand it to the group, they hung in with us and ended the concert with a beautiful rendition of The Windows of Heaven Are Open, which brought tears to my eyes and made Ruth grab onto my hand and not let go. Even Vidalia had to take out her hanky. Zeb left early to open the café. He was expecting a large after-concert crowd.

  By eight-thirty the sanctuary cleared out. Ruth lingered a moment still dabbing tears and fighting back full-scale blubbers.

  “I wish my Bubby Hubby were here tonight. He would have loved them Pearly Gates.”

  Ezekiel Moses Ramstead was on the platform packing up his keyboard. He was so kind to Ruth and so gentle even though Ruth quivered like she had been stung by bees when he reached out his hand and took hers. He looked into her eyes and smiled, his white teeth bright against his coal dark face.

  “That man you’re missing was here tonight, dear.”

  “Who was?” Ruth asked, nearly mesmerized.

  “I’m assuming it's a husband you’re missing. He was here darlin’, looking down on you with such love in his heart—” he practically sang “—missin’ his sweet, sweet woman.”

  Ruth swooned and Ezekiel caught her just before she slipped to the floor. She thrust her autograph book in his face. “Sign it, please.”

  Ezekiel took the little book and opened to a clean page, not that Ruth had many autographs beside Frank Sinatra's, who had gotten lost once on his way to Jack Frost and stopped in at the Full Moon to ask for directions. Ezekiel signed: “For my friend, Ruth. God Bless. Ezekiel Moses Ramstead.”

  She clutched it to her breast. “Oh, thank you.”

  Then the rest of the Singers came out and shook our hands and signed her book. Melvin was still curious about Agnes, but I told him she was home resting and he seemed satisfied.

  “How about we head over to Zeb's for coffee?” Vidalia asked.

  I felt a yawn coming on and said, “I think I better get back home.”

  “Me, too,” Ruth said. “I’m just all atwitter now, and I think I want to go home and look at my photo album.”

  “Fine,” Vidalia said. “I’m not tired at all, and since Winifred and the children are arriving tomorrow, I best be getting things in order.”

  In the time it took to watch the concert and walk home I forgot all about the speaker sitting in the entryway and tripped right over it. Fortunately, I was able to grab onto the radiator and stop myself from falling flat on my face.

  “That you, Griselda?” Agnes called.

  “Yep, just me. I tripped over the speaker.”

  I rubbed my knee and joined Agnes. Her face was red and blotchy like she had had an asthma attack.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I just had a coughing jag in the middle of Bound for Canaan Land right through Do Lord.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Agnes. Did you enjoy any of the concert?”

  “Oh, sure I did, Griselda. I was sitting here like I was having my own private concert—like they came to town just for me.”

  “In a way, that's true, you know.”

  About twenty minutes later I heard the bus pull away from the curb. “There they go.”

  “Did Hezekiah go to the concert?” Agnes asked after I brought her a snack of cake and tea. I wasn’t hungry.

  “No. I didn’t see him.”

  “I wonder what's up with him? I thought he’d go for sure.”

  “Well, if he did, he was sitting in the back or standing out in the lobby with the other latecomers, because I never saw him.”

  22

  Mildred Blessing came knocking on our front door at eight-twenty the next morning.

  “Why's someone knocking?” Agnes called. “You forget to unlock it?”

  “No, I unlocked it first thing, same as I always do.” I dried my hands on a red, terry towel on my way to the door and found Mildred Blessing on the other side.

  “Mildred, what are you doing here?”

  Mildred was not on my mental list of frequent visitors.

  “I better come inside, Griselda,” she said.

  My heart sank just a bit as in that second my brain flashed on the day the state policeman came and told us about our parents.

  “Agnes,” I called. I motioned for Mildred's ja
cket but she refused. “Mildred Blessing is here.”

  “Well, my goodness. Invite her in.”

  Mildred and I went to the viewing room. It was a tad dark. I hadn’t opened the drapes yet. “What do you say I shed some light on the subject?”

  “What can I do for you, Mildred?” Agnes asked. She reached for her candy jar and popped a few.

  “Actually, I came to see both of you. Official business.”

  I swallowed. “Official business? Something happen?”

  Mildred held her cop hat in her hands. Her eyes darted around the room like they were looking for a place, any place, to rest as long as it wasn’t on one of us.

  “Spit it out, Mildred,” Agnes said. “You look like—”

  “It's Vidalia Whitaker.”

  My heart jumped into my throat. “What about Vidalia?”

  “She was found dead, Griselda. Looks like she was stabbed with a butcher knife, right there in her house, in that big room. You know, the one with that pretty, flowered settee.”

  I can’t remember everything that happened in the couple of minutes that followed, except that my heart stopped beating for a second or two and my knees weakened so much I fell onto Agnes's bed. Agnes reached out and grabbed my hand.

  “Stabbed?” Agnes said. “How's that possible? People don’t get stabbed in Bright's Pond.”

  “Well, that's what Doc said. Whoever did it used one of Vidalia's own kitchen knives.”

  “Wait a second, wait a second,” I said. “When?”

  “Not too long ago. Sometime late last night, near as Doc can figure.”

  “How? Who—” I couldn’t catch my breath. Agnes continued to hold my hand.

  “Ivy Slocum found her.”

  “Ivy?”

  “That's right, Griselda. Ivy was expecting that Hezekiah fellow—” my heart started to pound “—around six to fix her screen door, and when he didn’t show, Ivy called over to Vidalia's but there was no answer. So Ivy took Al Capone with her and knocked on Vidalia's door. She thought maybe Hezekiah overslept or something.”

  I took a huge breath as Agnes squeezed my hand.