Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

by Joyce Magnin

  “Look over there,” Ruth said. “A rainbow.”

  Sure enough God had sent a rainbow that day. “See that,” I said. “God planned on it from the early morning. First he had to send the storm because—”

  “It's the only way to get a rainbow,” Ruth said.

  Now, what happened next is—well, I’m not sure if it ever happened before. I mean I don’t know if anyone ever did what we did, but we took the kite and Vidalia's ashes up to Hector's Hill. Tobias managed to run the kite real fast and real hard and after a few fitful starts the kite soared over the town.

  Ruth pulled a little baggy from her purse with two white aspirins in it. She dropped the pills in her handbag, and then I put a teaspoon or so of the ashes into the bag and tied it on to the kite string. It was a real quiet, solemn occasion. We swiped away our tears as the little bag slowly crept its way up and up and up until you couldn’t really tell what it was any longer.

  “You go, Vidalia,” Ruth called. “You keep going higher and higher because ain’t nooooobody who deserves a better spot in heaven.”

  Winifred gathered her boys around her like a mama hen and she cried so hard it rivaled the rain that morning. Tobias cried even though I wasn’t quite certain he understood what happened yet.

  I don’t know who got the idea first to soar the ashes. It might have come to all three of us at the same time. Ruth said it came direct from Vidalia, but Ruth was like that. In the long run it didn’t matter. The important thing is that Vidalia soared with us that afternoon. Vidalia was with us for what was the second of many kite-flying escapades.

  We stayed up on the hill until another rack of dark clouds moved in and Ruth said she saw lightning in the distance.

  Ruth and I stopped by the café before going home. Winifred wasn’t interested and claimed she needed to get the boys to nap and start sorting through her mother's belongings. I offered to help but she turned me down. “Nah, I kind of want the time alone.”

  The café was packed, but that wasn’t unusual for an ordinary Sunday, let alone one as special as that one.

  “I looked for you at church,” I told Zeb as he poured coffee into my cup.

  “Ah, I know, I just couldn’t go. I decided to make some extra meatloaf and pie. Figured on a big crowd.”

  “You were right.”

  Zeb leaned close. “They’re still talking about Agnes. They’re saying she's lost her powers. Frank Sturgis even said she might have started praying against us, seeing as how Cora died and that Frank lost his temper and clocked Janeen with a loaf of bread. Even Jasper is worried that the Commies have taken over the town.”

  “This is preposterous. How could Agnes have caused all this?”

  That was when Ruth moaned a little. “I—I didn’t want to say anything but my stomach's been hurting.”

  “Stomachs hurt for lots of reasons, Ruth.”

  “I know, I know, I just was thinking that maybe my bleeding ulcer is coming back now that Agnes has lost her powers.”

  “Agnes hasn’t lost any powers. She never had any to begin with,” I said, but it was no use. Everybody had their minds made up.

  I sipped coffee and tried to listen in on conversations, but I didn’t hear too much until Studebaker and Boris walked in.

  “We’re glad you’re here, Stu,” called Nate Kincaid. “We want to know how you and Boris feel about this.”

  “About what?” He and Boris took a booth just vacated by the Flatbush family.

  “Well, I reckon I’m thinking along the same lines as all of you. It's horrible what happened to Vidalia. Imagine having a killer living right here in Bright's Pond for nearly four months and nobody knowing it.”

  “That's just it,” Nate said. “We never had a killer in town before. Not until that—that Hezekiah fella strode in and started charming his way around. How ’bout that Agnes letting it happen? She started the whole thing.”

  “Now hold on—” I said, while Zeb poured coffee. “Thank you, Zeb. You can’t go blaming Agnes.”

  “But Agnes is the one we went to,” Harriett said. She wiped some lingering lemon pie from Jasper's cheek. “We trusted her with everything, all our most private thoughts and needs.”

  “Even our lives—” Edie Tompkins said, “—our very lives and now—” She blubbered into a napkin and blew her nose so loud it sounded like a train had pulled into town. “Now Vi … Vi …”

  Fred took her arm. “Come on, honey, let's get home.”

  “I want to go past her house,” Edie said. “There weren’t no viewing, so I’d at least like to walk past her house and pay my proper respects.”

  “Sure, honey, come on now.”

  Stu spied me and invited me to join him and Boris, who was as tight-lipped that day as I had ever seen him.

  “He wants us to sit with them,” I told Ruth.

  “That's fine, but my stomach is not feeling good at all, not good at all.”

  “Come on, Ruth, you’re fine. You come home with me.”

  Zeb wrapped Ruth's pie and some for Agnes and then we joined Stu and Boris for a little while. Boris clicked his tongue a few times and grumbled about the cost of the road sign, while Stu told folks to simmer down and stop blaming Agnes.

  When I got up to leave, Stu took my hand. “You tell Agnes I ain’t angry at her, okay, Griselda?” He looked into my eyes. “She couldn’t know that Hezekiah was a—killer. She couldn’t. Could she?”

  25

  I half expected to see an angry mob armed with torches and pitchforks out in front of the house, but it was eerily quiet and dark when Ruth and I got there. The bottom-heavy clouds had gotten darker, and I heard thunder rolling over the mountains. Rain would start soon.

  “I hate leaving Agnes alone for so long, Ruth, but I had no choice.”

  “Well, that's right, Griselda. You had to go to the after-church service, and we had to fly the kite and go to the café. It was only proper.”

  “I know you’re right, but I still feel so bad about leaving her.”

  Ruth stopped me just as my foot landed on the porch. “Today was Vidalia's day. Agnes knows that.”

  I brushed the little sparrow on our door, a cold and constant reminder of what she used to represent to so many who grieved as they passed through our door. They knew my daddy would take good care of their loved one. The Shoops Local even did a feature story on Daddy and the Sparrow Funeral Home a couple of years before the train wreck. They said people used to talk about how they’d turn the little Sparrow and hear sweet chimes like heaven was behind the doors.

  I swallowed hard when I thought of Vidalia's body getting burned to ashes. Winifred said it was her desire, but it didn’t sit well with me. I remember from when I was child how folks appreciated being able to touch their loved one or slip a note into their pocket like I did when my daddy died. I put his fishing license and a picture of us in the rowboat into his breast pocket. Viewings certainly never mattered to the deceased but they meant an awful lot to those who mourned.

  “I’m home, Agnes,” I called from the entryway. “Ruth is with me. We brought pie.”

  Ruth and I stopped near the radiator and removed our coats and rain boots and Ruth shook out her plastic scarf.

  “Is she in there?” Ruth said. “I didn’t hear her say anything.”

  “Of course she's in there, Ruth. What do you think, she got up and went out for the day?”

  “Now don’t go getting all in a snit, Griselda.”

  “I’m sorry. You go see her. I want to change my clothes.”

  “Sure. Maybe I can bring her some pie and tea.”

  “That's a good idea. Just don’t tell her that the people are talking about her like it's her fault that Vidalia—” I took a breath. “I’m gonna wait for it to all blow over.”

  “Oh, I won’t, Griselda, you can count on me.”

  I started up the steps and felt an odd relief when I heard Agnes's bed springs creak.

  Arthur met me in my room. A bloody mouse hung out
of his mouth. He dropped it at my feet. I opened the window and tossed it to the crows. They swooped from the trees, and I watched as two fought over the tiny carcass.

  “I hate those birds, Arthur. They’ve got no respect for the dead.” Rain started again as I changed out of my Sunday clothes. “More rain, Artie. The backyard will probably flood.” Thunder rumbled directly overhead. It sounded like galvanized trash cans getting blown down the street in a windstorm. “Is there anything left to do? Hezekiah's been caught, and Winifred is getting ready to leave and Vidalia—well, she’ll be going to Detroit with Winifred.”

  I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled on a pair of white sweat socks, the long, tube kind with no seams. Then I cried until my stomach hurt.

  By the time I got back downstairs, Ruth had told Agnes all about the kite-flying ceremony.

  “And she went up and up and up and—”

  “No kidding?” Agnes said.

  “She just soared to heaven,” Ruth said. “She soared. Oh, that sister-in-law of mine will never believe it when I tell her.”

  “Why are you gonna tell Vera?” I asked.

  “I thought she might mention it on her radio show, seeing as how Vidalia was one of the best neighbors this town has ever known, except you, of course, Agnes. I don’t care what folks are saying right now.” Ruth waved her hand like she was swatting a fly. “I just don’t care.”

  “What?” Agnes said. “What are folks saying?”

  “Ruth, I told you not to say anything,” I said.

  Ruth patted Agnes's hand. “Oh, those bumpkins down at the café are saying it's all your fault for sending Hezekiah to Vidalia's when he first came to town. They’re saying Vidalia would still be alive if it weren’t for you. They’re saying you lost your powers and God ain’t gonna answer your prayers anymore, they’re saying—”

  I watched a blush start at Agnes's neck and then creep into her cheeks. “My fault?”

  “It's not as bad as all that, Agnes,” I said. “People are just upset over what happened to Vidalia.”

  Agnes sent Ruth for more pie.

  “But what if they’re right, Griselda. What if it is my fault?”

  “That's nonsense.” The doorbell chimed. “Now who could that be?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Agnes said.

  Studebaker stood on the porch, looking like he had lost his best friend.

  “You won’t believe this, Griselda,” he said. “All those folks down at the café said they don’t want the sign anymore, they don’t want people coming to town looking for Agnes. They’re afraid she might invite another killer in.”

  “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.

  The 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.

  The Bright's Pond Savings and Loan sat on the corner of Fi
fth 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.”

  The 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.