Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

by Joyce Magnin

  When I got back to my desk I heard someone, not sure who, say, “Maybe Agnes should screen the people she prays for, you know.”

  There was a hush when I looked up. The ladies finished their plans and left in silence like they always did.

  I strolled past Vidalia's house on my way home that afternoon. I lingered a moment and looked up at the tangerine curtains that still hung in Hezekiah's room. Once there slept the man who killed my friend. I imagined him lying on the bed with his hands behind his head, scheming and planning, stoking his courage or maybe his passion to kill. I wondered what finally made him snap.

  Before she left, Winifred gave me the house keys in case someone needed to get inside or there was a problem. At the time I couldn’t imagine a single reason why anyone would need to get in.

  A breath of stale air, not warm cinnamon, hit me as I opened the door and went inside. I left the door ajar to let the fresh breeze clear out the stale.

  I missed my friend so much I could hardly stand it. She should still have been there, baking sticky buns and brewing coffee and laughing and sticking up for folks the way she always did, helping the kids with their papers and smiling. No one in town was more willing to give of herself than Vidalia— even her home—which she gave so freely to Hezekiah. My eyes closed at the thought. Why, God?

  There was no answer.

  I went to the room where Ivy found her and stood over the stained carpet. It was a long, Persian-type runner full of bright colors and designs. The stain formed a large, awkward shape, almost like a silhouette of a fat, fluffy, dark sheep. Tears came. I swiped them away like mosquitoes on a humid night.

  “Vidalia,” I said. “I’m so sorry. Agnes didn’t know what she was doing when she sent him here. She wanted to help.”

  I rolled up the rug, carried it to the basement, and set it against a paneled wall. Then I filled a bucket with hot water and detergent and scrubbed where Vidalia's blood had soaked through to her polished oak wood floor.

  “It's supposed to be a secret, but Ruth, Agnes, and I made a pact. I guess I can tell you,” I said as I scrubbed. “Agnes accidentally killed a young boy a long time ago, before you and Drayton even came to Bright's Pond. She didn’t know what she was doing then, either. She kept it to herself until just yesterday. Imagine, keeping something like that all locked up inside for so many years.”

  After the floor sparkled again, I sat in Vidalia's kitchen, in the same place I always did when I visited. What would she say to me?

  I stayed a few minutes and basked in the warmth of my friend's memory, and then I took a plate from the counter— the one she always used for sticky buns.

  “I hope Winifred doesn’t mind, Vidalia, but I’m taking this.”

  I closed curtains and took a bag of smelly trash outside. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, I contemplated snooping around the room where Hezekiah slept. Perhaps there would be a clue, a sign that he was about to fall off the deep end and kill Vidalia. Instead, I turned the key and heard it lock with a gentle click. I rested my forehead on the doorjamb a moment and listened to the sound of Vidalia's voice inside my head.

  “Come on up here, Griselda. I just happened to make some sticky buns.”

  I clutched the empty plate to my chest and went home to Agnes.

  I was late, and Agnes was hungry as usual.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “I’m famished. Finished all of my M&Ms waiting for you to get home.”

  “I’m sorry. I made a stop on my way. I’ll get your supper.”

  “What's that?” she pointed to the dish.

  “I stopped by Vidalia's and saw it sitting there. It's … it's a memory.”

  “Now why did you go there? You’re going to torture yourself doing that. You best remember Vidalia the way she was when she was alive.”

  “She was my friend, Agnes, and I miss her.”

  Never in my life had I felt so torn up over Agnes. On the surface she was the same fat sister I always had. But down inside, beneath that self-made prison of hers, was a woman that I didn’t know anymore. I wondered if she had other secrets.

  I went to the kitchen and surveyed the cabinets for a meal to make and finally settled on quick spaghetti.

  “Pasta, okay?”

  “I suppose so. Can you help me to the bathroom first?”

  “Okay. Did you get there on your own today?”

  “Twice. But it was a chore. I had to crawl part of the way and pull myself up onto the toilet.”

  “Guess we kind of got used to having help,” I said.

  After she was finished, Agnes pushed one leg after the other as she thrust her walker out in front. “You still mad at me?”

  I helped her back to bed.

  “Let's not talk about it, Agnes. What's done is done.”

  I put water on to boil and took care of Arthur. I never knew a cat that appreciated gloppy cat food the way he did. The smell was enough to knock me out sometimes—especially the glop with liver in it.

  “How can you eat that?”

  He looked at me with one eye while still chomping it down as if to inform me that he was not sharing with anyone.

  “And you’ll still go looking for a mouse for dessert.”

  As the water heated I gathered plates and glasses. I thought fruit would be good, but there were no cans in the cupboard. There were probably some Del Monte peaches on the shelf inside the cellar. Agnes liked Del Monte the best. She said the syrup they packed them in was tasty with just the right sweetness. My father built the shelves after an argument with Mama. She had complained that it didn’t make sense for such a large house to have so little cabinet space.

  Daddy hung three, dark shelves inside the basement door. He used wood from a couple of dilapidated caskets. Mama kept canned goods there and stopped complaining except for the one time when the top shelf came loose and all the cans rolled into the basement like rounds from a machine gun.

  “See that,” she had called down. “I told you not to use that wormy, old casket wood.”

  When I opened the door I noticed a light shining in the basement. “Look at that,” I told Arthur. “I bet that light's been burning since Hezekiah was here last.”

  I walked down the stairs and into the tiny room he had been working in. When I reached for the tiny light chain, I saw the sweater and shoes still neatly arranged near the ammo box. The sight took my breath away. I picked up the articles and went tearing up the steps.

  “Agnes, Agnes! He never burned this—this stuff.”

  I shoved the sweater and shoes near her face. “Look at this. He never burned them.”

  Agnes looked away. “Don’t show me that anymore. It isn’t my fault. I told you to check on it, didn’t I?”

  I threw the sweater on her bed and dropped the shoes near it. “Yes, it is Agnes. It's all your fault. If you hadn’t lied about Clarence, Hezekiah would never have come to town.”

  I backed off and looked at her. Anger, the color of overripe tomatoes, filled up my chest so I almost couldn’t breathe. “You should have told.”

  “I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell. I tried but—”

  “But nothing. Did you ever read the news report about it?”

  “I never knew one existed.”

  “I did. Today. It said that Clarence Pepper might have lived if help had gotten there in time.”

  Agnes looked away and struggled for a breath.

  “Did you hear me?” I said. “How come you didn’t go get Doc?”

  Agnes's small eyes grew wide. They were two dark blueberries. “I never thought to.”

  I grabbed her prayer book. “And now you’re trying to make up for it by saving the town?”

  “Not me, God. I never took the glory.”

  “I think you did, Agnes.” Agnes blubbered like a little girl. “And you sentenced yourself for the murder of Clarence Pepper.”

  “Griselda, he said he burned—”

  “You don’t get it. He liked seeing them. That's
why he kept this stuff and arranged it like a loving mother sets out her child's clothes.” I shivered. “What you did made him powerful.”

  Agnes brought her chubby hands to her face. She hid her eyes, eyes that once only looked out to a world she wanted to save and protect, but now they were windows through which she needed to see the truth. The truth was painful.

  After I fixed Agnes her dinner and propped her up in bed with the TV Guide and her remote, I did the dishes and a couple loads of laundry—whites and towels. A headache crept from my temples into my shoulders and neck as I placed the last of the cups and saucers into the cabinet.

  Two aspirins later I went to my room and sat on the edge of my bed feeling lonelier than I did after my parents died. Then I packed a small bag and stood near Agnes and waited for her to open her eyes.

  “Griselda, why do you have your coat on?”

  “Agnes, I have to leave.” I blurted out my words fast and hard. “I can’t stay here right now. I’ll check in on you and probably get Ruth to drop in and help, but I need to leave, at least for a little while.” I took a breath.

  Something that resembled horror passed over her face. Her bottom lip trembled as she realized I was serious. “You can’t go. How can you leave me? What if I need something?”

  “Don’t worry, Agnes. You’ll get through this night. I might be back in the morning, I don’t know. I just need a little space or—something. I need time to think this through.”

  While she watched with fear, I refilled her water pitcher and brought her two tuna sandwiches on white bread with a tall glass of iced tea. I made certain she had candy and the TV Guide.

  “I think I’ll go to Vidalia's,” I said. “It's the only place where I won’t have to answer a bunch of nosy questions.”

  “I can’t believe this. You’re really going?”

  “Agnes, I have to, at least for tonight. Please try and understand.”

  “I understand I never should have told you about Clarence. I should have understood that you’d take it wrong and get all selfish about it.”

  Agnes and I had minor skirmishes over the years but they were short-lived. We always found a middle ground. But this time was different. This time I couldn’t rise above the situation and move on.

  “You have Vidalia's number. But please, Agnes, I need some time. Call Ruth if you need anything.”

  Then I gathered the blood-stained sweater with the mother-of-pearl buttons and the black shoes with the crushed heels and carried them to the backyard. I placed them gently into the center of the fire ring Hezekiah had made, poured a small amount of gasoline onto the stuff and set it ablaze in the chilly, spring air.

  The smoke twirled and danced and disappeared in the star-filled sky while the flames devoured my sister's sweater and shoes. I waited until I was certain there was nothing left but ashes before dumping a bucket of water onto the smoldering pile.

  The odor—ash, wool, burned hair—lingered as I walked away.

  28

  Cuddling Arthur in my arms, I stood on Vidalia's front porch and shook off the idea that I was trespassing. I knew she would understand that I needed to get away from Agnes and sort things out. She and Jesus were probably eating sticky buns and talking about it right about now. Even the Lord had to get away from that sorry, thick-headed bunch of disciples every once in a while. Sometimes he just needed to spend some time with his father.

  Yes, that's how I justified leaving Agnes. I needed time, a break, peace. I deserved that much, didn’t I?

  Finally, I let myself in and passed the room where Vidalia had died.

  “I’m glad I came by earlier and cleaned it up.” I scratched Arthur's ears and dropped him. He made himself at home and found a comfy spot stretched out across the top of an overstuffed, striped chair.

  “Don’t get too used to it, Artie, we aren’t staying forever, only until I can figure things out. Think of it as our time in the whale, you know?”

  The clock on Vidalia's mantle, an ornately carved oak piece from the 19th century, struck nine at the exact moment the telephone rang.

  “Agnes. I’m not gone an hour yet and she's calling.”

  “Hello?” I braced myself to hear Agnes complaining and begging me to come home. But it wasn’t her. It was Ruth chirping away on the other end.

  “Oh, Griselda, it's you. I saw the light go on at Vidalia's house and I got so scared I about jumped out of my slippers.” She snorted a laugh. “Of course, I didn’t believe it was Vidalia's ghost or anything. I thought someone might have broken in. You know, what with all that's going on in town.”

  “Slow down, Ruth. Take a breath or two. There's nothing to worry about.”

  “Then why are you there so late at night?”

  I hesitated. “I just needed a place to stay for a day or so. A quiet place.”

  “Well, you could of stayed here, you know.”

  “Thanks, but I needed a place where I could be alone and think things through.”

  Ruth was silent. I waited and waited and then the doorbell rang. It was Ruth standing on Vidalia's porch in her terry robe and fuzzy slippers. She was panting so hard it made me laugh.

  “I didn’t know you could run that fast.”

  She caught her breath. “Now, why in heaven's name are you here?” She had a tone.

  “I told you, I needed some peace.”

  She pushed past me and stood in the entryway, looking around like she had just stumbled into a cemetery. “Creepy, isn’t it?”

  “No, it doesn’t rattle me. I guess growing up in a funeral home helps.”

  “Well, it rattles me, that's for sure. I haven’t been in here since … since you know … since before Vidalia died.” She crossed herself. Ruth occasionally crossed herself even though she wasn’t Catholic.

  “How come you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Cross yourself like the Catholics do.”

  “I always thought it looked comforting. So I gave it a try and you know what? It made me feel better.”

  “Come on,” I said. “I’ll make us some tea.”

  “Sure you should do that? I mean using Vidalia's kettle and cups and tea. It's like robbing a grave or something.”

  I smiled and felt the corners of my eyes crinkle like wax paper. “Do really think Vidalia would mind?”

  Ruth followed me into the kitchen. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “It's this whole Clarence Pepper thing and the way Agnes handled it. I keep thinking I’m supposed to do something. I just don’t know what.”

  “I was wondering when that was going to happen.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it was a pressure cooker over there, Griselda. Always was, even before all this trouble. You’re like two hens in the same coop. Only a matter of time before one of you blew the top off. I’m surprised you made it this long. But then, I figured it was just another one of Agnes's miracles, you being able to live with her, I mean.”

  The kettle squealed. “Ever wish you could scream like a boiling kettle?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “That's all folks need is to hear crazy screams coming from Vidalia Whitaker's house.”

  Ruth dunked her tea bag. “Oh, right. Well, I know a place you can scream.”

  “I don’t want to scream.”

  “Yes, you do. It's good to scream sometimes. What do they call it? Therapeutic. But first you have to tell me what broke the camel's back, and I promise I won’t tell that sister-in-law of mine because she’ll just go blabbing about it over the airwaves.”

  I sipped my tea and looked around the bright kitchen. Even at night, Vidalia's kitchen was cheery and light with its sunflower walls and lacy white curtains. She had copper-bottom pots hanging from hooks above a counter she had installed to roll out dough and prepare vegetables. The pots twinkled in the overhead light.

  “Nothing really happened,” I said. “It's not like she said or did anything—well no mor
e than accidentally causing the death of another human being and then choosing to hide the truth.”

  “Now, Griselda. I think your feelings are hurt.”

  Ruth sipped her tea and looked at me over the rim of her cup. “Yes, sirree, Bob, you’re pouting. You’re upset that she didn’t tell you and you alone.”

  I poured cream into my tea and it curdled into something that resembled cottage cheese. “Look at that. I didn’t even bother to check the date on that carton of half and half.”

  Ruth looked at it. “Expired a week ago.”

  I dumped it into the sink. “She should have told me after all these years. I deserved to know why she holed herself up in the house.”

  “And in her body.” Ruth puckered her lips and her eyes grew wide. “You know what I mean?” It was like she was waiting years to say it. “She built a fine prison. But she had no choice, Griselda. You can understand that.”

  “When she was a girl, maybe. When it first happened. But after all these years? She should have told me. I might have been able to handle it better, differently. Maybe I could have done something to—”

  Ruth clicked her tongue. “Griselda Sparrow, it's time you figured out what's making you so mad. Is it what she did or what she did afterwards? What would you have done? I’ll tell you. Nothing more than you’re doing right now. This secret's got to stay a secret.”

  “She lied to me, Ruth. I gave her my life because of a lie. All these years I thought Agnes was hiding from the bullies and hecklers.”

  Ruth patted my hand. “She was hiding from them too.”

  I poured more tea and drank it black. “He might have lived. That's what the news report said.”

  “What report?”

  “The newspaper. I looked it up. Doc said the boy might have been saved if help had gotten there in time.”

  “Might have lived, Griselda. How could Doc know for sure?”

  “She should have gone straight to Doc's office and told him,” I said.

  “That's what an adult would have done. Agnes was a kid—a fat, sad child that got bullied every day of her life.”

  In all my life I had never faced a problem with so many layers. Everybody made sense and yet nothing made sense.