Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

by Joyce Magnin

  “Let's go scream,” Ruth said. “I haven’t done it in a while. Very good for the soul. And it gets the old ticker pumping and clears out all that artery-clogging stuff, you know.”

  “What? Now? It's dark out and cold and—and I don’t want to scream.”

  But we did. Ruth and I went to the edge of town where the train rode high on a black, steel trestle over the river that fed our pond.

  “Now we wait,” she said when I parked the truck under the bridge.

  “Wait?”

  “Yep. When the train passes he always toots his horn; you hear it every night, don’t you?”

  “I guess. Maybe I’m just used to hearing it.”

  “Every night around ten o’clock that big old freight train from Binghamton crosses the trestle. I know ’cause, you’ll no doubt remember, Bubba worked for the railroad as a carpenter.”

  “I remember.”

  “Best they had. But anyway, that's neither here nor there. We wait.”

  We sat for one minute, and I started to feel uncomfortable and silly. I rolled the window down a pinch. The cold air that rushed inside smelled like rust.

  “What if Mildred Blessing comes by in her cop car?” I asked.

  “She doesn’t go out on patrol for an hour yet, and besides we’re not doing anything wrong. Ain’t no law against two women sitting in a pickup truck screaming, now, is there?”

  That was true.

  At twelve minutes after ten I heard the train coming— distant at first, but getting louder.

  “Right on time. Just a minute now.”

  I saw the bright headlight coming around the curve.

  “Get ready and the second you hear that horn, you start screaming and see if you can scream louder than the train and the whistle. I don’t believe it can be done. I tried every night for a year after Bubba died and many a night after. Of course, I don’t scream like I used to.”

  The conductor sounded the horn three times, and Ruth grabbed my hand and we screamed and screamed and screamed until there was no scream left in either one of us.

  Ruth laughed while catching her breath. “You know, I think we beat it that time.”

  I laughed. “You were right. That felt good.”

  “I think I broke a rib,” Ruth said.

  I drove her home. “Listen, would you check in on Agnes in the morning? Get her some breakfast and make sure the drapes are open so she can see what's happening in town and—”

  “I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry about that. But what if she asks about you? I’m certain she will.”

  “Just tell her the truth. I’m fine and I’ll be in touch.”

  “Are you moving out for good?”

  I looked at the starry sky. “I don’t know. I just need a little time.”

  I skipped church that Sunday, like a lot of other folks apparently. I saw Pastor Speedwell later in the day, and he said there was only a handful of people in the service. I assured him that it was probably on account of it being a long month and that seemed to satisfy him.

  “Thank you, Sister,” he said. “I’ll expect to see you and the rest of the town next week.”

  I smiled.

  Monday came and I decided to face the music and headed for the café. If I knew Ruth, she had already been there before she went up to the house and told as many folks who would listen that I was staying at Vidalia's.

  Sure enough, the usually noisy restaurant went dead silent the second my foot landed inside.

  “Griselda,” called Stu after a couple of tense seconds. “Join us.” He was sitting with Boris and Fred Haskell.

  “I just came in for some eggs and toast,” I said.

  “You can have them with us.” Then he got Zeb's attention. “Get Griselda the number three.”

  I didn’t want the number three—two eggs, any style, hash brown potatoes, a slice of ham and a sausage link—but I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I squeezed in next to Boris. His cigar smell made my nose itch. He was finishing up the last of what looked like a number five—pancakes and sausage.

  Dot Handy appeared wearing a light blue apron and a hairnet. She was holding two pots of coffee. “Regular or decaf, Griselda.”

  “Dot, what are you doing here? How come you aren’t crossing kids?”

  “Zeb asked me to work the mornings, and since it pays a little better than watching kids cross the street, I got Harriett Nurse to take over for me—not that I minded the kids. I love the little nippers.”

  “Harriett? Sure that's a good idea?”

  “Yep. She’ll do okay. I mean on a busy day, she might have to stop six cars and occasionally a truck—it ain’t rocket science, you know. Regular or decaf?”

  “Regular.”

  I looked at Boris.

  “Now, I know what you’re thinking. We didn’t vote on Harriett taking over for Dot but it was an emergency.”

  That wasn’t what I was thinking.

  “And besides,” Stu said, “we can vote at the meeting tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow?” I said. “We don’t have a meeting for a couple of weeks.”

  “Well, under the circumstances,” Fred said. “We think we need to meet and discuss how to handle the situation with Agnes.” He bent his head down like the name embarrassed him.

  “What situation?”

  Dot stood next to me with her pencil poised to take my order.

  “Stu already ordered for me.”

  She walked away slightly disappointed.

  “Folks are calling for the sign to come down,” Stu said.

  I looked around the room. Every head strained in our direction.

  “Fine. Take it down. I never liked it, you know that. Neither did Agnes.”

  “But, Griselda,” Stu said, “she still did all that good stuff.”

  “You have no idea what she did.”

  I took a sip of coffee and dropped my cup. It spilled. Boris quickly sopped it up with a used napkin.

  “What do you mean? You talking about Vidalia? I don’t blame Agnes—not directly.”

  “No. It's nothing.”

  Fred grabbed my hand. “Lots of folks do, Griselda. They are all kinds of mad at her. Like she should of known or something, what with her having that direct line to God.”

  I sighed. Dot brought my breakfast, but I had lost my appetite. I slid out of the booth.

  “Take the stupid sign down. I don’t care and neither does Agnes. And she is not to blame for Vidalia's death.” I said that last part loud enough for the entire café to hear.

  “Hold on a second,” Boris said. “It isn’t like we’re running her out of town.”

  “Then why does it feel that way?”

  I dropped a quarter on the table for the coffee and walked out.

  Ruth dropped by the library later in the day to tell me she had checked on Agnes and she seemed to be doing okay—mostly. I was reorganizing the encyclopedias when she came in. The kids had a bad habit of shelving the volumes any which way, even mixing up The Britannica with The World Book.

  “How is she?”

  “Who?” Ruth handed me volume nine of The World Book. “It's such a pretty blue.”

  “What is?”

  “The book you just shoved into the shelf.”

  “I’m talking about Agnes.”

  “She's sad, Griselda. She said I should tell you she's sorry for creating such a terrible mess.”

  “Is she taking her medicine?”

  “Well, I don’t know the answer to that for sure. She says she does and then doesn’t sometimes, but you know that.”

  “Are you going back today?”

  “Want me to?”

  “Please. I can’t just yet.”

  Ruth and I finished organizing the encyclopedias and then the magazines that were left on tables. I put the periodical indexes back in order while Ruth sat and watched.

  “I usually do my shopping with Vidalia,” she said. “I need to stop at the Piggly Wiggly, but it's gonna feel real s
trange going without her.”

  “I know. The library isn’t the same. She came by nearly everyday.”

  “I still can’t believe it, Griselda. Why would Hezekiah want to kill her?”

  “He couldn’t help himself. I don’t believe it had anything to do with her. I mean I cannot for the life of me believe she provoked him in anyway.”

  “Oh, no, no. It was random. Like hitting the lottery.”

  “Maybe … except Agnes did send him there. She bought the ticket, you know what I mean?” Ruth scrunched up her face and stared at me a second. “She couldn’t help it.”

  “Maybe.” My stomach grumbled, and I realized I hadn’t had much to eat in a day or so. “I’m starving. You want to drive into Shoops and get some lunch?”

  “Well, I did have my shopping—but yeah, let's go.”

  Ruth and I drove into town like two teenagers on a joy ride. We rolled the windows down and let the warm air rush around us like a healing breeze. I could smell the new grass and flowering buds as we drove down the mountain. My last ride into Shoops was fraught with sadness and questions and fear. But on this ride I felt free, like I could keep driving and driving just to get away.

  “You better slow down,” Ruth said. “You’ll miss the town.”

  “Would that be so terrible?”

  “Griselda, you can’t. The town meeting's tonight, and you need to start caring for your sister again. I can’t keep doing it.”

  She was right, but for the first time in a long time—maybe even for the first time ever—I felt like a shooting star streaking down the mountain.

  I pulled the truck into a diagonal parking spot in front of The Pink Lady Coffee Shop. We arrived just as a tall, skinny lady rolled out a pink and white striped awning with a scalloped edge.

  “Ain’t that pretty,” Ruth said.

  “It is nice. In the warmer weather she puts out little bistro tables and chairs for folks to eat alfresco.”

  “I don’t think I ever had alfresco,” Ruth said. “Is it a salad?”

  “No, it's an Italian word that means in the open air.”

  The Pink Lady was exactly that: pink vinyl booths and gray tables with metal chairs with pink vinyl seat cushions. Curtains, the darker pink color of a Mr. Lincoln rose, hung in each window, and a large pink pearled jukebox with flashing neon lights stood in the back.

  We chose a booth next to the window to soak up some sunshine. After a few minutes the skinny woman we saw out front took our order.

  “I’ll have a burger, fries, and a Pepsi,” I said, after scraping off the ketchup from the one-page laminated menu. It covered up the price.

  The waitress wrote my order.

  “I didn’t eat breakfast this morning,” I told Ruth who was still studying the menu. The waitress shifted from one foot to another, wiggling like a toddler. “If the weather were warmer, we would have our lunch alfresco, but since there's still a bite in the air, we’ll stay indoors. What's Italian for indoors?”

  The waitress rolled her eyes.

  “Anyhoo,” Ruth said. “I’d like the chicken salad on just plain old white bread and a cup of coffee. Make sure it's fresh, please.”

  Our waitress pulled a straw from her pink apron pocket, dropped it on the table, and left with our order.

  “Well, she certainly is no Cora Nebbish,” Ruth said.

  “I’ll say, but we can’t let a surly waitress spoil our lunch. It feels good to be out of Bright's Pond, doesn’t it?”

  Ruth looked around at the strange restaurant and unfamiliar faces. “A little. But I much prefer the Full Moon. I know everybody there.”

  “Ah, they’re all yakking about Agnes and what they’re going to do at the meeting tonight. I have half a mind not to go.”

  Miss Surly brought us our beverages.

  “Thank you,” Ruth said.

  “Your orders will be up in a minute,” the waitress said.

  Ruth dumped cream in her coffee from the little metal pitcher. “Oh, you’ll go. You have to.”

  She was right, of course. “Well, other than taking that ridiculous sign down what can they do? They can’t make her leave town.”

  “Oh, they won’t do that. Folks just need a person to blame when the unimaginable happens, you know? Makes it more—”

  “Palatable?”

  “I was going to say easier to swallow, but I thought that would remind you of the sign mistake and all.”

  “Ruth, you really are a real good friend.”

  She touched my hand but pulled it back when the waitress came with her chicken salad sandwich.

  “It looks good,” Ruth said. “Lots of chicken in there.”

  “Your burger will be up in a minute,” Miss Surly said. “Yo, Hank.” She headed for the kitchen. “I need that hockey puck and them frog sticks.”

  Ruth leaned across the table. “Maybe the Pink Lady is the wrong name for this place.”

  The afternoon went quickly, and Ruth and I made it back to Bright's Pond before the dinner hour. I dropped her off in front of my house.

  “You go on back to Vidalia's,” Ruth said. “I’ll check on Agnes and see you at the meeting.”

  “Okay. Make sure she did a treatment. Turn on a light before you leave and tell her … tell her I—”

  Ruth waited. “Tell her you what?”

  “Ah , nothing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll see you at the town hall.”

  While I waited for Ruth to open the door of the house, a heated debate raged in my spirit. Should I go in? Nope. I could muster up the desire to go inside but not the courage. I still couldn’t let it go.

  29

  I walked the short distance to the town hall from Vidalia's house. The early spring air felt damp like rain was trying to move in. It was having a hard time getting over the mountain, so it sent ahead tiny dewdrop feelers. Twilight was winding down into darkness. No moon was visible through the gray clouds, setting the perfect mood for whatever was about to happen. The air had an ominous feel and so did my heart.

  Ruth and I met about halfway there. She had just come from Agnes.

  “Try not to worry, too much,” she said. “I checked in on Agnes. She's so sad—down in the dumps, you know.”

  I knew. My heart ached with every thought of her lying in her bed, alone in that crickety old house. Vidalia's words kept echoing in my head: “Ever think Agnes might not be your problem?”

  Maybe now I understood what she was trying to say. Maybe my problem was bigger than Agnes.

  “Is she getting enough to eat? Getting back and forth to the bathroom, all right?”

  Ruth paused and pulled a tissue from her purse. She wiped her nose. “Allergies starting up. Grass and trees. Anything green is poison to my sinuses.”

  “You were telling me about Agnes.”

  “Well, I wanted to tell you that when I opened the front door, the—” She signaled for me to bend down so she could whisper even though there wasn’t a soul in sight. “—the smell about knocked me off my dang feet it was so—pungent.”

  “I’m sorry she can’t take care of herself, Ruth, but I can’t go back. Not yet.”

  “Then you might want to get a nurse in there. Ever think of hiring one of them visiting nurses? I’m sure Doc Flaherty could make some arrangements.”

  Ruth had already grown weary of Agnes's care, and I couldn’t blame her. “I guess I should check on it.”

  We had just reached the café, and I could see that a large crowd was gathering for the meeting.

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “About what?”

  “Anything, Ruth. Did she say anything about anything?”

  “Just that she's going to keep praying. I found her trying to get off her bed. She said she wanted to get on her knees to pray.”

  I stopped walking. “Ruth, why do you wait to tell me the most important thing? You didn’t let her, did you? She can’t do that. Getting on her knees could be dangerous for a w
oman her size.”

  “I didn’t let her, Griselda. I told her she’d need a lot more help than I could give her to get down there and back up. She got that determined look on her face, like she was going to do it one way or the other, but I think I talked her out of trying.”

  “I hope so. She’d be like a turtle on its back.”

  “She came to her senses and went back to bed like a good girl.”

  Ruth started walking again. “Imagine that, Griselda, she wants to pray on her knees now. She said she has to for some reason I couldn’t understand. I told her it was foolishness for a woman her size to be thinking that way.”

  I stopped again just as we reached the town hall steps. Folks pushed past us to get inside. The town hall was packed to the gills that night.

  “It's okay, Ruth. I think I know why she was trying to get on her knees. Now we better get inside if we want a seat. Looks like standing room only tonight.”

  Ivy stopped me at the door. “Where you sitting, Griselda?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Anywhere I can get a seat.”

  That was when I saw Boris and Stu waving at me from up front. They had saved me a seat. I signaled to them that I would get there. Ivy and Ruth sat in a back row.

  “Sorry,” I said, “but maybe I should go up front with them.”

  “You go right ahead,” said Ivy. “You should be where everyone can get a good look since you’ll probably get called on to say something on behalf of Agnes.”

  As I made my way to the front I intercepted snippets of conversations and whispers. Janeen was leaning so close to Hazel Flatbush I doubted you could get a slice of raisin toast between them.

  “I just don’t know what we’ll do now that Agnes can’t pray.” I heard Janeen say. Then Hazel cupped her mouth but I could still hear. “How can we trust her, though?”

  Frank Sturgis stood with Fred Haskell and a couple of the other men. “I still think she should have known something.” he said. “She should have gotten a feeling about him, a sign.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Fred said. “She ain’t a mind reader. And just ’cause you and Janeen are fighting again night and day don’t mean Agnes failed you.”