Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction)

by Carol Heilman

  Betty Jo had called earlier, sandwiched between a garden club luncheon, a town council meeting, and carting off loads of stuff that wouldn’t fit into her new place to the Salvation Army. I tried to sound cheerful. We talked about Miss Margaret, the weather, how I dearly loved my new room, and, yes, how Pearl and I were reliving old times. I didn’t tell her about Prissy’s—I mean Miss Johnson’s—antics or Ida Mae, completely loco, living in a room not far from mine, or Pearl not remembering our growing-up years, or even me, in the least bit. Nor did I tell her about Smiley’s big brown eyes or his frequent nightmares. Or the little house that had already been rented. Or the call to check on the apartment after all the hoopla about the danger of high blood pressure and promising to behave. No need to tell her the house with a perfect yard for my precious pig was no longer available. Or Blind George’s phone being out of order. No need.

  According to the calendar, every Saturday afternoon at two o’clock in the dining room, Sweetbriar’s women’s club hosted bingo. While wondering if my daughter would have time to be one of the volunteers, I heard a voice humming a lullaby. When I turned around, my eyes were drawn to Ida Mae’s room. The door was ajar, and Prissy was sitting on her mother’s bed, holding and rocking her like a small child.

  Both women, their eyes closed, looked like a picture of peace, of calm. Was this the same crazy old woman and her snippy daughter?

  “Charlie,” I said, “does this mean the director is actually human? Her heart isn’t a frozen catfish? She isn’t as mean as a cottonmouth?”

  A staff person walked past me carrying sheets smelling of fabric softener. She entered Ida Mae’s room and shut the door. After a moment, I turned back to the calendar, but my mind wasn’t on upcoming events. If Miss Johnson was doing the best she could, like Smiley allowed she was, then how on this earth could I justify thinking of her as a monster, an ogre, a cold woman with no feelings … or even as Prissy?

  Clearly, she loved her mother, and I could find no fault with that.

  I had hardly finished that Christian thought when I heard someone crying in Ida Mae’s room. The crying soon turned to sobbing. Sounds of distress rose higher as if a frightened child had encountered a monster.

  Chills traveled clear down my spine, and I froze in place.

  Chapter Eight

  Later that night, sleep wouldn’t come. The nurse had rushed out of Ida Mae’s room holding an empty syringe. After waiting until fairly certain she wasn’t coming back, I tiptoed to the door and listened, but heard nothing. Miss Johnson never appeared, and I finally went to my room and dressed for bed, trying to get the incident out of my head. I had not actually seen anything but had heard plenty.

  Around midnight I tapped on Alice’s door, poked my head inside her room, and called, “Alice, Alice. Do you have more of that Nyquil?” I didn’t actually plan to drink any, but I needed an excuse to be visiting in the middle of the night. Somehow, I didn’t want to be alone.

  The only answer was a long snore as loud as Charlie’s tractor on a cold morning. I knew she couldn’t hear me, but I tiptoed over to her bed and told her anyway. “Going in your bathroom. Might take a sip of your Nyquil. Can’t sleep.”

  After flipping on her bathroom light, I bent over and looked in the cabinet under the sink where I’d seen her push the large bottle of green liquid. It wasn’t there. On my knees now, I searched the dark space and knocked over a bottle of White Rain that knocked over a box of bubble bath.

  Alice stirred noisily in her bed, then resumed snoring, thank the Lord. I managed to get back on my feet and do a quick search with my eyes across the countertop. Dang, just when I’d convinced myself there was nothing wrong with taking a wee bit of Nyquil every now and then, it was gone.

  Back in my room, after deciding if I couldn’t sleep I could at least enjoy a Milky Way, I opened the drawer to my nightstand. I was stunned. It was completely bare except for two packs of Juicy Fruit and a box of tissues. No Vick’s Salve, no deep-heat rub, no Geritol, Milk of Magnesia, camphor, or aspirin. Not even a Sugar Daddy or a Baby Ruth. I thought maybe my eyes had failed me, so I ran my hands over the flowered drawer liner, stirring up nothing but sweet-scented dust, which made me sneeze.

  “I’ve been robbed, Charlie,” I said between sneezes. “Robbed!”

  Thinking of the money hidden in the bottom drawer, I pulled out the tabloid with the headline of Big Foot Spotted in New York City and opened to page twenty-eight. My garage sale money was all there. Small bills—ones, fives, tens—totaling five-hundred and fifty dollars. Now I’d have to use some of the money to replace the items stolen by a no-count scum. And I’d have to find another hiding place for the new candy bars and medicine.

  In my little notebook, I flipped to the ten or so empty pages at the end and wrote: Friday, August 8. I frowned at the date and scratched it out. It was after midnight. It was now Saturday, August 9. Saturday already? One day had melted into the next until I could hardly tell one from another. I didn’t know at the time, of course, that I would never forget this Saturday—ever.

  I continued writing. What is this world coming to? Someone came into my room recently, though I don’t know exactly when, and took everything from my nightstand drawer. Everything except two packs of Juicy Fruit and one box of tissues. Then I listed all the items I could remember, adding one last note: Who? Why?

  Back in my bed, I tossed and turned and tried to pray. This was one of those times Jesus would have to do my praying for me. The last look at my illuminated Baby Ben showed it was after two a.m. Even though my sheets were twisted into a wad, I slept a little, but by five thirty I was dressed and ready to talk about the robbery to anyone who might be awake enough to listen. After breakfast, I planned on reporting the incident to—whom? Miss Johnson? Certainly not. But if not her, then … who?

  The hall, dimly lit, was deserted. To the left of my room, the EXIT sign glowed, sending out halos of red against the gray steel door.

  In the other direction, down the hall near the main house, I spotted a man carrying a newspaper. Oh, good, someone up and stirring around. I’ll tell him what’s happened.

  Rushing toward him, I yelled, “Wait. Wait. I need to talk to you.”

  When he stopped and faced me, I realized this was the big man who constantly chewed on a fat cigar—William Statton, the one who always seemed to be leaning against his doorframe, watching whenever I walked by.

  “Merciful heavens, Charlie. Why, of all people, did it have to be him?”

  I thought about turning and running back to my room, but it was silly to be afraid of someone I didn’t even know. So I approached this giant of a man and stuck out my hand. He grabbed it with his and pumped, the lingering smell of stale cigars making me nauseous.

  “My name’s Agnes,” I said, wincing from his grip.

  “Pleased to meet you. Pleased to meet you. Name’s William. William Statton. Where’d you get that pretty red hair? Reminds me of Mama’s. Yes sir, sure does. Everybody called her Red as far back as I can remember. Everybody did.”

  I finally freed my hand from his and flexed my fingers, though I could hardly speak for the throbbing. “You lived here long?”

  After sticking the paper under his arm, he cradled his chin with one hand and studied the ceiling. “Well, let’s see. Long? A day can be long. So can a week. Even an hour can be long.”

  “Whatever Alice has, it must be catching,” I said, but William, who seemed lost in his thoughts, apparently didn’t hear me.

  While he gazed upward, I backed up a step, then another, but suddenly he bent forward, his face inches from mine, eyes bulging like a bullfrog. “I came here a year ago this coming Sunday. A whole year and you think my son from Missouri would come to visit? Sends me candy. Horehound. I hate horehound. When they take it from my room, I don’t even care. Now if it were chocolate-covered cherries that would be a horse of a different color. Yes sir—”

  “What?” I said, adjusting my hearing aid.

  “I said
they wouldn’t get one chocolate-covered cherry without a fight.”

  “No, you said they take it from your room. Who does? Who takes your candy?”

  He studied me, straightened to his full height, and said, “I need a cigar. Want one, Red?”

  “No. No thanks. Gave up smoking.”

  I followed him to his door and peered into his room while he reached inside a black umbrella to retrieve a cigar that looked like it should have been tossed out ages ago. When he saw me looking, he grinned and shook his finger in my direction.

  “Now don’t you tell. She hasn’t found that hiding place yet. Only a matter of time though. A matter of time.”

  “If you’ll answer me one question, I’ll ask my daughter to bring you a box of chocolate-covered cherries on Sunday. You can celebrate and eat the whole box. Who are they? Or she? Who takes your horehound?”

  His face lit up, and I was afraid he was going to hug me or grab my hand and pump it again. “Really? Your daughter would bring me a box of chocolate-covered cherries?” He studied me again and then said, “Know what I’d rather have? One new cigar. Had this thing so long even I can’t stand the smell.”

  “You got it,” I said. “One big cigar.”

  I waited.

  After he licked on that awful thing and pushed it to the corner of his mouth, he said, “Didn’t read the rules, did you? Bet a whole box of cigars you didn’t. You’re going to be finding out as you go along, I suppose. Well sir, rule number twelve is like one of the Ten Commandments. All her rules are sacred. Takes each and every one serious. Rule number twelve: No medicine, food, or drink in the rooms, ever, under any circumstance. Any need for medication, of any kind, will be dispersed by Miss Johnson or a nurse’s aid. Now cigars? Since I never light the thing, they can’t call it smoking. That’s another rule. No smoking in the rooms. Can’t call it food or medicine either, but if I have more than one, she finds it. Disappears. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers and I jumped. “Anything of value? You better make sure it’s hid good. Or better than good.”

  Now I knew who was behind the robbery. “Can you believe it, Charlie? Vick’s Salve, for goodness sake. What did she think I was going to do? Eat the whole jar?”

  “You can call me Charlie if you really want to, but name’s William. William Statton. Your hair sure is pretty.”

  “I’ve got to go, but one more question. If I want to rub a little Vick’s Salve under my nose at night to help me breathe better, I have to find Miss Johnson or a nurse, right?”

  “That’s the idea. But don’t let her suggest you take something to help you relax or some such nonsense. She’ll give you a pill, and you won’t have no idea what you’re taking. You might wake up twelve, maybe fourteen hours later, or you might not wake up at all. That’s my theory, and that’s all it is, but to be safe, don’t take anything you didn’t bring to this place with you.”

  I was totally lost in my own thoughts and didn’t pay attention to most of what William was trying to tell me.

  “Alice’s Nyquil. That’s why it wasn’t under her sink or anywhere else. Miss Johnson took it. Next thing you know, my hair-color lotion will disappear, or maybe it already has.”

  The aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen. It would soon be time for breakfast, but I needed to talk to Alice. William and I said good-bye. He reached for my hand, but I was on the move and headed to room number seven. Bursting in without knocking, I found her sitting on the edge of her bed, still in her nightgown. I couldn’t remember when I’d seen such long, bony legs.

  She didn’t raise her head until I said, “Alice? Alice? You sick?”

  I’d never seen her without her thick glasses, but surely her blue eyes didn’t normally sink so far back into her head. And they were glazed over.

  I ran into the bathroom and wet a washcloth with cold water to bathe her face. “Here, this will make you feel better. Want me to call someone?”

  Holding on to me for support, she struggled to stand up. I could feel her trembling and prayed she didn’t fall.

  “No. Please, no. She’ll know I took more than usual. Search my room. I … I have to get dressed.”

  Somehow we made it to the bathroom. Afterward, I helped her fasten her bra and led her to a cane-bottom chair. I pulled her soft brown dress from the closet, along with her lace-up shoes and knee-high hose. Slipping the dress over her head was easy, but since she couldn’t bend over without feeling lightheaded, I knelt on the floor and helped her finish dressing.

  As I tied her shoes, I said, “That’s why you hid those little paper cups after we toasted instead of throwing them in your trash or putting them back inside the drawer. You were trying to keep it a secret. Do you have pills hidden somewhere?”

  A big tear plopped onto her lap, and I squeezed her hand. “Don’t have to tell me, but don’t you think you got carried away? Swallowed more than you needed?”

  She sniffed and I handed her some tissues.

  “I didn’t find them until almost midnight. Little bitty capsules. Hid them so good, I forgot where. But I only took one. They make me sleep eight hours, maybe nine.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “Miss Johnson. Thought I took them every time she brought them. I fooled her, didn’t I?”

  I helped her stand and moved her walker within easy reach. “Come on. Let’s get a move on. Coffee will help.”

  At our table in the dining room, Smiley and I pushed Alice’s chair up close. He questioned me with his big eyes.

  “She’ll be all right,” I said. “Go get her a cup of coffee.”

  For some reason the cook hadn’t shown up for work, and there was no sign of breakfast. Sweetbriar Manor was already off schedule before the day began.

  Lollipop unwrapped a red sucker and stuck it in his mouth. He added a gurgle of words punctuated by slurping.

  I turned to Smiley, who was adding cream and sugar to Alice’s coffee. “What in the world did he say?”

  “He said Miss Johnson and the cook got in a big fight. Yelling and throwing things. It scared him.”

  “He said all that?” Leaning toward Smiley, I added softly, “How come he gets to keep candy in his room?”

  “He doesn’t. Miss Johnson gives him five suckers every day. Every two weeks his sister brings a brand-new box. Five suckers fill his shirt pocket, and he’s satisfied until the next morning.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Observation.” He grinned and winked. “Astute observation. I don’t miss much.” Smiley stood behind Alice with his hand resting on her shoulder. He tilted his head toward her and said, “What happened?”

  “Rough night,” I mouthed, but Alice was in such a stupor I probably could have shouted. “Some nights are like that, you know.”

  He nodded but kept his eyes on Alice as he helped steady her coffee mug.

  From the sounds coming from the kitchen, the director and the old handyman were doing battle with the pots and pans—and with each other.

  “You’re letting the toast burn,” she yelled.

  “I ain’t no dad-burn cook,” he snapped back.

  I expected him to storm out of the kitchen and out the front door any minute, but he stayed, helping to serve grits stuck together like glue, blackened wheat toast, and scrambled eggs with a browned underside. Hungry as a scavenging raccoon, I ate every bite. Our normally in-charge leader looked ragged around the edges, as Mama would say, her hair loose from her braids, large circles of sweat under her arms, and her face as pale as Mama’s custard.

  After breakfast I helped Alice back into bed. “A nap will make you feel better,” I said. “Smiley will check on you in a little while. I’m going down to the drugstore. Anything you need besides Nyquil?”

  She sank into her covers with a sigh and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, but her voice sounded strong. “Taking risks can be dangerous, but sometimes doing nothing is a disaster. Do you need some money?”

  “We’ll settle later. Sure
am glad to hear you talking in quotes again. Never thought I’d say that.”

  “Would you read to me before you go?”

  “Maybe for a minute or two. Want to be on my way while Miss Johnson’s busy in the kitchen. This looks like my best chance to leave since I got here.”

  Alice had her eyes closed. Her words came out slow and soft. “Don’t forget to sign out. Rule number three. You’ll have to sign someone else’s name too. You’ll have to lie because no one is picking you up. You’re leaving here alone and that’s not allowed.”

  “Sure, I know. It’s a ridiculous rule, but I know what to do. Rule number three.” I picked up a worn Bible and saw her name in gold letters in the bottom right corner. I thought Alice was almost asleep, so I could read a few verses and then slip out. But she surprised me.

  “Proverbs chapter three,” she said, her words barely audible.

  And so I read the whole chapter before her breathing fell into the rhythm of sleep. I hadn’t talked with Smiley yet to see what he might know about a lot of things. Things like Alice and her habits, Miss Johnson and her intentions, and the reasons behind the demons he fought most every night. I could ask him straight out about the first two, but the third? That would take some thought.

  The flower garden was deserted. I sat on a bench for a minute or two beside a pot of angel-wing begonias before strolling over to the edge of the backyard to a lattice frame built over a wooden glider. I slipped behind thick, sweet-smelling jasmine and breathed in the familiar fragrance. Although not yet ten o’clock, the hot sun penetrated my soft, worn gardening hat—the same wide-brimmed straw I was wearing the morning smoke filled my house while I picked turnip greens. Miss Margaret had been stretched out on the cool earth beside my feet.

  Almost to a row of boxwood, I looked back toward the house where Pearl stood near a big azalea bush. She looked at me without moving, holding a pair of clippers in her gloved hands. It reminded me of playing freeze-tag as a child. I waved and she waved back before I turned and disappeared behind the hedge, stepping into a jungle of weeds and wisteria. I prayed I wouldn’t step on a snake and that Prissy wouldn’t check the sign-out sheet. I had scribbled my name and Betty Jo’s. Destination? Shopping.