With a squint, I looked farther up Main Street. Lights from the Royal Cinema, known for its old classic movies, looked like Christmas. The marquee read, Out of Africa.
“This is perfect, Charlie. Out of Africa. Must be about someone leaving Africa. Someone’s always wanting to leave someplace. Look at the Israelites. Out of Egypt. And me. Out of Sweetbriar Manor. I’ll watch the movie maybe thirty minutes, eat my strawberries, and be back in my room before anyone knows any different. Now don’t go telling me what to do. You know we get into trouble when you do that.”
I settled into my seat with buttered popcorn and a cherry Coke. I forgot about the strawberries resting in a side pocket that were bleeding their red juice into my napkin.
The strawberry man and his girlfriend must have changed their minds about playing pool because they moved down the dark aisle and sat three rows in front of me. He put his arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him.
My attention was soon drawn to the movie. It had obviously been playing for awhile, yet in a few short heartbeats I was swept into Africa by a handsome man with reddish-blond hair. Not long and lying in curls, but he did wear cowboy boots.
After what seemed like a few minutes, wonderful music swelled for the final time. Bright lights flooded the theatre. When I could see clearly, I looked at my watch.
“Nearly nine o’clock, Charlie. Almost time for the doors to be locked. I know, I know, I’d best get cracking. You can save your, I told you so.”
But Charlie was not putting in his two cents worth. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t heard him say much of anything lately. I couldn’t explain what was happening, but I didn’t like it one bit.
While I had been enjoying a tender love story, the night’s cloak had settled over Sweetbriar. Lights dimmed on the Royal Cinema’s marquee and then went out altogether, plunging the deserted ticket booth into blackness. I knew, except for Blind George’s, all businesses on Main would have locked doors and pulled shades, most since six o’clock. Deep shadows would soon form at their entrances and into the alleys between buildings, far beyond the reach of the pale yellow pools cast by Sweetbriar’s few streetlights.
“Why didn’t you remind me to bring a flashlight, Charlie? How am I supposed to get along if you don’t help me out? Haven’t we always looked out for each other?”
I didn’t know how on this earth I was going to walk clear back home in the dark without stumbling over uneven sidewalks with tree roots pushing up everywhere. Hard enough to do it in the daylight.
People walked around me while I stood in front of the theatre having a lengthy one-way conversation with Charlie. A couple of heads swiveled around like a hoot owl’s. For sure, they’d not had any upbringing a’tall.
“Charlie,” I said, getting more frustrated by the minute, “we’ve got to tell somebody this town needs new sidewalks and more lights. Living out on the farm like we did, I had no idea. No decent place to walk and no lights to see by if there was. No wonder folks go over to Berea’s new shopping center. Bet they have sidewalks—and lights too.”
I decided to walk on the street. Not much traffic, and maybe after I got beyond the streetlights, the moon would help a little.
A young voice startled me. “Miss Agnes, what are you doing here all by yourself?” It was Mary Ellen, the daughter of Betty Jo’s best friend, Louise.
I had to think fast. I couldn’t let this girl go tell her mother because, the next instant, that woman would burn the phone lines with her gossip. “Uh, well, Betty Jo couldn’t find a close parking place. That Robert Redford sure draws a crowd, doesn’t he?”
“He’s a little old for my taste, but Mom thinks he’s a hunk. Want me to wait with you ’til your ride gets here?”
“No, no. Don’t do that. Betty Jo’s slow as Christmas sometimes. You go on. And tell your mama to come see me. I’m temporarily staying at Sweetbriar Manor.”
“Sure will, Miss Agnes. You take care now.”
With a wave, she caught up with her friends and piled into a Ford Mustang. I know that’s the kind of car it was because Charlie always said if he could be reincarnated as a rich man instead of a poor tobacco farmer, that’s the kind of car he planned to buy—a red Mustang convertible. I put a picture of one, cut from a magazine, on our refrigerator one day.
“Everybody needs to dream a little,” I told him.
“Lordy, Charlie, I hope she forgets she saw me here. And why did I mention her telling Louise to come see me? I don’t even like that woman.”
As soon as the Mustang pulled away, radio booming, I stepped out into the street and headed toward The Manor, still hoping, praying, Prissy would forget to lock the back door and I could return to my room before anyone realized I was gone. I couldn’t afford to get on her bad side when it looked like her good side was slim to none.
I’d not taken more than three steps when a sudden gust of wind swept trash out of the gutter. Grass, leaves, torn theatre tickets, candy wrappers, a paper cup, and a piece of yellowed newspaper, all caught up in a whirl, hit against me, bits of dirt stinging my legs. Only thing I could do was cover my face with my hands and stand there and wait.
When the whirling stopped, I was assaulted by the worst sneezing fit I’d ever had in my life. At least ten times straight. I thought my head was going to fly off. Soon as I was able, I felt around in a side pocket of my purse for a handkerchief. Thinking I had hold of a nice, clean handkerchief, I pulled out the napkin and scattered strawberries into the night.
“Merciful heavens, would you look at that.”
Another surge of sneezing overtook me, and I was grateful for that napkin, glad to have anything. After the second attack subsided, I reached up under my glasses to wipe my eyes, and my pocketbook slipped and plopped onto the street. As I bent to pick it up, I came face-to-face with a man wearing a cowboy hat.
One of his hands tightly squeezed my red leather purse.
Chapter Thirteen
We lifted my purse together, and I stared into the strawberry man’s dark eyes. He smelled of stale cigarettes and beer. “No need to worry, lady. I ain’t no thief.” He held up both hands and took a step back. As he removed his hat, a wondrous black hat, he bent toward me and looked me over.
“Say, didn’t I see you on the porch at the ol’ people’s home this afternoon? Wanted to pay me for them berries? What you doing out here in the middle of a dark street? You wander away and don’t know how to get back? I hear old people do that sort of thing.”
I straightened to my full height and shook my finger towards him. “Young man, if you will hush a minute, I’ll tell you, even though it’s not your business. I know where I am. Even know who I am. And, if you will step out of my way, I’ll get to where I’m going.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said with a sweep of his hat. “I’ll not stand in your way. You go right ahead.” He backed up even more, arms folded across his chest, while I tended to a few leftover sneezes.
Before I turned to go, I said, “What’s your name, anyway? And you don’t look one bit like Jesus to me.”
Instead of introducing himself, he came over to me rather quickly, causing me to think I’d made him angry. “Say, you bleedin’ somewhere? You ain’t hurt, are you?”
“No, of course not,” I said, giving my nose another swipe. Then I noticed the red blotches on the napkin. “Strawberry stains.”
Just then the big blonde woman rushed toward us, her voice as bubbly as sparkling wine. “Baby, just look what the manager gave us. Wasn’t that sweet of him?”
She carried two big plastic bags of popcorn, her black jacket now hanging over one arm. Her teased hair looked like a mound of cotton candy but yellow instead of pink or blue. Big red toenails spilled out of white sandals. Even her perfume was big—loud, as Mama would say. She seemed to float on a cloud of floral scent mixed with the aroma of buttery popcorn.
She looked me over. “My goodness, honey, who are you? You look like you appeared out of thin air like a fairy godmother.”
I can’t explain why, but I liked this woman right off without knowing a thing about her. Some people are like that.
“Sure could use a magic wand right now to get back to Sweetbriar Manor before Miss Johnson misses me.”
“Oh, I know that woman,” she said. “Certainly do. You let me know if you get into any real trouble, you hear?”
I nodded.
Without asking any more questions, the blonde took charge. “Here, Baby,” she said, handing a bag of popcorn over to her boyfriend, who stood holding his hat, eyes crinkled with amusement.
Her pretty voice went skipping along, but when this man placed his hat on his head and tilted it back, my thoughts flew elsewhere. He revealed a forehead divided—pure white up to his hairline, a tanned and weathered face below. It took my breath away, reminding me of Charlie, who always wore a baseball cap when he farmed. Except he ended up with red skin below his eyes, because he was fair and never tanned.
The woman’s voice drew me back when I heard her say, “You carry one, and we’ll both give this little lady an arm and walk her home. We would offer you a ride, honey, but neither of us got any wheels at the moment. We’ll hoof it down to your place in no time.”
With her hands on her hips, she looked me up and down again. “Mercy, honey, you’re so tiny we could lift you up and carry you. And here, slip my jacket on. My mama always said after you reach a certain age, the night air does you no good. No good whatsoever.”
Her jacket wrapped me in smells of leather and flowery perfume. She patted me on both shoulders, puffed with shoulder pads. “Now. Don’t she look nice, Baby?”
I swung along the street between them, my feet barely touching pavement. The strawberry man’s jerking stride gave the three of us a peculiar rhythm, but in no time we stopped in front of Blind George’s to catch our breath. We had only stopped one other time for a truck to pass.
During our fast trip, I found out the blonde’s name was Shirley Monroe and she worked at the Kut ‘N Loose. She was also the nail lady Lil’s son paid to come every Monday morning. Since I had arrived on Tuesday, I had missed her visit. The gold letters across the back of her jacket read, Kut ‘N Loose Bowling Champs.
“Three years in a row,” she said proudly.
Jesus was Jack Lovingood, but she always called him Baby. He called her Shirl. Jack turned out to be a man of few words, apparently content to let his Shirl take up the slack, and she could certainly prattle on and on. I decided she was qualified to carry on a three-way conversation all by herself if necessary.
We moved from the street to the sidewalk in front of the pool hall, where Shirley took both bags of popcorn. “Baby, soon as we see Miss Agnes to her door, we’ll come back for a couple of longnecks and pass these around.”
Turning to me, she said, “You need to powder your nose, honey? It’s usually not too clean in there, but I’ll show you where it is if you need to go.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I could go on by myself, you know. Don’t want to put you and Jack out any more than I have already.”
“Now you hush right there. Me and Baby are gonna walk you to your door. We’ve not got nothin’ planned tonight that can’t be put on hold a few minutes. Just wait there and I’ll be right back.” She ran inside with the bags.
“Nice night,” I said to Jack, who was busy lighting a cigarette he’d thumped out of a pack of unfiltered Camels. Even after ten years of not touching a cigarette to my lips, I had a strong urge to ask him for a draw—just one long draw.
While we waited for Shirley, who must have decided to powder her own nose, Jack seemed to take no notice of me. He leaned against the building, boots crossed, hat pulled low, in a haze of smoke. A strange man, I thought, keeping to himself, yet offering strawberries to some old people sitting on a porch, just because he thought they might like a special treat. A private, yet giving, man. The two didn’t seem to go together. Was Lil right? Did he have other motives?
This man was about as easy to talk to as a tobacco stick. “You know,” I said, looking up into the glare of a streetlight, “bet the sky is full of stars. Don’t you think? Saw the North Star earlier. It was a beaut. You ever look at the stars?”
“Going to rain,” he said.
I tried again. “You were so thoughtful to bring us those strawberries. Have you worked for Case’s Produce long?”
“Nope.”
“Where did you say you lived?”
“Didn’t.”
After that, my attention wandered. Red neon tubing that spelled out Schlitz, Busch, Miller, and Budweiser filled the windows and sent a red glow into the dark and across Jack’s smoky form. A tall, oscillating fan stood in the open doorway. As it moved, I caught glimpses of men and women talking, laughing, and playing pool. One couple danced slow and easy, their arms draped around each other. The music drifted outside, garbled by the fan’s loud humming.
It took my mind back to a carnival midway: colored lights, happy people, a Ferris wheel turning, the smell of onions, and dirty pavement beneath my feet.
“Only thing missing, Charlie … elephant ears fried crisp, dusted with powdered sugar.”
I must have been dreaming of those cool nights in October when the Lewis Brothers Carnival always visited Sweetbriar, bringing a whole week of pure delight. That’s the only reason I can think of to explain why I didn’t see them coming. But Jack did, even with his head down, hat pulled low.
“This ain’t good.” He ducked inside and disappeared from sight.
Suddenly, flashing lights were everywhere. They bounced off the windows filled with red beer signs, and off the Cershaw County cruiser. Car doors slammed like bullets in the night, and a strange glow surrounded the sheriff and his deputy as they rushed up to me. In the next instant, Blind George’s grew quiet. Someone turned off the fan as people gathered outside.
“Ma’am,” said the big officer as he peered into my face, “are you Agnes Marie Hopper?”
Before I could answer, the skinny one looked up from a paper he held in his hands, “Fits the description. Only it don’t say nothin’ about that jacket she’s wearing.”
“What’s she done?” asked someone from the crowd.
“Gone to a movie,” Jack said as he stepped up beside me. “Is that a crime?”
Shirley rushed to the other side of me. “You fellas coming on a little strong,” she said. “You’d think this was a drug bust.”
“Sheriff,” I said, finally finding my voice to speak for myself, “if you would kindly turn off those gosh-awful lights, maybe I could think enough to explain, and everyone can go on back to whatever they were doing before this … this harassment started.”
“You tell ’em, Granny,” Blind George said, drying his hands on an apron as he came forward. “You got rights.”
Several voices echoed his sentiments.
“Settle down. Settle down,” growled the sheriff, eyes darting around and back to me. “All right now, let’s start over. I’m all ears.”
Not hardly, I thought as he hitched up his pants. His heavy gun belt slipped back to its place under his bulging stomach.
The man seemed familiar. “Are you Hershel Cawood’s boy? You’ve sure got his chin and bushy eyebrows. Come to think of it, you walk like him too.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose like somebody with a terrible headache, he said, “He’s my granddaddy. Look, we’re just trying to do our job here. Got a missing person report not more than ten minutes ago, and you fit the MO. You got some people worried. Mighty worried. Give me a simple yes or no. Are you Agnes Marie Hopper?”
“Of course I am, young man. Where’s Hershel these days? Haven’t seen him in years. Used to bring me a bushel of the prettiest tomatoes you ever did see, every year without fail. I’d find ’em on the back porch. I knew where they came from because nobody could grow tomatoes like Hershel. Always sent Charlie over to his place with quarts of tomato juice I canned from those tomatoes.”
“Yes ma’am,”
the sheriff said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and taking my elbow with the other.
The deputy shooed the people back inside Blind George’s. “Go on now,” he said. “Go on about your business. Excitement’s over. Nothing here to gawk at.”
The sheriff and I stood beside his cruiser on the passenger side. He opened the door and helped me inside. “Rest here a minute, Miss Agnes, and we’ll carry you over to—to where you belong. Granddaddy gets confused sometimes too. He used to walk out of Sweet Magnolia most any time day or night until they installed alarms on all the doors. Now if he so much as cracks even the front door, the noise is as loud as a fire engine and the whole staff comes running. He don’t do it much anymore. I’ve suggested Miss Johnson give ’em a try.”
“Merciful heavens. You have? Where is Hershel?”
“Living over in Whitesburg. A home for Alzheimer patients.”
“My, my. I hate to hear that. I surely do.”
“Yes ma’am,” the sheriff answered as I settled into the front seat of the cruiser that smelled of leftover coffee and fried chicken.
Just before he shut the door, I remembered I hadn’t thanked Shirley or Jack for their assistance. “Oh, wait,” I said. “I need to speak to those people standing there with your deputy.”
He looked where I pointed. “Yes, well, uh, you wait right here, Miss Agnes. From the looks of things, they’re going to be joining us. Might have some questions to ask those two.”
He left me with blue lights pulsing across the lit dashboard, the static-filled microphone, and a shiny thermos, its green plastic cup half-filled with coffee. Outside, the lights whipped across the sheriff, his deputy, Jack, and Shirley. At first, they stood in a huddle, everyone talking at once. As voices grew louder and louder, they moved farther apart. Customers from Blind George’s began to filter outside again.
I flinched when the deputy got excited and threw his arms in the air. He shouted something to Jack and pushed him up against the building. The crowd surged around the men and blocked my view.
Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction) Page 10