Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (2 page)

Nate ended up with Stella's prize-winning pumpkin and had to have his gallbladder removed anyway. Stella had apparently entered the same contest as Nate and asked Agnes for God's blessing on her pumpkin. Stella forgave Agnes for the oversight, and Nate agreed to share the blue ribbon with her. But, as Agnes said, God blessed her blunder because Nate and Stella got married six months later. They’ve been raising prize-winning pumpkins ever since.

After the pumpkin debacle, Agnes wrote down all the requests in spiral notebooks. She color-coded the names and petitions, reserving black ink for the most severe cases, red for less dire but still serious needs (marriage troubles and minor illnesses like warts and bunions) and blue ink for the folks with smaller troubles like broken fuel pumps and ornery kids—that sort of thing.

“I got to get going now, Agnes,” I told her a few minutes before seven. “The meeting's about to start and I don’t want to be late.”

“Could you fetch me a drink of juice and maybe a couple tuna sandwiches before you go? And how about a couple of those cherry Danishes left over from last Sunday?”

“I’ll be late, Agnes, and you already had your dinner.”

“It won’t take but a minute, Griselda, please.”

I spread tuna salad onto white bread and poured a glass of golden apple juice into a tall tumbler with strawberry vines.
I was standing at the kitchen sink rinsing my fingers when I heard rain start—hesitant at first. It was the kind of rain that started with large, heavy drops and only a hint of ice in them but would soon turn to all snow. Most of the time foul weather meant a smaller crowd for town meetings, but with the Agnes Sparrow sign debate on the agenda I doubted the weather could keep folks away.

“I better go,” I said. “I want a seat in front on account of the sign situation.”

“Phooey,” Agnes said. “I told you I don’t want a sign with my name on it. I don’t want the glory.”

“I know.” I took a deep breath and blew it out. “I told you I’d take care of it.”

Agnes took another bite of her sandwich and turned on the TV while I buttoned my coat and slipped into yellow galoshes. I was just about to step outside when Agnes spoke up. Her high voice made her sound like a little girl.

“The Lord just gave me an idea,” she said, swallowing. “Tell that town council of ours that the sign should read, Bright's Pond.
Soli Deo Gloria
. That's Latin. It means—”

“I know what it means. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

That was when all the trouble started. And I don’t just mean over the silly sign. I thought the town's enthusiasm to advertise Agnes's prayers got something loosed in the heavens and trouble came to Bright's Pond after that—trouble no one could have ever imagined.

I
always enjoyed the short walk to the town hall. The rain had turned to snow by the time I rounded Hector Street and laid a thin, white veneer on the pavement and streets. Dog prints dotted the walkways. Probably Ivy Slocum's mutt. That dog wandered the streets like a hobo begging for handouts and fathered more litters than Bayer had aspirin. I watched the snow come down in the glow of a street lamp, multisized flakes that fell at an angle. They had an otherworldly look and for a second I could have been on any planet watching it snow by the light of the moon. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I could have left Bright's Pond to visit the sights and wonders I knew existed beyond the brown-purple-green mountains I sailed my dreams over every single day. A dog bark brought me back to earth.

Bright's Pond was pretty much your average small town. Most of the businesses were located on Stump Road, including a small drinking establishment called Personal's Pub. It was run by a man named Personal Best—that's right, Personal Best. He was the last of nine children born to Haddie and Zachary Best. Haddie had said, “When that boy popped out
I knew I just did my personal best. So that's what we named him.” Down on Hector Street there was a movie theater called The Crown. Movies came late to Bright's Pond, so by the time we got them they had already been and went in the big towns. Cooper P. Stern ran the projector for years and years until he died—died right there, loading the second reel of
The Guns of Navarrone
. After that anybody who could figure out the machinery ran the movies.

The Bright's Pond Chapel of Faith and Grace, the town hall, and the library were all located on Filbert. I worked at the library even though I never went to college. I taught myself the Dewey Decimal System, which by the way, was not easy. But now you toss the name of any book my way and I can tell you what number it is and on which shelf you’d find it. I spent my days behind the circulation desk or hidden in the stacks replacing borrowed books. It was a good job that kept me busy for the most part. But to be honest, other than the school children and a few regulars, not many folks in town frequented the library. Sad thing. Every September I tried to get a rally of sorts going for books, trying my best to get people eager to read. But it mostly fell on deaf ears, and if I wrote out ten new library cards a year it was a bumper crop.

Anyway, the only business on Filbert Street was The Full Moon Café. Mabel Sewickey's son Zebulon owned it and was the chief cook and bottle washer, as they say. Cora Nebbish, a seventy-two-year-old sprite of a woman with platinum hair and petite features flitted around as waitress and hostess. She did a fine job. She kept all the orders straight and still collected pinches from the good old boys off the turnpike who parked their rigs at the town limit and walked to the café.

Zeb served a heck of a burger, but the menu favorite was the fried baloney sandwich—a half-inch slice of round boloney served on a hamburger bun with any condiment you
desired from Tabasco to chili, even applesauce. Most folks ordered the Full Moon pie for dessert—a thick slice of Zeb's homemade lemon meringue pie that resembled a full moon the way it sat in the glass carousel before getting sliced.

Every full moon folks gathered at the café. Zeb served free pie and coffee to the first fifteen folks in line. He always sent a pie to Agnes, ever since she prayed and Zeb's second mortgage on the place went through without a hitch and then he won the state lottery and paid it off in no time.

The town hall was located right next door to the Full Moon, which was convenient for the council members who gathered there at least once a day for coffee.

On my way to the town meeting a brisk, freezing wind swirled around me. I hiked up my collar and hurried to the town hall. I met Ivy on the steps.

“Evening, Griselda. How's Agnes?”

Ivy was a middle-aged widow with long blonde hair and exceptionally large breasts that she tried to keep hidden under oversized sweatshirts. Agnes prayed for a breast reduction for her but no volunteer surgeon ever stepped forward. Ivy never held it against her.

“Lord wanted me to have a big bosom,” Ivy said, but often lamented the fact of never having had babies to suckle. “Seems a waste.”

“Agnes is fine, Ivy. How are you?”

“I’m doing okay, you know, well as can be expected. Tell Agnes I’ll be coming by in a day or so. Got some things to discuss.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her.”

My foot landed on the top step and the thought hit me that just once I’d like someone to ask how I was doing. But it was always Agnes on their minds.

The building was packed to the gills by the time I got there. Studebaker Kowalski was up front. He held tightly to the petition, already in deep conversation with Boris Lender. It might have been my mood, but Studebaker looked like a cheap TV evangelist. He wore a maroon polyester leisure suit with white stitching around the wide lapels, pockets, and seams. His shoes matched his white belt, and I swore I could smell his Brut aftershave across the room. Studebaker and I made eye contact, and he waved the pages at me. I motioned back, feigned a smile, and then turned my attention to Edie Tompkins.

“Well, hello there, Griselda. So this is Agnes's big night.” She pushed her persimmon red lips into a smile. “Uh, no pun intended.”

My eyebrows arched like a gothic cathedral. That woman made my blood boil. Edie was a nosy neighbor. She stood about six feet tall, which meant she towered over me by half a foot. She wore her frizzy hair piled on top of her square head, adding nine inches to her tallness, and was partial to flowered dresses straight out of 1953. Edie was married to Bill Tompkins, the automobile mechanic and member of the council as president of the commerce association. Bill was a good egg and, I was hoping, the one member who would understand Agnes's situation.

I hung my coat on the last available hook and made my way through the crowd gathered around the refreshment table laden with all types of snacky finger food. Town meetings, and just about every occasion in Bright's Pond, called for refreshments. I think it might have been in the charter. Ivy plopped down a plate of brownies, but I managed to snag the last piece of Bill Tompkins's fudge. He was not only an excellent mechanic but made the best fudge in the universe, a recipe I understood required him to stir for hours. Every
two years his extended family gathered at Bright's Pond for their “Family Fudge-Off.” They tried to out-fudge one another and unseat Bill as king, but he won every year. Boris and Studebaker judged the contest.

Edie offered me a cup of coffee to which I added a tablespoon or so of half and half. The coffee was another reason to attend town meetings. There was just something about it percolating in that big, silver urn that gave it a special taste that not only warmed your hands on a cold night but also warmed a spot in your soul.

“Here you go, Griselda,” Janeen Sturgis said. She handed me a paper plate stacked with treats and covered with two or three paper napkins. “For Agnes. I sure hope the sign is approved. I’d be so proud to be from her town.” Her eyes lit up when she smiled. “We’re all so proud.”

I took a deep breath. “Thank you, Janeen.” I put the plate on the table and made a mental note to pick it up on my way out. Agnes loved Bill's fudge and Cora Nebbish's lemon squares, although I hated bringing her plates of treats like they were some kind of offering. Janeen tilted her head and looked at me the way a dog does when he can’t understand what you’re saying. I guess she expected me to get all excited about the stupid sign.

What really scared me though was what her husband said next. “Yeah, maybe we’ll rename the town. You know, call it Agnesville.” He chuckled. But I knew he was serious.

Janeen slipped her arm in his. “That's wonderful, dear, Agnesville.” She chortled.

I would have shushed them, but they had taken their seats and I supposed it was too late to make a difference. The idea of Agnesville had just been released to the universe. I watched it escape out the door as Eugene Shrapnel walked in.

Eugene was as mean-spirited and dyspeptic as they come, always complaining and shouting about one thing or other. He was a little more manageable when Edith, his poor, skinny wife, was alive. Eugene hated Agnes—called her a sorceress and thought she was “in league with the devil.” He stood maybe five-feet, eight-inches tall and walked hunched over: claimed he took mortar fire in the back at the Battle of the Bulge. I think he withered from his own nastiness.

Eugene wore dark clothes, suits mostly, and a weird little felt hat with a feather stuck in the band. His raspy voice seemed to come from some tight, tiny spot in his throat. But his worst feature and the one that garnered the most attention was his nose, a bulbous, lumpy thing that resembled a chunk of cauliflower with bright red and purple veins running through it. Most folks accepted the fact that it was impossible to talk to Eugene without staring at his nose. To top it off he smelled like wet wool and Lysol.

“Good evening, Miss Sparrow.”

“Hello, Eugene.”

“I hope you aren’t thinking that this … this sign disgrace will actually come to pass.”

I popped a lemon square into my mouth and chewed, staring at his nose without saying a word.

Eugene harrumphed his way to a seat—the last one, in the last row, closest to the exit. Fortunately, I found a seat up front. Unfortunately, it was directly behind Studebaker. He turned around, sending a waft of cologne around the room. I sneezed.

“Bless you,” he said. “You still have time to sign it.” He shoved the petition under my nose.

“I already told you. Agnes doesn’t want a sign.”

“She's just being humble, that's all. Once she sees her name in giant block letters, she’ll be glad we did it.”

I shook my head. “No, she wouldn’t, Stu.”

He ignored my comment and said, “I’m gonna ask the council to commission Filby Pruett to make a statue.”

My heart raced. “Please, Stu, you can’t be serious. A statue? Of Agnes? Fat Agnes?”

Boris banged his gavel. “Let's come to order,” he shouted. “Order.” He said it five times before the crowd finally quieted down.

Boris was a lawyer and a pretty fair man. No one ever complained about him or the way he ran the town meetings. He managed to get a few people out of scrapes with the law including the Tompkins's boy Nelson, who was arrested for driving through a cornfield while intoxicated. Farmer Higgins claimed he lost about three thousand bucks, but when the damage was assessed it tuned out to be more like three hundred. Nelson slopped the farmer's pigs for a month to make up for the loss.

Boris wore gray suits with red ties and had a penchant for cheap cigars. His teeth had turned a most disagreeable shade of yellow from the habit, and when he smiled they looked like rows of rotting corn niblets.

Dot Handy had her pad and pencil fired up with two extras perched behind each ear and one stuck in her hair bun. She nodded to Boris, and the meeting began. After the Pledge of Allegiance and the approval of the previous month's minutes Boris called for new business. I could see Studebaker was primed to present his petition. His legs twitched like a schoolboy's. But before that there were a few other issues to discuss, including the need for a new stop sign at the corner of Ninth and Hector. The hiring of a crossing guard to replace the retiring Sam Gaston was approved. Dot Handy took the job.