Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (6 page)

“Sure is. He's worried about his boy, Clive.”

“The little guy?”

“He's only six but he's having trouble in school. Gets bullied on account of he has that lisp.”

“That's terrible. But if anyone can understand about bullies it would be—”

“I prayed the Good Lord would reach down and give that child his proper s's.”

“Good for you. Now I need to go get changed and make some supper.” Agnes always interrupted when the conversation even brushed by being about her.

“I’ll be here,” she said. “I was thinking some of that rare roast beef and mashed potatoes tonight.”

“Okay.”

I didn’t want to tell her about Hezekiah right off.

A
rthur followed me upstairs where I was certain to find another bloodied mouse in my room. I didn’t think there was any way to stop the behavior. He was wild when he came to me, and you just can’t get the predator out of an animal that has it in his genes. I was right. I carried another dead body to the window and tossed it out. No matter how many times I fed the little creatures to the crows, I always felt a twinge of remorse and guilt.

I changed while Arthur cleaned himself in the hallway. It felt good to slip into a pair of sweats and warm socks.

“How about a nice fire?” I called to Arthur. “Think I’ll get one going before I make supper.”

Fortunately, I had loaded plenty of wood onto the back porch before the heavy snow fell. It was good, well-seasoned hardwoods—oak and poplar and some long-burning cherry from a tree that fell in a storm a while back.

In no time I had a crackling fire going. I poked at it and let the warmth reach my face. Our house, like most Victorians, had multiple fireplaces; we had four. The one in the viewing room was large and worked fine. For some reason the others
didn’t draw as well and I needed to schedule a sweep to come out. But it was one of those things I never seemed to get around to doing.

“That's nice,” said Agnes. “Thank you.”

I sat on the sofa. “It is nice. Fire.” It spirited me away sometimes. I could get lost in the dancing flames.

I asked Agnes to turn down the television. “Remember that drifter this morning?”

“Yeah, why? He left hours ago. Never came back.”

I was glad to hear that. “He came by the library today. Says he needs prayer and wants to see you. In fact he came to Bright's Pond looking for you.”

“Oh. Well, tell him to come by.”

“I did. He’ll be here around six. But, Agnes, I have to say it worries me. We don’t know this man.”

“God knows him.”

“That's true. But I think you should tread easy, you know.”

Agnes popped a few candies. “I’m hungry.”

“I’ll get supper.”

“Hold on,” she said. “How did he hear about me?”

“He heard some people talking about you down at the Piggly Wiggly in Shoops.”

“No kidding?” She looked toward the ceiling. “I didn’t know folks down there knew me.”

“I know, Agnes, I was afraid of something like this happening and with this whole sign thing—”

Agnes closed her eyes a few seconds. “I’ll still see him. He must need help if he came this far. God must of sent him to me.”

“Says he needs powerful praying. Wants to claim his miracle.”

B
y five I had supper ready. Arthur was desperate to get outside, so I set him free and brought Agnes her meal. Oh, how I longed to sit at a table and eat a meal surrounded by family. But that wasn’t in the cards, and I set Agnes's food on a tray and carried it out to her, the way I did every meal.

“Looks good, Griselda, but don’t forget the salt and pepper and maybe some more butter on my mashed and a couple slices of bread.”

I sucked in air. “Okay. I’ll get it.”

Our daily bread was down to the last two slices. And I mean daily. I went through a loaf a day, keeping Agnes full. Doctor Flaherty said her body required a lot of calories, even though I honestly don’t believe Agnes realized how much she ate in a day.

“Apple butter,” she called. “Slather on some of that apple butter Cora brought over.”

I did and grabbed the salt, pepper, and butter and headed for the living room just as the doorbell chimed. I stopped in my tracks for a second. It couldn’t be him. It wasn’t six o’clock.

“You gonna get that?” she said.

I placed the condiments and Agnes's apple butter bread on her table. “I’ll get it. But if it's Hezekiah, I’m sending him away until six.”

“Who?”

“The drifter. The guy poking around in the trash this morning.”

“Oh, don’t do that. Maybe we should feed him. Probably hungry, poor soul.”

It was him on the porch looking like a lost traveler, which I suppose he was.

“Hezekiah. It's only five-fifteen. I told you six.”

“Please, ma’am, I’m just so desperate to meet Agnes.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re in the middle of supper. Come back at six.”

“Invite him in,” Agnes called.

Hezekiah smiled. “I’d be much obliged. I’ll just stand in the doorway until she's ready to see me.”

“No, no, you don’t have to do that.”

“Are you hungry?” Agnes asked.

Hezekiah had sidled up next to Agnes before I could say Piggly Wiggly. I offered to take his coat and hat but he refused. “Still warming up,” he said. I watched his red cheeks turn white when he saw Agnes. I suppose nobody at the Piggly Wiggly mentioned her weight. “Uhm, hel … hello. I’m Hezekiah.” Then he pulled himself up to his full height. “That roast beef sure smells delicious. Can’t tell you the last time I tasted real, honest-to-goodness mashed potatoes. They had some watered-down, dehydrated slop at the mission in Shoops. Tasted more like wallpaper paste.”

“I’ll get you a plate,” I said even though every cell in my body seethed. I watched Hezekiah look Agnes up and down like she was a sideshow freak—something I hadn’t experienced in a while. He tried to hide it and did manage to contain his amazement and smile at Agnes in a way that didn’t drip of remorse or embarrassment. Even though Agnes was, for all intents and purposes, a freak to most people. They didn’t know her inside like I did.

I sliced beef and plopped mashed potatoes on a plate, added a pile of peas, and poured brown gravy over it, but before I could lift the plate off the table, Hezekiah was standing next to me. He had removed his coat and hat. His hair was cut so short it was more like peach fuzz. “I’ll help you,” he said.

“She too much for you?”

He looked away, out the kitchen window. “N … no, not really. I just never been that close to someone so … so…”

“Huge?”

He looked at his feet like most people did when they were ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. That's your plate, and I’ll get you some juice or—”

“Milk, if you got it.”

Hezekiah carried his food into the viewing room, and I prepared my own plate.

I had just joined them, thinking that this drifter seemed a mite too polite, when he said, “Pardon me, Ma’am but could I please wash up? The street is a grimy place to be living.”

“Oh, certainly,” Agnes said. “There's a bathroom right over there behind those pocket doors.”

Hezekiah excused himself, and I placed a forkful of mashed potatoes in my mouth when I heard, “Oh my sweet Je—”

Agnes laughed. “He must have noticed the toilet seat.”

The drifter returned to the viewing room, wiping his hands on his shirt.

“Never seen such a large … commode?” Agnes asked.

“N-n-no, Ma’am, I never did.”

“It's called the Big Flo,” I said. “Our friend Fred Haskell designed and built it for Agnes. He's got a patent pending down in Washington, DC.”

“That's right,” Agnes said. “I consider it my own doublewide miracle.”

I watched Hezekiah try to hide his laughter in his glass of milk but he couldn’t hold on and spit milk halfway across the room. “Sorry,” he said wiping his mouth.

“Don’t worry,” Agnes said. “It's good to get it out of the way.”

Hezekiah ate fast, shoveling in large mouthfuls. He asked for seconds and then thirds. He and Agnes finished off the roast and all the potatoes and peas.

“Thank you,” he said, “that was the finest meal I’ve had in … in … well, let's say a long time.”

“You’re welcome, Hezekiah,” Agnes said. “Griselda is an excellent cook.”

“Could open a restaurant.”

I served the pie Zeb had given me for dessert.

When we finished, Hezekiah carried our plates into the kitchen, and a few minutes later I heard water running. I went to investigate and found Hezekiah washing our dishes. He looked funny standing at the sink with a pink apron tied around his waist.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

“Yes, I do, Ma’am. I always pay my check in one way or another.”

Arthur mewled at the door.

“My cat,” I said. “Arthur.”

“Arthur?”

I chuckled. “He was named after a great king too.”

Hezekiah cracked a smile that exposed straight teeth and a dimple on his left cheek.

Arthur sauntered inside and wrapped himself around my legs. I put the kettle on to boil for tea and placed cups and saucers on the table.

A
short while later, after Hezekiah adjusted the fire and carried more logs into the room, the conversation finally turned to Hezekiah's prayer needs.

“Griselda told me you were in need of prayer,” said Agnes.

Hezekiah looked down and rubbed his hands together. “Yes, yes I am. Some powerful prayers.”

“Tell me why,” Agnes said. “What exactly do you need me to pray for?”

Hezekiah took a breath. And when he did his strong chest expanded like a bellows. He brushed the top of his head. “Lice. Stinking lice.”

“Lice?” said Agnes. “You askin’ me to pray for lice?”

“No. no. I had them, that's all. Miserable vermin crawled and laid eggs all over my head. I had to shave my hair off to get rid of them. That's why it's so short. Before the infestation I had grown my hair down to here.” He pointed to a place on his shoulder. “Had me a nice ponytail.”

Agnes and I locked eyes, both of us grateful, I’m sure, that God waited until after the lice plague to bring him to her.

“Well, if it ain’t lice then—” said Agnes.

“A person doesn’t have to say the words out loud, do they? Can’t you just pray some mumbo jumbo about God being able to read minds and stuff?” He folded his arms across his chest.

Agnes took a minute to adjust herself. I asked Hezekiah to push up on her knee while I straightened her pillows.

“First of all, Hezekiah, it isn’t mumbo jumbo, and if that's what you believe then maybe now's not the best time to pray,” Agnes said.

Hezekiah's eyes grew wide like a startled deer's. “Oh, no, ma’am, I didn’t mean that; I didn’t mean it was mumbo jumbo, like it was silly. I just don’t know much about proper prayer talk.”

Agnes and I exchanged looks and then smiles.

“I guess it will be all right,” Agnes said. “God knows what you mean.”

“Just tell the good Lord that I need him to help me to … to … “He pushed his fists into the sides of his head like a
terrible headache had taken hold all of a sudden. “Please, I’m begging you, Agnes, pray for me.”

Agnes prayed for a full three minutes, asking God to grant Hezekiah all manner of mercies from his health to his financial situation to helping him find a job. But Hezekiah didn’t react to any of the requests in a way that would have clued us in to his real need—the one thing, if it were one thing—that he had locked inside himself. Sometimes it happened that way. Sometimes folks came to Agnes asking for prayer about a particular matter when all the time there was something else, something darker, something more serious that needed God's attention.

That's how it happened for Studebaker. He came to Agnes asking for prayer about his aching back and a nagging cough when all the time he knew he had lung cancer and was dying.

“Amen.” Agnes finished her prayer, but Hezekiah remained with his head bent for a several more seconds, so we all sat in silence until he finally spoke.

“Thank you, Agnes. But I didn’t feel nothing. I mean, ain’t I supposed to feel a tingling or something? Ain’t that God's way of letting you know you got a miracle?”

Agnes reached out, and Hezekiah took her hand. He laid his head on her arm. “Maybe I just don’t deserve a miracle. Maybe I’m a hopeless case.”

“Now you stop that talk, this instant,” said Agnes in such a way that Hezekiah's head snapped to attention. “There is no such thing as hopeless cases where God is concerned. Some miracles take a little longer than others. This might be the kind that takes repeating.”

Agnes grabbed her well-worn King James and thumbed through the pages. “See here, this is a story about Samuel's mother. She prayed for years before she got her miracle.”

“Years?” said Hezekiah. “I don’t have years. I need it now. I needed it a long time ago.”

Agnes closed her Bible and began to pray again. This time she raised her voice and even asked God to bind any devils that might be chasing after Hezekiah. He crossed his arms tight against his chest when she said those words.

“In the name of Jesus, we pray for these things,” Agnes finished.

Hezekiah lifted his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I still got nothing.”

I watched him slowly ball both hands into tight fists. He rubbed them into his eyes. “You’re my only hope, Miss Sparrow.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Hezekiah, give it a little time. You’ll get your miracle.” The second those words left my mouth I felt my stomach sink. I had never promised anyone a miracle before that evening.

Agnes patted my hand to silence me.

“Listen,” she said looking at Hezekiah, “why don’t you stay in town. I’m sure Vidalia Whitaker will give you a room.”

“But I got no money.”

“That doesn’t matter. You can work around here. Do some odd jobs and such. I’ll pay you—not a lot, mind you—but enough to help out. Maybe you can get another job in town.”

I stood straight up. “Agnes, what are you saying? Shouldn’t we … discuss this first?”

“I’m sorry,” Hezekiah said. “I didn’t mean to start a family squabble.”

“Phooey.” Agnes blew out air that smacked of beef gravy. “Don’t let my sister bother you.”