Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (8 page)

She was with Cora Nebbish from the café. Zeb had told me she went to see Doc Flaherty, but she said it was just a checkup—nothing serious. That morning, though, she looked a little thinner.

“Everything all right, Cora?” I asked.

“Oh, it is now,” she said. “I saw the doctor the other day, and well, he was a little concerned.” Cora smiled in that way that people did when a smile was the last thing they wanted to muster.

“More than concerned,” Agnes said. She popped some M&Ms. “Tell them, Cora. It's all right.”

Cora looked at Agnes and sighed. She placed her palms on her knees and leaned a trifle forward in the rocking chair. “Ah, it's nothing, really. That old curmudgeon had the nerve to tell me my heart is giving out. He said that's why I’ve been getting out of breath and feeling so dogged tired of late.”

“Oh, Cora. I am sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Griselda,” Cora said. She took a breath.

Studebaker touched her shoulder. “You come to the right doctor now.”

I watched him and Agnes exchange a glance that tightened my stomach.

Hezekiah stood uncharacteristically quiet.

“That's right.” Cora's voice was tinged with excitement and nervousness. “Agnes prayed for me.”

I took a breath and looked at Agnes's expression. “The good Lord will make your heart like new,” she said.

“Agnes.”

She put her finger to her lips and shushed me.

Stu helped Cora with her coat. She slipped a red scarf around her neck. “I best be getting to the café.” She puffed a little.

“Maybe it would be a good idea to take the day off. Zeb can handle things.”

“Oh, no, he can’t, he’ll get the decaf mixed up with the regular and all sorts of things will go wrong.” Cora said. “I
never missed a day of work, and I am not about to start now. I can’t give in to what the doctor told me.”

Stu followed her to the door as Hezekiah plopped on the sofa. He stared at Agnes for a moment, and I thought I could read his mind. I knew he was wondering why Cora believed she got her miracle and he was still waiting on his.

“It will come,” Agnes said. She knew too. “I told you that some miracles take longer. Remember I showed you in the Scriptures where Jesus said that some demons require much prayer and fasting.”

“I remember, but it's been going on three weeks.”

“Three weeks is but a blink of an eye in heaven.”

“You think I ought to start fasting?”

“Maybe. But ask the good Lord about it first.”

Agnes grabbed her breakfast plate from the bedside table. There was still a slice of toast and half an orange left.

“I don’t know,” Hezekiah said, “that's why I come to you. The good Lord and I ain’t been on speaking terms for a dog's age now.”

“Then that's why you got to start talking to him,” Agnes said. “Maybe he's just waiting until you do. Maybe God's waiting to hear the words come out of your mouth, not mine.”

“Maybe you should just get about your chores, Hezekiah,” I said.

“I guess that would be the sensible thing to do.”

Agnes rubbed her knee.

“I’ll get some liniment for you,” I said, “and I thought Hezekiah might start in the basement this week. It really needs some cleaning out.”

“The attic might be the better place,” said Agnes. “I’d love for him to go through all those Christmas decorations and Mama's old things.”

“Nah, the basement,” I said. I patted Agnes's knee. “He can get to the attic next.”

I turned my attention to Hezekiah. “There are some boxes in the garage. You’ll need to pack things away—books and such. But make sure you mark the boxes clearly, please. You’ll find a marker in the junk drawer in the kitchen.”

“You might come across some of our father's equipment that never got sold, and there's stacks of papers and magazines down there,” said Agnes.

“You mean like funeral stuff?”

“Sure, embalming tools and what not,” I said. “We got rid of a lot of it over the years, but you might come across a few strange items.”

Hezekiah hunched his shoulders. “Creepy.”

“Not really.” Agnes laughed. “If you find anything you aren’t sure of, just drop it in a box and Griselda will go through it another time.” She sucked in a breath. “And probably old rags. Lots of rags with stains and such. Just toss them out to be burned. You can build a fire in the backyard.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Studebaker returned. “Agnes, you know who Filby Pruett is?”

Agnes twisted her mouth. “Filby Pruett. I remember him. Scrawny fellow. Wore tortoiseshell glasses. Said he came to town to paint in peace and quiet.”

“That's him. He bought the old Bradley house on Hector Street,” Stu said.

“Never came to me for prayer, though.” Agnes pushed her head into her pillow.

“You should see what he did to that house, Agnes,” I said. “He painted it all kinds of wonderful colors—yellow, salmon, blue, even turquoise trim. He hung some pretty strange wind
chimes and put odd-looking statues out front. One of them is a giant cement turtle with a rabbit in its mouth.”

Studebaker patted Agnes's hand. “That's what I came to tell you. Boris and I hired him to make a statue of you, Agnes. We’ll put it right in front of the town hall.”

Agnes choked on a piece of buttered toast. “Sta … statue?”

She barely got the word out, and all I could do was stand there and let out the laughter that had come into my belly in one loud snort. “It sounds even sillier today, Studebaker.”

“There is nothing silly about this idea,” he said. “What with Agnes stuck in the house all the time, it would be like … well, it would be like she was outside, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. It's a way for her to be with us.” He patted Agnes's hand. “It's like you’ll be right there with us at our meetings and town events.”

“Impossible,” Agnes said. “I don’t want a sign and I certainly don’t want a statue of me out there for all the world to see. Ridiculous. Just ridiculous.”

“But, Agnes. You’re our hero. Every town has a hero, like Daniel Boone or Winslow Pickett. And they have portraits and statues.”

“Winslow Pickett was a true hero,” Agnes said. “I’m just a fat woman who prays.” She took a breath and rubbed her stomach. “Just a fat woman who prays.”

Winslow Pickett was famous in Kulp City, where Studebaker was born, for single-handedly capturing seventy-two Nazis. His statue stands in the center of Kulp City on the spot where he got off the train to a crowd of grateful citizens and a fifty-piece band playing something by Sousa on September 26, 1948. Every child in the mountain region studies about him in the third grade.

A red glow like the blush of a pomegranate crept into Agnes's face.

“Think about it, Agnes,” Studebaker pleaded. “Everyone thinks it's a swell idea. Just imagine the comfort it would bring to the town. Folks will get to see you everyday.”

“Yeah, and the next thing you know, they’ll be laying flowers at her feet and people will travel miles and miles to gaze upon the stone face of Agnes Sparrow.” I had heard about enough at that point and was about to usher Studebaker out when Hezekiah appeared in the subtle, silent manner in which he was accustomed.

“Sure is a mess down there,” he said. “It’ll take me days to get it cleaned and organized and—” He stopped talking and looked at the three of us like we had broccoli growing out of our ears. “Sorry, looks like I might have barged in on something.”

“Nothing important,” I said, thankful for the interruption.

Studebaker made a noise. “Don’t say that, Griselda. It's very important.” Then he pulled his hat over his ears and patted Agnes's hand. “Just think about it, dear. It would mean a lot to the town … your town, Agnes, to all the people you’ve helped. Don’t you see, you’d be doing it for them.”

Stu leaned down and kissed Agnes's fat, red cheek. “I’ll see my own way out.”

Hezekiah stood at the end of Agnes's bed and reached out his open hand. “I found these odd looking things in the basement. You got a whole box full of them. Look like some kind of weird screws.”

“Eye caps.” She laughed. “They hold the deceased's eyes closed. Wouldn’t want them popping open during the viewing. That would scare the bejeebers out of a few mourners, don’t you think?”

Hezekiah went white. “Makes me happy my daddy worked in the sewers. Least that's what my Mama said he did. I never knew for sure since my old man run—” He stopped talking and pocketed the eye caps. “So what's the hubbub with old Studebaker?”

“Oh, he's talking about having that artist fellow make a statue of Agnes and put in front of the town hall.”

“No kidding,” he said. “That's a little silly, don’t you think?”

Agnes took a hard, raspy breath. “More than silly. Plain ridiculous.”

Hezekiah reached his hands into his back pockets and looked out the window a second. “But you know, Agnes, you are the most important citizen here in Bright's Pond. Don’t all towns have statues of their most important citizens?”

“But this is different.” I wanted to pull Hezekiah away and give him a piece of my mind, but I knew that would upset Agnes.

“I’m not so important,” Agnes said in a whisper, “far from it, in fact.” She closed her eyes and settled back on her pillows. “How about a bowl of soup? Chicken noodle if you got it, Griselda, and a piece of that Full Moon pie.”

“I could use a slice of that pie myself,” Hezekiah said following me into the kitchen. “Nothing like lemon meringue to take your mind off of eye caps and statues.”

He stood by the cellar door. “I noticed you got a major problem brewing down there. Think you better take a look.”

My brows wrinkled. “Problem? What are you talking about?”

Hezekiah started down the steps. “Come on, and I’ll show you.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” I called to Agnes. “Hezekiah wants to show me something in the basement.”

“Near as I can figure,” he said, “it's under Agnes's bathroom.”

“What is?”

“That.” Hezekiah craned his neck back and pointed to the cellar ceiling which was not much more than large wide boards and pipes and electric lines. “She's sagging quite a bit. Probably from years and years of all that weight up there. It's a wonder her toilet ain’t crashed through by now.”

I looked where Hezekiah pointed and noticed the sag right away. “It's dangerous then?”

Hezekiah let go a chuckle. “You might say that, Griselda. That poor old floor has been supporting a lot of weight for a lot of years.”

“Oh, my. I’m so glad you discovered it.”

“And there's a crack along one of the joists.”

“Joists?”

“This thick beam here.”

I sighed deeply. “Okay, what can we do?”

“I’ll need help; probably Studebaker and Fred Haskell will volunteer. We’ll have to set lolly jacks and maybe sister them joists to make them hold better.”

“Sister?”

“That's right. Add extra wood to each side of the beam for support.”

I smiled at the quaint and appropriate term.

I
sat in my truck with the engine running for a full hour that afternoon listening to the Rassie Harper talk radio show. If I parked Old Bess on top of Hector Street, facing west with the windshield wipers going, I could tune in to WQRT out of Jack Frost. Never did figure out what the wipers had to do with the price of jellybeans in Japan, but for some odd reason the talk station came in louder when I had them on low.

While Rassie spouted on about Vietnam and President Nixon and how much he hated both of them, all I could think about was a huge billboard with my sister's fat face lighting up the road to Bright's Pond and a giant stone statue in front of the town hall. The thought gave me the willies.

I never gave a lick for politics and had actually tuned in to catch Vera Krug's
Neighborly News
in which she delighted the audience with local news, gossip, and calendar events. She always had something to say about Bright's Pond, and ever since Hezekiah blew into town, I was skittish about word of Agnes and the miracles filtering downstream. So I listened as often as I could.

“A rare bolt of snow lightning struck the Miller's Oak tree igniting a barn fire that turned into a three-alarmer quicker than Jake Miller's cows make it back for milking.” That was Vera's lead-off story for the day. I relaxed then, after fearing that news of Agnes would have taken precedence over the Miller's Barn.

“’Course them sad, old gals got no barn for the night,” Vera said in her best editorial voice. I heard Rassie snicker in the background and say something like, “It's udderly ridiculous.”

I listened to the rest of her five-minute daily news spot. Then I dropped the truck into gear and started down the hill in time to hear Vera advertise the potluck at the church before I lost the signal. Bright's Pond had once again found its way onto the airwaves, thanks, I was certain, to Ruth Knickerbocker, who was Vera's sister-in-law and regularly provided news, which made it hard to believe she never said anything at all to Vera about Agnes. And I had no intention of inquiring for fear I’d plant an idea in her brain. I chose to believe that God had closed her mouth on the issue.

By then it was nearly two-thirty. I decided to open the library, even though given the nasty weather, library patrons would be few. Truth is, the library was my city of refuge, and I generally enjoyed it even when I was there all by my lonesome.

Vidalia's lovely house was on the way, and even though she told me she had errands that morning, I stopped outside a minute or two hoping she would come to the door or spy me out one of the large windows. The library might offer me solitude, but I was certain Vidalia Whitaker would offer me sticky buns and coffee.

I looked up at Hezekiah's room. Tangy, orange curtains hung in the window frames like two large, Halloween eyes. I had been in that room before, many years ago. Vidalia's daughter Winifred and I spent hours there listening to the
Beatles and talking about boys and God and periods, swearing that we would never let a boy, “do that to us.” She apparently changed her mind and got married right out of high school, moved to Detroit, and increased the world's population by six. They didn’t start having those babies right away, even though Winifred wanted them. The Lord just didn’t bless her until she turned twenty-seven and then she couldn’t seem to stop. Lonely, I sat in my truck. I missed my friend and wished her mother would come out on the porch and invite me inside like the bygone days.