by Joyce Magnin
“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.
7
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.
“Hello, Griselda.”
I rolled down the truck window and waved at Vidalia, who stood in the doorway.
“Come on up,” she called. “I just put on a fresh pot, and I got some sticky buns warming in the oven.”
I clomped up the newly shoveled porch steps and went inside.
“Now unwrap yourself from all that winter garb,” Vidalia said. “Let me take a good look at you. Too much commotion down at Zeb's this morning to really see you, you know what I mean?”
Vidalia often added, “You know what I mean?” after her sentences. It wasn’t that she thought folks seriously didn’t understand her. It was a way of making an emphasis.
“I look the same now as I did this morning.”
“Maybe not. You look a bit peaked.”
I hung my coat and hat and scarf on the oak hall tree, left my sopping boots near a hot radiator that hissed a little, and followed Vidalia into the kitchen. Her house was similar to the others in the area—a large Queen Anne with lots of wood, charm, and drafts.
“Let me just get the sticky buns out of the oven,” she said. “It's a good morning for them.”
The nutty, brown aroma of cinnamon, butter, and walnuts wafted around the room and wrapped me like a warm blanket.
“I suppose I am feeling a little … down. It's all this sign talk.”
“Um, I can understand that.” She placed china cups and saucers rimmed with tiny pink roses on the table. “But like my Drayton always said, ‘You can’t fight city hall.’”
“I keep trying, but it seems the louder I scream the more hardheaded Studebaker and Boris get.”
“Men.”
Vidalia sat down and slathered butter onto a sticky bun. It melted and dripped down the sides onto the plate. A raisin fell and landed in the tiny butter pool. She plucked it up and ate it. “Go on, Griselda. Put some butter on that bun.”
I ripped off a corner of the square roll and noticed she had given me the middle piece—the only one that was soft on all four sides. “Now they’re talking about having a statue built by that Filby Pruett,” I said with my mouth full. I didn’t even really know Filby all that well but just the thought of him chiseling and hammering out a graven image of Agnes turned my stomach against him.
“Mercy me.” Vidalia clicked her tongue and shook her head while pouring coffee into her cup. “I can’t believe it.”
“You can believe it. I just don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Vidalia added a splash of half and half to her coffee, stirred, and then tapped her spoon against the rim of the cup. She took a sip and held it in her mouth for a second. “What you’re gonna do?” She clicked her tongue. “My, my, my, Griselda. Ever think that maybe this isn’t your problem?”
“Not my problem? But, Vidalia, Agnes has no one else looking after her, not really, not in the way she needs.”
“I hear that, darlin’, I’m just saying you got to let it rest in God's hands sometimes while you carve out your own life, you know what I mean?”
“No time. Agnes needs me. It's not like she can go romping down to the town hall and make her case. I just hoped folks would understand and—”
She grazed my hand with a light touch. “Griselda, Agnes is in the hollow of God's palm. He isn’t gonna drop her.”
I finished my sticky bun. “God must have some huge hands.”
Vidalia's words stuck in my brain that week, and I pondered them from time to ti
me as I went about my routine. Every time I brought Agnes a meal or sat down to play Scrabble I considered her words. What was my life without Agnes? And how could she fight city hall without me?
By Friday I still wasn’t able to shake Vidalia's words from my brain, but I hunkered down to business as usual, accepting what was as things that couldn’t be changed.
Old Man Winter decided to tease us and allow a warm front over the mountains. By warm I mean the temperature had risen to nearly forty degrees. I opened my bedroom window and filled my lungs with the sharp, cool air. Spring was on its way, and soon I would be searching for the first yellow or purple crocus to poke its head through the snow.
Even though it was only seven in the morning, Hezekiah was already hard at work, chopping firewood in the backyard. I stood at the window and watched him sling the axe far over his head and bring it down neatly and cleanly, splitting the wood. It made a nice sound, an honest but hollow sound that echoed around the yard—the slow heartbeat of a lonely man. Hezekiah never told me, and, as far as I knew, Agnes either, what it was that put him on the streets, and for some reason or another, that morning, it no longer mattered. Like Vidalia said about her Drayton, “some stones are better left unturned.”
I carried Arthur down the steps and tossed him out the front door. “And don’t bring me any prizes today.”
“That cat will never stop his killing ways,” called Agnes. “It's in his blood.”
I helped Agnes sit up. She coughed and sputtered more than usual that morning. “You all right?” I patted her back.
“Fine.” She coughed.
“I’ll open a window. It's a little warmer this morning. You could use some oxygen in here.”
Agnes took another labored breath. “Bacon and eggs would be good today.”
It was that kind of morning, the kind of morning when the smell of bacon frying and coffee percolating made everything else seem right and good.
Hezekiah clomped into the kitchen carrying an armload of freshly chopped oak and setting down snowy footprints. “Morning, Griselda.”
“Good morning. A fire might not be the best idea today. Agnes is having trouble breathing, and that’ll just make it harder.”
“Oh, sure. I’ll stack this on the back porch then.”
“Are you hungry?” I laid six more slices of bacon in the pan anticipating his answer.
“I could do with a bite.”
“How’d you like your eggs?”
“Scrambled is good.”
That was good. I had intended on scrambling them anyway.
Agnes preferred three eggs and a slice of toast for each one. She could eat bacon like a lumberjack and cherry Danish until the cows came home. Every once in a while I got the feeling there was a little unspoken competition going on between Agnes and Hezekiah, and more often than not, Agnes out ate him.
We finished breakfast and Agnes began to pray, asking the Lord for good health for me and Hezekiah and for a good day all around town.
“And Lord,” she said, “thank you for the warmth of your blessed sunshine today. Amen.”
I dropped plates in the sink, put away the food, and made certain Agnes had enough tuna salad for lunch. She liked it with a bag of Fritos, chocolate chip cookies, and milk. Hezekiah had started getting her lunch for her, which meant I didn’t have to leave the library all day if I didn’t want too.
Arthur mewled at the back door. Hezekiah let him in.
“There you are. Hungry?” I asked. He slid through my legs.
“Okay, okay.”
I slopped food into his bowl and changed his water.
“Sometimes I think that cat is your best friend,” Hezekiah said. He stood at the kitchen doorway. I wasn’t about to agree with him or tell him that I often preferred Arthur's company to that of any human.
“Not really. He's just a stray that came knocking one day, looking for a handout.”
Hezekiah lowered his eyes. “Well, I can say this much for us strays … we’re nothing if not loyal.”
I pulled a loaf of wheat bread from the breadbox and plopped it on the table. “She might not like tuna on wheat, but I don’t want to go to the store this morning.”
“I’ll go.” He smiled. “Us strays know how to be thankful.”
“Good. Now I better get to work. Keep going in the basement and—”
“Yes, ma’am, I got it covered.”
“I was going to say … and that drip under the kitchen sink isn’t getting any better.”
I put on my coat and scarf and sat on the couch to pull on my boots.
“You walking today?” Agnes asked. Her voice was raspy.
“No, I’ll take the truck, and you make sure you take your medicine.”
“Worrywart.”
“Just do it. Got any visitations today?”
“I told Cora to stop by, and goodness me, there might be more folks.” She looked toward the window. “Open the curtains, Griselda, so I can see, and don’t forget my pens and notebook.”
I sucked in air and opened the drapes. The sun reflected off the snow and glinted through the glass. Flurries fell and rode the air currents like tiny ladies with parasols. Ice crystals gleamed like diamonds in the yard.
“It's like living inside a snow globe,” said Agnes.
8
I had just finished the morning mail at the library and picked up a publisher's catalog when Hezekiah bolted through the door.
“It's Agnes!” he hollered. “You better come.”
I dropped the magazine and caught my breath. “What happened?”
“I … I don’t know. She just all of a sudden started having a terrible time breathing.” Hezekiah huffed and puffed like dogs chased him all the way to the library. But I suppose the first time seeing Agnes in distress would cause anyone to tremble and run.
“Asthma. It's her asthma. Did you call the doc?”
“Sure did, Griselda. He just got there when I came to get you.”
I pulled on my coat, and we headed for my truck. “She’ll be all right, Hezekiah. This happens every now and again. The doctor will take care of it.”
Thankfully, Old Bess started up without complaint, and Hezekiah and I were back at the house in less than five minutes. I saw Doc's Dodge Dart parked on the lawn. He had a way of taking emergency license when it came to parking, saying, “Sometimes a few seconds can make the difference between life or the big house.”
Doctor Samuel Flaherty was a small, middle-aged man who wore perfectly round glasses on his not so perfectly round face. He was pretty much bald except for two tufts of gray hair above each ear. His wife and nurse, Grace, left him a few years back. She ran off with a drug salesman from Binghamton. Doc never bothered to hire or marry a new one.
“Doc,” I called the second my feet landed inside our house. “Is she all right?”
“I got here in plenty of time, Griselda.”
I sloughed off my coat and went to my sister. Her face was redder than an Empire apple, and the elastic bands of the breathing machine sank into her cheeks. I’d seen this before, but Hezekiah looked in shock. I suppose a fat woman with tiny frightened eyes, breathing into an oxygen mask, could shock a person.
“She’ll need the nebulizer twice a day for a week,” Doc said. “Don’t let her tell you otherwise.”
I looked at Agnes and smiled like I always did at those times. The little machine buzzed like a mosquito on the table next to her. I patted her hand and pushed stray hairs away from her sweaty face. She was breathing pretty steady now. Agnes hated the nebulizer even though it was probably the one thing in the room that did more to keep her alive than any other. Talking was still too strenuous, so her eyes did the pleading.
I shook my head. “A few more minutes, Agnes. Then you can take it off.”
Hezekiah stood on her other side and held her hand. “That's right, Agnes, a few more minutes.”
“Do you know what triggered it this time?” I asked Doc.
“Not yet
. I didn’t have time to ask questions. I sure am glad Hezekiah was here though.” Doc stuck the ends of his stethoscope into his ears and listened to Agnes's chest.
“It's a wonder I can hear anything through all this gall darn blubber, Agnes,” he said. Doc was the only person in Bright's Pond who could talk to Agnes with such honesty.
I patted Agnes's shoulder. “You always get through these episodes, so hang in there a little longer and let the medicine do its work.”
Agnes nodded and closed her eyes.
“Fifteen more minutes,” Doc said. Then he called me aside.
“I’m going to give you another prescription. I think your sister has been getting herself all worked up lately, and like I told you both, Griselda, stress can trigger this kind of attack.”
“It's that blasted sign and now they’re talking about a statue. I don’t know what else is bothering her but she's seemed a trifle out of sorts these days.”
I looked over and saw Agnes shaking her head. She popped the clear, plastic mask off her face. “It has nothing to do with that silly old sign—” She wheezed and took a second to catch her breath. “I don’t give a hang about it anymore. Let them do what they want. It was the pickles.”
“Pickles?” I said. “Agnes, you know you can’t eat pickles. What in tarnation made you eat pickles?”
She snatched the mask from her mouth and nose. “I … I wanted a … a pickle.” Even with her breath getting caught somewhere between her bronchial tubes and her lips she was vehement.
Doc replaced the mask and it instantly fogged up as Agnes breathed in the medicine. “I said fifteen minutes. And I warned you about food triggers. Of all things Agnes, you’ve got to be mindful of the foods you eat.”
She talked through the mask. “It was one gherkin, Doc. One.”
“One gherkin will kill you, Agnes. Imagine that on your headstone. Here lies Agnes Sparrow, who died from eating a pickle.”
“Hezekiah,” I said, “I don’t expect you to know everything that can set off my sister like that but in the future … no pickles.”
“I’m sorry, Griselda.”
