Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

by Joyce Magnin

Ruth said hello to Agnes from the entryway. She took my hand. “Can we talk in the kitchen,” she whispered.

  “I suppose, but why so secretive?”

  “Just don’t want Agnes to hear.”

  I shot Agnes a quizzical look; she shot one back and waved me on, knowing full well I’d tell her anyway. Ruth and I sat at the kitchen table with coffee and pie.

  “How did this come about?” I asked. “The Pearly Gates only go to big towns like Scranton and Philadelphia.”

  “Rassie Harper arranged it. I let on that I was gonna do his show by that remote thing. You know … me and Agnes, right here in the viewing room, if he could get the Pearly Gates Singers to come.”

  “But you said you didn’t want to go on the radio.”

  “I ain’t. Rassie and Vera don’t know I ain’t gonna do it. By the time I tell them, everyone will be expecting the Pearly Gates Singers, and Rassie wouldn’t dare cancel and make a lot of people unhappy, especially after the Pearly Gates get it on their schedule and all. They’ll expect to be paid, you know.” She sipped coffee and swallowed hard. “I went right directly home from church instead of stopping out anywhere, like I usually do, and the phone was ringing off the wall when I got inside. It was Rassie Harper telling me he arranged for them to come and now I had to get Agnes.” She slapped the table and laughed.

  “Why, Ruth Knickerbocker, you’re positively sly.”

  “Like Lucy Ricardo. I just had to give them the what for after the way they laughed at Agnes.”

  I couldn’t help myself and I started to laugh like I hadn’t laughed in a long time. “We got to tell Agnes,” I said. “She’ll get a kick out of it.”

  “Does she know what happened on the show Wednesday?”

  “No, but that's all right. She’ll be good-natured about it.”

  “You don’t suppose there's a chance she’ll want to go on the radio show, do you?”

  I swallowed the last drop of my Maxwell House. “That's just silly talk. Agnes won’t go on Rassie's show.”

  Ruth finished her pie while I went out back and found Arthur. He was up one of the dogwoods, trying to grab a robin.

  “You come down from there, you mean old varmint.” I tossed a stone past his head. He leapt to the ground and ran into the house.

  “Maybe it would be better if you told her,” said Ruth as we walked to the viewing room.

  Agnes didn’t have quite the reaction I expected. No, sir, she didn’t. Ruth slid out of the rocker and onto her hiney, and I had the sudden sensation that Hades had just frozen over.

  12

  “I’ll do it,” Agnes said. “I’ll go on the show.”

  That was when Ruth fell off her rocker and landed with a thud on the floor.

  “But Agnes … “I helped Ruth back to her seat. “I thought you were against the publicity and—”

  “I’m not gonna do it for that reason. I think the good Lord's purposes can be served quite nicely over the airwaves—just like Sheila Makefield and the PTL Club.”

  Ruth straightened herself and regained her composure. “But, Agnes, that Rassie Harper—he just wants to poke fun at you. And that miserable sister-in-law of mine too. They aren’t believers. They’re just out to make fun and laugh at your—”

  “My size?” Agnes said. “Call me a shyster? A fraud miracle worker?”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Agnes, but it's the truth.”

  “I know what they want. And name-calling never troubled me. I was listening to you in the kitchen, and what's more I was listening to Rassie's show Wednesday.” She looked at me. “I’m not exactly living in a cave, Griselda. I know what's what.”

  “How come you didn’t say anything?”

  “No need … till now.”

  Agnes took a breath that struggled to get into her lungs. “You tell Vera to tell Rassie to set it up and I’ll be here.”

  Ruth looked scared. “It's by remote. I don’t know what that means exactly. I mean we aren’t gonna have to put wires on our heads like they did with Bubba?”

  Bubba was Ruth's dead husband—inoperable brain tumor. He started falling down for no good reason and then went completely deaf in one ear before he saw the doctor. By then it was too late. Agnes prayed but God needed Bubba in heaven, and Ruth took much comfort in knowing her Bubby Hubby, as she called him, was there, helping out wherever he could. That's how Bubba was—a helpful man, a carpenter by trade, and Ruth figured God needed help building all those mansions.

  I was always amazed at the human brain's capacity for turning tragedy into a comfortable resting place.

  “Wires on our heads?” Agnes laughed. “Of course not, Ruth. They’ll probably put an antenna outside and run wires into the house.”

  “Kind of like a makeshift radio station in the house,” I said, “with microphones and dials and stuff.”

  “Well, I don’t like it,” Ruth said. “I just wanted to get the Pearly Gates Singers to town.”

  “And you did,” Agnes said. “They’ll be here next month. Just think. The Pearly Gates Singers … here in Bright's Pond … April, 1972. Something to tell the grandkids about, don’t you think?” Agnes's countenance dropped when she said it.

  “Maybe we can find a way for you to see them.” I patted my sister's hand.

  “That's okay, Griselda. Just knowing they’re here will be fine.”

  Ruth left a little while later with the funniest look on her face. “I’m sorry, Griselda, I didn’t expect all this, but if Agnes is happy about it, then I guess we should be too.”

  “I don’t know if happy is the word for it, but at least she isn’t jumping mad, you know?”

  Agnes had been eating M&Ms and washing them down with orange juice —a combination that made me sick to think about.

  “I don’t get it, Agnes,” I said. I started pulling the sheets off her bed.

  “What? I like M&Ms and orange juice.”

  “No, not that. You were dead set against the sign and now that doesn’t trouble you anymore and now this radio show.”

  Agnes reached for her inhaler. “I decided to give the people what they want, Griselda. It's just easier that way.”

  “Easier doesn’t make it right.”

  I carried the bedclothes into the laundry and put fresh ones on Agnes's bed: blue and yellow striped ones. “There you go. Let's get you back to bed. You’ve been on that sofa all day.”

  “I am getting tired. What time is it, anyway?”

  I looked at the clock on the mantle. “My goodness, Agnes, it's nearly five-thirty.”

  “I thought I was ready for dinner.”

  I put a tray of fish sticks into the oven and unwrapped a macaroni and cheese Janeen brought by. I was just cutting the stalks off of a bouquet of broccoli when the doorbell rang.

  “Cora,” I said, “what brings you by?”

  “I just heard all about the Pearly Gates Singers and Agnes going on Rassie Harper's radio show. It's all the talk down at the Full Moon. I had to come by. I want to be on the show too.” She pushed past me. “Agnes,” she said, “I want to be on the radio with you. I got to tell everyone about my miraculous heart healing.”

  The next thing I knew, Zeb, Janeen Sturgis, and Edie Tompkins were in the viewing room, shouting reasons why they should be on the radio show too. Five minutes after they arrived Boris Lender, Ivy Slocum, and Hazel Flatbush came with their own reasons for being on the show. Forty minutes later I remembered the fish. It was burnt to a crisp. You should never over bake Mrs. Paul's.

  I could believe it of the others, wanting to horn in on the radio show, but Zeb? He didn’t seem the type to me, but ever since the Jesus pie incident he had been acting a little bit weird and flighty like he had been given some special notoriety that entitled him.

  Agnes did a good job of quelling the crowd and pretty much told them that under no circumstances would she have them on the radio show. But I had a sneaking suspicion they were going to try.

  “The idea isn’t to proclaim our glory,”
she said. “I don’t want nooooo boasting over healed bodies or paid-up mortgages or even Jesus pie. I just want to tell people whatever the Lord sees fit to proceed from my mouth that day. My mouth—not yours. And not Rassie Harper's, either.”

  Disappointed, but eager to hear Agnes on the radio, the folks left. Agnes and I ate spaghetti with sauce. We had plenty of desserts, seeing as how everyone who stopped by brought something, including a cherry cobbler that went down tart, but landed sweet in my stomach. Arthur didn’t seem to mind that the fish was burnt.

  The next day, Monday morning, Hezekiah showed up for work—oblivious to any of the preceding day's activities or surprises.

  “Morning, Griselda,” he said, coming in the back door with an arm full of wood as usual. “Should I make a fire for Agnes? I’ll be here most of the day to tend it.”

  It was another cold Pocono Mountains morning, and a fire would be cozy, but I was still concerned about Agnes's breathing.

  “I’m not sure it's a good idea with her breathing and all.”

  “I heard that,” called Agnes, “I’d like a fire. I’m breathing just fine. Morning, Hezekiah.”

  “Good morning,” he called.

  I went back to stirring oatmeal. “You heard her. Just keep an eye out today and make sure she uses that nebulizer.”

  “I will, Griselda.” I deliberately avoided asking him where he was the day before. It really wasn’t any of my business.

  He brushed by me just barely touching my shoulder with one of the logs. A splintered piece snagged my sweater.

  “I’m sorry, Griselda. Did I get you with a piece of wood?”

  “Yeah, just a second, you caught my sweater.”

  I unstuck the wood as he stood close enough to me that I could smell his toothpaste.

  “Did I ruin your pretty sweater?”

  “No. I’ll just pull the thread through the back.”

  He looked right into my eyes for a second, and I felt my heart beat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can be all feet sometimes.” He smiled and headed for the viewing room. That was when I noticed Hezekiah was wearing a brand new pair of black shoes and white socks. Looked like the Society had paid him a visit.

  I heard the dried oak he was carrying fall to the floor.

  “A fire would be pleasant,” Agnes said.

  “I’ll have her going in just a few minutes.”

  Then I heard him balling up newspaper, and before I could get breakfast to Agnes he had a fire roaring. I will admit it felt nice on my face. Arthur found a spot on the hearth.

  We all ate breakfast together, and Agnes, although I think she was champing at the bit, waited until I cleaned up the dishes before mentioning the Pearly Gates Singers to Hezekiah. He wasn’t all that impressed.

  “I never heard of ’em,” he said. “Any good?”

  Agnes chuckled. “I think they’re the best gospel singers around. I hear them on the radio and occasionally on Sheila Makefield.”

  “I’m glad for you, then,” Hezekiah said. “I hope they put on a good concert, except how—”

  “How will I get there?” Agnes beat him to the punch. “I won’t get there, but I’m sure the men will rig up a speaker and pipe it into the house. That's what they did that time the evangelist Billy Bray came by. You remember that Griselda, although I’m sure I’ll enjoy the Pearly Gates more.”

  I did remember. It was about three years ago and it worked out kind of nice for Agnes. Pastor Speedwell and Studebaker connected a wire from the church microphone to a speaker they set up just inside our front door. Pastor measured too short and the wire was cut wrong but it didn’t matter. Agnes said later that Billy Bray screamed so much she probably didn’t even need the speaker. She might have been right. The church rafters shook that night, and Fred Haskell got saved, baptized, and made a member of the church all in one fell swoop. Agnes had been praying for his salvation, and Fred ran right over after the service, leaping and jumping up a storm on account of getting “his ticket to paradise,” as he called it, thanks to Agnes.

  Hezekiah excused himself. “I better get on down the basement. I’m starting on that little room today.”

  Agnes screwed up her face. “Now remember, I’m pretty sure most of what you’ll find in there is just a bunch of stained rags and trash. You can just burn it all.”

  “No problem, Agnes. I’ll have it clean as a whistle in no time.”

  Hezekiah headed for the basement.

  “I was dying to ask him where he was all day yesterday,” Agnes said. “Weren’t you?”

  An image of Hezekiah with Olivia flashed in my brain. “No, not really.”

  Agnes grabbed her notebook and pens and Bible. “I’m expecting Cora and Janeen today. I think Cora just needs some reassurance, and I can’t figure out what Janeen wants. She called me Saturday and said it was of vital importance.”

  “Hard to tell with her. Could be a hangnail or a misplaced bobby pin.”

  “Sometimes folks just need a sounding board,” Agnes said.

  “I forgot there was something I wanted to tell Hezekiah. That leak upstairs is back; maybe he can help Fred fix it once and for all.”

  “Okay, I got to get to my notebook. I’m gonna add the Pearly Gates Singers.”

  “Good idea.” But before I could get to the cellar the doorbell chimed. Thinking it was either Janeen or Cora I opened the door. It was Filby Pruett.

  “Morning, Griselda. I need a couple more shots of Agnes. Close-ups. I want to get her face just right.”

  I heard Agnes grumble.

  “Let me see if she wants to have you in.”

  “Tell her it's important if I’m going get the statue finished by Memorial Day.”

  “Memorial Day?”

  “Yes, that's what Studebaker said. He wants to unveil it at the Memorial Day celebration.”

  I watched the little twerp contain a snicker. I got the distinct impression that Filby was not in the project for love of Agnes.

  “Just a minute,” I said.

  Agnes was already shaking her head no when I went inside.

  “What should I tell him?”

  “Just tell him to use what he's got. I don’t want my picture taken anymore.”

  It didn’t matter. Filby was standing behind me with his camera poised and ready to flash.

  “Please, Agnes, just two pictures. One head-on and one profile. Then I’ll be gone.”

  “Make it quick,” she said.

  “Well, I am sorry, Agnes,” Filby said, “it's a lot of face, and I can’t seem to get some of them neck folds exactly right.”

  “Filby,” I said, sounding like a scolding mother.

  “Ah, it's all right,” Agnes said. Then she burped.

  I pushed some stray hairs behind her ears and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Filby snapped his pictures and left without saying another word. Or taking a breath.

  “Now I got to go, Agnes. Hezekiah will get your lunches today. I’m expecting the high schoolers again later, but I’ll be home for dinner—fried chicken tonight, I think.”

  Agnes dug her hand into her candy jar. “That's fine.” She opened her notebook, and I watched her write Pearly Gates Singers and the date they were coming.

  After I pushed the logs back in the fireplace and added two more I put my hat and coat on and had my hand on the door when Hezekiah sneaked up behind me. I turned around with a start. “You scared me, Hezekiah.”

  He held a bundle of fabric. It looked like an old faded baby blue sweater with mother-of-pearl buttons, covered with some kind of large dark stain.

  “What's that?” I asked, still examining his puzzled look.

  “I can’t say with any certainty, although I’m pretty sure it's a lady's sweater. I found it in that old World War II ammunition box in that little room down there.”

  “So?”

  “Well, look at it, Griselda. That ain’t chocolate sauce all over it, and someone went to a lot of trouble to hide it down there.”

&nbs
p; “Then what is it?”

  “Looks like dried up blood to me. Especially if I turn it over and look under here. It's still discolored but look—” he pushed it toward me— “it sure looks like blood.”

  “What? Well maybe it belonged to my father and—”

  “Nah, your father kept his stuff too neat, and I don’t think corpses bleed all that much.”

  “Then my mother.”

  “Could be, but it still doesn’t make sense to hide it.”

  “Then just burn it with everything else. I’m sure it's nothing.”

  “It's a lot of blood, Griselda, and that ain’t all. I found shoes down there with the same stain—girl's shoes.”

  My heart started to pound. “Maybe my father had to work on an accident victim and that was what she was wearing.”

  Hezekiah looked past me a second. “That sounds logical. But like I said, your father wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of hiding this stuff.”

  I grabbed the sweater from Hezekiah. “Maybe Agnes knows something, even though I think you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

  Agnes had her eyes closed and her hands on her opened King James. “Agnes,” I said, “Hezekiah found this downstairs. Do you know anything about it?”

  She opened her eyes. For the briefest second I thought I saw horror cross her face.

  13

  “Is that what you two were discussing just now? Agnes said. “I never saw it before.”

  I shook my head. “Me neither. I think Daddy must have left it there—used it for a rag or something.”

  “Probably.” Agnes squirmed like she did when her legs ached. “Just burn it with the other garbage. And the shoes too.”

  Hezekiah looked at the sweater. “Seems to me a sweater this bloody should have a reason, a good reason. And those shoes … someone, a little girl, I think, was walking in blood. They ain’t no bigger than this—” he held out his fingers about six inches apart— “and they got buckles, stretched out buckles, and the heels are all crushed.”

  Agnes took a rattled breath. “Just get rid of it, Hezekiah. There ain’t no use in standing here second guessing who, what, or why.”

  “Don’t get so excited, Agnes,” I said, “or you’ll get into a coughing jag.”