by Joyce Magnin
“I’m not excited. There is just no reason on God's green earth to stand here discussing some old, stained sweater. This was a funeral home after all, and you’re liable to find anything down there.”
“Okay, okay, Agnes. Please.” I watched her face turn pink, starting at her neck.
Hezekiah shook his head. “I’ll do as you say, Agnes, but I think—”
“Well it don’t matter what you think,” Agnes said.
He carried the bundle back to the basement.
“Make sure he burns that stuff, Griselda.”
Our basement was never a pleasant place because that was where our father prepared bodies for burial. My mother had no trouble going up and down, even bringing Daddy a sandwich or cups of coffee and sitting awhile to chat while he did his job.
“After you seen so many dead, naked bodies,” she had said, “it stops being a problem. It's like they aren’t there anymore.”
The basement smell hit me like a freight train. It was a strange mixture of dust, chemicals, mold, and dampness—if damp had a smell. I had to knock back some cobwebs as I made my way through the maze of rooms. I found Hezekiah in the little room at the south end of the basement. The sweater was laid out over a metal box with the little shoes by it on the floor.
“Make sure you burn that stuff,” I said.
Hezekiah was on his knees rooting through some other boxes. “Griselda, look at these.” He showed me the shoes.
For a second I thought I might have seen them somewhere before but I couldn’t be sure. “Sad, aren’t they? I still think they must have belonged to a child our father buried.”
Hezekiah shook his head. “Why would he have stuffed them in this box?” His foot tapped a small, green, metal box with the word AMMUNITION stenciled in white.
For the first time since Hezekiah's arrival to Bright's Pond I heard softness in his voice, but also uneasiness, almost like the items he found made him nervous.
“He must have had his reasons. Please just burn them and forget about it.”
When I got back to the viewing room I found Agnes straining to get out of bed. “Oh, good, you’re still here. Help me out of this bed. I got to move.”
“Come on.” I grabbed Agnes by her two arms and pulled. She lurched as far forward as she could and tried to throw her legs over the side of the bed. The thick folds of skin were like waves as they rolled off. Once she got to her feet I grabbed her walker and placed it in front of her. Then I grabbed a handle of nightgown behind her and led my sister down the hall.
“So what do you think about it?” I asked.
“What?”
“That sweater.”
Agnes stopped moving and huffed. “I don’t think anything about it. Just an old sweater that got left behind.”
When we reached the kitchen Agnes grabbed a couple of lemon squares off a pretty pink plate on the table. “I do love Cora's lemon squares.”
I waited until she swallowed them. “Let's get you back to bed. You could stand a change of clothes too.” So I arranged Agnes's blankets and helped her into a fresh nightgown—a frilly one with tiny flowers all over it. When she lay down she looked like an acre of tea roses.
“Now I should get to the library.”
“Okay, Griselda. I’m expecting Cora any minute. Or Janeen. Hope they both don’t come at once. I hate it when I have a waiting line.”
I met Janeen on the porch.
“Morning, Griselda,” she said. A gust of wind blew up and knocked her hat to the ground. She bent down. “I’m sure looking forward to seeing Agnes this morning. I got some terrible news, terrible news.”
“Oh, no, what's the matter, Janeen? Is it your health?”
“Not about me at all. It's my sister, and you know about sisters—how special they are.”
I smiled. “Yep, they can be special.”
“Anyway, you know I have a sister, Francine, lives in North Carolina since that no-count husband of hers went there six years ago to raise alpacas or camels or some such nonsense with some guy named Maurice.”
“Yes, I remember you were awful upset when she left.”
“Anyway, it turns out that crumb bum and his—” she made the sign for imaginary quotes “—business partner got into hot water and now they’re both sitting in jail. Seems they were—” she leaned close and whispered “—growing that mari-joo-wana down there.”
“Well, I don’t see what Agnes can do about that.”
“She can pray that Francine comes to the good senses the Lord gave her and come back home where she's loved.”
I nodded and opened the front door. “I think she's waiting for you.”
“Agnes,” Janeen called, “you are not gonna believe …”
That was all I heard. All I wanted to hear.
“Good bye,” I called from the front door.
I parked on top of Hector Street and tuned into the Rassie Harper Show.
“… loyal listeners, two weeks from today, March 27, we are heading to Bright's Pond to bring you an exclusive interview with Agnes Sparrow.”
“That's right, Rassie, and all you folks out there in radio land.” Vera chimed in. “We’re going by remote to the home of Agnes Sparrow, miracle worker and the fattest woman in the Pocono Region.”
“Maybe the whole East Coast,” Rassie said.
They had a good chuckle, and my stomach ached. Why in heaven's name would Agnes have agreed to such a stunt?
“Now on to other news,” said Vera. “I am proud to announce that our own Rassie Harper has arranged for … now I hope some of you are sitting down for this. I know how excited you can get … . Rassie has arranged for the Pearly Gates Singers to appear in Bright's Pond next month, April 12, the Wednesday after Easter.”
She paused a moment, and it sounded like she might have sipped coffee. “So even if you don’t live in Bright's Pond, and I know that's most of you God-fearin’ listeners, you might want to drive on up there and take in the show. Tickets will be sold at the door, first come, first served, so get there early. And stay tuned to this station, WQRT, for more info.”
Then she took a deep breath and moved on to gossiping about some woman named Trina Lovelace who got caught at the Lamplighter Motel with Grant Fingerhut, the owner of the largest Buick dealership in the region.
I dropped the truck into gear and drove the mile and a quarter to the library. It was cold for the middle of March, so I had the heat going full blast. My feet still felt cold. I hit a bump and the glove box fell open spilling most its contents on the floor, including a baggie filled with green stuff.
I pulled over and examined it more closely. It had a pungent, sweet smell but looked a lot like oregano. There was no mistaking it. I was holding a small quantity of grass, weed, reefer, pot. Whatever you called it, it was still illegal.
Now, I know, what a coincidence that Janeen's husband had just gotten nabbed for growing the weed, but it's the truth. Things happened like that sometimes.
My first thought was to take it to Mildred Blessing, but I thought twice on that, what with the upcoming publicity on the Rassie Harper Show. I decided the last thing we needed was some scuttlebutt about us having pot in our possession.
So, I tucked it into my coat pocket, thinking that the only person it could belong to was Hezekiah. I took another whiff. Why in the world would anyone want to smoke it? Zeb tried it in high school and even offered me some out back of the football field while we were cutting Social Studies. I will admit, I took a hit, but I couldn’t hold it in my lungs very long and just blew it out. Ten minutes later I was admiring the fancy buttons on Zeb's shirt.
I stuffed the bag into my pocket, dropped the truck into drive, and headed down the hill toward the library. Headlines flashed in my brain, “Local Librarian Arrested for Possession of Mari-Joo-Wana.”
Nothing eventful happened at the library that day. Mildred Blessing stopped by to peruse the hard-boiled detective novels in the stacks. She loved them, especially Mickey Spillane, a
nd Sam Spade. I wondered if she might have smelled the pot and came snooping. But I was just being paranoid. She checked out two books.
“How's the dog case coming?” I asked as I stamped her books. “Catch him yet?”
“Nah.” She looked pensive. “I had him three days ago, though, sitting in the back of my cruiser, ready to go to the big house, when he lammed on me.”
“You mean he opened the door and escaped?”
A slightly embarrassed look crossed her face. “I stopped at Personal's to check on a disturbance that turned out to be nothing but a trip for biscuits, and when I got back, the mutt was gone.”
“No kidding.”
“If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. Last I heard he was seen tromping through Cora Nebbish's backyard. Took her good linen tablecloth, the one with the tiny eyelets all around it, with him. She put in a report for theft, that's how I know about the eyelets. I’m thinking that canine perp's got an accomplice.”
I smiled with my head down. “Enjoy your books, Mildred.”
She saluted with two fingers and left. “See ya in the funny papers.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had just seen the daring dog in back of the library … or that I had a bag of pot in my pocket.
Five o’clock rolled around, and after the last of the high school kids finished his research, I closed up the library. I stopped at the café on my way home to pick up meals for Agnes and me. I didn’t feel like frying chicken anymore. It looked like a lot of folks had made the same choice. Monday was meatloaf night, and some of the older folks like Jasper York and Harriett Nurse stopped in for a plate. I walked in and the smell of onions and brown gravy hit me. Zeb had been cooking meatloaf all day.
Studebaker and Boris sat at a booth deep in conversation as usual. Sometimes I think those two had designs to take over the world. It was like watching Harry Truman and Dwight D. Eisenhower.
“Hi, Stu. Hi Boris,” I said.
Boris stood like he always did. “Griselda. Nice to see you.”
Studebaker smiled, but I think he was still feeling a little embarrassed about the sign catastrophe. He could hardly look at me.
“Stu was down in Scranton making certain they got the name right this time,” Boris said.
“I heard that,” I said. “You were gone for a quite a little while. Kind of missed you around here.”
“I have family in Wilkes -Barre so I spent some time there — got a sister and two nieces.”
“I’m glad you were able to visit with family, Stu, but please don’t give that sign thing another thought.”
I said hello to Jasper on my way to the back end of the counter. He and Harriett were sitting together waiting for their specials. Lately, Jasper had been getting even more confused and forgetful than usual. He stood when he saw me and saluted like he was still in the army.
“Evening, Colonel,” he said.
I saluted back and moved to the end of the counter where Cora was standing.
“Poor old guy,” she said. “Harriett told me he's been slipping his gears. Thinks the war is still on and he's somewhere in Belgium.”
“Ah, that's really sad.” I shook my head. “I guess we should play along.”
“That's what Doc says. He's trying to get Jasper to go to Greenbrier.”
“Oh, I don’t know if that's the best thing. Harriett’ll take care of him, don’t you think?”
“She isn’t much better. I mean the lights are on, but I don’t think anyone's home. Just a little while ago it took about eight minutes for her to order the meatloaf. Kept forgetting where she was.”
Cora smiled and looked out the diner window a second. “Got to count my blessings. I’m headed down that same road, I suppose.”
“You? You’re still one of the brightest lights in town.”
She grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Thanks to Agnes.”
“Make me up two meatloaf specials to go, will you? I’ll be right back. Need to visit the little girl's room.”
“Sure, I’ll put extra mashed on for Agnes.”
That was when Olivia sashayed past. We were both headed for the ladies room. She was wearing a tight, lime-green sweater and even tighter black pants, cropped at the ankles, and platform shoes with chunky heels that looked like they were made from cork. She threw her hair back as she passed.
“Yo, Griselda,” she said.
“Yo.”
I followed her into the small two-stall restroom. She adjusted her pants and then her sweater. I watched. She put her hands on her waist and examined herself in the small mirror by standing on tiptoes.
“Does this sweater make my breasts look big?”
“Yes.” They were like two large cantaloupes.
“Good.”
She checked her lipstick and fixed her hair so that it lay on her shoulders with just the right amount of natural swoop, all while I watched. Something stirred in the pit of my stomach as she adjusted her sweater, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Some women were just born with beauty and good taste. That gene skipped me entirely. No wonder Hezekiah liked her.
“You know what you need, Griselda? A man. A man to work out some of those kinks in your face. You always look like you’re about to throw up.”
She dropped her lipstick into her purse. “See ya. Hezekiah is meeting me here in a few.”
I washed my hands in the rust-stained sink. The sweater Hezekiah found flashed through my mind. How could he be sure it was blood? Could be anything, including rust from a leaking pipe. Could be that Agnes spilled fudge all over it and didn’t want to tell our mother and she just forgot.
I waited at the counter until Zeb brought me the meat-loaf specials. “Hey, Griselda,” he said. “I gave Agnes extra everything.”
“Thanks, Zeb. Business looks good tonight.”
“Meatloaf night. The old folks love their meatloaf.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “So, when we getting together?”
Olivia, who was sitting close enough to hear, slurped her soda loud enough to draw my attention. She winked.
“I don’t know, Zeb. Got something in mind?”
“They got Dirty Harry showing down at The Crown. Supposed to be a good movie. Clint Eastwood.”
“Go on,” said Olivia, “go see a movie. Do ya some good, Griselda, like I said.” She winked again and then pulled her straw across her lips. “You know you wanna.”
“How about it, Grizzy? You. Me. A movie? Have you home by ten.”
“Not if you get lucky,” Olivia said.
I gave her a glare. “All right, Friday.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I paid Cora for the dinners and left feeling just a little lighter then when I entered, but a little shaky at the knees.
Agnes enjoyed the meatloaf special, eating most of mine as well. I couldn’t eat a bite.
“What's the matter, Griselda, you sick?”
“Nah, just not hungry.”
“How come? You got to eat. You’ll get skinny. Not that you ain’t skinny already.”
I took a bite of the meatloaf. “It's good tonight.”
“Yeah, that Zeb can sure cook. Gonna make some gal a good husband someday.”
“Now why did you say that?”
“What? I’m just saying.”
I swallowed potatoes and poked at my peas. “He asked me out for Friday.”
“You gonna go?”
“Yes.”
Agnes sucked in air and then finished off her meatloaf. “I don’t like being alone at night.”
I felt a sigh rise up in my chest like a wave. It was always about what Agnes wanted, and I wondered if the day would ever come when she’d see that. But I didn’t let on that I was feeling the least bit frustrated.
“I’ll see if Hezekiah can stay with you or maybe Vidalia will come by. You can play Scrabble.”
“Well, okay, Griselda, just so I’m not by myself.”
“I heard Rassie Harper today,” I said, desp
erate to change the subject. “He's advertising your radio show.”
“No kidding. Guess we’ll have a lot of listeners. I’ve been praying about it, and I still don’t know what I’m gonna say.”
Agnes poked at her dessert. “Did Hezekiah burn that stuff?”
“Said he was going to. Why are you so interested? If he said he did, I see no reason to question him.”
“Now there you go getting testy. I just want things cleaned up.”
“I’m not testy, Agnes, but you never had me check on him before.”
She swallowed some ice cream. “You’re right. It's just … those things he found gave me the willies, you know?”
“I know. It's weird. Why would Daddy save those terrible things, if it is what Hezekiah says—blood?”
Agnes dropped the spoon in her bowl. “So Rassie is making a big deal out of the show.”
“Yep, he sure is. And Vera Krug mentioned the Pearly Gates Singers.”
That made her smile. “Oh, good. I’m looking forward to that.”
After I cleaned up the kitchen and called Arthur in for the night I managed to do three loads of laundry. I must have been moving on adrenaline that night. I could hardly think about anything more than Zeb, although it wasn’t entirely pleasant thoughts. I didn’t even know if I liked him like a woman is supposed to like a man.
14
Hezekiah came by early the next morning. He entered the back door as usual while I was making breakfast.
“Did you burn that sweater and shoes?” I asked right off, not giving him a chance to say hello or start another subject.
“Um, sure. Burned to a crisp, Griselda, just like you said. He smiled at me in a way that sent a chill down my spine. “No more evidence.”
“Evidence? What are you claiming?”
“Ah, nothing. I’m just making a joke.”
I heard a long, desperate meow at the door. “Oh, there he is. That cat's been out all night. Would you let him in, Hezekiah?”
Arthur strolled in with a bloody mouse hanging out of his mouth by the tail. Small droplets of blood dotted the linoleum as he walked close to me and dropped it at my feet.
