Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

by Joyce Magnin

  A smile pudged its way through Agnes's lips. “It's okay.”

  For those few minutes it seemed like Agnes had true friends.

  Ruth pulled up the rocking chair, while Vidalia and Cora sat on the sofa. I went to make tea and divvy out the treats the women had brought.

  I chose the pretty dishes our mother recieved as a wedding gift. They were white with tiny, blue flowers. I believe our mother called it the Royal Ascot pattern. I sliced cake and laid out lemon squares on a serving dish and poured tea into the dainty cups with saucers. It was like an impromptu tea party. For the first time that week I felt warm, even though the chilly rain still poured, and the winds whipping through the trees in the backyard sounded like angry ghosts. But as I sat with my friends and Agnes, I thought what a good day it had turned out to be.

  When I got to the viewing room with the tray, Ruth was already telling Agnes and Vidalia all about the radio show. She had apparently been so distraught over it she made a trip into town and visited Vera to get as many details as her brain could hold.

  “… and Vera said not to worry one bit over the remote. It ain’t nothing but a bunch of wires that will come from the station truck that Rassie will park out front.”

  I handed Ruth a cup. “Thank you, Griselda. I was just telling Agnes about Monday.” She sipped. “Um, could use a bit of sugar, if you don’t mind.”

  I dropped a sugar cube into her cup. It made a gentle plopping sound.

  “Anyway, Agnes, like I was saying, Rassie will bring a, well I forget what Vera called it, some contraption or another right inside here.”

  “Console?” Vidalia asked.

  “Yes, yes, that's the word. A console. It will have the microphones and other gizmos he needs to do the show.”

  Agnes swallowed chocolate cake. “It's good. Fudgy.”

  “Thank you,” Ruth said.

  I pulled one of our seldom-used dining room chairs close to Agnes's bed. “So you’re feeling better about it being by remote, Ruth?”

  “Oh, heavens to Betsy, yes, Griselda. I most certainly am feeling better. Why the way Vera explained it, it won’t be much different than an ordinary conversation.” She sipped. “Kind of like we’re doing right now.”

  “Say, wouldn’t that be a fine idea,” Cora said. “We could do our own radio show right from Agnes's room—report on all the miracles and happenings.”

  “Now, hold on,” I said. “Let's not get carried away.”

  Agnes finished the last bite of cake. “Yes, please, let's get through the Rassie Harper Show.”

  “That Rassie can be kind of tough on his guests,” Vidalia said. “I heard he had the wife of the Mayor of Shoops on one day and somehow got her to tell the whole listening audience that Mayor Rattigan wore a toupee. Imagine that? A toupee.”

  We all laughed. “I remember that,” I said. “It's not like it was some huge surprise. Mayor always did look like someone snuck up behind him and plopped a squirrel on his head.”

  “I’m not scared of Rassie Harper,” Agnes said.

  “Goody for you, Agnes,” Ruth said. “We’ll be here at six o’clock. Rassie told Vera his Monday morning audience is one of the biggest on account of people going back to work after the weekend and needing a few laughs.” Ruth grimaced and grabbed Agnes's hand. “I’m sorry, Agnes. I didn’t mean to say they’d be laughing at you.”

  “That's okay, Ruth. I know what you meant. But, why so early?” Agnes adjusted her nightgown.

  “Vera said they had to set up and do sound checks and what not.” Ruth handed me her cup. “Now, you’re both looking sleepy, so we best be going.”

  Cora, who had gotten rather quiet, stood up. “I still wish I could be here and tell that fellow about how Agnes prayed for me with such unwavering faith and devotion and how the good Lord touched my ailing heart.”

  Ruth jumped in. “It might not be such a bad idea, Agnes, to have someone here, like a witness to the miracles. Especially if Rassie gets rude.”

  “It's not about that,” Agnes said.

  “Well, you might not think so, but Rassie will make it about the miracles. Vera told me he might try to get you to admit to being a fraud, right there, on the radio.”

  Agnes coughed. “I’ll be fine, Ruth. Rassie Harper's got no power over me.”

  “Well, you just better be on guard. He's a crocodile, he is. Moves real slow and slinky like, hiding under water, and then all of a sudden—” she snapped her skinny fingers right in Agnes's face “—he bites.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Agnes said. “Now get on home. I need my beauty rest.”

  I watched Ruth, Vidalia, and Cora walk part of the way down the block. The rain had stopped, or I would have piled them all in the truck and made the rounds.

  It was good to see Agnes smile and even take potshots at herself. She had been surly and distant all week long.

  “You feeling better?” I asked just before I turned off the lights. “It was good to see the girls and laugh a little.”

  “It sure was,” Agnes said. “Nothing left to do now, but get ready for Monday. What should I wear?”

  I smiled. “Agnes, it's radio, not TV.”

  “I know that, but there will still be strangers around, and I want to look nice … as nice as I can anyway.”

  We eventually decided Agnes should wear a flowery housecoat, one she could button all the way up, and that she should sit on the couch like a normal person, not lay in bed like an invalid.

  “Tomorrow after church I’ll go over to Gordon's and buy you some new slippers—pink ones with pretty white bows.”

  “But don’t throw out my old ones. I got them broke in just the way I like.”

  “I was thinking I’d have Hezekiah burn them.”

  “Don’t you dare! They might be worn, and Lord knows the heels are flat as a penny, but they’re comfortable.” We both laughed.

  I fell asleep that night thinking that maybe, just maybe, the show would be okay, and so would Agnes.

  It wasn’t until I walked into church and Nettie Barker, one of the teenagers, handed me a palm frond that I realized what day it was. I had been so worried about Agnes and wrapped up with things at home, I hadn’t been paying attention to the calendar. Palm Sunday arrived without notice.

  As usual, I sat with Vidalia who was looking fine in her Navy dress and hat with a small, white veil covering her eyes and nose.

  “Morning,” she said, sliding over so I could sit. “I had a nice time last night. It was so good to see Agnes smile.” Then she nudged my spleen. “And you, too, Griselda. You too.”

  “You know, Vidalia, I was thinking. Agnes did relax, so maybe it truly was some kind of menopausal thing that got her so worked up.”

  “Could be, could be. Those mood swings can be horrendous. One minute you’re feeling fine and the next minute tears are pouring down your face, feeling like you just want to die, and you don’t know why. Terrible curse that menopause. Don’t get me started on those hot flashes.”

  The church filled quickly, and Sylvia started playing All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name as Pastor and the men entered like zombies. By the time Pastor got around to his annual Palm Sunday sermon about Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, I was feeling as fidgety as the children and wanted to get on over to Gordon's and then back to Agnes. I can’t say why for sure, but my heart just wasn’t in the right place that Sunday. I must confess I was getting a little starstruck about the next day's radio show.

  After the final hymn, Hosanna, Loud Hosanna, and the benediction, I took Vidalia's hand. “I got a confession,” I whispered. “I’m really excited about Rassie Harper coming to my house.”

  Vidalia looked me in the eyes. “Why, Griselda Sparrow, you’re getting caught up in celebrity. What would Agnes say?”

  We made it to the back of the church and stood in line to shake the pastor's hand.

  “Nice to see you,” Pastor Speedwell said with a cold fish handshake. I hated that. Weak handshakes gave me
the creeps. “How's Agnes?”

  “She's fine, Pastor, Agnes is fine.”

  “You tell her I was asking for her.”

  “I will.”

  “You tell her I’ll be listening tomorrow.”

  “I will.”

  Ruth came rushing up to us as we stepped outside. “I plum forgot to put it in the bulletin. Potluck is this Wednesday instead of Friday on account of it being Good Friday. Think folks will realize?”

  “Potluck?” I said. “I thought we decided that in months with a holiday we wouldn’t have a congregational dinner?”

  “That's true,” Vidalia said, “but most folks don’t consider Palm Sunday the holiday and Easter isn’t until next week which is April—”

  “And besides that,” Ruth said, “some of the older folks without family nearby said the potlucks are the only celebration they get.”

  I could understand that.

  “So what am I gonna do?” Ruth said.

  “Well, Ruth,” said Vidalia. “Maybe you better start making some phone calls.”

  “Oh, dear me, I know you’re right but I just hate gettin’ on the phone with people, takes forever to get back off.”

  “Would you like me to help?” Vidalia asked.

  “Oh, would you, Vi?”

  “I am on the committee. What say we split the list and even if we miss one or two, word will get around. You know how news travels in Bright's Pond.”

  “I’ll get right on it. This afternoon,” Ruth said. “I don’t want to miss the radio show tomorrow.”

  Vidalia started down the path toward home.

  “I think I’ll just get in the truck,” I said. “I have to go to Gordon's.”

  “Oh, that's fine,” Vidalia said, “I best be getting on home. Winifred and the boys call every Sunday, you know what I mean?”

  “Don’t hang on the phone too long then, you won’t want to miss them. Ruth can make those calls.”

  “No sir, I don’t want to miss my babies.”

  Gordon's was what we called the five- and ten-cent store, a two-floor variety shop selling just about everything a person could need from rolling pins to Dr. Scholl's arch supports. Shep Gordon and his third wife, Stella, owned and operated the store. Stella, a tiny woman with platinum hair who always wore a cowgirl hat with blue rhinestones, sat behind the candy counter dolling out licorice whips, red buttons, Swedish fish, sen sen, candy cigarettes—ten to a box—and, my all time favorite, caramel pinwheels. I used to love to buy a nickel's worth after school.

  I walked into the store. It was open on Sundays from noon to six. Shep was standing at the cash register ringing up a new curtain rod.

  “Afternoon, Griselda,” he called.

  “Hey, Shep.” I kept walking to the shoe aisle. They didn’t carry many brands, and the variety was slim, but if your kid needed a new pair of Keds, Gordon's was the place. Except sometimes he didn’t get Keds in, and you had to settle for something called Pattywinks. I never liked Pattywinks— always got blisters with them.

  I located the slippers and chose a pair I thought Agnes would approve—pink with tiny white bows just like I told her.

  “I heard about the radio show,” Shep said. “I guess Agnes is pretty excited.”

  I handed him a ten-dollar bill for a three-dollar pair of slippers. “I think she is.”

  He gave me my change. “We’ll be listening. Gonna put Bright's Pond on the map, that sister of yours will.”

  As I was getting into my truck I sensed an unkind presence behind me. Eugene Shrapnel, fresh from church in his stiff suit, walked out of the drugstore carrying a little, white paper sack.

  “Mark my words, Griselda. If she goes through with this atrocity tomorrow, there will be hell to pay.”

  “Oh, come now, Eugene. Nobody is gonna have trouble because my sister is going on Rassie Harper's silly little radio show.”

  “She's doing the devil's work. She's recruiting converts to her way over the airwaves—the devil's medium, Griselda, the devil's medium.”

  “Stuff it, Eugene.”

  He backed off and lifted a gnarled finger in the air. “Mark my words.”

  I started the truck and pulled away from the curb, wondering how one small man could have gotten so mean.

  Agnes wasn’t too happy with the slippers—too tight. So I cut the backs and that made all the difference in the world. “Ah, much better,” she said. “But I still like my old ones.”

  I spent the rest of Sunday getting the house cleaned and ready for the morning's onslaught. I had no idea how many people it took to do a radio show, but I figured on at least ten, including Agnes and me.

  Agnes had me make blueberry muffins and an egg casserole in case they were hungry, and I made certain there was enough coffee. Vidalia stopped by in the evening to help where she could and was followed by Ruth and Cora. Even Zeb dropped over with pie.

  “Too bad Jack fed the Jesus pie to the birds,” he said. “I would get a kick out of Rassie seeing it.”

  That's pretty much how the evening went. Folks kept showing up at the door with food and offering their help. Most tried to get a shot at being on the show as a witness for Agnes.

  By nine the people cleared out, and Agnes started to yawn and get quiet. Then Stu showed up.

  “Can I come in, Griselda?”

  “Stu, I was wondering when you’d stop by to plead your case.”

  “My case?”

  “Yes, to be on the radio show tomorrow and tell the world how Agnes healed you of your cancer.”

  “That's not why I’m here, but now that you mention it, maybe—”

  “Stu.”

  “Okay, okay. I really came to apologize.” He wiped a knit hat off his head.

  “Apologize?”

  “For the sign disaster. I’ve been feeling so terrible over it, and I wanted to tell Agnes.”

  “Well, I was getting her ready for bed.”

  “I won’t be but a minute. I never apologized and what with the show and all.”

  “Come on in.” I stepped aside and let him walk in front of me.

  The radio show had stolen some of Studebaker's thunder about the sign. He leaned down and kissed Agnes's cheek. “I never said I was sorry about the sign mistake.”

  “It's okay, Stu,” Agnes said. “I never cared that much about it. You know that.”

  “I know, but we all did, and I just wanted to tell you that I tried to get the sign here in time for the radio show. I thought maybe Rassie would unveil it right on the air.”

  “Oh, Stu,” I said. “I thought you were really sorry and maybe gonna stop this nonsense.”

  “Stop it?” Stu shook his head. “Why would I do that? It's been bought and paid for and will be arriving this Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday?” Agnes said. “That didn’t take too long.”

  “What do you think about another unveiling celebration? Maybe right before the next potluck. This time I made sure those boys got your name right, Agnes.”

  Agnes took a shaky breath and reached for her inhaler.

  “Maybe now isn’t a good time to discuss this, Stu,” I said. “Agnes has a big day tomorrow.”

  “Well, that's just it. I thought maybe Rassie could at least talk about the unveiling. Really play it up, you know?”

  I saw that Agnes was getting agitated so I took Stu's hand and led him toward the front door. “We’ll have to discuss it at the next town meeting.”

  “But that ain’t until next month, Griselda.”

  “That’ll suit us fine. Good night, Stu.”

  After he left Agnes and I had a little chuckle. I tucked her into bed. “Maybe you should take a pill tonight,” I said.

  “No, not tonight. It’ll give me a headache in the morning, and I got a big enough one already.”

  “Still? I’m sorry, Agnes. Guess it was all the late night hoopla.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Have you figured out what you might tell the world about the
great Agnes Sparrow?”

  “Phooey on that talk, Griselda, you know better than that. I am not the great Agnes Sparrow. I am not Houdini with a Bible doing tricks.”

  “This town sure thinks you’re pretty amazing.”

  “I know and it pains me. Sometimes I wish I never …” She paused. “You know, I think that's most of what I’m gonna say tomorrow, come to think of it. I’m gonna tell folks how God has blessed Bright's Pond, not me.”

  “They’ll still claim it was you. You and your prayers.”

  “I’m just the intercessor. We all know that, I hope. God works the miracles and that's what I got to say.”

  17

  I rushed down the stairs at quarter after five the next morning. “Agnes, they’re gonna be here in less than an hour.”

  Agnes was propped up with two pillows behind her and one under each arm. She clutched her M&Ms jar. “I ain’t doing it, Griselda.”

  “What?” My forehead wrinkled like a cotton tablecloth.

  “That gall darn radio show. I changed my mind.”

  “You can’t change your mind now, Agnes. Those folks are on their way. They planned on this.”

  “Phooey. Rassie Harper can just make other plans.”

  “I don’t understand. What changed your mind?”

  “It just ain’t right tooting my own horn and telling the world about the miracles. It shouldn’t come from my mouth.”

  “Didn’t I say that? Didn’t I say we can’t start advertising this all over the place? Isn’t that why we tried to stop that whole sign thing? Wish you’d just have listened to me from the beginning.”

  “That's right. I know and I’m sorry. My prayers are between me and God, nobody else.”

  I flopped onto the red sofa. “What in tarnation am I gonna tell Rassie Harper?”

  “Tell him the truth. Tell him Agnes Sparrow is not for sale. Tell him I got my reasons for praying, and God's got his reasons for answering, and it ain’t nobody else's beeswax.”

  I took about ninety choppy breaths and started to hyperventilate. Agnes pointed to her oxygen. I declined with a wave.