Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

by Joyce Magnin

  “And who are you, sir?” he asked.

  Eugene squirmed closer, taking tiny steps with his crooked cane. “My name is not important. I am God's agent, here to say that you all better stay away from that woman.”

  “But why?” Rassie asked. “Please, sir, speak into the mic.”

  “I just said it, young fella. Agnes Sparrow is in league with the devil.”

  “You mean the miracles never happened?”

  Eugene cackled. “I ain’t saying that … ain’t saying that at all. Miracles do happen, wonders do occur, but they ain’t from the Lord God Almighty.”

  Vera looked shaky. “Then who?” she asked.

  “The devil. Satan hisself has dominion in this world. Satan hisself, that's who.”

  Rassie sat back down and started to laugh. “Oh, come now. I don’t believe in any of this stuff. Satan is a myth like Santa Claus.”

  Eugene's shifty eyes burned. “I been telling these folks the sky is gonna fall if they keep up with Agnes Sparrow. You mark my words. The sky will fall.”

  Then he shook a finger at Rassie. “Leave now, before you get swayed to their side.”

  The café fell silent, except for Hazel Flatbush, who started to cry. “I just come in for scrambled eggs and toast. I had such a morning with my boys, I only wanted some peace and quiet and eggs I didn’t have to scramble myself … and … and I wasn’t expecting this.”

  Cora comforted Hazel with a raspberry Danish and more coffee with a shot of whipped cream. “There, there, dear, it's all okay.”

  Ruth moved next to Hazel. “You eat your eggs, honey.”

  I pulled myself up to my full height and said, “Now you see what this has started? Get on out of here, Eugene.”

  “The man is entitled to his opinion,” Rassie said.

  “Maybe so,” Zeb hollered from the kitchen, “but he's the only one who believes that bilge water he spews.”

  Rassie ignored him and said something about a station break and twisted a couple of dials on the console.

  “Well, how about this?” Rassie said. “How come Griselda here ain’t fat like her sister? And how come she don’t have the gift? Does God only give it to fat people? Maybe the weird little man is right. Maybe you are all in league with the devil.”

  Just then one of the men who came with Rassie twisted some knobs and an eerie, haunted house sound floated through the café.

  Zeb pushed through the quieting crowd. “Maybe you better go, Mr. Harper.”

  Rassie flipped a couple of buttons on the console and whipped off his headphones. “You can’t kick me out. I’ve got a show to do.”

  Zeb moved a step closer. “But this is my café, and I can pull the plug on your show.”

  Rassie and Vera exchanged glances. Vera said, “Maybe we better pack up before it gets too ugly.”

  “I need to call the station before those commercials end. Tell them to put on a Best of Rassie Harper.”

  “Go on, make your call and then pack up,” Zeb said. “You got no right coming here and making fun of Agnes like that.”

  There was some grumbling from the folks who didn’t get a chance to speak into the microphone, but they made way for Rassie and Vera and their crew to leave. I stood to the side and watched Zeb give Rassie a Full Moon pie on the sly. “Be sure to mention it on your show.”

  18

  Ruth and I sat in the truck for a while that morning. I needed to catch my breath. The previous few hours had left me feeling like I’d been taken down to Peevy's sausage factory and run through the grinder. I stared at our front porch: the gray steps leading to the gray, chipped floorboards: the old, broken light fixture suspended from the porch roof, the small, bronze sparrow on the door.

  “That was ugly,” Ruth said. “How about that Eugene?”

  “He's just a pain in the butt. Twisted, deluded, and maybe even a little scared.”

  “I guess, but he sure is mean. What about that Rassie? I think I might hate him.”

  “Yeah, but he got the Pearly Gates to come.”

  “Do you think they’ll still come? I mean I wouldn’t be surprised if Rassie cancels it on account of what happened.”

  I chuckled. “Are you kidding? He loved every minute of it. I’m sure the people listening got a big laugh too. It's the kind of stuff that keeps folks tuning into shows like his.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, the Pearly Gates will appear as scheduled, mark my words, as Eugene would say.”

  We sat for another minute. The mountains were veiled in an early spring mist so that only the tops could be seen poking through the clouds like funny party hats. It was like they knew that a perfectly silly episode had just been written into the history of Bright's Pond.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see Studebaker pull up in his baby blue Caddy. Boris was with him. After them, the Sturgises parked, and I saw Cora making her way up the street on foot. All of them, no doubt, wanted to see Agnes.

  “Here comes trouble,” I said.

  “Why would they come up here?”

  “Probably to check on Agnes and talk about the show. I bet Boris thinks Bright's Pond has just become famous or something.”

  I jumped out of my truck and stood in their way. “I don’t think you should go in just yet,” I told Stu and Boris. “She needs to rest.”

  “Well, is she all right?” said Stu. “I heard she got poisoned—some sort of ptomaine or botulism.”

  “I heard she fell and broke her hip,” Boris said.

  “No, no, nothing like that.” I was forced to drag the lie out even further. “It's only a stomach thing. Twenty-four hours ought to do it.”

  Cora caught up with us. She was puffing a little and looked a little red in the face. “I come to see Agnes. I heard she had a stroke.” Boris grabbed on to her elbow when she wobbled just a bit.

  “Heavens, no, Cora,” I said, “but Agnes isn’t seeing anyone yet. She's got that virus.”

  “I’ll bring her some chicken soup after while,” Janeen said. She and Frank sidled up next to Stu and Boris, forcing us into a circle on the sidewalk.

  “Well, as long as it ain’t nothing serious,” Boris said.

  I feigned a smile. “Nothing serious.”

  Studebaker leaned against his car. “We saw the show. You didn’t see us, Griselda, but we saw you. Boris and me were sitting at the last booth.”

  “Oh, I missed you. I was so caught up in—”

  Boris lit a cigar, shook the match, and tossed it in the street. “It was like a butcher's slaughterhouse down there.”

  “And I didn’t even get a chance to tell my miracle.” Studebaker crossed his arms against his chest. “You got so angry and kicked him out. Why’d you go and do that?”

  “Well, you heard what he was saying about Agnes. And that Eugene—”

  “Yeah, we heard,” Janeen said, her voice an octave or two above fingers scraping a blackboard. “That Rassie acting all high and mighty like he didn’t believe any of us about Agnes and the miracles. He laughed like we were all part of some vaudeville act.”

  “And called us liars,” Frank said.

  Boris draped his arm around Frank. “What's worse is he called Agnes a liar. But we know she isn’t, don’t we.” He blew brown smoke past Frank's face.

  “Oh, I wish we could go inside,” said Janeen. “I feel the need to see her—to tell her we believe.”

  “No, I can’t let you just now.”

  “I better get inside,” Ruth said, “and see how she's doing.” She nodded at everyone and kept moving up the steps and went right into the house.

  “How come Ruth can go inside?” Janeen puckered her sour mouth.

  “She's been here since early this morning helping me.”

  “Well, I can help,” Janeen said. “Maybe Ruth would enjoy a break.”

  “Vidalia and Hezekiah are inside too. I got all the help I need.”

  Frank shook his head. “Hear that, Janeen? She don’t need you, and
besides, you’ll catch her virus.”

  “Will not. I’m strong as an ox.”

  “You’ll still bring it home. You don’t want to be a carrier, Janeen.”

  “I won’t get a germ.”

  I believed her. I couldn’t imagine any self-respecting germ managing to thrive in her body. “Now look, I better get inside. I’ll see you all tomorrow and let you know how she's coming along. Just go on home and relax.”

  I waited until they got back in their vehicles and drove off. Cora left with Studebaker and Boris. I reached the top step and took one final look behind me before opening the door. That's when I saw Eugene standing across the street. He shook his rickety old cane at me and cackled like some evil leprechaun. I refused to dignify his presence and went on inside.

  Vidalia met me at the radiator. “Griselda,” she said with a huff. “We heard the whole thing. We even heard you tell that Rassie Harper to get out and stop talking about your sister.”

  “You heard that? I thought I turned that fool box off. I didn’t know it was going out.”

  “It sure did, Griselda,” Agnes called. “I never been more proud of you.”

  Agnes was sitting up in bed straighter than I’ve seen her in a while. She laughed when she saw me.

  “And what about Eugene?” she said. “He got his minute of fame, didn’t he? What a hoot.”

  “I thought you’d be mad?”

  “Nah, I never let the things people say about me hurt my feelings. I got cast iron sensitivities.”

  “But he made fun of you?”

  “Griselda, I know I’m fat. Fat jokes don’t bother me. They haven’t for a long time.”

  “Where's Hezekiah?” I asked.

  “He took off about a half hour ago. Said he had some business in Shoops.”

  “Probably ran off with Olivia.”

  “Most likely,” Vidalia said, coming out of the kitchen with the coffee pot. “I sure don’t know what business they could have in Shoops, you know what I mean? Want some fresh coffee?”

  “No, thanks. Maybe I’ll go open the library after all. I was going to take the day off but Agnes is fine and—”

  “You do that,” Agnes said. “I’ll be all right here. Hezekiah will probably come back in a bit. He can handle things. Just make sure I have my remote and notebooks.”

  “Will you take care of what Agnes needs, Vidalia? I think I want to get on down there.”

  “Sure thing, Griselda. You have a good day now.”

  A good day? It had been anything but. I disliked Agnes's cavalier attitude about the way people spoke about her. But, I suppose when you’ve endured as many slings and arrows as she has, you’re bound to develop a thick hide. I just wished she wasn’t so smug about it.

  I went to the library and went about my paces as usual. A few people came in looking for one thing or another or to make copies for their tax returns. Even Eugene came by, more to gloat than anything, but he made me work and find him a book about rose diseases.

  “It's that mutt,” he said. “I know it's his toxic waste that's killing my roses.”

  I stamped his book and reminded him that his library card should be replaced, but he acted like it would be the hardest thing in the world to fill out a new form and wait thirty seconds while I wrote up a new one.

  “It's really raggedy, Eugene. Let me get you a new one.”

  “It's fine, Griselda. It still works fine.”

  He tucked his book under his arm and paused. “I’m glad I did what I did this morning. People got to know that Agnes ain’t a miracle worker.”

  “She's not what you claim, either, Eugene. And besides, how can you be so all-fired certain Agnes doesn’t have a gift from God?”

  He turned without so much as a blink, stopped, and looked back. “Because God don’t answer prayer like that.”

  By the next morning I decided to forget about Rassie Harper as best I could, until Agnes brought it up while I was making breakfast.

  “I sure hope people are forgetting about that silly radio show yesterday,” Agnes said.

  “Oh, I imagine they will. Are you expecting Hezekiah?”

  “I believe so. He said something about getting started on the garage roof now that the weather is breaking.”

  “Oh, that's right. The roof.”

  After oatmeal and coffee Hezekiah showed up in the kitchen as I was putting dishes in the sink.

  “Well, I got to tell you, Griselda,” he said. “Agnes is certainly the talk of the town this morning. I was down at Zeb's for his Tuesday special Wake-Up Breakfast—you know the one with sausage and bacon and three silver dollar pancakes.”

  “Zeb makes a great pancake, light and fluffy.”

  “I ate six of them. But that's not what I want to say. I wanted to say that the joint was packed out and everyone was talking about the radio show and how terrible Rassie Harper was and that Agnes ought to get a chance to defend herself.”

  “No way. There will be no more radio shows. We’re going to let it all blow over.”

  “Like a lead balloon,” Hezekiah said with a smirk.

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, Griselda, that those people were on fire or something. It won’t blow over that easy.”

  “Oh, great.” I shot a squirt of Joy into the dishpan and watched the bubbles swell.

  “Agnes is their treasure or something, you know,” he said.

  I balled up the blue dishcloth I was holding and threw it into the soapy sink water. “Nothing I can do about it. I got to open the library. By the way, what were you doing in Shoops? I don’t remember you telling me you had to go.”

  “I needed to order shingles for the roof. I chose what they call Emerald Isle.”

  I felt ashamed for a second. “Oh.” I dried my hands on a yellow towel.

  “Anyway, the shingles will be delivered the day after tomorrow, so I’ll need a check for two-hundred and ten dollars.”

  “Fine, I’ll leave it on the mantle.”

  I opened the drapes. Sunshine burst through, exposing dots of dust and lint in the air.

  “A bright morning,” Agnes said. “I can feel the warmth already.”

  “Are you expecting visitors?”

  “Oh, I’m expecting a slew of people today, Griselda, after yesterday. I imagine people will want to talk about the radio show and lots more to have their prayers lifted up.”

  “I suppose so.”

  I needed to air out my mind so I walked to the library that morning and met Ivy Slocum along the way. She had her dog on a leash.

  “Ivy, when did that happen?”

  She yanked on the strap and pulled the dog away from a hydrant. “He came home a few days ago. Just sashayed through the front door and fell asleep on my sofa, like he needed a rest.”

  I laughed.

  “So I went right out and bought this … this instrument of repression and torture because Mildred Blessing said she had an order to take him to the pound when she caught him.”

  “Eugene Shrapnel did that.”

  “I know it. That miserable creep. Anyway, it breaks my heart, Griselda. Look at him. He's pathetic.”

  I patted his head. There was definitely sadness looking at me through his chocolate eyes. “It's for the best, I suppose.”

  “But he ain’t a dog that's meant to be on a leash. He's a free sprit. Goes with the wind.”

  “That's the problem, Ivy. The wind has taken him into Eugene's rose garden too many times, you know what I’m saying?”

  “I do.” She gave the leash another tug. “That's why I asked Hezekiah to put a fence around my yard.”

  “Hezekiah? He never told me he was building you a fence.”

  “Yep, he took my truck into Shoops and came back with all the materials he needs. Supposed to start next week.”

  “I think you made the right choice, Ivy. Your dog will get used to it.”

  I squatted down and rubbed the pooch behind his ears. “You’ll be off this
tether in no time, running around your yard.” He licked my face. I rubbed it off. “When you going to give him a name?”

  “I was thinking about that. Thought I might post a notice down at the café. Make it like a contest. Let the folks decide what we should call him.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Yeah, the winner gets free pie for a month.”

  The dog barked at a squirrel and lunged for it, taking Ivy with him.

  “I’ll see you, Ivy.”

  “Oh, I heard the radio show yesterday,” she said, as the dog wrapped the leash around her legs.

  “I suppose everybody did.”

  “It wasn’t as bad as you probably think.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Forget about it.”

  Ivy lifted my spirits. I would tell Hezekiah to start on Ivy's fence before our roof.

  19

  I switched on the library lights and turned up the heat. The building was cold and silent, and I felt chilled to the bone. Leaving my hat and coat on, I piled up all the mail that had accumulated on the floor by the door, started coffee, and shuffled through papers on my desk.

  It turned out to be the kind of day I liked best—only the books and me. After a few chores and phone calls, I picked up a copy of Wuthering Heights and read till my heart felt content. The words helped shoo away any lingering chill, as I wandered the English moor with Heathcliff and Catherine, while steam rose from my coffee and an occasional tear trickled down my cheek.

  At mid-afternoon I knew I had allowed myself a month's worth of self-indulgence and closed the book and the library.

  Mildred was walking up the path to the library as I turned the key in the lock.

  “I’m sorry, Mildred, did you need to get in?”

  “Oh, I just wanted to return these.” She held three books. “They were really good, Griselda.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed them. Sure you don’t want to choose a couple more?”

  “Not right now. My brother—he's a cop in Sarasota, Florida—sent me a box of paperbacks.”

  “Oh, that's good. Say, I ran into Ivy earlier. She had that dog of hers on a leash.”

  “I know. Looks like I lost the case.”

  “Nah. I have a feeling that mutt will find a way to escape. Always does.”