by Joyce Magnin
As I rounded the corner to the cereal aisle I saw Janeen yakking to Sylvia Spiney. I grabbed a box of Rice Krispies, tossed them in the cart, and sailed right by them. “Oh, Griselda,” Janeen called, “how are you?”
“I’m fine, Janeen, how are you?” I nodded to Sylvia.
“I suppose I’m all right … considering.”
“Considering Agnes, I suppose.”
She ignored my comment. “My sister called last night. Her rat of a husband has been put in jail and she's decided to stay in North Carolina and not come here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe she just wants to be near her husband and work things out.”
She harrumphed. “No, that can’t be it. I asked Agnes to pray that she would come here and now—well now she isn’t.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
I finished my shopping, but I got an earful from several other people, including Stella Gordon at the five-and-ten-cent store.
“I think it's just terrible what folks are saying about your sister.” She dropped a pound of butter into her cart. “How can they blame her for what happened? It ain’t like she told that Hezekiah fellow to go and kill Vidalia.” She checked a box of eggs for cracks. “Now I personally never went to Agnes for prayers or miracles. I don’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo, but I got to say, Griselda, if I did, I wouldn’t let this keep me away.” She examined a tube of Oscar Meyer liverwurst, “My husband loves this stuff. Can’t stand it myself but to each his own, you know what I mean?”
“Yes, Stella, yes I do, and thank you for what you said about Agnes.”
She tipped her cowgirl hat. “Sure thing, buckaroo. Any old gal can make a mistake—even one with close ties to the Maker.” Then she winked and went on her way.
Ruby Fink checked my groceries without saying a single word until I pulled out my money to pay her. “Folks is scared, Griselda, real scared. That Eugene was just in here a while ago. Said the sky was falling. Told us all to repent of ever going to see Agnes.”
My heart sank right down into my shoes as she spoke “Called her a she-devil,” Ruby continued. “Folks is scared. It's like they don’t even trust each other anymore. Darwin told me not to take any checks for a while, just in case it's true about a curse befalling Bright's Pond.”
Darwin Crump owned the Bright's Pond Piggly Wiggly, a satellite of the big one down in Shoops. Crump was a strange little man with crooked teeth, gray hair, bushy black eyebrows, and a chin the size of a piece of toast. He was one of Agnes's most vocal tormentors as a child, and as far as I knew, he never grew out of it.
The drive home felt long and lonely. The town looked lonely. People were out and about as the day had turned bright and warm. Fred Haskell's plumbing truck was parked out front of Studebaker's house, and Grace Harkness was sweeping the street along the front of her property, while the Orkin man sprayed around the foundation. She wasn’t taking chances that year. Grace hated those tiny ants that invaded nearly every property in town the minute the temperature rose past fifty. There was nothing out of the ordinary, yet there was something in the air—a sense that life had changed.
26
Four days had passed and not a single soul came to Agnes for prayer, not even Studebaker or Hazel Flatbush, who used to come at least once a week. She always had something to gripe or complain about—a troublesome bunion, ornery child, her husband's bad breath. Hazel brought it all to Agnes.
Stu surprised me with his silence, but I think he was just so worried over the sign coming down he didn’t have time for anything else in his brain.
I saw Harriett pass by the window once or twice. She would stop and stare, like she was trying to make a decision. but then she’d walk off.
Janeen Sturgis and Sheila Spiney behaved the same way. They would pass by, stop, stare, and then run off like a swarm of wasps chased them.
“Look at that,” Agnes said. “What's wrong with them? They think God went out of business on account of Hezekiah Branch?”
The only real visitor we had all week was Mildred Blessing. She stopped by to tell us that Hezekiah had been sent back to Philadelphia to face even more charges. It seemed Vidalia was not his first victim.
“He’ll be in the big house a good long time,” Mildred said. “Won’t have to worry about him showing his ugly mug in our town ever again.”
Agnes squirmed in her bed and said, “I still can’t believe it sometimes, though. He seemed like such a nice, quiet man.”
“They’re the ones you have to watch out for,” Mildred said.
By Friday Agnes had grown quiet, and her prayer book hadn’t moved from its place on her table.
“You still going to pray for those folks?” I pointed to her book.
“I got to, Griselda. I made a promise. It's real hard right now, though. I feel like a parched desert inside. And every day I don’t pray I feel more and more dry. It's a terrible cycle.”
“You don’t have to stay on that merry-go-round, Agnes. You can stop praying for them—at least like you do, with all the pens and books and people coming around.”
Agnes pushed scrambled eggs around on her plate and then just about inhaled a Jimmy Dean sausage patty. “But I got to keep praying.” She swallowed. “It's what I do.”
I finished the last of my eggs. “They’ll come around, Agnes. Try not to worry. The people will come to understand that you didn’t cause Vidalia's death.”
Agnes started to breathe hard and reached for her inhaler. After two puffs she tossed it across the room. “That's just it, maybe I am responsible.”
I retrieved her medicine and set it on her prayer book. I sat down on Agnes's bed. For that second I didn’t care that the shift in the mattress always made her wince. “What in tarnation are you saying, Agnes? You couldn’t have known what was in Hezekiah's mind. He's a sick man.”
Agnes puckered her lips and looked at me—hard. “But I think he knew something about me.”
“Yeah, he knew you were the miracle worker. That's all.”
“No, it isn’t. He knew the day he found that sweater and those bloody shoes.” I moved to the rocking chair. “They were mine, Griselda, and I think he knew it.”
“Yours?” My heart sped like a trip hammer.
“He was right. It wasn’t chocolate sauce all over that sweater.”
My brain reeled. “Hold on. I can’t hear this now. I’m going to make us coffee, and then we’ll discuss whatever is on your mind.”
“Suit yourself, Griselda, but coffee won’t change the truth.”
I stood in the kitchen while the coffee brewed, actually a veiled ploy to get away and collect myself. I certainly didn’t need coffee. But I made it anyway and set a pot and two cups on a metal tray decorated with an old Pepsi Cola advertisement.
“Now, tell me about the sweater and what it has to do with Vidalia or Hezekiah.” I placed the tray on Agnes's table like I normally did when we were having ordinary conversations.
“The sweater—like I already told you. It's stained with blood. Clarence Pepper's blood.” Her usually high voice squeaked like a mouse had gotten caught in her throat.
“Clarence Pepper?” The name meant nothing to me. “Who is he?”
“A boy.” Agnes's hand shook as she brought the coffee to her lips. “A boy I—I—”
“You what?”
Agnes dropped her cup onto the bedside table. “Killed, Griselda! I killed Clarence Pepper.” She started coughing and a bright blush filled her cheeks.
“Oh, come on,” I said, “don’t say things like that.”
“It's the truth. I just never told anyone—not one breathing, living soul. No one.”
I grabbed a towel and sopped up the coffee as best I could. “You’ll have to get out so I can change the sheets. It splashed all over.”
“Griselda, you aren’t listening. I just told you I killed that boy.” She sucked in air. “We were just kids, you know? I was on my way home from school and went across H
ector's Hill. Clarence was there. He started making fun of me, calling me names.”
“I tried to run, Griselda, but you know how hard it was for me. He ran next to me and kept saying, ‘Look at me, I’m a cowboy leading the cows across the prairie.’”
“Oh, Agnes, that's awful.” Tears welled in my eyes as I listened to her voice rising higher and higher, her face getting redder and redder. All I could do was sit there and let her talk. It was like a two-ton truck was parked on my chest. I couldn’t move, and I could hardly breathe.
“All of a sudden,” she said. “I stopped running and—and I pushed him and he tripped and fell forward and hit his head on a jagged rock.”
She covered her eyes with her hands like she wanted to blot out the image. “There was blood, Griselda, so much blood. I took off my sweater and tried to stop it but I couldn’t. I got scared—”
My breathing was ragged.
“I didn’t mean to kill him, Griselda. It was an accident. The boy died, but I didn’t know until they brought him to Daddy.”
“He was here?”
“Yes. His father brought him in the back of his station wagon. Found him up on Hector's Hill. I was up at my window—” she struggled for air “—when his daddy came to the door.”
I put her oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. “Breathe. Just breathe a little.”
Agnes grabbed my arm, and I slipped the clear mask off her face.
“I was up at my window, and I saw Mr. Pepper pull up. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t.”
I replaced the mask and watched it fog over as she breathed.
“Close your eyes. Just breathe.” I patted her arm. But she ripped the mask off. “I got to tell you now, Griselda. I got to tell you the whole story, right now, before I lose my gumption.”
I sat back in the rocker and white-knuckled the arms like I was clinging to a roller coaster.
“On the way home I saw the blood on my shoes, so I took them off and carried them, wrapped up in my sweater. I went straight to Daddy's workroom, and for a second or two, I wanted him to be there to catch me but … he wasn’t.”
“So you hid the clothes in that box.”
“That's right. I saw the little box sitting there, and it was empty, so I stuffed everything inside, closed the lid, and hid it in that tiny room—been there ever since—well, until Hezekiah found it.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone later that day when Daddy got home?”
“I couldn’t. The more I thought about it, the more my stomach churned, and then I was too scared of what would happen to me.”
“To you? You killed a boy, accident or not.”
She choked back sobs.
“Maybe I should call Doc,” I said.
Agnes grabbed my arm and squeezed me so tight I thought she might break my wrist.
“Stop it, Agnes, you’re hurting me.”
“I’m sorry, Griselda. Please don’t call Doc. I’ll be all right.”
“You need to take one of those sedatives. You’re about to give yourself a heart attack.”
“That's why I was crying that day you ran out of church, Griselda, remember? I was crying because I … I killed another human being and for no good reason except that I’m fat and he called me a name.”
I felt like a hundred bees had stung me, paralyzing my heart as I reached back to that day. Pastor Spahr had just prayed over the cracker and popped it in my mouth and swallowed when I looked at Agnes. Tears streamed down her fat face as she chewed and chewed.
“What are you doing?” I had asked. “Just swallow it.”
I thought I might have to bang her on the back because she was having a dickens of a time getting that itty bitty piece of unsalted Premium cracker down her throat.
She just kept crying, and I saw Fred Haskell and Edie Tompkins who was, at that time, Edie Mattigan, covering their mouths and laughing at her. I thought I was about to cry myself they got me so riled. I thought I was going to cry or leap over the pews and pound them into a fine powder.
The elders passed the Concord grape juice, and I held mine waiting for the signal to drink, while Agnes continued to cry. I couldn’t stand it another second. I put my tiny glass cup on the pew and climbed right over Agnes who was still sobbing, snorting back the tears and noises so as not to be noticed. I figured the whole church saw her. But interrupting Communion was just not done, it being a holy sacrament and all. Tears were just tears, even though I read in the Bible that God saved them.
Anyway, I ran out of the church. I ran down the parking lot and squatted behind a big boulder and got so angry at God and people I shoved my index finger down my throat and up came the cracker and two slices of scrapple and some oatmeal. My hands balled into fists and I pounded on that rock, cutting my skin and getting so bruised my mother made me see the Doc. I pounded and pounded and told God right then and there that he shouldn’t have made my sister so fat. I told him he was a terrible God and since he didn’t care about her, I would have to be the one who cared. That was the day I decided to spend my whole life taking care of my sister.
“I remember that day,” I said. “I thought you were crying on account of all the teasing that went on.” The doorbell rang. “Oh, great. Perfect timing, whoever it is.”
“You better get it. Nobody’ll believe we aren’t at home.”
It was Ruth. She stood on the porch wearing a thin, cotton coat over a dress the color of light brown sugar and the saddest frown I had ever seen.
“Ruth? What's the matter?” I took a step outside and closed the door behind me trying not to show how shaken I was.
“Griselda, I am just so sad over the way this town is treating Agnes. I was sitting at my house watching Russell swing on his tiny bird swing, you know the one, it's pink—”
“Ruth, I’ve seen Russell's swing.”
“Anyway, watching Russell swing back and forth in his cage made me think about Agnes, and I had to come see her. It can’t be her fault, can it? It just can’t.”
“No, of course not. Things are happening because they are. Agnes has no control over this town—for good or for bad.”
“Then how come Vidalia got killed and the Sturgises are having so many fights? Babette is crying over at the café right this very minute, and Cora went and died. Some folks are even saying it was Agnes's fault the dang fool sign was made wrong to begin with.”
“We’re just going through a bad patch right now. We all are—the whole town. Even Agnes.”
Ruth pulled her coat tight around her neck as a light gust of wind whipped across the porch. “Can we go inside, Griselda? It's a little chilly, and I feel like I need to see Agnes.”
“Maybe now isn’t the right time. Agnes is resting.”
“Please? I’ll wait. I’ll make coffee and Cora's lemon squares while we wait for her to wake up.”
At that moment I had the urge to tell Ruth what Agnes had done, but I couldn’t betray her. I forced my tears deep inside before they spilled over.
“What's the matter, Griselda? You look a fright. Still upset over Vidalia?”
“No, it's … it's something else.”
“Then what you need is lemon squares. Let me in, and I’ll whip up a batch.”
“Okay, if we sneak into the kitchen without going to her room. I don’t want to disturb her.”
I opened the door as quietly as possible and closed it with a slight click. Ruth hung her coat on the hook near the radiator. “I’ll tiptoe,” she whispered.
We took one step. “Who is it?” Agnes called.
“Oh, Agnes, it's me, Ruth. I’ve been so worried about you, dear. How are you?”
Ruth rushed into the viewing room and took hold of Agnes's hand faster than a hungry trout bites on a cool Spring morning. “I just hate the way everyone in town is saying you lost the gift, that God stopped answering your prayers, and we’re all doomed like sitting ducks.”
“Ruth, Ruth. Nobody is doomed. Well, except maybe me.”
“You? Oh, A
gnes don’t say such a thing.”
“Yes, Agnes,” I said. “Stop talking nonsense.” I shook my head and widened my eyes, hoping she’d get the thought I was desperate to convey: Don’t tell Ruth about Clarence Pepper! But sometimes, Agnes could be tenacious as a snapping turtle. Once she got hold of something she never let go.
“Ruth, why don’t you show me how to make Cora's lemon squares?” I asked. “I didn’t know she gave the recipe to anyone. Thought is was an old family secret.”
“All right, Griselda. Agnes, you do look a mite tired. We’ll have a long visit just as soon as we put the lemon squares into the oven.”
Ruth and I assembled the necessary ingredients except the main one—lemons.
“That's weird,” I said. “There's always a loose lemon in the fridge.”
“Guess you’ll need to go to the store and buy one or two and maybe some more half and half. This carton is about empty.”
Telling Ruth I had to fetch my purse, I whispered to Agnes not to tell Ruth about Clarence while I was gone. “Please? Ruth doesn’t need to know this. It will only make her sadder.”
“You might be right.” She sighed and popped a few M&Ms into her mouth.
The market was empty, except for Eugene Shrapnel, who was busy squeezing the life out of the tomatoes. From a distance and maybe because he didn’t see me, Eugene looked different. Oh, he was still ugly with that bulbous nose and hunched back. But for a moment he was like any other human being.
I pushed my cart past him and the illusion burst.
“Griselda,” he said. “I told you this would happen if folks kept thinking your sister is God. I told you and now Vidalia, probably the only truly kind and generous person in this town, is dead on account of Agnes inviting that monster into our midst.”
I ignored him and pushed on even though I could have used some bananas.
“It's only the beginning. Only the beginning,” Eugene called. “Repent while you still can.” Muttering, he slipped three tomatoes into a brown paper bag.
