Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction)

by Carol Heilman

  “It’s these confounded bifocals.”

  I snatched my yarn back, ignored the wheelchair ramp, and proceeded to climb the three stone steps that led to the front walk, then up three wooden steps that led to the porch—my grumpy child close behind. Not a far piece, but in the stifling heat, sweat trickled between my breasts, down my back, and gathered around the waist of my new Fruit of the Looms.

  White rockers lined the massive porch. We headed for two near the front door and flopped down, gasping for breath. I fumbled around inside my purse for my Cox Brothers Funeral Home fan but couldn’t find it, so I took my hat off and tried to stir the air.

  “Well, here we are,” Betty Jo said. “That’s a fact.”

  Looking out across the lush lawn, my thoughts traveled back to the day of the fire. It had been a sunny day, much like this one, when my whole life got tangled in a knot. Miss Margaret and I went outside to pick turnip greens, and I left a big pot of pinto beans on the stove—on high. With the window open next to the stove, a breeze must have flicked my yellow-checked curtains against the red-hot pot. It looked like nothing but a lot of smoke until my kitchen window took on an orange glow. I ran back to see what could be salvaged and quickly called 9-1-1.

  The volunteer fire department came as soon as they got the call, but my purse, my grandmother’s Bible, two racks of shoes, and boxes of hats were the only things I could get to.

  I was busy throwing things out the front door until a nice young man took my arm and led me away from the house, clear down to the oak tree where I watched my house burn to the ground—the place where Charlie and I had lived our whole married life of forty-nine years. To add insult to injury, I failed my driver’s test the next week and was told I couldn’t get a new license. Just like that I became homeless and dependent on others. And I’d never depended on anyone before, except myself, Charlie, and the good Lord.

  Finally, I stood. “Reckon if we sit here long enough we’ll melt. Best get this over with.”

  With my hands full, I tromped over to the front door. A sign next to a wall-mounted mailbox said in big, bold letters, ABSOLUTELY NO PETS ALLOWED.

  “Humph, we’ll see about that,” I said under my breath. Pushing the door open, I stepped into the air-conditioned coolness of the front foyer of this former house of ill repute.

  Chapter Two

  The beveled-glass door shuddered as it broke free of the doorframe, and a tinkling tune of “Dixie” filled the air. As if in competition, “When We All Get to Heaven” screeched from another room, piano and voice in desperate need of tuning. Of course, my hearing aid went berserk and, besides all that, the air conditioning fogged my glasses. I turned my hearing aid off and blindly followed Betty Jo towards a room off the foyer. Finally, my glasses cleared, and I could see an office door propped open with a huge iron bulldog, but no one appeared to greet us.

  Tiny, with shades drawn across the windows, the room’s only light came from a small desk lamp. Well, that and a lava lamp on top of a filing cabinet containing a red glob that floated upward as it changed shapes. Some poor soul probably bought that thing at a garage sale. It gave me the creeps. The walls were absolutely bare. Not one picture. Not even a calendar from Henry’s Hardware.

  Betty Jo leaned towards my good ear. “Did you notice those beautiful gladiolas when we came in? Don’t look real, do they? Didn’t you used to raise glads?”

  I retreated a few steps into the entry hall and gazed at a vase of long pink and yellow flowers on a round mahogany table. I had never planted a glad bulb in my life. Reminded me of funeral flowers. Betty Jo joined me in the foyer.

  “Snapdragons,” I said, “next to the peonies. Snapdragons, not glads.” A gilded mirror that hung from floor to ceiling reflected a sunlit crystal chandelier. I thought of this place in its prime, a woman named Dakota, and my daddy, Paul Tyson Feinster.

  “You know, when I was a child, I always wondered what this place looked like on the inside. Pearl and I used to hide in the bushes and watch the men come and go. Even saw my daddy one time. Your granddaddy.”

  Betty Jo frowned and pulled on her ear—her signal I was talking too loud. I turned my hearing aid back on.

  “You feeling all right?” I said. “You look pale. How about a peppermint?” I rummaged in my purse, knowing I had dropped a handful in there after our dinner last night at Captain Tom’s.

  Betty Jo declined my offer and glanced at her watch. “Miss Johnson said, ‘Ten sharp’ on the phone. It’s already quarter after.”

  Something was wrong with my daughter. It wasn’t like her to leave home without makeup and lipstick. Maybe she was having second thoughts about dumping me off like a stray that’s worn out its welcome.

  “Why don’t you run get your purse from the car and freshen up? You look awful.”

  Onto the front porch she went in a blur of blue print, her behind jiggling and her flip-flops slapping against the wood floor. The front door slammed and “Dixie” started up again, but thank the good Lord the piano remained quiet. I adjusted my hearing aid and decided to look around. An open staircase with spindles rose opposite the tomb that passed as the administrator’s office. I peered up the steps but could see only as far as the landing.

  This place is quiet—too quiet if you ask me.

  I wandered past the steps and into a large dining room, empty except for leftover smells of coffee and eggs. At the far end of the room I saw a closed door and was glad to hear something that indicated life: the sounds of clinking dishes, running water, and staticky jazz like a radio slightly off the station.

  The room looked exactly like one out of the Victorian House magazine I’d seen stacked on a table beside the hairdryers at the Kut ’N Loose. Green velvet drapes covered the tall windows and puddled onto the wood floors. That’s what they called it. Puddled. Dust catchers if you ask me.

  Each of the five, white-clothed tables had a vase of bachelor buttons. Real flowers too, not plastic. I could stand the drapes if someone cared enough to cut fresh flowers.

  Since she wore high-heels, I can’t explain why I didn’t hear her coming. Could have been my hearing aid was acting up, again. Instead, I felt—or maybe smelled—her presence behind me. Perfume in abundance, like the very one I had once sampled at the downtown Penney’s Department Store. Jasmine, I think, or maybe Jezebel. Yep, that was it. Jezebel displayed beside a life-size poster of a belly dancer. I turned to find the home’s administrator eyeing me.

  Miss Johnson was younger than I had imagined. Green eyes and dark hair pulled back so tight it put her eyebrows in a permanent arch. Looks like she needs a laxative, Charlie, I thought, knowing he would agree. Something about her didn’t set right with me. Maybe it was the fact I didn’t want to be in her place. Or that she’d already kept me waiting. Charlie was big on showing up on time. It’s a matter of respect,” he always said.

  “You must be Mrs. Hopper.”

  “Agnes. Call me Agnes.” I extended my hand but she ignored it.

  Late, uptight, and rude.

  “We had a little trouble with Mr. Abenda this morning. Otherwise, I would have been prompt. I detest being behind schedule. Where’s your daughter?”

  Instead of waiting for an answer, she started back towards the front door. After hesitating a moment, I followed her twisting short skirt that accentuated long legs. She was what my Charlie would’ve called a good-looking woman—uptight, but good-looking.

  I whispered real soft so she wouldn’t think I was talking to myself. “Look at her, Charlie. She carries herself stiff as an undertaker. Is that what this place is? My final resting place?” I could feel Charlie’s smile. Dear Lord, how I miss that man.

  When we reached the office, I commenced to wonder about Mr. Abenda and what he’d done to require the director’s full attention, throwing a kink into the time she’d allotted for me. Or maybe she’d lied so as to keep me from asking why she’d been late. She flipped on a fluorescent light that made me dizzy with its flickering until it final
ly settled down. Without asking me to have a seat, she picked up a clipboard, leaned her skinny behind on the corner of her desk, and flipped through some papers.

  “You’re obviously not from around here, are you?” I said.

  I knew she heard me, but she didn’t answer. Prissy. That’s what she was. Right then I decided that would be her new name. I didn’t ask Charlie what he thought. I was thinking of other names to call her when Betty Jo rushed in, her navy purse swinging, hair kinked in little damp curls. She was out of breath and couldn’t speak.

  I removed my hat and fanned her. “Can’t understand what’s happened to my Cox Brothers Funeral Home fan. Did you see it in the car? Maybe on the floorboard?”

  Prissy started talking to Betty Jo—talking about me like I wasn’t standing practically right in front of her.

  I tried to interrupt, turning my attention to my daughter. “Every woman ought to have a rain bonnet, fan, headache powder, and a clean hanky in her purse at all times.” I would have continued explaining to Betty Jo the proper etiquette of a lady, but Prissy wouldn’t stop talking.

  “Please understand, some of our people take longer to adjust than others.”

  For heaven’s sake … the rudeness of this woman. I felt like waving my hands in her face and yelling, “Hey! I’m not invisible.” But I held my tongue to keep from embarrassing Betty Jo. My blood pressure surely went out the roof.

  “Your mother has been assigned to room number ten, the last one on the left corridor. Next door to Miss Spearman.”

  Spearman? Not my old friend from high school? I could only hope.

  “Do you know if that’s Pearl Spearman from Atlanta?”

  The look I received could have been aimed at a bothersome child. “Her name is Pearl. She came to us from Charleston, but I don’t know where she lived before that.”

  This infuriating woman turned her back to me and handed the clipboard to Betty Jo. “Now, if you’ll sign here, Mrs. Applewhite.”

  I watched my daughter consign me to an old folks’ home.

  “And, Mrs. Hopper, you can sign below your daughter.”

  I stood lost in thought as the clipboard passed to me with its attached pen, and struggled to sign my name in a legible manner. Maybe if they can’t read my signature I don’t have to stay. I had only gotten as far as the first p in Hopper when Prissy snatched the clipboard, plopped it on her desk, and picked up a large envelope with my name written across the front.

  “Now, we need you to be aware of a few rules we have around here. Everyone is expected to follow them. No exceptions.”

  The walls were closing in and I needed some air. I took the envelope and balanced it in my hand. It felt thick, like a church offering on pledge Sunday.

  “You’ll be okay, Mother, I promise.” Betty Jo gave me quick hug and peck on the cheek.

  But I didn’t feel okay. And my hunch was that I wouldn’t as long as I remained stranded at Sweetbriar Manor.

  “I’ll be back on Sunday to visit.”

  “Be sure to bring Miss Margaret.”

  Betty Jo lowered her voice to a whisper. “You saw the sign out front, Mother.”

  “Signs and rules. Feels like I’m in first grade all over again.”

  “Please, Mother, try and make the best of it.” Then my daughter was gone, the tune of “Dixie” filling the air as she slipped out the front door.

  “Old times might not be forgotten, but old people sure are,” I said to Charlie under my breath.

  Not much on holding a pity party for myself, I set my hat back on my head and faced the woman who now seemed to think she had complete control over my life. “Have the porter carry my things to my room. I’m going for a walk.”

  Her red mouth fell open. This was no fancy hotel. No porter. But the look on her face was worth it. I wheeled on my heels and headed down the hall—not in search of my room, but for the nearest way out of this place.

  Chapter Three

  On my way toward the door marked EXIT, I passed a large sitting room where people filled most of the couches and chairs. Curiosity got the best of me, so I stepped inside to take a quick peek. Except for one little man lost behind a newspaper and another sleeping with his hands folded across his barrel of a chest, faces were as blank as mannequins in a storefront window.

  The room itself looked like a picture out of House Beautiful. Gold over-stuffed chairs, green wing chairs, and green and gold plaid divans were grouped in conversation centers. Only no one was talking. There were polished leather step-tables, a matching coffee table, and an old piano in a far corner—no doubt the one in need of tuning. Not too bad, but it didn’t matter since I wouldn’t be staying long.

  As I turned to leave, movement to the right of the piano caught my eye, and my mouth dropped open. There she was, standing beside a metal pushcart, arranging flowers in a tall vase. Even after all these years, I’d have known her anywhere. Pearl Spearman, my best friend at Southern High. Her straight, wispy hair hung clear to her waist, though snow-white now instead of blonde. Pearl had left Sweetbriar right out of high school and graduated from Atlanta’s School of Design. We lost touch when she moved to New York. Last I heard she was living in one of those artist communes.

  I took a long look at the door leading to freedom. The hallway was empty, and I heard Prissy fussing with someone in her office. If I was going to escape, now was the time. But it was Pearl, for Pete’s sake. Her presence pulled me in like a magnet.

  I walked over to the cart where newspapers were spread under asters, daisies, devil’s poker, and Queen Ann’s lace. Humming as she arranged her choices into a crystal vase, Pearl’s hands moved like a dancer’s to the soft clinking of her many silver bracelets.

  She glanced up briefly, but seemed totally absorbed in her work. “Can you believe how someone just stuck these in here? No appreciation for beauty. Don’t you agree?”

  She groped for a pair of scissors. I handed them to her. She paused and looked at me again, but showed no signs of recognition.

  “Like your hat,” she said, snipping the stem of a daisy.

  “Why, thank you.” I removed it so she could see my face better and moved closer to her willowy frame. Surely she’d notice my red hair and say something. Pearl used to tease me about it all the time. Said it looked like it had been poured out of a pumpkin. Now I poured the color out of a bottle, but it was close to what it’d been a half century ago.

  My old friend fussed over the flowers like she was fixing them for the state fair.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. “Pearl, it’s me, Agnes. Agnes Marie Feinster from Southern High. You know, Pumpkin Head.”

  Her humming stopped. She studied me as a frown washed over her face. I reached out to place a hand on her arm, but she pulled back, mouth twitching.

  “Go away. Rent money. That’s what you’re after. I’ll have your money. I said I’ll have it and I will. Now leave me alone. I’ve got work to do.” She bent over her flowers again, agitated and intense.

  I couldn’t have been more shocked if she had thrown cold buttermilk in my face. I decided to try and stir some of her long-ago memories. Maybe they had lain fallow too long.

  “Pearl, don’t you remember us sneaking over here to this house all those years ago? Only then we called it Madam Dakota’s. Have you ever known anybody since then named Dakota? We heard her name passed around in whispers, especially those men sitting on the courthouse benches. Sounded like some wonderful secret, so we took to hiding behind the giant hydrangea bushes to see this woman. You remember that, don’t you?”

  Pearl looked at me, eyes filled with confusion. I might as well have been speaking in tongues like a Pentecostal. She frowned again and turned back to the flowers.

  I pressed on. “One night we saw my daddy, Paul Tyson Feinster, walk out and stand on the porch with a lady wearing a long dark dress covered with sparkles. She was beautiful. We decided she must be this Madam Dakota all the men talked about. Remember?”

  She shot me
a quick glance. Was that a spark in her eyes?

  “Never told anybody we’d seen my daddy, but we sure bragged at school about seeing that woman. Pearl and Pumpkin Head, scrunched down in the middle of those blue flowers, afraid we’d giggle or sneeze and get caught. Didn’t we do some crazy things back then?”

  Her eyes jumped back and forth from me to the flowers. She adjusted a stem and carried the vase to the piano. After more adjustments, she came back to the cart and bunched the damp newspaper around the flower scraps. Finally, she leaned toward me and whispered, “Do you see that woman?”

  I followed her nod to an ordinary-looking woman snoring softly in a nearby chair.

  Pearl tapped her forehead. “She’s not right. Up here. Crazy as a bedbug. Tries to run away, but Miss Johnson always catches her. Always.”

  She left me standing there with my hat in my hands and eyes wide. Her long skirt swished back and forth as she parked the cart by the back door. She turned, walked the length of the room, and disappeared around the corner. That’s when reality hit me. If I stayed here, I would be living next door to Pearl Spearman, my best friend at Southern High, who no longer knew me … my old friend whose mind was addled.

  My spirits drooped like a spent daylily. Then a story Charlie used to tell reminded me of how sometimes a bad situation can turn out for the best. He’d say, “Remember that time you and me got chased by old Mr. Weaver’s bull? Might have caught us too if I hadn’t run across that yellow jacket nest. Took off like our tails were on fire, didn’t we? Screaming and hollering, we jumped in the middle of that pond covered with green scum. But we left that bull in the dust, didn’t we? And those yellow jackets only got me once behind the ear. Still laugh myself silly thinking about us finally coming out of the water, clothes sticking to our skin, covered with slime. My, my, you were a sight.”

  As I walked down the hall covered with sea-foam green carpet, I laughed out loud, thinking about that bull and those yellow jackets. Charlie could always ease a tense situation.