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

by Carol Heilman

  As Shirley tried to rush to the aid of her Baby, the sheriff grabbed her arm. With his other hand, he drew his gun and waved it above his head.

  It was like watching an old movie, but I didn’t like where things were headed. “This is absolutely the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, Charlie.” As I opened the car door to step outside, a gun exploded into the night sky. All eyes were on the sheriff. He looked as surprised as the crowd.

  With one hand holding onto Shirley, revolver still high in the air, he didn’t move. No one moved. It was deathly quiet, except for a squawking voice coming over the police radio. They could have been following a script. The gathering parted, clearing a path for the deputy and Jack.

  “What on earth is happening, Charlie? Why is Jack handcuffed like a criminal?”

  They walked toward the car. Shirley and the sheriff followed behind. His gun was now back in its holster, thank the Lord, and his lips pressed together in a straight white line.

  Shirley’s lips erupted like a volcano, spewing fire and hot ashes. “Loitering? Jack never loitered in his life. Is that all you could come up with? Trumped up charges is all you got.”

  By the time they reached me, I was standing outside, waiting.

  Jack said, “Shirl, honey, hush. You’re not doin’ us any good.” She didn’t argue, but bit her bottom lip and looked like she might cry.

  “Miss Agnes,” the sheriff said, his voice sounding tired, “would you be so kind as to get back inside the car?”

  “Not until you tell me why you’re arresting this nice man. Do you know he waves to the people at Sweetbriar Manor when he passes by? Brings them strawberries? Does that sound like any criminal you know? What’s he charged with?”

  The deputy spoke up. His Adam’s apple was bobbing so fast I thought it might jump right out of his neck. “We’re not formally charging him with anything—yet. Had to handcuff him to let him know we mean business.”

  He sounded a mite too proud to suit me, and I told him so.

  “We have to let some people know who’s boss around here, especially suspicious-looking strangers. Right, Sheriff?”

  The sheriff didn’t answer, just pinched the skin between his eyes for the second time and shut them. I bet he had one of those migraines by now.

  Shirley’s eyes, no longer soft with tears, now flashed with anger toward the deputy. “Listen, Larry, you little pip-squeak, just because I won’t give you the time of day when you hang around up at the Kut ‘N Loose, that’s no excuse to take it out on Jack. Take those cuffs off right this minute or … or I’ll tell the sheriff about those late-night phone calls. I know it’s you, breathing heavy and saying, “Oh sugar, you make my blood simmer, my—”

  Sheriff Cawood’s face puffed up like a blowfish. “What in tarnation is she talking about, Larry?”

  The deputy shrugged as he freed Jack’s hands. “Who knows what’s in the minds of women these days. Maybe I did overreact a little. All I want to do is be sure we don’t have us a kidnappin’ goin’ on here, right under our noses.”

  “Kidnapping?” the four of us said in unison.

  “Merciful heavens,” I said. “Sheriff, let me explain.”

  And so I did. Told everything to Hershel’s grandson, Bobby, his deputy, Larry, Shirley, and Jack, standing in front of Blind George’s, blue lights flashing all about us and in our eyes.

  Jack wasn’t arrested or even held for questioning. I hoped the sheriff would deal with his deputy’s manners later, and I told him so. Shirl and Jack slipped into the backseat, arms wrapped around each other like teenagers. They insisted on coming with me to help explain things, when they could have been enjoying beer and popcorn.

  I sat between Sheriff Cawood and Deputy Larry, who kept looking over his shoulder when a giggle erupted or a kiss smacked, delicious and sweet. The tension grew thick enough to slice. I was glad the ride was short.

  When the cruiser pulled up next to the curb, the old place stood like a lighthouse at the edge of a great black ocean, pale yellow lights pouring from every window.

  A lighthouse prison.

  As we piled out and tromped up the wheelchair ramp, a fine, soft rain began to fall. Several silhouetted figures stood on the front porch. Two ran to meet us.

  “Mother? Mother? Is that you?” said one.

  Henry reached me first and hugged my poor little body so tight I thought he was going to squeeze the life right out of me. “Lord, Lord, Mother Hopper, where have you been? Betty Jo’s been beside herself. And then we heard a gunshot and … well, we were mighty worried.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  After Betty Jo and Henry decided I hadn’t been kidnapped—and was going to live—our little group moved to the porch. Henry pulled the two officers aside so we couldn’t hear them talk. Shirley whispered in Jack’s ear while the rest of us stood around like knots on a log. The director, in her usual black skirt and white blouse, looked as mad as a skunk roused from its den.

  Then I noticed her feet and had to smile in spite of myself. Instead of her high heels, she wore pink slippers—and not just ordinary slippers. They boasted button noses and floppy ears. Here was an uptight woman with a major attitude, a woman I suspected of illegal and immoral activities, padding around in pink bunnies.

  Her eyes flashed fire. She was roaring mad and as Mama would say, dangerous to mess with. So I gazed back at her feet and whispered to Charlie, “I’ve pushed her over the edge. Do you think that was wise?”

  She finally spoke to Betty Jo. “You realize, Mrs. Applewhite, I cannot tolerate such total disrespect for our rules. Don’t you agree? Perhaps your mother needs some restraint.”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary. I’m sure she—”

  “No!” I said, jumping at the volume of my own voice and the panic rising in my throat.

  My daughter pulled on her ear and gave me her look. I shot her one of my own.

  “I have my hearing aid turned on, and I’m shouting on purpose. I’m not going to be treated like some dilapidated old lady, sitting in a wheelchair parked by the nurses’ station all the livelong day. That’s no life. No sir. And you’re not going to tie me to my bed like Pearl. And you’re not going to give me medicine to make me sleep like, well, probably half the people around here. Henry, tell them they’re not going to do any of that to me. Tell them.”

  “Now, Mother Hopper,” he said, stepping close and taking my hand. “Nobody’s thinking about doing such things. You’re upset, is all. Everybody’s too upset to think clearly. We need to sit down and talk things out.”

  For what seemed an eternity, no one spoke. No pleading of my case by Jack or Shirley. Neither Sheriff Cawood nor big-mouthed Larry stepped forward to take charge. Even the tree frogs hushed. Moths clung to the screen door, and a few fluttered about, but no one seemed to notice. The rain peppered down in earnest, bringing its dampness onto the porch.

  We stood there like mummies until the skunk lady with the pink slippers said, “Well, this is getting us nowhere. Come on inside and I’ll brew a pot of coffee.” When she turned to lead the way, her pom-pom bunny tails shook with every step.

  Once inside, Shirley caught up with the bunnies. “I know for a fact you’re about worn to a frazzle. I can fix the coffee for these folks.” Her voice sounded as sweet as honeysuckle smells.

  “My goodness,” I said, “Shirl ought to be in the movies.”

  Betty Jo leaned down and whispered, “Mother, please stop mumbling to yourself. And stop making accusations that are nothing more than pure nonsense. Try to act normal.”

  “I was talking to your daddy. He listens to me. Though here lately, I’ve not heard one word from him.”

  She let out a long, exasperated sigh and turned to Henry for comfort. He left for the kitchen to get her a glass of water so she could take one of her Goody’s headache powders.

  Shirley continued crooning over Miss Johnson. “Why don’t you get a nice hot bath and go to bed. The sheriff can leave you a written report and loc
k things up tight before he leaves.”

  Shirley’s suggestion was met with a frown, but she plowed ahead. “Wouldn’t it be far better to talk to Mrs. Applewhite and her mother tomorrow when everyone’s rested? Land sakes, I know the responsibility of this place is weighing you down.”

  If I’d had false teeth, I would have lost them when Miss Johnson actually smiled, weak as it was, and said, “I am suddenly very tired. This has been a long, hard day, and the cook we had at supper—she quit without cleaning up her mess. And now we have this incident with Mrs. Hopper. I can’t take much more.”

  While the sheriff pulled out a dining room chair for me, and I have to admit I was grateful, Shirley continued, her arm draped around our director’s stiff shoulder. “Why, I’d be tickled to help you out on Sundays. A little extra cash would be nice. Grew up on a farm. Used to fix three meals a day. Ten of us kids, me the oldest, plus farm hands. Mercy me, cooking for this place would be a snap.”

  The two ladies moved toward the stairs. “All right, Shirley. Meet me in the kitchen tomorrow morning at six-thirty. If you can handle it, Sundays are yours.” She took two steps and turned toward the rest of us. She looked every bit like Queen Victoria wearing inappropriate footwear. “Mrs. Applewhite, would you be so kind as to meet with me in my office at three tomorrow afternoon? You and I have some things to discuss.”

  “Why, yes. Of course,” Betty Jo said, but the queen was already headed up the steps.

  The sheriff and his deputy settled at one of the dining room tables to write their report, and Larry kept stealing glances at Shirley whenever he thought no one was looking. Shirley and Jack served us coffee and oatmeal cookies with raisins. After that, they said their good-byes. I was glad to see the rain had stopped since they seemed to walk everywhere they went.

  I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes, suddenly feeling every one of my seventy-one years, and maybe more. That didn’t keep me from wishing I could go with Shirl and Jack, but I didn’t share those thoughts, not even with Charlie.

  Finally, my family and I discussed my future.

  “Mother Hopper,” Henry said, “I wish you could come on back home and live with us. Miss Margaret misses you terribly. I think she’s losing weight.”

  “Mercy me,” I whispered to Charlie. “She may waste away before I’m settled in a place of my own.” I turned to Henry. “Have you cooked her any turnips lately? How much longer before you all move?”

  Before he could answer, Betty Jo scooted her chair close to mine and leaned forward. “Mother, do you know how embarrassing this whole episode has been? Why, by now, it’s bound to be all over town.”

  “Have a cookie,” I said, offering her the plate. “Not homemade but not bad.”

  Henry reached over and took one. “I like more raisins myself.”

  “I’m on a diet, Mother. You know that. Stop trying to change the subject. This is worse than the meter-man incident. Much worse.”

  “Serves him right—peeking in my kitchen window. Should have had him arrested.”

  “He wasn’t peeking, Mother. You know very well the meter was next to the window. He saw you running around like a wild woman without a stitch on. I still can’t believe it.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Let my bran muffins burn? I’d just eased down in the tub when I smelled them.”

  “All I know is that my Sunday school class laughs about it to this day. And now this.”

  Henry smiled, giggled, and then laughed out loud, shaking his head. He fished around in his pants pocket and brought out a clean handkerchief. As he wiped his eyes and then his glasses, he continued while trying not to chuckle. “Look at it this way, Betty Jo. Those ladies’ll have something new to talk about. I imagine they’ve about worn out that meter-man incident by now. Besides, it’ll keep ’em from gossiping about each other.”

  Betty Jo scowled at Henry. When she stood, her chair tipped over and crashed to the floor. The two officers glanced up, then went right back to their report. “What happened tonight is serious. It’s more than people whispering and laughing. Goodness knows I ought to be used to it by now. Mother has to adjust to her new lifestyle here. If it’s not too late, that is, or …or …” she finished in a rush of words … “we’ll have to find another home that will agree to take her.”

  “There’s got to be a better solution,” Henry said as he dipped another cookie into his coffee.

  I looked up at my daughter standing there with small beads of sweat above her upper lip. I was certain of one thing. As kind-hearted as Henry was, it was up to me to find my own solution, and not only for me, but for Pearl and Miss Margaret.

  “Take off your sweater. You’re getting overheated.” I handed Betty Jo my funeral-home fan—which had miraculously appeared one day—out of my purse. She refused my offer.

  The officers’ pens continued to scratch on paper. Larry slurped his coffee. Finally, Betty Jo said, “I’m going in the kitchen to rinse out the coffee pot. Henry and I will be back tomorrow afternoon—with Miss Margaret. You can see for yourself that dumb pig is doing fine. Maybe she needed to lose a little weight.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I’ll be able to tell right off if she’s grieving or not. Maybe she’s not used to being alone so much. Henry, did you ever consider taking her to work with you a couple days a week? And if it worked out, you might like to take her every day.”

  “What?” Betty Jo said. “Take that animal to the Western Auto?”

  “No, never did,” Henry said slow and thoughtful as he stared into space. “She probably is lonesome. You might have something there. Could even be good for business. People come in to play with Miss Margaret and end up buying something. Should have thought of it myself.”

  “The both of you are crazy, catering to a stupid pig,” my daughter snapped.

  Both of us answered, “She’s not stupid.”

  Betty Jo huffed and turned toward the kitchen.

  “Henry,” I said, “you’re a smart business man, and Miss Margaret will love having your customers make a fuss over her. She’ll be the happiest pig in Chester County. And there’s another thing I’ve been thinking long and hard about. If I can’t find us a place right away—you know, before you move …”

  Henry took my hand. I wasn’t sure he understood what I was saying, but he said, “Mother Hopper, you just tell me what I can do and consider it done.”

  “Stop by Ben Blair’s place tomorrow.”

  “That llama farm on the edge of town? What do you want with one of those?”

  I smiled. “This is Plan B just in case A falls through. Tell him all about Miss Margaret and that she might be in need of a home. Then make sure he knows she will be an asset, not a burden. She has a calming effect on other animals; I’ve seen it for myself. And besides, the Blair farm would be on your way to work and you could pick her up there in the mornings and drop her off each evening.”

  His eyes lit up. I knew he would talk to Ben tomorrow, and I had a feeling he couldn’t wait for Monday morning to come so Miss Margaret could accompany him to the Western Auto.

  Satisfied with Miss Margaret’s future, my thoughts turned to the big blonde woman—the multi-talented Shirley Monroe. “Henry,” I said, “did you get a look at Shirley’s jacket? The one I was wearing? Kut ‘N Loose Bowling Champs three years in a row. That woman has muscles.”

  “Yeah,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “And that’s not all.”

  “I heard that, Henry Applewhite,” Betty Jo said, stopping at the kitchen door. “Mother, you think about what I’ve said. Your capers, as well as your crazy talk about Miss Johnson, are upsetting too many lives. They’ve got to stop—or else.”

  As the swinging door swished back and forth, my dear son-in-law offered me another cookie. While we munched, he talked about Miss Margaret, but neither of us discussed my dilemma.

  After everyone drove away, I turned out the porch light and the dining room lights and returned to my room. For the first time since coming t
o Sweetbriar Manor, my bed looked inviting. I tuned in The Patsy Cline Hour on WKTX, locked my bedroom door, and added an extra cap-full of my favorite Avon bubble bath under a steaming faucet. Mountains of foam rose above the tub.

  I was just easing into the warm water, ready to settle in for a long soak, when I heard a sharp tapping on my door. The sound wasn’t made by someone’s knuckles, but from something that sounded like a pocketknife. Smiley. The Fuller Brush salesman getting the attention of farmers’ wives, and here he was at my door doing the same. Some habits are hard to break.

  “Hold on. Hold on. I’m coming. Stop that infernal noise.” I wrapped my bubbled self in a towel and then a robe … and dripped to the door. The tapping had gotten insistent and louder.

  “Charlie, he’s going to wake up the whole place.”

  I unlocked the door and flung it open. “Can’t you hear? I said I was com—”

  The look in Smiley’s eyes could’ve stopped a freight train going full speed. I’d never seen him mad. And he wasn’t mildly irritated; he was steaming. Before I could ask what on earth had him so riled, he exploded.

  “What do you mean going off without a word to anybody? Who do you think you are? You think you don’t have to answer to anybody?”

  My towel slipped to the floor, and I pulled my robe tighter. “What are you saying?”

  “Miss Johnson had us look in every room. When the sheriff came, he searched the grounds. Pearl got so agitated the nurse had to give her a sedative. Alice lost her supper. Said something didn’t set right.”

  A shiver ran up my back. “Alice is sick?”

  “Not from the food. Sick as she was, she insisted on us praying for you, so I paced the floor beside her bed and prayed. But I have to admit it was mostly for her. Even Francesca was worried. She wheeled up and down the hall, stopping at Alice’s door every time she passed, asking if we’d heard anything.”

  “She did?”

  “We thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere.”