Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction) (5 page)

“What did you say?” asked the little man.

“I said my name’s Agnes, and my pig’s name is Miss Margaret. She’s
staying with my daughter and her husband for the moment. They’re coming to visit on Sunday, only I probably won’t be here.”

He either didn’t hear what I said or chose to ignore that last statement.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Sam. Sam Abenda. Friends call me Smiley. Grandmother named me that. Said I was going to smile my way through life no matter what happened, and I guess she was right. Became a salesman, from shoes to aluminum siding. Even sold Fuller Brushes to all the farmers’ wives in three counties. Used to knock on their back doors with my pocketknife. That’s how I met my Lucinda. She was a widow at the time, mind you. Love of my life for forty-two years. Nothing worse than a man without his sweetie. Nothing worse.”

Started to tell him I grieved for my Charlie as much as he did for his Lucinda, but I held my tongue. Also neglected to tell him I sometimes talked to Charlie—and he talked back to me. After all, I’d just met the man and wasn’t ready to share something I’d never told anyone except Miss Margaret after she questioned me with her eyes, head cocked to one side.

After a bit of silence, he turned to me and said, “A pet pig? Hmmm.” Then he smiled and his big brown eyes that could melt a rock, nearly took my breath away. I wondered if that’s what his grandmother had meant.

Agnes, get a grip on yourself before you act like a complete idiot
.

Was it Sam or Smiley? What had he asked me to call him? Pushing some peas into peach juice, I said, “Food always this bad, Sam?”

“That’s right,” he answered, eyes twinkling. He leaned nearer. “You can call me Smiley.”

I relaxed for the first time all day. Somehow, I knew this was a man I could like.

“Don’t worry, Charlie,” I whispered. “I won’t be around long enough to get too familiar. He’s just going to be a friendly acquaintance. That’s all.” I stole a sideways glance in Smiley’s direction. My, my, he seemed nice. Gee whiskers, why did life have to get so complicated?

For the most part, people ate without talking. Maybe that was one of the rules too. After Smiley placed silverware on his plate and drained a glass of milk, he introduced me to the other three residents at our table.

Francesca Lillian Brown, a buxom woman with pampered skin and fingers filled with sparkling diamond rings, overflowed a wheelchair at the end of the table. She asked if I played bridge. When I told her cards were a waste of time unless you were playing for money, she looked at me like I had a disease.

Francesca, now Diamond Lil to me, continued to eye me in the same manner when she said, “My Edward, he’s president of Macon First, you know. He pays a shampoo girl from the Kut ‘N Loose to come over here every week and do all the ladies’ nails. Anybody can have a manicure, though heaven knows it’s not a professional job. But it’s free of charge, thanks to my Edward. He’s such a thoughtful son.”

She picked up her knife and pointed it toward me. “I’m always first to get my nails polished. Always. That’s fair, don’t you think?”

I didn’t answer. Lil sliced a tiny bite of meat and speared it with the fork in her left hand. She chewed slowly, eyes closed, probably imagining she ate some fancy dish prepared by some fancy chef. No one else seemed to think her behavior rude. I glanced over at Smiley. He shrugged and grinned. I decided no one bucked her because of “her Edward.” Maybe he contributed more to the comforts of this place besides nails.

To my right sat Elmer McKinsey, nicknamed Lollipop because, according to Smiley, his shirt pocket always bulged with cherry, orange, and lemon suckers, which he never shared.

Lollipop began talking nonstop. “You like cartoons? I do. I can watch them if I’m good. But I have to be good first. You like cartoons?”

Smiley leaned over and whispered, “Say yes. Just say yes.”

“Yes,” I said, looking straight ahead, for he talked with his mouth full. “Yes, I love cartoons.”

That seemed to satisfy the man. Through gulps of milk he said, “Me too. Me too. I love cartoons. I can watch them if I’m good.”

Across from Smiley sat Alice Chandler, whose shelf held the framed poem. She had salt-and-pepper braids twisted around her head that made her look old-fashioned and regal. Her skin was so wrinkled it looked like thin muslin washed and left to dry. Looking at me through thick glasses that magnified her milky blue eyes, she said, “Old people can’t be sissies when their time is up. Betty Davis.”

Her quote didn’t sound exactly right, but I didn’t question her. Instead, I cut my peach into little bits and studied this woman. Her dark dress looked three sizes too big, and I wondered how much she weighed. For sure a puff of wind could carry her straight to heaven. A walker sat to the right of her chair, plastic pansies wrapped across its front bar. Around her neck she wore a large gold cross and a magnifying glass.

When she glanced up I asked her, “Did you write the poem on your shelf? I’ll stop to read it after dinner … or lunch … or whatever you folks
call it.” I heard a harrumph from Diamond Lil but chose to ignore it.

“God provides for His children, you know. Gave me a voice in the closet of my soul. I had to listen and write what I heard. Sometimes words can shine a light into a dark corner. Sometimes. Most of what I write is of no interest to anyone but myself. Fills the hours. Keeps my mind busy when I can’t sleep, can’t read, and can’t even pray.”

There was probably no use asking why she couldn’t sleep or read or pray. “How long have you been here?”

“Forever. Yesterday. What does it matter? Don’t expect I’ll leave this place alive.”

Her negative words put us all in the same boat—one without a paddle. I felt like I knew the answer, but asked anyway. “Do you like it here?”

She laughed, soft as a summer’s breeze. “Remember, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And then it might kill you after all. Chief Featherstone.”

“Chief Featherstone?” I whispered to Smiley.

I started to ask him if she always talked this way, in quotes and riddles, never responding to a question with a direct answer. Instead, I watched his big eyes adore Alice like a lovesick schoolboy. Oh brother, Smiley’s smitten. Maybe she would become his next sweetie. But she seemed so lost in her own world, she probably had no idea.

“Charlie, how is it smart people can be so dumb?”

Charlie surely felt better since Smiley loved Alice. Eased my mind too. Maybe we could be friends if I stopped by Sweetbriar Manor to visit Pearl—friends with no worries of getting familiar.

But what if I ended up living too far away to visit? I no longer had my own wheels. Betty Jo wouldn’t interrupt her busy life to carry me here, and taxi service was entirely too expensive.

“What am I going to do, Charlie?” He didn’t have any suggestions. Not a one.

Self-pity is a terrible thing. Without warning, tears filled my eyes and spilled over. Smiley handed me a clean handkerchief out of his pocket that had become scented with his Old Spice. I managed to thank him and tried to smile, but felt like my life was coming undone. The tears kept coming no matter how hard I tried to stop them.

“Allergies,” I said as I blew my nose into his nice handkerchief.

“Confounded allergies.”

L
emon meringue pie was the most edible part of the meal though I had trouble even swallowing that with the lump in my throat. Not homemade, but it was the same Winn Dixie brand occasionally brought home by Betty Jo.

Prissy rushed through the dining room and into the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with dirty dishes, like she’d been saving them in her room or wherever it was she ate. With ruffled eyebrows and lips clenched tight, she looked bound for a stroke before reaching forty. When she breezed through and out again, a cloud of perfume settled over our table and left me with a sneezing fit.

After dinner—I mean lunch—nearly everyone retreated to their rooms. Reminded me of groundhogs popping back into their holes as soon as they sensed danger. I lollygagged a little, not excited about spending any more time in any room this place had to offer. I stopped to read Alice’s poem.

A Dry Spell

By Alice Chandler

Here it is

the end of January

and the cold ground is

brittle dry

like the rusted hull

of Papa’s Jon boat

down by the water’s edge.

Granny says it’ll

take days of rain

before the ground

gives way to boot heels.

Miraculously,

the red berries

of the holly tree

grow more brilliant

and fat

with each rainless hour

as if to lay waste

any cardinal’s worry.

One of those berries

in a bird’s beak

is like a promising line

to a poet

long without a poem.

My goodness, that woman is in agony when she’s not writing. I would bet her dry spells don’t last very long though. I entered room number ten filled with sadness for any writer who could not write, no matter what the time. But more than that, my heart ached for my own dry spell that seemed to stretch out before me with no end in sight—like walking across a never-ending desert. I sighed and fought back more tears.

An afternoon fog settled over Sweetbriar Manor, except for a couple of blaring televisions. Even that noise became muted after awhile, swallowed by the quiet. Everyone was probably either napping or watching some silly soap opera. Never had the time or inclination for either. Besides, I had to get outside so I could breathe again. I put on my gardening hat, picked up my red purse, and eased the door shut behind me.

On my way to the rear EXIT, I felt compelled to stop and see how Pearl was doing. She wouldn’t even speak to me in the dining room. I tapped on her door, waited, then tapped harder. It moved slightly, so I pushed it far enough to stick my head in. “Pearl? Pearl, you in here?”

The thought entered my mind that I should come back later, but a painting on the wall caught my eye and drew me into her room. Awards,
diplomas, and ugly-as-sin modern art surrounded this particular painting, making it stand alone—real, familiar, and beautiful. It was a watercolor of a hydrangea bush, shedding petals onto the sidewalk after a rain. I studied the painting for what seemed like a long time until I could no longer ignore my bladder and stepped into her bathroom.

After flushing, I was washing my hands when a voice out in the hallway sounded like a loud, yapping dog. I turned the water off, stood perfectly still, and listened.

“I’ve looked everywhere for her. Her daughter called. How could I say I didn’t know where she was? I’m responsible for you people twenty-four hours a day. Twenty-four long hours. That’s a load, I tell you, especially for what I get paid. If you see Mrs. Hopper, tell her to call her daughter. No, never mind. You won’t remember. I’ll put a note on her door.”

The yelling stopped, and Pearl came into her room mumbling something. The television clicked on. I stepped out of the bathroom as she eased into her recliner. Her eyes were almost shut, just as an actress screamed, “But I thought you were dead!”

“Knock, knock,” I said.

Pearl shot upright straight as an arrow, her eyes wide with fright. “What are you doing in here? This is
my
room. You’re in trouble. Big trouble.”

“Your door wasn’t shut. I—”

“Go back home.” Pearl’s face was white as a bedsheet. Her hands nervously worked her necklace. “She won’t like you coming here.” Pearl turned her back to me, walked over to the window, and fussed over a pot of red begonias on the sill.

I threw up my hands. “She who? Your mother? She was never around enough to know when I was at your house, or you were at mine. How can you remember something that didn’t exist and forget the things that did?”

The television queen sobbed. Pearl turned her face to me. “Go home,” she said, her bottom lip trembling.

I reluctantly went to my room and threw the note taped to my door in the wastebasket. I was in no mood to call anyone or even continue on my way out of this place. Where did I think I was going anyway, without a plan? Charlie always knew how to plan. That’s why he was a successful farmer. Not rich, mind you, but we managed to get along from one year to the next.