Prayers of Agnes Sparrow (37 page)

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll make us some tea.”

“Sure you should do that? I mean using Vidalia's kettle and cups and tea. It's like robbing a grave or something.”

I smiled and felt the corners of my eyes crinkle like wax paper. “Do really think Vidalia would mind?”

Ruth followed me into the kitchen. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“It's this whole Clarence Pepper thing and the way Agnes handled it. I keep thinking I’m supposed to do something. I just don’t know what.”

“I was wondering when that was going to happen.”

“What?”

“Well, it was a pressure cooker over there, Griselda. Always was, even before all this trouble. You’re like two hens in the same coop. Only a matter of time before one of you blew the top off. I’m surprised you made it this long. But then, I figured it was just another one of Agnes's miracles, you being able to live with her, I mean.”

The kettle squealed. “Ever wish you could scream like a boiling kettle?” I asked.

“Why don’t you?”

“That's all folks need is to hear crazy screams coming from Vidalia Whitaker's house.”

Ruth dunked her tea bag. “Oh, right. Well, I know a place you can scream.”

“I don’t want to scream.”

“Yes, you do. It's good to scream sometimes. What do they call it? Therapeutic. But first you have to tell me what broke the camel's back, and I promise I won’t tell that sister-in-law of mine because she’ll just go blabbing about it over the airwaves.”

I sipped my tea and looked around the bright kitchen. Even at night, Vidalia's kitchen was cheery and light with its sunflower walls and lacy white curtains. She had copper-bottom pots hanging from hooks above a counter she had installed to roll out dough and prepare vegetables. The pots twinkled in the overhead light.

“Nothing really happened,” I said. “It's not like she said or did anything—well no more than accidentally causing the death of another human being and then choosing to hide the truth.”

“Now, Griselda. I think your feelings are hurt.”

Ruth sipped her tea and looked at me over the rim of her cup. “Yes, sirree, Bob, you’re pouting. You’re upset that she didn’t tell you and you alone.”

I poured cream into my tea and it curdled into something that resembled cottage cheese. “Look at that. I didn’t even bother to check the date on that carton of half and half.”

Ruth looked at it. “Expired a week ago.”

I dumped it into the sink. “She should have told me after all these years. I deserved to know why she holed herself up in the house.”

“And in her body.” Ruth puckered her lips and her eyes grew wide. “You know what I mean?” It was like she was waiting years to say it. “She built a fine prison. But she had no choice, Griselda. You can understand that.”

“When she was a girl, maybe. When it first happened. But after all these years? She should have told me. I might have been able to handle it better, differently. Maybe I could have done something to—”

Ruth clicked her tongue. “Griselda Sparrow, it's time you figured out what's making you so mad. Is it what she did or what she did afterwards? What would you have done? I’ll tell you. Nothing more than you’re doing right now. This secret's got to stay a secret.”

“She lied to me, Ruth. I gave her my life because of a lie. All these years I thought Agnes was hiding from the bullies and hecklers.”

Ruth patted my hand. “She was hiding from them too.”

I poured more tea and drank it black. “He might have lived. That's what the news report said.”

“What report?”

“The newspaper. I looked it up. Doc said the boy might have been saved if help had gotten there in time.”

“
Might
have lived, Griselda. How could Doc know for sure?”

“She should have gone straight to Doc's office and told him,” I said.

“That's what an adult would have done. Agnes was a kid—a fat, sad child that got bullied every day of her life.”

In all my life I had never faced a problem with so many layers. Everybody made sense and yet nothing made sense.

“Let's go scream,” Ruth said. “I haven’t done it in a while. Very good for the soul. And it gets the old ticker pumping and clears out all that artery-clogging stuff, you know.”

“What? Now? It's dark out and cold and—and I don’t want to scream.”

But we did. Ruth and I went to the edge of town where the train rode high on a black, steel trestle over the river that fed our pond.

“Now we wait,” she said when I parked the truck under the bridge.

“Wait?”

“Yep. When the train passes he always toots his horn; you hear it every night, don’t you?”

“I guess. Maybe I’m just used to hearing it.”

“Every night around ten o’clock that big old freight train from Binghamton crosses the trestle. I know ’cause, you’ll no doubt remember, Bubba worked for the railroad as a carpenter.”

“I remember.”

“Best they had. But anyway, that's neither here nor there. We wait.”

We sat for one minute, and I started to feel uncomfortable and silly. I rolled the window down a pinch. The cold air that rushed inside smelled like rust.

“What if Mildred Blessing comes by in her cop car?” I asked.

“She doesn’t go out on patrol for an hour yet, and besides we’re not doing anything wrong. Ain’t no law against two women sitting in a pickup truck screaming, now, is there?”

That was true.

At twelve minutes after ten I heard the train coming— distant at first, but getting louder.

“Right on time. Just a minute now.”

I saw the bright headlight coming around the curve.

“Get ready and the second you hear that horn, you start screaming and see if you can scream louder than the train and the whistle. I don’t believe it can be done. I tried every
night for a year after Bubba died and many a night after. Of course, I don’t scream like I used to.”

The conductor sounded the horn three times, and Ruth grabbed my hand and we screamed and screamed and screamed until there was no scream left in either one of us.

Ruth laughed while catching her breath. “You know, I think we beat it that time.”

I laughed. “You were right. That felt good.”

“I think I broke a rib,” Ruth said.

I drove her home. “Listen, would you check in on Agnes in the morning? Get her some breakfast and make sure the drapes are open so she can see what's happening in town and—”

“I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry about that. But what if she asks about you? I’m certain she will.”

“Just tell her the truth. I’m fine and I’ll be in touch.”

“Are you moving out for good?”

I looked at the starry sky. “I don’t know. I just need a little time.”

I
skipped church that Sunday, like a lot of other folks apparently. I saw Pastor Speedwell later in the day, and he said there was only a handful of people in the service. I assured him that it was probably on account of it being a long month and that seemed to satisfy him.

“Thank you, Sister,” he said. “I’ll expect to see you and the rest of the town next week.”

I smiled.

Monday came and I decided to face the music and headed for the café. If I knew Ruth, she had already been there before she went up to the house and told as many folks who would listen that I was staying at Vidalia's.

Sure enough, the usually noisy restaurant went dead silent the second my foot landed inside.

“Griselda,” called Stu after a couple of tense seconds. “Join us.” He was sitting with Boris and Fred Haskell.

“I just came in for some eggs and toast,” I said.

“You can have them with us.” Then he got Zeb's attention. “Get Griselda the number three.”

I didn’t want the number three—two eggs, any style, hash brown potatoes, a slice of ham and a sausage link—but I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I squeezed in next to Boris. His cigar smell made my nose itch. He was finishing up the last of what looked like a number five—pancakes and sausage.

Dot Handy appeared wearing a light blue apron and a hairnet. She was holding two pots of coffee. “Regular or decaf, Griselda.”

“Dot, what are you doing here? How come you aren’t crossing kids?”

“Zeb asked me to work the mornings, and since it pays a little better than watching kids cross the street, I got Harriett Nurse to take over for me—not that I minded the kids. I love the little nippers.”

“Harriett? Sure that's a good idea?”

“Yep. She’ll do okay. I mean on a busy day, she might have to stop six cars and occasionally a truck—it ain’t rocket science, you know. Regular or decaf?”

“Regular.”

I looked at Boris.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking. We didn’t vote on Harriett taking over for Dot but it was an emergency.”

That wasn’t what I was thinking.

“And besides,” Stu said, “we can vote at the meeting tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow?” I said. “We don’t have a meeting for a couple of weeks.”

“Well, under the circumstances,” Fred said. “We think we need to meet and discuss how to handle the situation with Agnes.” He bent his head down like the name embarrassed him.

“What situation?”

Dot stood next to me with her pencil poised to take my order.

“Stu already ordered for me.”

She walked away slightly disappointed.

“Folks are calling for the sign to come down,” Stu said.

I looked around the room. Every head strained in our direction.

“Fine. Take it down. I never liked it, you know that. Neither did Agnes.”

“But, Griselda,” Stu said, “she still did all that good stuff.”

“You have no idea what she did.”

I took a sip of coffee and dropped my cup. It spilled. Boris quickly sopped it up with a used napkin.

“What do you mean? You talking about Vidalia? I don’t blame Agnes—not directly.”

“No. It's nothing.”

Fred grabbed my hand. “Lots of folks do, Griselda. They are all kinds of mad at her. Like she should of known or something, what with her having that direct line to God.”

I sighed. Dot brought my breakfast, but I had lost my appetite. I slid out of the booth.

“Take the stupid sign down. I don’t care and neither does Agnes. And she is not to blame for Vidalia's death.” I said that last part loud enough for the entire café to hear.

“Hold on a second,” Boris said. “It isn’t like we’re running her out of town.”

“Then why does it feel that way?”

I dropped a quarter on the table for the coffee and walked out.

R
uth dropped by the library later in the day to tell me she had checked on Agnes and she seemed to be doing okay—mostly. I was reorganizing the encyclopedias when she came in. The kids had a bad habit of shelving the volumes any which way, even mixing up
The Britannica
with
The World Book
.

“How is she?”

“Who?” Ruth handed me volume nine of
The World Book
. “It's such a pretty blue.”

“What is?”

“The book you just shoved into the shelf.”

“I’m talking about Agnes.”

“She's sad, Griselda. She said I should tell you she's sorry for creating such a terrible mess.”

“Is she taking her medicine?”

“Well, I don’t know the answer to that for sure. She says she does and then doesn’t sometimes, but you know that.”

“Are you going back today?”

“Want me to?”

“Please. I can’t just yet.”

Ruth and I finished organizing the encyclopedias and then the magazines that were left on tables. I put the periodical indexes back in order while Ruth sat and watched.

“I usually do my shopping with Vidalia,” she said. “I need to stop at the Piggly Wiggly, but it's gonna feel real strange going without her.”

“I know. The library isn’t the same. She came by nearly everyday.”

“I still can’t believe it, Griselda. Why would Hezekiah want to kill her?”

“He couldn’t help himself. I don’t believe it had anything to do with her. I mean I cannot for the life of me believe she provoked him in anyway.”

“Oh, no, no. It was random. Like hitting the lottery.”

“Maybe … except Agnes did send him there. She bought the ticket, you know what I mean?” Ruth scrunched up her face and stared at me a second. “She couldn’t help it.”

“Maybe.” My stomach grumbled, and I realized I hadn’t had much to eat in a day or so. “I’m starving. You want to drive into Shoops and get some lunch?”

“Well, I did have my shopping—but yeah, let's go.”

R
uth and I drove into town like two teenagers on a joy ride. We rolled the windows down and let the warm air rush around us like a healing breeze. I could smell the new grass and flowering buds as we drove down the mountain. My last ride into Shoops was fraught with sadness and questions and fear. But on this ride I felt free, like I could keep driving and driving just to get away.

“You better slow down,” Ruth said. “You’ll miss the town.”

“Would that be so terrible?”

“Griselda, you can’t. The town meeting's tonight, and you need to start caring for your sister again. I can’t keep doing it.”

She was right, but for the first time in a long time—maybe even for the first time ever—I felt like a shooting star streaking down the mountain.

I pulled the truck into a diagonal parking spot in front of The Pink Lady Coffee Shop. We arrived just as a tall, skinny
lady rolled out a pink and white striped awning with a scalloped edge.

“Ain’t that pretty,” Ruth said.

“It is nice. In the warmer weather she puts out little bistro tables and chairs for folks to eat
alfresco
.”

“I don’t think I ever had
alfresco
,” Ruth said. “Is it a salad?”

“No, it's an Italian word that means in the open air.”

The Pink Lady was exactly that: pink vinyl booths and gray tables with metal chairs with pink vinyl seat cushions. Curtains, the darker pink color of a Mr. Lincoln rose, hung in each window, and a large pink pearled jukebox with flashing neon lights stood in the back.

We chose a booth next to the window to soak up some sunshine. After a few minutes the skinny woman we saw out front took our order.