Prayers of Agnes Sparrow Page 28

  I picked out two lemons and hurried through the rest of my shopping. The longer I took the more stuff I thought I should buy: shampoo and toilet paper, laundry soap and corn flakes.

  Ruby didn’t say a word to me as she checked my groceries. She carried on an insipid conversation about what was happening in the make-believe world of Pine Valley on the soap opera with her check-out neighbor, Sadie Fromme.

  When I got back to the house it was no surprise that I found Ruth and Agnes deep in conversation about Clarence Pepper and what Agnes did all those years ago.

  “Well, it seems to me,” Ruth said, “the worst thing you done was keep it a secret. I mean how could you do that?”

  “I was just a kid and I was mighty scared of going to jail.”

  I hurried into the kitchen and plopped the grocery bags on the table before I joined them. “Agnes, I thought we weren’t going to tell anyone.”

  “Now, how can you expect that, Griselda?” Ruth said. “I’m amazed she's sat on it this long. My goodness gracious, that must of been tough.”

  The idea of making lemon squares had long passed, and the three of us spent a good part of the day discussing what Agnes did to Clarence Pepper. I was able to get them to agree that no one else needed to know; it would bring even more unwanted attention to Bright's Pond and Agnes.

  All of a sudden, Ruth looked like she had an idea. “I hate to say this, but I think I might have said that Hezekiah was going to stir up trouble.”

  “You said nothing of the sort,” Agnes said.

  “I might have thought it.”

  “Should you contact the boy's parents?” I asked. “I mean, I’d want to know.” I felt my forehead wrinkle. “At least I think I would.”

  “Heavens, no,” Ruth said. “Those folks think their son's death was the result of a simple boyhood accident. You want them to know he died because he made fun of Agnes?”

  “That's right,” Agnes said. “They shouldn’t have to live with that. They’re older now, anyway. It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  Ruth swallowed a piece of cookie she plucked from Agnes's table. “I remember that day now. You never saw a more broken-up mother than Lily Pepper. But I have to say, now that I think about it, that boy was one mean child. I remember the way he taunted you, Agnes.”

  I didn’t remember, not then. I kept trying to picture Clarence Pepper, but I guess he was older than me so I didn’t see him much. I watched Agnes, while Ruth did her best to put a bright polish on what happened so many years ago. It was like watching someone receive unwanted news. Agnes played with her hands, locking and unlocking her fingers, averting her eyes until she couldn’t hear anymore.

  “But I killed him—accident or no.” She knocked over an empty, plastic tumbler. It bounced on the floor and stopped when it rolled against her slipper. “He died because I pushed him.”

  “Well now, you didn’t mean to, did you Agnes?” Ruth could not find her off button that day. “Did you ever once say to yourself, I’m going to kill him?”

  “No, but—”

  “That's the difference in my book. I say we let it go.” Ruth smiled and patted Agnes's hand. “Let it fade and let Agnes get back to her normal self. It was good to get it out, though, wasn’t it, dear?” She patted Agnes's hand and wiped stray hairs off her pink face. “Let's make a pact like when we were kids.”

  “Oh, Ruth, don’t be silly,” I said. “We’re not kids.”

  “I know that, but it’ll still work. You’ll see. A pact is binding whether you’re ten or forty.”

  Ruth put her hand out and waited. Agnes sighed and placed hers on top and I finally joined them after a few seconds of consideration.

  “Now,” Ruth said, “repeat after me. I, state your name, solemnly swear to keep this secret for the rest of my life.”

  It might sound silly for three grown women to make a pledge like that, but you know, there was comfort in the moment and something perhaps even sacred about making a pact. I had to snuff back tears as we lingered a moment with our hands touching, feeling the promise pass between us.

  Ruth went ahead and made the lemon squares before she left. “Now let them cool a while. Lemon squares are always better cold. More zing.”

  She kissed Agnes's cheek. “Don’t you worry, dear. No one has to know.”

  Agnes ate five or six lemon squares before she said another word about what happened to Clarence Pepper. “I just didn’t know what to do, Griselda. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. Can you really blame me for not telling?”

  “But, Agnes—”

  “But what?”

  “Maybe you should have at least told Daddy and let him figure out what to do.”

  She looked out the window and ignored my question. “I kept telling myself it would look brighter in the morning. And every morning that God gave me was brighter, Griselda. It was like what happened got further and further away, and I started praying harder and harder and that was when things started to happen.”

  “You mean like miracles and stuff.”

  “Not exactly. It was small things at first. I figured that was God's way of setting it up so the town got blessed on account of me and what I did. It was a way of paying my debt, I suppose.”

  My brain reeled as she spoke. I couldn’t get past the fact that my sister, provoked or not, was responsible for the death of another human being. “I still think you needed to tell someone. I can’t for the life of me figure how you kept it quiet all these years and especially—”

  Agnes yanked on her nightgown. “Darn fool thing is always getting caught between my knees. “Maybe I should switch to sweat pants.”

  “Especially me. I’ve been taking care of you all these years, day after day, night after night, and you never told me. And I can’t find pants big enough, not even in Foster's Big and Tall Shop for Men.”

  Agnes clicked on the TV. “Maybe I’ll watch a little before I turn in.”

  “Agnes, you can’t ignore this or me.”

  “I’m not doing that. I’m getting tired is all, and Doc doesn’t want me overexerting myself.”

  I stood there for a good three minutes, staring at Agnes while she picked at lemon squares and watched Columbo. I wish I could say what I was thinking. It was probably a mixture of disbelief and sadness that my sister had imprisoned herself for her crime. I managed to wash some dirty dishes, but the whole time I was getting angrier and angrier at my sister. After awhile, I thought I would pop. Instead, I told Agnes I was going down to the Full Moon for a while.

  “Griselda, don’t leave me here all alone. Not at night.”

  “I won’t be that far away. Call the café if something happens.”

  “You’re mad at me.”

  “Mad? Of course I am, Agnes. You lied to me. You lied to everyone.”

  Zeb was still inside the café closing up for the night. I rapped on the door and waved when he saw me.

  “Griselda, it's a little late.”

  “I know. I just needed a place to sit for a spell.”

  “I might have some coffee left, and how about a piece of pie?”

  “No, thanks, Zeb. I just want to sit.”

  “Suit yourself. I need to finish up in the kitchen. They’re collecting the grease tomorrow morning.”

  Zeb swung through the skinny door with the round window, and tears welled up in my eyes.

  “Zeb,” I called. “Can you come out here?”

  “Sure, Grizzy, what is it?” He came through the door wiping his hands on his apron.

  “I … I need to tell you something that … that, ah, I had a good time at the movie and maybe we could do it again.”

  Zeb smiled into my eyes. “Sure, sure we could.”

  27

  Agnes was asleep when I got home that night. I pulled her blanket up, and she stirred a little but never opened her eyes. I confess that I was glad she didn’t. The last thing I wanted was to discuss Clarence Pepper. I checked the locks, turned off the lights, and fell into bed
with a thud. Arthur leaped from the sill onto my stomach.

  I reached for the lamp and noticed the picture of my parents I had kept on the table for years—a picture I saw every day but rarely noticed. They were so young in the picture; it was taken before I was born. My father had just bought the house and started his business.

  He would have understood. But Agnes never gave him the chance. Imagine embalming the body of a boy your own daughter killed. I lay there listening to Arthur's gentle purr against my stomach. It was like the soft hum of distant bees. It changed from a low, raspy purr to a high trill, and then it finally wound down as Arthur fell asleep.

  I must have fallen asleep with him because the next thing I remembered was Agnes calling out to me.

  “Griselda, I got to get to the bathroom. Griselda!”

  I tossed Arthur onto the floor. “She needs me.” A loud sigh escaped from my chest.

  After a quick stop at my own bathroom I helped Agnes, like I always did, one painful, slow step at a time.

  When I took her back to bed she said, “I’m glad I told you.”

  “Me, too, I guess. I just wish you had told me sooner.”

  “Why?” Agnes wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  My forehead wrinkled. “Why? I don’t know. It would have made a difference, that's all. Maybe I could have helped.”

  Agnes lay back. Arthur leaped onto her stomach and pawed at her nightgown for a second or two and then curled into a puddle.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Agnes said, stroking Arthur's neck, “that maybe the reason all this stuff is happening is because I haven’t been praying enough. I haven’t been praying hard enough for the people all these years.”

  “What? You pray all the time, more than anyone I know, including Pastor Speedwell. I doubt you can pray any harder.”

  “But I’ve been thinking that maybe that's why Hezekiah tricked me. I wasn’t praying enough. I had been getting tired before he came. Remember, Griselda?”

  “Agnes, it's not your fault.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you this, I am not going to stop my prayers. I’m going to step them up a bit. I swear to you, Griselda, I will pray for each and every member of this community by name, every day, all day if need be. I only wish I could get on my knees.”

  “Agnes, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I do. That's where you’re wrong. I really do.”

  After breakfast, I left Agnes with her notebooks. She asked for the older, full ones. “I want to go over them again. See how God has blessed the folks, you know? It's good to do that now and again, don’t you think? Maybe I forgot about someone I had no business forgetting.”

  There was something desperate in her voice.

  “Should I open the curtains?”

  “Of course. It's supposed to be a delightful day full of sunshine, no rain. But you didn’t answer me. Don’t you think it's a good idea to look at the many ways God has blessed our town and for me to check on folks?”

  She winced as I pulled the drapes open and a bright shot of sunlight burst through the glass. The sky was that perfect spring blue—cerulean—just the deepest sky blue imaginable. I stood a moment and caught a glimpse of Pastor Speedwell making his way into the church. I don’t think a day has passed since he came to town that he hasn’t gone to his office. I smiled when he stopped and touched the for-sythia and looked into the dogwood tree where the Jesus pie plate dangled in the breeze. The sun glinted off of it like a searchlight.

  “Pastor just went into the church,” I said. “Ever think of talking to him?”

  “About what?”

  I turned around. “Agnes, you know perfectly well.”

  “I am not going to discuss it. I made my peace.”

  Even though it was Saturday I made the decision to open the library and took my time walking there. The town was already busy as folks decided to take advantage of the bright, warm morning.

  “Hey, Griselda,” called Studebaker. He was across the street getting his mail. “Beautiful day.”

  I waved. “Sure is.”

  Ivy was pulling weeds away from some shrubs in her front yard. I could hear Al Capone barking his fool head off in the backyard.

  “Hello, Ivy. How are you?”

  “Oh, hey, Griselda.” She wiped hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I hate weeds. They spring up so fast. Will you listen to that dog?”

  “I hear him. He doesn’t sound happy.”

  “Not in the least. But he’ll be back to his old self once I get that lousy fence down.”

  “You’re taking the fence down?”

  “I can’t abide it, Griselda. I can’t live with a fence built by the man that killed my friend.” She tossed a handful of tangled vines onto the pavement.

  “You can’t do it yourself, can you? That's a big job.”

  “Of course not. Fred and Stu and even Boris said they’d come by this afternoon.”

  She made me think about all the work Hezekiah had completed around my home—the pipes, the roof, how he cleaned out the basement so well. His fingerprints were all over the place and there was nothing I could do. Ivy was right to take the fence down. Bright's Pond needed no memorial.

  “Good. Well, I better get to the library.” I took a few steps and stopped.

  “Say, Ivy, maybe Fred Haskell and Studebaker will build you a new one.”

  Ivy stood and wiped dirt from her red sweatshirt. “Nah, Al Capone was happier on the lam, you know?”

  “I think Mildred was happier running after him too.”

  Ivy smiled and waved her little snippers. “The chase is on.”

  I switched on the library lights and turned up the heat. The building was cold and silent, and I felt chilled to the bone. Leaving my hat and coat on, I piled up all the mail that had accumulated on the floor by the door, started coffee, and shuffled through papers on my desk.

  As I poured a cup, my eye caught sight of the microfiche machine. Two hours and a cup and a half later I pinpointed the day Clarence Pepper died. Well, it made the news the day after. It was just a bitty piece on page two of what was then called The Bright's Pond Evening Gazette with a tagline that read, All you need to know.

  May 22, 1947—Tragedy struck the Walter Pepper family up on Hector Hill when their boy, Clarence Pepper, was found dead at that location. Apparently, he had been running, tripped, and fell, hitting his head against a large, jagged rock. Doctor Sam Flaherty said the boy might have been saved if help had gotten there in time. The funeral will be Friday at eleven o’clock in the morning out of the Sparrow Funeral Home. All are invited.

  The words, “gotten there in time” pounded in my brain. If only Agnes had told the truth, maybe Clarence would have lived.

  I scanned a few more records and came across a larger story written the day after the funeral. It told in detail about how the family cried and how Clarence's school chums lined the street while family and friends carried his casket to the cemetery. Walter Pepper, his brother Simon, Doc Flaherty, who at the time was a brand-new doctor fresh from medical school, and a young Frank Sturgis were the pallbearers.

  Then I remembered. I stayed with Agnes in her room and didn’t attend the funeral. We played Go to the Head of the Class. I thought she refused to go to Clarence's funeral because she was worried about the other kids seeing her. They might make fun, or maybe the walk to the cemetery would have been too hard on her, a fat girl following the crowd, lagging behind a casket draped in the colorful quilt his mother made for him.

  But all along she was hiding the truth. Maybe she was afraid she would have spilled the beans had she gone to the cemetery and watched his mama cry. My brain reeled as I read the report, and it spun even more when I heard the Doc's words ricochet around my skull, “gotten there in time.” Doc's office was closer than our house. Even Agnes could have gotten there quickly.

  By two o’clock the day had grown warm and pleasant. I opened a window to let in fresh and usher out the stale, bookis
h air of the library. To stay busy I swept up the dust that tended to accumulate in the corners and along the baseboards. At three, Tohilda Best and the rest of the Society ladies rushed in. They were chattering like the finches in the trees outside. Tohilda shushed them.

  “Oh, Griselda,” she said, “you won’t mind if we have an emergency meeting, will you?” She looked a fright, like she hadn’t combed her hair in a day or so, but that wasn’t unusual. Her dress was wrinkled, and a button was missing. “We just got word that one of the backwoods families is set to have themselves another mouth to feed, and the daddy ain’t worked in three months. They’ve got four other younguns.”

  “Oh, no, go right ahead and have your meeting. Take your time. I can make coffee, if you’d like.”

  “That would be mighty kind of you,” she said.

  The women spread out around the periodical table and pulled out a small map that looked like it had been drawn in crayon on a paper sack in a hurry.

  “Now, near as I can figure, the family lives here.” Hazel Flatbush pointed to a spot on the map.

  I left them to their plans and made coffee. I found a tray of cookies and brought them to the ladies. Hazel pulled one from the plastic tray.

  “You have a good meeting now,” I said. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

  “Thank you, Griselda,” they said in concert.

  “And to think, we gave that man new shoes.” I heard Hazel say after I walked four steps.

  “And socks,” added Dot Handy. “We gave that man shoes and socks and then he went and—”

  I felt my jaw clench. “Now, look,” I said. I turned back to them. “There ain’t no reason for you to be talking about Hezekiah and what he did. This town's got to get over it.”

  “Over it,” Dot said. “It ain’t easy getting over that big of a mountain, Griselda. That man killed one of our own. People don’t forget that easy.”

  “Then I would appreciate it if you just don’t talk about it here.”

  “Well,” Hazel said, “we need to screen our recipients better in the future. I’ll tell you that much.”