Prayers of Agnes Sparrow Read online

  I took a breath for him, sighed it out, and watched it turn to smoke and blow away. The very thing I was fighting had already begun.

  “Come back tonight. After six.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am. Thank you very much. I’ll just go on down to that diner you mentioned and get me a cup of hot coffee. A man could use a cup of hot coffee after walking so far.”

  “Fine. It's about three blocks that way.” I pointed toward the town hall. “You can’t miss it. There's a big full moon hanging over it.”

  I crossed the street but kept turning to make sure he didn’t head for the house. Agnes would let him in for sure. She never turned anyone away.

  That morning my walk to the library was tinged with worry. I didn’t like the notion of people coming from out of town to see Agnes.

  I loved the library. I always did, ever since I learned to read. My mother would take me every Saturday to pick out a new book. I fell in love with stories like other kids fell for sports or ballet. I could get lost inside a story and dream and consider the possibilities.

  The building itself was unique for a library—a converted old Victorian, older than the funeral home, with miles of gingerbread, arches, and porches that created interesting spaces for reading and dreaming. In 1952 the owner of the house, Thomas Quincy Adams, donated it to the town. Many of the books belonged to him, including a first-edition collection of the poems of Emily Dickinson that I kept under glass.

  During the winter months and well into the first couple of weeks of spring I left a snow shovel outside the library doors. If it accumulated more than six or seven inches, I could usually count on one of the boys in town to shovel the walk and steps for me. But not that morning. I had to clear a path myself.

  Once inside I went about my usual morning routine, turning on lights, raising the thermostat, checking in books returned the previous day, and answering mail. I kept a coffee pot in the kitchen and always had a pot percolating throughout the day.

  By noon I had completed all my tasks. Not a single patron stopped by, so I decided to head on over to the Full Moon and see if I could catch up with Boris. He always had lunch there along with Studebaker, and I was chomping at the notion to quell the whole sign issue that morning if I could.

  I hung a little cross-stitched “closed for lunch” sign on the door just as Officer Blessing stepped out from behind a large rhododendron.

  “Anything the matter, Mildred?” I asked, more out of politeness than interest. I had learned a long time ago that it was best to keep to myself and not ask too many questions.

  “That mangy perpetrator is on the lam. I saw him heading this way.”

  Once I connected the dots I understood that Mildred was talking about Ivy's dog.

  “You’ll never catch him.” I laughed.

  She didn’t appreciate the chuckle. “I have a warrant for his arrest if you see him.”

  “You’d be better off staking out Ivy's house. He goes home eventually.”

  “Thanks.”

  I started down the path and turned around. “Oh, by the way, Mildred, a new Raymond Chandler came in this morning.”

  “I’ll be sure to check it out,” Mildred said, still poking around some suspicious-looking shrubbery.

  Of all the places in Bright's Pond the one I loved the best, besides the library, was The Full Moon Café. The original structure was built in 1938 and resembled a stainless steel railway dining car. I remember the grand opening like it was yesterday. Agnes was eight and I was only five, but I know I spent most of the evening perched on my daddy's shoulders while a Dixieland band played and Pastor Spahr prayed a blessing.

  It's gone through lots of changes, including the name. For most of its life it was known as the Bright's Pond Diner. But when Zeb Sewickey purchased it in 1969 he changed it to The Full Moon Café and hung a large neon moon over the roof. Folks came out for that too. It was quite a production with a crane and three men guiding the moon into position. Edie Tomkins's mother, Idabelle, took it upon herself to treat us with her rendition of Fly Me to the Moon as the men bolted it into place. Zeb's moon swayed a little in the high winds that day, but the installation went well, and people clapped once the last bolt was in place. Pastor Speedwell never came out to pray a blessing over the name change, and Zeb always felt slighted. But he never said anything to anyone but me.

  The inside was pretty much what you’d expect, with a long counter and vinyl upholstered stools that turn all the way around like an amusement ride. I used to think they were bolted to the floor to keep folks from walking off with one, but my mother said it had more to do with safety and stability. Agnes could never understand why anyone would want to spin while they ate.

  Booths upholstered with the same blood-red vinyl sat in a row across from the counter, and large round lights illuminated the place. But I have to admit that what I liked the most was the aroma that wafted around the room on currents of warm diner air. I guess there isn’t anything like the bouquet of grilled hamburgers, baloney, and coffee mixed with occasional cigarette smoke and perfume. The café had a smell all its own, and I often wished I could bottle it and bring it home to Agnes. She missed so much. I couldn’t have stood being imprisoned like her in my own home. But Agnes managed to take it all in stride and never complained or let on that she would like to step out into the sunshine or the snow. Truth is, I doubt Agnes could even have gotten through the door of the Full Moon anymore, and I know the tables would never have accommodated her.

  Boris and Studebaker sat at a table looking over what I could only imagine were plans for the sign. Studebaker, long since retired from the coal mines, moved to Bright's Pond in 1967 from Carbon County. Stu was truly one of the more generous people in town. He tithed regularly from his meager pension and Social Security, although word had it that Stu had stock holdings that might have qualified him to be a millionaire. That was only speculation that came out during the time of his illness. Then he started giving away money right and left to everyone in town and every charity that plucked his heartstrings.

  Boris, as always, wore one of his lawyer suits and sucked a cigar while they talked and pointed to things on the papers.

  I sidled over to their table. “Afternoon.”

  They stood politely. “Griselda,” said Stu, “did you tell Agnes about the sign?”

  “I sure did and I got to tell you, she—”

  “Sit,” interrupted Boris. “Excuse us for being rude.”

  I sat next to Boris, but before I could finish my thought Zeb was standing over me with a pot of coffee.

  “Thanks, and bring me a grilled cheese, please.” My stomach rumbled.

  “Sure thing, Grizzy.”

  I hated it when he called me that. But, Zeb seemed to get a kick out of it. We graduated high school together—class of 1950. He was a good-looking fellow—always wore a white tee shirt and blue jeans. Zeb had asked me out a couple of times but we never seemed to make it. Something always came up with Agnes and I got stuck at home.

  “I’ll bet she was thrilled to the tips of her toes,” said Studebaker.

  I reached for the cream. “Actually, she wasn’t.”

  Boris snuffed his cigar into a glass ashtray with an image of a boar's head in the middle. “What are you saying?”

  “I told you last night. Agnes doesn’t care for the whole sign thing.”

  “Pish,” said Studebaker. “She's just being shy or something.”

  I looked at the pages on the table.

  “Are these the plans?”

  Boris smiled at me. “Studebaker here had another great idea. He thought instead of painting Agnes's picture up on the sign—”

  “I already told her,” said Stu. “I told her about the statue.”

  My first instinct was to laugh again, but the horror of the idea was just too terrible.

  “I told you, Stu, you can’t do this. If she doesn’t want a sign, what makes you think she’ll okay a statue.”

  Studebaker stared out the w
indow. “Look, Griselda, she saved my life and I want the whole world to know it.”

  “She didn’t save your life, Stu. God saw fit to do that.”

  “But Agnes asked for the miracle. She put her hands on my head and prayed that the Holy Spirit would come down and take my cancer away. She prayed for a whole five minutes, and all of a sudden I got a warm tingling feeling like a gazillion ants were crawling all over my body and I knew, Griselda, I knew my cancer was gone.”

  “But, Stu—”

  “She prayed. It was her prayer. It wouldn’t have happened without her.”

  Zeb put my sandwich in front of me and refilled my cup. “You gonna be wanting dessert?” “Not today, Zeb.”

  “Fine. But I’ll wrap up a nice piece of pie for Agnes, and one for you.” He winked.

  Studebaker peered out the window again, and I thought I saw a tear roll down his cheek. He swiped it away.

  “She saved my life, Griselda.”

  I sighed and popped a chip in my mouth. I could not even imagine how remarkable it must be to have had your life spared, to be on the cusp of death and then given a new life, a second chance—just like that.

  Boris bit the corner of his baloney sandwich. “I’m afraid you’re outnumbered. Everybody in town feels the way Stu does. And we thought we’d install the statue near the town hall, not out on the highway.”

  “But she doesn’t want the sign and I’m certain a statue is just gonna make—” I stopped talking and bit my sandwich. These two had already turned Agnes into a minor deity. I signaled Zeb for a glass of water.

  I enjoyed the comforting feeling I got from the warm grilled cheese Zeb always served with a cup of cream of tomato soup.

  “Where's Cora?” I asked when he put the glass on the table.

  “Oh, she went to see the Doc.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No, just her blood pressure check. You know, old folk stuff.”

  I finished my lunch with Boris and Stu. We said nothing more about the sign or the statue.

  It started to flurry as I walked back to the library. Snow on snow. I watched people still clearing their sidewalks and driveways. Even Eugene was digging out his old Rambler and cursing up a storm.

  “Afternoon, Eugene.” I waved and smiled.

  He shook his shovel at me. “Abomination. That sister of yours is an abomination.”

  I kicked a clump of snow out of the way. The sun had started to melt the white stuff, and I watched little streams flowing toward the storm sewers. For a second I had a fantasy of Eugene being swept away. But I supposed that wasn’t very Christian-like. Agnes would never think such a thing.

  Ivy Slocum sat out on her porch looking about as exhausted as I had ever seen her. She leaned on her shovel. She wore one of those hats with fur-lined earflaps and a parka that she bought at the Army/Navy store.

  “Why don’t you get one of the men to shovel, Ivy,” I called. “I’m sure Fred Haskell will be glad to help.”

  Fred lived next door to Ivy. He was the town plumber and another good egg. I think Fred was one of those people who would truly take the coat off his back to help you. He often accepted blueberry pies and potato bleenies as payment for a plumbing job.

  One winter, a blizzard came up the coast and knocked out all the power. Fred went door-to-door making certain that everyone's furnace pilot light was on and that people were at least getting heat.

  “He was already here, but got called out on an emergency,” Ivy puffed. “Edie Tompkins's toilet overflowed and started coming through the dining room ceiling.”

  I waved. “Go get a piece of pie or something. The snow will wait.”

  “Planning on it.”

  By the time I got back to the library it was nearly two o’clock. The drifter from the morning sat on the steps with his arm around Ivy Slocum's dog. She never did bother to give him a name. That mutt took one look at me and hightailed it off the porch. I swear he knew there was a warrant out for his arrest.

  “Afternoon,” said the stranger. He rose to his feet. “That there is a fine dog.”

  “He's a scoundrel.”

  I unlocked the door and the drifter followed me inside.

  “Never was much of a reader,” he said. “Just never got the knack.”

  “Too bad.”

  I sat behind the circulation desk and pretended I had something to do by flipping through a box of library card records.

  “My name is Hezekiah,” he said. “Hezekiah Branch.”

  “Hezekiah—he was a—”

  “A king of Israel.” Hezekiah pulled himself up to his full height and straightened his shoulders when he said it. Then he slumped. “Not me though. I ain’t king of nothing, you know.”

  No, I didn’t know, but from his tone and the fact that he was picking through my trash earlier, I imagined that Hezekiah had a well full of troubles that brought him to Bright's Pond. “Hezekiah was one of Judah's finest kings,” I said. “You should be honored.”

  He put his head down. “I know. Someone told me the Holy Bible says he was approved by God.”

  “That's right.”

  Hezekiah wandered a few feet away from me. “Mind if I just plant myself here for a spell? It's cold on the street. Feels like it barely made it above freezing.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll be here until three.”

  “Then I can walk back home with you?”

  That was the last thing I wanted. “Maybe you could go on down to the café and wait there until six, then come over to the house.”

  He nodded and as he disappeared behind a row of books, I couldn’t help but feel sadness for this displaced king.

  “I’ll be leaving now,” I called to Hezekiah around three o’clock. I waited a moment but heard no response. “Hezekiah,” I called louder. “I need to lock up the library.”

  He poked his head out from around the shelves. “Okay.” He rubbed his eyes like he had just woke up. Probably did.

  I locked the door and walked down the path with Hezekiah. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather walk alone. You can find the café, right?”

  “Oh, for sure. I’ll see you at six o’clock, then.”

  “Right. Six o’clock.”

  Hezekiah sprinted off toward Second Street, and I lagged behind a few seconds. The truth was I didn’t want anyone to see us together.

  5

  “Who shoveled the walk?” I called as I entered the house.

  “Fred Haskell did it after he finished up at the Tompkins,” Agnes said.

  “Remind me to give that man a hug.” I hung up my coat and took my boots off in the tiled entryway. Arthur was asleep near the small radiator, but he woke as I walked past and shot me a disagreeable look.

  “Excuse me all the way to jumpin’ blue heck.”

  “He's been in a surly mood all day,” Agnes said.

  I went to her bedside. She looked comfortable enough and had managed to make herself a lunch. The remnants were left for me to clean up. The M&M jar was open on the table.

  “Ivy came by. Prayed for her bursitis. Then Fred stopped by.”

  “Fred? That's unusual.”

  “Sure is. He's worried about his boy, Clive.”

  “The little guy?”

  “He's only six but he's having trouble in school. Gets bullied on account of he has that lisp.”

  “That's terrible. But if anyone can understand about bullies it would be—”

  “I prayed the Good Lord would reach down and give that child his proper s's.”

  “Good for you. Now I need to go get changed and make some supper.” Agnes always interrupted when the conversation even brushed by being about her.

  “I’ll be here,” she said. “I was thinking some of that rare roast beef and mashed potatoes tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  I didn’t want to tell her about Hezekiah right off.

  Arthur followed me upstairs where I was certain to find another bloodied mouse in my room. I didn’t thi
nk there was any way to stop the behavior. He was wild when he came to me, and you just can’t get the predator out of an animal that has it in his genes. I was right. I carried another dead body to the window and tossed it out. No matter how many times I fed the little creatures to the crows, I always felt a twinge of remorse and guilt.

  I changed while Arthur cleaned himself in the hallway. It felt good to slip into a pair of sweats and warm socks.

  “How about a nice fire?” I called to Arthur. “Think I’ll get one going before I make supper.”

  Fortunately, I had loaded plenty of wood onto the back porch before the heavy snow fell. It was good, well-seasoned hardwoods—oak and poplar and some long-burning cherry from a tree that fell in a storm a while back.

  In no time I had a crackling fire going. I poked at it and let the warmth reach my face. Our house, like most Victorians, had multiple fireplaces; we had four. The one in the viewing room was large and worked fine. For some reason the others didn’t draw as well and I needed to schedule a sweep to come out. But it was one of those things I never seemed to get around to doing.

  “That's nice,” said Agnes. “Thank you.”

  I sat on the sofa. “It is nice. Fire.” It spirited me away sometimes. I could get lost in the dancing flames.

  I asked Agnes to turn down the television. “Remember that drifter this morning?”

  “Yeah, why? He left hours ago. Never came back.”

  I was glad to hear that. “He came by the library today. Says he needs prayer and wants to see you. In fact he came to Bright's Pond looking for you.”

  “Oh. Well, tell him to come by.”

  “I did. He’ll be here around six. But, Agnes, I have to say it worries me. We don’t know this man.”

  “God knows him.”

  “That's true. But I think you should tread easy, you know.”

  Agnes popped a few candies. “I’m hungry.”

  “I’ll get supper.”

  “Hold on,” she said. “How did he hear about me?”

  “He heard some people talking about you down at the Piggly Wiggly in Shoops.”