Prayers of Agnes Sparrow Page 5

  “No kidding?” She looked toward the ceiling. “I didn’t know folks down there knew me.”

  “I know, Agnes, I was afraid of something like this happening and with this whole sign thing—”

  Agnes closed her eyes a few seconds. “I’ll still see him. He must need help if he came this far. God must of sent him to me.”

  “Says he needs powerful praying. Wants to claim his miracle.”

  By five I had supper ready. Arthur was desperate to get outside, so I set him free and brought Agnes her meal. Oh, how I longed to sit at a table and eat a meal surrounded by family. But that wasn’t in the cards, and I set Agnes's food on a tray and carried it out to her, the way I did every meal.

  “Looks good, Griselda, but don’t forget the salt and pepper and maybe some more butter on my mashed and a couple slices of bread.”

  I sucked in air. “Okay. I’ll get it.”

  Our daily bread was down to the last two slices. And I mean daily. I went through a loaf a day, keeping Agnes full. Doctor Flaherty said her body required a lot of calories, even though I honestly don’t believe Agnes realized how much she ate in a day.

  “Apple butter,” she called. “Slather on some of that apple butter Cora brought over.”

  I did and grabbed the salt, pepper, and butter and headed for the living room just as the doorbell chimed. I stopped in my tracks for a second. It couldn’t be him. It wasn’t six o’clock.

  “You gonna get that?” she said.

  I placed the condiments and Agnes's apple butter bread on her table. “I’ll get it. But if it's Hezekiah, I’m sending him away until six.”

  “Who?”

  “The drifter. The guy poking around in the trash this morning.”

  “Oh, don’t do that. Maybe we should feed him. Probably hungry, poor soul.”

  It was him on the porch looking like a lost traveler, which I suppose he was.

  “Hezekiah. It's only five-fifteen. I told you six.”

  “Please, ma’am, I’m just so desperate to meet Agnes.”

  “I’m sorry, but we’re in the middle of supper. Come back at six.”

  “Invite him in,” Agnes called.

  Hezekiah smiled. “I’d be much obliged. I’ll just stand in the doorway until she's ready to see me.”

  “No, no, you don’t have to do that.”

  “Are you hungry?” Agnes asked.

  Hezekiah had sidled up next to Agnes before I could say Piggly Wiggly. I offered to take his coat and hat but he refused. “Still warming up,” he said. I watched his red cheeks turn white when he saw Agnes. I suppose nobody at the Piggly Wiggly mentioned her weight. “Uhm, hel … hello. I’m Hezekiah.” Then he pulled himself up to his full height. “That roast beef sure smells delicious. Can’t tell you the last time I tasted real, honest-to-goodness mashed potatoes. They had some watered-down, dehydrated slop at the mission in Shoops. Tasted more like wallpaper paste.”

  “I’ll get you a plate,” I said even though every cell in my body seethed. I watched Hezekiah look Agnes up and down like she was a sideshow freak—something I hadn’t experienced in a while. He tried to hide it and did manage to contain his amazement and smile at Agnes in a way that didn’t drip of remorse or embarrassment. Even though Agnes was, for all intents and purposes, a freak to most people. They didn’t know her inside like I did.

  I sliced beef and plopped mashed potatoes on a plate, added a pile of peas, and poured brown gravy over it, but before I could lift the plate off the table, Hezekiah was standing next to me. He had removed his coat and hat. His hair was cut so short it was more like peach fuzz. “I’ll help you,” he said.

  “She too much for you?”

  He looked away, out the kitchen window. “N … no, not really. I just never been that close to someone so … so…”

  “Huge?”

  He looked at his feet like most people did when they were ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. That's your plate, and I’ll get you some juice or—”

  “Milk, if you got it.”

  Hezekiah carried his food into the viewing room, and I prepared my own plate.

  I had just joined them, thinking that this drifter seemed a mite too polite, when he said, “Pardon me, Ma’am but could I please wash up? The street is a grimy place to be living.”

  “Oh, certainly,” Agnes said. “There's a bathroom right over there behind those pocket doors.”

  Hezekiah excused himself, and I placed a forkful of mashed potatoes in my mouth when I heard, “Oh my sweet Je—”

  Agnes laughed. “He must have noticed the toilet seat.”

  The drifter returned to the viewing room, wiping his hands on his shirt.

  “Never seen such a large … commode?” Agnes asked.

  “N-n-no, Ma’am, I never did.”

  “It's called the Big Flo,” I said. “Our friend Fred Haskell designed and built it for Agnes. He's got a patent pending down in Washington, DC.”

  “That's right,” Agnes said. “I consider it my own doublewide miracle.”

  I watched Hezekiah try to hide his laughter in his glass of milk but he couldn’t hold on and spit milk halfway across the room. “Sorry,” he said wiping his mouth.

  “Don’t worry,” Agnes said. “It's good to get it out of the way.”

  Hezekiah ate fast, shoveling in large mouthfuls. He asked for seconds and then thirds. He and Agnes finished off the roast and all the potatoes and peas.

  “Thank you,” he said, “that was the finest meal I’ve had in … in … well, let's say a long time.”

  “You’re welcome, Hezekiah,” Agnes said. “Griselda is an excellent cook.”

  “Could open a restaurant.”

  I served the pie Zeb had given me for dessert.

  When we finished, Hezekiah carried our plates into the kitchen, and a few minutes later I heard water running. I went to investigate and found Hezekiah washing our dishes. He looked funny standing at the sink with a pink apron tied around his waist.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “Yes, I do, Ma’am. I always pay my check in one way or another.”

  Arthur mewled at the door.

  “My cat,” I said. “Arthur.”

  “Arthur?”

  I chuckled. “He was named after a great king too.”

  Hezekiah cracked a smile that exposed straight teeth and a dimple on his left cheek.

  Arthur sauntered inside and wrapped himself around my legs. I put the kettle on to boil for tea and placed cups and saucers on the table.

  A short while later, after Hezekiah adjusted the fire and carried more logs into the room, the conversation finally turned to Hezekiah's prayer needs.

  “Griselda told me you were in need of prayer,” said Agnes.

  Hezekiah looked down and rubbed his hands together. “Yes, yes I am. Some powerful prayers.”

  “Tell me why,” Agnes said. “What exactly do you need me to pray for?”

  Hezekiah took a breath. And when he did his strong chest expanded like a bellows. He brushed the top of his head. “Lice. Stinking lice.”

  “Lice?” said Agnes. “You askin’ me to pray for lice?”

  “No. no. I had them, that's all. Miserable vermin crawled and laid eggs all over my head. I had to shave my hair off to get rid of them. That's why it's so short. Before the infestation I had grown my hair down to here.” He pointed to a place on his shoulder. “Had me a nice ponytail.”

  Agnes and I locked eyes, both of us grateful, I’m sure, that God waited until after the lice plague to bring him to her.

  “Well, if it ain’t lice then—” said Agnes.

  “A person doesn’t have to say the words out loud, do they? Can’t you just pray some mumbo jumbo about God being able to read minds and stuff?” He folded his arms across his chest.

  Agnes took a minute to adjust herself. I asked Hezekiah to push up on her knee while I straightened her pillows.

  “First of all, Hezekiah,
it isn’t mumbo jumbo, and if that's what you believe then maybe now's not the best time to pray,” Agnes said.

  Hezekiah's eyes grew wide like a startled deer's. “Oh, no, ma’am, I didn’t mean that; I didn’t mean it was mumbo jumbo, like it was silly. I just don’t know much about proper prayer talk.”

  Agnes and I exchanged looks and then smiles.

  “I guess it will be all right,” Agnes said. “God knows what you mean.”

  “Just tell the good Lord that I need him to help me to … to … “He pushed his fists into the sides of his head like a terrible headache had taken hold all of a sudden. “Please, I’m begging you, Agnes, pray for me.”

  Agnes prayed for a full three minutes, asking God to grant Hezekiah all manner of mercies from his health to his financial situation to helping him find a job. But Hezekiah didn’t react to any of the requests in a way that would have clued us in to his real need—the one thing, if it were one thing—that he had locked inside himself. Sometimes it happened that way. Sometimes folks came to Agnes asking for prayer about a particular matter when all the time there was something else, something darker, something more serious that needed God's attention.

  That's how it happened for Studebaker. He came to Agnes asking for prayer about his aching back and a nagging cough when all the time he knew he had lung cancer and was dying.

  “Amen.” Agnes finished her prayer, but Hezekiah remained with his head bent for a several more seconds, so we all sat in silence until he finally spoke.

  “Thank you, Agnes. But I didn’t feel nothing. I mean, ain’t I supposed to feel a tingling or something? Ain’t that God's way of letting you know you got a miracle?”

  Agnes reached out, and Hezekiah took her hand. He laid his head on her arm. “Maybe I just don’t deserve a miracle. Maybe I’m a hopeless case.”

  “Now you stop that talk, this instant,” said Agnes in such a way that Hezekiah's head snapped to attention. “There is no such thing as hopeless cases where God is concerned. Some miracles take a little longer than others. This might be the kind that takes repeating.”

  Agnes grabbed her well-worn King James and thumbed through the pages. “See here, this is a story about Samuel's mother. She prayed for years before she got her miracle.”

  “Years?” said Hezekiah. “I don’t have years. I need it now. I needed it a long time ago.”

  Agnes closed her Bible and began to pray again. This time she raised her voice and even asked God to bind any devils that might be chasing after Hezekiah. He crossed his arms tight against his chest when she said those words.

  “In the name of Jesus, we pray for these things,” Agnes finished.

  Hezekiah lifted his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I still got nothing.”

  I watched him slowly ball both hands into tight fists. He rubbed them into his eyes. “You’re my only hope, Miss Sparrow.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Hezekiah, give it a little time. You’ll get your miracle.” The second those words left my mouth I felt my stomach sink. I had never promised anyone a miracle before that evening.

  Agnes patted my hand to silence me.

  “Listen,” she said looking at Hezekiah, “why don’t you stay in town. I’m sure Vidalia Whitaker will give you a room.”

  “But I got no money.”

  “That doesn’t matter. You can work around here. Do some odd jobs and such. I’ll pay you—not a lot, mind you—but enough to help out. Maybe you can get another job in town.”

  I stood straight up. “Agnes, what are you saying? Shouldn’t we … discuss this first?”

  “I’m sorry,” Hezekiah said. “I didn’t mean to start a family squabble.”

  “Phooey.” Agnes blew out air that smacked of beef gravy. “Don’t let my sister bother you.”

  Hezekiah stood and rubbed his head. “I can’t thank you enough. And … and I suppose I’m willing to wait as long as I have to for God to grant me my miracle.”

  6

  Agnes reached out her thick arm to the bedside table and picked up the phone. “I’ll call Vidalia right now and let her know you’ll be coming to see her tonight.”

  Hezekiah stood at Agnes's side with his hands folded like a child's in prayer against his chest and his chin bent downward. When Agnes started talking he sneaked a peek at me. I smiled politely.

  “Vidalia,” Agnes said into the phone. “I got a favor to ask.” Agnes spoke for only a couple of minutes, but I could tell from her tone that Vidalia agreed to give Hezekiah a room. He caught on also and practically beamed at her as she spoke. I stood back and watched, fighting my feelings of apprehension. Agnes placed the receiver on its cradle, winced, and tried to grab her knee.

  “Cramp,” she said, “another cramp.”

  She needed to adjust herself, and Hezekiah wasn’t shy about helping. He pulled the offending leg out as straight as it would go.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Thank you, Hezekiah. Yes, much better. Sometimes I get myself into the oddest, tangled up predicaments.”

  He patted her arm. “I’m glad I could help.”

  “Well, you go on down to Vidalia's and get settled. She's expecting you. Griselda will point the way.”

  Hezekiah shook Agnes's hand, and then he grabbed mine and pumped it up and down with vigor. “Thank you, thank you both. I knew the Almighty God led me here. I knew it.”

  Agnes raised her hands and said, “Praise Jesus.”

  I walked Hezekiah to the door and told him how to find Vidalia's house. “Just look for the wreath on the front door. Vidalia always has a welcome wreath.”

  “I guess I’ll be seeing you in the morning,” he said with a sigh. “I’m excited to get to work for you and Agnes.”

  “Not too early, Hezekiah. Make it around nine.”

  Vidalia Whitaker was one of my favorite people in town, and I had no doubt that she would take generous care of him. Vidalia was a small lady with enormous grace and compassion. She rarely complained, never attended town meetings, went to church every Sunday, and, as far as I knew, only went to Agnes once for prayer. And then, it wasn’t for herself, but for a family member who lived on the other side of the country. I doubt if Studebaker even asked her to sign the petition for the Agnes Sparrow sign. I’m certain he knew she would have no part of the spectacle. I could have heard her reply, sweet, gentle, but to the point. “Now you know I am not going to sign that piece of paper,” she would have said. “Now get on back to the café or somewhere and stop this foolishness.”

  Vidalia was one of my regulars at the library. I think she might have been the smartest woman I ever met. I always thought it a shame she never went to college. It was easy for me to picture her teaching history at a university.

  But college wasn’t in the cards for Vidalia. “It was hard enough for a black woman to finish high school,” she told me once over tea and sugar cookies. “And colleges didn’t take many colored folk back then either.”

  So, Vidalia self-educated herself, reading everything she could get her hands on that pertained to American history. The teachers at the high school even considered her an expert on the Civil War, and every year, when the subject was taught, students lined up, waiting to pick her brain for facts to include in their essays.

  She spoke with a slight Southern accent, having been born in Georgia. She could tell stories about the War Between the States like an actress on a stage and breathe life into history that excited the children. I only asked her once about why she moved to Bright's Pond. She smiled at my question a moment, patted my hand, and said, “Griselda, there are some stones better left unturned.”

  I never asked her again. It wasn’t important. What really mattered was the way Vidalia and her husband Drayton dovetailed into our community in the early sixties. While the rest of the world burned down cities and marched for racial equality, Bright's Pond had managed to put it into practice. Drayton passed on just a few years after they moved to town and left her to raise their daughter alo
ne. She married and moved away. Although she offered, Vidalia said she would never leave Bright's Pond. She turned her home into a boarding house, often giving a room to visiting relatives and on rare occasions perfect strangers.

  And so she did for Hezekiah. She gave him the room in the front—a large, sunny bedroom with flowered wallpaper and its own bathroom. She only charged him ten dollars a week, but always left a list of chores for him on Saturday morning.

  By Groundhog Day Hezekiah had shoveled our walk ten times, patched the roof well enough to stop the occasional waterfall in one of the upstairs bedrooms, replaced the pipes under three sinks, and told Agnes that when spring came he would build us a new garage. I guessed he planned on putting down roots in Bright's Pond.

  Every Groundhog Day folks gathered at the Full Moon to watch the early morning festivities at Gobbler's Knob in western Pennsylvania. Zeb brought in a small TV and sat it on the counter and we all gathered around waiting for the official groundhog decree to be read.

  It was my father's favorite holiday, believe it or not. “Six more weeks to spring: just about halfway through,” he’d say whether good old Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow or not. I only remember Phil not seeing his shadow maybe one or two times. But in the mountains you can rest assured that winter would have her icy claws dug deep for at least another six and probably eight weeks no matter what Phil predicted. The spring thaw was important to my father because some winters were so cold and the ground so hard, bodies had to be kept until spring before the cemetery could bury them. Some years they were stacked three or four high in a garage at the cemetery. Imagine that, having to wait weeks before you could bury your loved one, knowing he or she was stacked like cordwood in a garage all the while.

  Hezekiah joined us that year at the café. At first he didn’t understand what all the hoopla was about. I was standing near the counter with Vidalia and Ruth Knickerbocker when Hezekiah pushed his way through the crowd to take a seat at the counter like he was some kind of dignitary invited for the occasion. Ruth was one of my best friends even though she was more than a decade older than me. We enjoyed each other's company and she often made me smile when it was the last thing I wanted to do.