Free Prayers of Agnes Sparrow by Joyce Magnin

you might come across a few strange items.”
    Hezekiah hunched his shoulders. “Creepy.”
    “Not really.” Agnes laughed. “If you find anything you aren’t sure of, just drop it in a box and Griselda will go through it another time.” She sucked in a breath. “And probably old rags. Lots of rags with stains and such. Just toss them out to be burned. You can build a fire in the backyard.”
    “Yes, Ma’am.”
    Studebaker returned. “Agnes, you know who Filby Pruett is?”
    Agnes twisted her mouth. “Filby Pruett. I remember him. Scrawny fellow. Wore tortoiseshell glasses. Said he came to town to paint in peace and quiet.”
    “That's him. He bought the old Bradley house on Hector Street,” Stu said.
    “Never came to me for prayer, though.” Agnes pushed her head into her pillow.
    “You should see what he did to that house, Agnes,” I said. “He painted it all kinds of wonderful colors—yellow, salmon, blue, even turquoise trim. He hung some pretty strange windchimes and put odd-looking statues out front. One of them is a giant cement turtle with a rabbit in its mouth.”
    Studebaker patted Agnes's hand. “That's what I came to tell you. Boris and I hired him to make a statue of you, Agnes. We’ll put it right in front of the town hall.”
    Agnes choked on a piece of buttered toast. “Sta … statue?”
    She barely got the word out, and all I could do was stand there and let out the laughter that had come into my belly in one loud snort. “It sounds even sillier today, Studebaker.”
    “There is nothing silly about this idea,” he said. “What with Agnes stuck in the house all the time, it would be like … well, it would be like she was outside, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. It's a way for her to be with us.” He patted Agnes's hand. “It's like you’ll be right there with us at our meetings and town events.”
    “Impossible,” Agnes said. “I don’t want a sign and I certainly don’t want a statue of me out there for all the world to see. Ridiculous. Just ridiculous.”
    “But, Agnes. You’re our hero. Every town has a hero, like Daniel Boone or Winslow Pickett. And they have portraits and statues.”
    “Winslow Pickett was a true hero,” Agnes said. “I’m just a fat woman who prays.” She took a breath and rubbed her stomach. “Just a fat woman who prays.”
    Winslow Pickett was famous in Kulp City, where Studebaker was born, for single-handedly capturing seventy-two Nazis. His statue stands in the center of Kulp City on the spot where he got off the train to a crowd of grateful citizens and a fifty-piece band playing something by Sousa on September 26, 1948. Every child in the mountain region studies about him in the third grade.
    A red glow like the blush of a pomegranate crept into Agnes's face.
    “Think about it, Agnes,” Studebaker pleaded. “Everyone thinks it's a swell idea. Just imagine the comfort it would bring to the town. Folks will get to see you everyday.”
    “Yeah, and the next thing you know, they’ll be laying flowers at her feet and people will travel miles and miles to gaze upon the stone face of Agnes Sparrow.” I had heard about enough at that point and was about to usher Studebaker out when Hezekiah appeared in the subtle, silent manner in which he was accustomed.
    “Sure is a mess down there,” he said. “It’ll take me days to get it cleaned and organized and—” He stopped talking and looked at the three of us like we had broccoli growing out of our ears. “Sorry, looks like I might have barged in on something.”
    “Nothing important,” I said, thankful for the interruption.
    Studebaker made a noise. “Don’t say that, Griselda. It's very important.” Then he pulled his hat over his ears and patted Agnes's hand. “Just think about it, dear. It would mean a lot to the town … your town, Agnes, to all the people you’ve helped. Don’t you see, you’d be doing it for them.”
    Stu leaned down and kissed Agnes's fat, red cheek.