Free Prayers of Agnes Sparrow by Joyce Magnin Page B

Krug's Neighborly News in which she delighted the audience with local news, gossip, and calendar events. She always had something to say about Bright's Pond, and ever since Hezekiah blew into town, I was skittish about word of Agnes and the miracles filtering downstream. So I listened as often as I could.
    “A rare bolt of snow lightning struck the Miller's Oak tree igniting a barn fire that turned into a three-alarmer quicker than Jake Miller's cows make it back for milking.” That was Vera's lead-off story for the day. I relaxed then, after fearing that news of Agnes would have taken precedence over the Miller's Barn.
    “’Course them sad, old gals got no barn for the night,” Vera said in her best editorial voice. I heard Rassie snicker in the background and say something like, “It's udderly ridiculous.”
    I listened to the rest of her five-minute daily news spot. Then I dropped the truck into gear and started down the hill in time to hear Vera advertise the potluck at the church before I lost the signal. Bright's Pond had once again found its way onto the airwaves, thanks, I was certain, to Ruth Knickerbocker, who was Vera's sister-in-law and regularly provided news, which made it hard to believe she never said anything at all to Vera about Agnes. And I had no intention of inquiring for fear I’d plant an idea in her brain. I chose to believe that God had closed her mouth on the issue.
    By then it was nearly two-thirty. I decided to open the library, even though given the nasty weather, library patrons would be few. Truth is, the library was my city of refuge, and I generally enjoyed it even when I was there all by my lonesome.
    Vidalia's lovely house was on the way, and even though she told me she had errands that morning, I stopped outside a minute or two hoping she would come to the door or spy me out one of the large windows. The library might offer me solitude, but I was certain Vidalia Whitaker would offer me sticky buns and coffee.
    I looked up at Hezekiah's room. Tangy, orange curtains hung in the window frames like two large, Halloween eyes. I had been in that room before, many years ago. Vidalia's daughter Winifred and I spent hours there listening to theBeatles and talking about boys and God and periods, swearing that we would never let a boy, “do that to us.” She apparently changed her mind and got married right out of high school, moved to Detroit, and increased the world's population by six. They didn’t start having those babies right away, even though Winifred wanted them. The Lord just didn’t bless her until she turned twenty-seven and then she couldn’t seem to stop. Lonely, I sat in my truck. I missed my friend and wished her mother would come out on the porch and invite me inside like the bygone days.
    “Hello, Griselda.”
    I rolled down the truck window and waved at Vidalia, who stood in the doorway.
    “Come on up,” she called. “I just put on a fresh pot, and I got some sticky buns warming in the oven.”
    I clomped up the newly shoveled porch steps and went inside.
    “Now unwrap yourself from all that winter garb,” Vidalia said. “Let me take a good look at you. Too much commotion down at Zeb's this morning to really see you, you know what I mean?”
    Vidalia often added, “You know what I mean?” after her sentences. It wasn’t that she thought folks seriously didn’t understand her. It was a way of making an emphasis.
    “I look the same now as I did this morning.”
    “Maybe not. You look a bit peaked.”
    I hung my coat and hat and scarf on the oak hall tree, left my sopping boots near a hot radiator that hissed a little, and followed Vidalia into the kitchen. Her house was similar to the others in the area—a large Queen Anne with lots of wood, charm, and drafts.
    “Let me just get the sticky buns out of the oven,” she said. “It's a good morning for them.”
    The nutty, brown aroma of cinnamon, butter, and walnuts wafted around the room and wrapped me like a