Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction) (14 page)

“I’ve … I’ve got to visit the ladies’ room. Fast. Don’t wait for me.”

“What? Oh yes, you do have that sort of problem, don’t you?” He backed up. “Well, don’t take too long now. You might not find a seat. Unless you want me to save you one.”

“No, I may be awhile. Might not even make it at all.”

“You’re the boss.” He left with a little salute of his cigar-filled hand.

Leaning against a handrail, my purse tight against my chest, I shut my eyes for a moment. Maybe some fresh air would help. I looked back down the hall. It was deserted, but the tune of “I Come to the Garden Alone” floated toward me, faint and ghost-like.

“A good song, but not enough pep, don’t you think, Charlie?”

If he agreed or disagreed, I didn’t hear him.

The EXIT sign pulsed above the gray metal door, shouting its message. I could feel its throbbing call inside my body … or was that my heart? Louder and louder, racing now, until I pushed down on that cold steel bar. And then—instant, deafening silence.

Amazingly, no alarm sounded. But then I remembered Prissy didn’t set the alarm until dusky-dark, after nine these days. Even though I meant to close it easy-like, the door slammed behind me like a clap of
thunder. The garden was bathed in the golden light of early evening. A gentle breeze kissed my cheek, and the fountain sounded like the little creek on our farm. I understood why Lil came here after supper and stayed as long as possible.

Remembering what she’d said about the “Queen Bee,” I scanned the upstairs windows. Only one dim light glowed, and there was no sign of anyone standing there. Beside the confederate jasmine, I drank in its fragrance and looked back at the house again. Directly above, the North Star sparkled like a dewdrop catching all the light a promised moon could offer.

I never sat in the glider as I had intended. Instead, I found myself on the sidewalk. If someone had asked me, I couldn’t have told him how I got there. Maybe by the same way as this morning, through the empty weed-filled lot behind the boxwood. This morning seemed like years ago. Leaning against the
15 Minute Parking
sign, I stopped to catch my breath.

“Now what am I going to do, Charlie?”

A faint ping-ping, ping-ping sounded in the quiet. A car had pulled into Mike’s Motor Service across the street. Mike’s business had been in that very spot for as long as I could remember. The old, rusty Gulf sign still hung haphazardly on a wooden pole. Mike said he couldn’t bear to part with it. Regular customers didn’t seem to mind paying such a high price for gas. After all, where else could you get your gas pumped, your windshield cleaned, and the latest gossip all in one stop? Places like that had become obsolete. Now it was pump your own.

“Well, Charlie, one thing’s for certain. I don’t need gas, and I’m not in the mood to listen to that Mike Murphy.” I turned and headed in the opposite direction.

Once I reached Blind George’s Pool Hall, I was tempted to go inside where it sounded as lively as an old-time tent revival. People shouted and laughed as if they didn’t have a care in the world while cue sticks scattered balls in all directions. Jukebox music swelled above it all. Someone had chosen “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town,” one of my favorites.

A couple brushed by me, looking at nothing but each other. The man wore cowboy boots, one scraping against the sidewalk as he walked. His blonde girlfriend was clad in little white shorts and a black, gold-lettered jacket. When they paused in the dimly lit doorway, he removed his cowboy hat, revealing long curls. Not only did his walk sound like
the strawberry man’s, he looked like him too.

“Lil’s thief,” I said and continued on my way.

Begley’s Drug Store was closed up tight and dark inside—the only place to get a decent vanilla milk shake since Gene’s Daisy Queen produced only soapsuds and lint these days. Next to the drugstore was a barbershop with a striped pole, and then Kut ‘N Loose with wrinkled drapes pulled behind posters of glamorous women taped to its window.

With a squint, I looked farther up Main Street. Lights from the Royal Cinema, known for its old classic movies, looked like Christmas. The marquee read,
Out of Africa
.

“This is perfect, Charlie.
Out of Africa
. Must be about someone leaving Africa. Someone’s always wanting to leave someplace. Look at the Israelites. Out of Egypt. And me. Out of Sweetbriar Manor. I’ll watch the movie maybe thirty minutes, eat my strawberries, and be back in my room before anyone knows any different. Now don’t go telling me what to do. You know we get into trouble when you do that.”

I settled into my seat with buttered popcorn and a cherry Coke. I forgot about the strawberries resting in a side pocket that were bleeding their red juice into my napkin.

The strawberry man and his girlfriend must have changed their minds about playing pool because they moved down the dark aisle and sat three rows in front of me. He put his arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him.

My attention was soon drawn to the movie. It had obviously been playing for awhile, yet in a few short heartbeats I was swept into Africa by a handsome man with reddish-blond hair. Not long and lying in curls, but he did wear cowboy boots.

After what seemed like a few minutes, wonderful music swelled for the final time. Bright lights flooded the theatre. When I could see clearly, I looked at my watch.

“Nearly nine o’clock, Charlie. Almost time for the doors to be locked. I know, I know, I’d best get cracking. You can save your,
I told you so
.”

But Charlie was not putting in his two cents worth. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t heard him say much of anything lately. I couldn’t explain what was happening, but I didn’t like it one bit.

While I had been enjoying a tender love story, the night’s cloak had settled over Sweetbriar. Lights dimmed on the Royal Cinema’s marquee
and then went out altogether, plunging the deserted ticket booth into blackness. I knew, except for Blind George’s, all businesses on Main would have locked doors and pulled shades, most since six o’clock. Deep shadows would soon form at their entrances and into the alleys between buildings, far beyond the reach of the pale yellow pools cast by Sweetbriar’s few streetlights.

“Why didn’t you remind me to bring a flashlight, Charlie? How am I supposed to get along if you don’t help me out? Haven’t we always looked out for each other?”

I didn’t know how on this earth I was going to walk clear back home in the dark without stumbling over uneven sidewalks with tree roots pushing up everywhere. Hard enough to do it in the daylight.

People walked around me while I stood in front of the theatre having a lengthy one-way conversation with Charlie. A couple of heads swiveled around like a hoot owl’s. For sure, they’d not had any upbringing a’tall.

“Charlie,” I said, getting more frustrated by the minute, “we’ve got to tell somebody this town needs new sidewalks and more lights. Living out on the farm like we did, I had no idea. No decent place to walk and no lights to see by if there was. No wonder folks go over to Berea’s new shopping center. Bet they have sidewalks—and lights too.”

I decided to walk on the street. Not much traffic, and maybe after I got beyond the streetlights, the moon would help a little.

A young voice startled me. “Miss Agnes, what are you doing here all by yourself?” It was Mary Ellen, the daughter of Betty Jo’s best friend, Louise.

I had to think fast. I couldn’t let this girl go tell her mother because, the next instant, that woman would burn the phone lines with her gossip. “Uh, well, Betty Jo couldn’t find a close parking place. That Robert Redford sure draws a crowd, doesn’t he?”

“He’s a little old for my taste, but Mom thinks he’s a hunk. Want me to wait with you ’til your ride gets here?”

“No, no. Don’t do that. Betty Jo’s slow as Christmas sometimes. You go on. And tell your mama to come see me. I’m temporarily staying at Sweetbriar Manor.”

“Sure will, Miss Agnes. You take care now.”

With a wave, she caught up with her friends and piled into a Ford Mustang. I know that’s the kind of car it was because Charlie always said if he could be reincarnated as a rich man instead of a poor tobacco farmer,
that’s the kind of car he planned to buy—a red Mustang convertible. I put a picture of one, cut from a magazine, on our refrigerator one day.

“Everybody needs to dream a little,” I told him.

“Lordy, Charlie, I hope she forgets she saw me here. And why did I mention her telling Louise to come see me? I don’t even like that woman.”

As soon as the Mustang pulled away, radio booming, I stepped out into the street and headed toward The Manor, still hoping, praying, Prissy would forget to lock the back door and I could return to my room before anyone realized I was gone. I couldn’t afford to get on her bad side when it looked like her good side was slim to none.

I’d not taken more than three steps when a sudden gust of wind swept trash out of the gutter. Grass, leaves, torn theatre tickets, candy wrappers, a paper cup, and a piece of yellowed newspaper, all caught up in a whirl, hit against me, bits of dirt stinging my legs. Only thing I could do was cover my face with my hands and stand there and wait.

When the whirling stopped, I was assaulted by the worst sneezing fit I’d ever had in my life. At least ten times straight. I thought my head was going to fly off. Soon as I was able, I felt around in a side pocket of my purse for a handkerchief. Thinking I had hold of a nice, clean handkerchief, I pulled out the napkin and scattered strawberries into the night.

“Merciful heavens, would you look at that.”

Another surge of sneezing overtook me, and I was grateful for that napkin, glad to have anything. After the second attack subsided, I reached up under my glasses to wipe my eyes, and my pocketbook slipped and plopped onto the street. As I bent to pick it up, I came face-to-face with a man wearing a cowboy hat.

One of his hands tightly squeezed my red leather purse.

W
e lifted my purse together, and I stared into the strawberry man’s dark eyes. He smelled of stale cigarettes and beer. “No need to worry, lady. I ain’t no thief.” He held up both hands and took a step back. As he removed his hat, a wondrous black hat, he bent toward me and looked me over.

“Say, didn’t I see you on the porch at the ol’ people’s home this afternoon? Wanted to pay me for them berries? What you doing out here in the middle of a dark street? You wander away and don’t know how to get back? I hear old people do that sort of thing.”

I straightened to my full height and shook my finger towards him. “Young man, if you will hush a minute, I’ll tell you, even though it’s not your business. I know where I am. Even know who I am. And, if you will step out of my way, I’ll get to where I’m going.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said with a sweep of his hat. “I’ll not stand in your way. You go right ahead.” He backed up even more, arms folded across his chest, while I tended to a few leftover sneezes.

Before I turned to go, I said, “What’s your name, anyway? And you don’t look one bit like Jesus to me.”

Instead of introducing himself, he came over to me rather quickly, causing me to think I’d made him angry. “Say, you bleedin’ somewhere? You ain’t hurt, are you?”

“No, of course not,” I said, giving my nose another swipe. Then I noticed the red blotches on the napkin. “Strawberry stains.”

Just then the big blonde woman rushed toward us, her voice as bubbly as sparkling wine. “Baby, just look what the manager gave us. Wasn’t that sweet of him?”