Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction) (4 page)

As I walked down the hall covered with sea-foam green carpet, I laughed out loud, thinking about that bull and those yellow jackets. Charlie could always ease a tense situation.

Oh, Charlie, how I miss you.

There were names on each door, and I guessed that the items placed on the small built-in shelf to the left of the doorway gave some hint as to the occupant’s personality. A teddy bear smiled from Ida Mae’s shelf.
Funny, there was no last name. A framed poem on a tiny easel sat on Alice Chandler’s shelf, and a miniature American flag stood proudly on Sam Abenda’s. “Bet he’s a veteran like you, Charlie.”

Lysol fumes saturated the air. No one sneezed, coughed, or called out a greeting to me as I headed towards the EXIT. Even Charlie turned mute. Maybe the silence was his way of letting me know he disapproved of my escaping.

Pausing at number nine, Pearl Spearman’s room, I noticed a bud vase of three red roses on her shelf. Not surprising. She was always into making things pretty. The next door, number ten, had no name, just a faded rectangle where a brass plate had been removed, leaving empty screw holes. The shelf held a dead violet, its leaves black and limp, the blooms long since gone. I wondered if the violet’s owner had also died—maybe in this very room. I decided that was something I didn’t want to know.

“Oh, go ahead, Agnes, take a look.”

“Hush, Charlie, it’s me that has to decide, not you.”

“I know, but still …”

When I turned the knob and pushed, musty air greeted me. Someone had brought my belongings. Not Betty Jo. And probably not Miss Johnson. Who, then? And how did they make my bed so fast? A flowered spread covered the light-blue sheets, which had been turned down, ready for use. It actually looked inviting.

For the first time in my seventy-one years, I suddenly felt totally alone in an enormous, empty world. My chest tightened into a burning ball.

Charlie had no words of humor or comfort. Not even small talk—small talk that means nothing and so much all at the same time.

“Agnes Marie, this is pure foolishness,” I said. “You’ve got to get hold of yourself. Mama always said you might have to take what life hands you, but you don’t have to take it lying down. And what was it Preacher Sam said just last Sunday? ‘It’s in the hard times we can most often see the hand of God.’ Yes, that was it. Hard times … the hand of God.”

I took a deep breath and let it out real slow. “Lord,” I prayed in a whisper, “I don’t want to be here, not in the least. But if you and Charlie think it’s best …”

My thoughts whirled and twisted, bringing images of Charlie and our home—now nothing but ashes. Even if Betty Jo and I could manage to somehow get along, living with her and Henry was no longer an
option. I was too old to sleep on a couch in a two-story shoebox, and they wouldn’t let me anywhere near the kitchen so I could be useful. Besides, even if they had room for me, there was no way Miss Margaret would be allowed in that fancy section of townhouses.

My life had become a mess. Way I saw it, I had two choices: bunk next to Pearl and make the best of things for a while, or slip out the door and look for a place of my own.

Leaving made the most sense. Pearl, my very best friend in the whole world—besides Charlie and Miss Margaret—didn’t know me from the mailman. But all the car riding and chatting and getting checked in had left me tuckered out. I needed to rest. And there was my bed, all made up and waiting.

A short nap would truly do me good, but I was determined not to crawl into that bed. Why, it would be like giving up—without an ounce of resistance in my bones or in my soul. No siree. But just maybe I could at least rest my eyes in a lopsided rocker sitting next to the bed. Then I’d slip off and get my own place—with or without Charlie’s approval.

M
y craving for chocolate won and took precedence over resting. Putting first things first, I untied a box of clothes and rummaged around until I found, not candy, but a sleek, cream-colored radio Henry had given me, a display item from his Western Auto. My old Philco had always sat in my kitchen, close to the stove. Too close. First thing I asked about after the fire.

“Melted into a blob,” the young fireman told me as he removed his hat and wiped his sleeve across his face. “Heat in there was intense. Intense, I tell you. And the smoke? Ma’am, you’re lucky you weren’t asleep at the time.”

I couldn’t resist plugging in the radio. When I found my favorite station, a familiar voice filled the empty corners of the room as Johnny Cash belted out “Folsom Prison Blues.”
Someone else in misery.
I nearly cried, but refused to give in to my feelings. When he sang “Lord, I Can’t Do This by Myself,” I still felt miserable, but decided God can work through anybody—preachers or even Johnny Cash.

A shopping bag that was leaning against the closet door slipped and fell. From a pair of new tennis shoes, a Milky Way slid its way toward me, its green words shining like a neon sign on the pale carpet. Now I remembered. When I was packing, I’d stuffed candy bars and Juicy Fruit into nearly every pair of shoes to conserve space.

Ten years ago I’d given up smoking and switched to gum and candy, vowing never to run out. Settling back into that awful rocker, feet propped on the bed, I tore into the soft chocolate bar, the taste and aroma a little bit of heaven. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and savored each bite.

Just as I was about to drift off, something told me I wasn’t alone, and my eyes flew open. I don’t know how long Pearl had been standing there—or how she walked into my room without me hearing all that jewelry she wore. I turned Merle Haggard down a little, so happy she had come to visit.

“Have I known you long?” she asked. Her fingers fiddled with a silver chain around her long, slender neck.

I decided not to press the issue, even though I probably wouldn’t have time to ease into it later either. “Doesn’t matter how long, Pearl. We may never be neighbors, but maybe we can still be friends. The roses on your shelf are pretty. You sure take a fancy to flowers, don’t you?”

She nodded, and the deep furrows across her forehead relaxed a little.

Since flowers appeared to be a safe subject, I continued. “So do I. One of my favorites is the gardenia. We had giant bushes under our bedroom window, and every summer they would burst with creamy white blooms. Charlie loved their scent floating over our bed, brought by a cool evening’s breeze.”

Pearl sat on the foot of my bed. “Did you ever float the blossoms in a shallow bowl and set a big fat candle in the middle?”

“No, but if I ever land another man, I’ll try that.”

She laughed, looking so much like the Pearl from years ago that I came close to jumping up and hugging her. We could be friends again, I rationalized. It would be like starting over, and maybe leaving the past behind wouldn’t be so bad after all.

When she stood and moved toward the door, my mind raced to think of a reason for her to stay a little longer. Seeing my hatboxes stacked on the dresser, I grabbed one and held it out. “Want to try on one of my hats? I have six, though I’d like to have a dozen … or two dozen. You like garage sales?”

Pearl was edging out the door while I moved toward her holding out a hatbox, my tongue loose at both ends as Mama would say. Seemed I couldn’t help myself, even though she had the look of a hemmed-in cat.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she said. “I won’t do it again.”

But my words were on full throttle when I should have been paying attention to hers. “Maybe if I can find a place to live in this neighborhood, I can walk over and we can go to some garage sales together. People practically give good stuff away. Like my red purse. Got it for fifty cents. Can you believe that? Maybe we can both find us a hat. I’ve had
a hankering for a new one, and maybe a nice chenille bedspread or—”

We had moved into the hall. Pearl’s wild eyes darted about. Then she said something that made me think her mind was completely gone.

“I won’t walk into anyone’s room again. I promise. Please don’t tie me down. Don’t lock my door. Please.”

Whatever I had done or said to bring back such a terrible memory, probably from her childhood, I was sorry and fixing to tell her so when an earsplitting buzzer went off above our heads. Of course my hearing aid went crazy. By the time I returned to room number ten, put the hatbox down, turned my hearing aid off, and rushed back to where I’d left Pearl, she was gone. I could see her down the hall, along with two or three others who had come out of their rooms, all skedaddling toward the main house.

“Charlie, if this is a fire drill, they’re going the wrong way.”

Out of curiosity, I decided to follow along. There was really nothing else to do. Besides, it would be easier to slip away later when these old people were napping. I wondered if Prissy napped, but if I were a betting person, I would say that woman probably didn’t even close her eyes much at night, let alone during the day.

I soon caught up with a little man who smelled like he’d been dipped in a barrel of Old Spice. One look at his legs told me he was the same man I’d seen behind the newspaper earlier. His baggy walking shorts flapped around his bird legs, and garters held dark dress socks. He wore a red baseball cap, and his elbows pumped the air. It would have been easy to pass him, but I slowed to ask questions. Besides, he was kind of cute.

“Where’s everybody going in such a hurry?”

He glanced up, even more hunched over than me. “Lunch.”

“But why in such a hurry?”

“Time to eat, Sis.”

Eating sounded like a good idea. In spite of that candy bar, my stomach was growling. Besides, I ought to at least get a free meal out of this place before leaving.

We didn’t talk anymore on our way to the big house. The man seemed to need to focus all his energy on getting there, and I had to adjust my hearing aid again. What had he called me? I wasn’t sure, but he had the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. With his smooth olive skin, I decided he must be Italian.

The director stood in the center of the dining room looking like she’d been sucking on a persimmon. The only sound was the shuffling
of people into chairs. Maybe everyone had taken a monk’s pledge of silence. There was an empty place next to Pearl and I sat down, wanting to talk to my friend again without sending her into orbit.

Loud words sliced into the quiet. “What does your place card say, Mrs. Hopper?”

“Does she always refer to the residents by last name?” I asked no one in particular.

A nearby woman whispered, “Wait until she lumps you in with everybody else and calls you
people
.
”

I’d never been to a meal with place cards before, but I knew she meant the little white card in its china holder beside each water glass.
William Statton
was written in a fancy scroll. Maybe this was one of her rules in the fat envelope—the rules I hadn’t read. Only I didn’t plan to stay long enough to read them, so it didn’t matter one iota.

A tall man who smelled like a stale cigar helped me up. He looked like the one I had seen sleeping earlier. I almost chuckled when he tipped an imaginary hat and took his seat.

Prissy pointed with the end of her pen to a table across the room. No one spoke, but all eyes watched as I found my seat. So this is part of the
friendly home-like atmosphere
provided by Sweetbriar Manor?

“Friendly, home-like atmosphere,” I said to the olive-skinned man now seated next to me.

“It’s not so bad, Sis,” he whispered while patting my hand. “You’ll get used to it, don’tcha know. All you got to do is follow the rules. Every blasted one.”

I smiled back, but resolved I’d rather die first—or go back to Betty Jo’s, which was now impossible since she and Henry were moving.
Moving
. At the moment, I wasn’t sure which would be worse, to die or to be homeless. That’s what I was now—homeless.

The blessing, delivered by Miss Johnson, began with, “Dear Lord, thank you for allowing us to live another day here at The Manor …” After the prayer, she carried a tray of food out of the dining room. I could hear her heels clumping up the stairs.

On the plate before me sat a piece of fried meat of unknown origin, frozen peas, a slimy canned peach, and a cold roll. The lettuce in the salad was edged with brown. “I wonder if Prissy eats the same stuff we do. If she does, maybe that’s what’s wrong with her, Charlie.”