Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction) (15 page)

She carried two big plastic bags of popcorn, her black jacket now hanging over one arm. Her teased hair looked like a mound of cotton candy but yellow instead of pink or blue. Big red toenails spilled out of white sandals. Even her perfume was big—
loud
, as Mama would say. She seemed to float on a cloud of floral scent mixed with the aroma of buttery popcorn.

She looked me over. “My goodness, honey, who are you? You look like you appeared out of thin air like a fairy godmother.”

I can’t explain why, but I liked this woman right off without knowing a thing about her. Some people are like that.

“Sure could use a magic wand right now to get back to Sweetbriar Manor before Miss Johnson misses me.”

“Oh, I know that woman,” she said. “Certainly do. You let me know if you get into any real trouble, you hear?”

I nodded.

Without asking any more questions, the blonde took charge. “Here, Baby,” she said, handing a bag of popcorn over to her boyfriend, who stood holding his hat, eyes crinkled with amusement.

Her pretty voice went skipping along, but when this man placed his hat on his head and tilted it back, my thoughts flew elsewhere. He revealed a forehead divided—pure white up to his hairline, a tanned and weathered face below. It took my breath away, reminding me of Charlie, who always wore a baseball cap when he farmed. Except he ended up with red skin below his eyes, because he was fair and never tanned.

The woman’s voice drew me back when I heard her say, “You carry one, and we’ll both give this little lady an arm and walk her home. We would offer you a ride, honey, but neither of us got any wheels at the moment. We’ll hoof it down to your place in no time.”

With her hands on her hips, she looked me up and down again. “Mercy, honey, you’re so tiny we could lift you up and carry you. And here, slip my jacket on. My mama always said after you reach a certain age, the night air does you no good. No good whatsoever.”

Her jacket wrapped me in smells of leather and flowery perfume. She patted me on both shoulders, puffed with shoulder pads. “Now. Don’t she look nice, Baby?”

I swung along the street between them, my feet barely touching pavement. The strawberry man’s jerking stride gave the three of us a peculiar rhythm, but in no time we stopped in front of Blind George’s
to catch our breath. We had only stopped one other time for a truck to pass.

During our fast trip, I found out the blonde’s name was Shirley Monroe and she worked at the Kut ‘N Loose. She was also the nail lady Lil’s son paid to come every Monday morning. Since I had arrived on Tuesday, I had missed her visit. The gold letters across the back of her jacket read,
Kut ‘N Loose Bowling Champs
.

“Three years in a row,” she said proudly.

Jesus
was Jack Lovingood, but she always called him Baby. He called her Shirl. Jack turned out to be a man of few words, apparently content to let his Shirl take up the slack, and she could certainly prattle on and on. I decided she was qualified to carry on a three-way conversation all by herself if necessary.

We moved from the street to the sidewalk in front of the pool hall, where Shirley took both bags of popcorn. “Baby, soon as we see Miss Agnes to her door, we’ll come back for a couple of longnecks and pass these around.”

Turning to me, she said, “You need to powder your nose, honey? It’s usually not too clean in there, but I’ll show you where it is if you need to go.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I could go on by myself, you know. Don’t want to put you and Jack out any more than I have already.”

“Now you hush right there. Me and Baby are gonna walk you to your door. We’ve not got nothin’ planned tonight that can’t be put on hold a few minutes. Just wait there and I’ll be right back.” She ran inside with the bags.

“Nice night,” I said to Jack, who was busy lighting a cigarette he’d thumped out of a pack of unfiltered Camels. Even after ten years of not touching a cigarette to my lips, I had a strong urge to ask him for a draw—just one long draw.

While we waited for Shirley, who must have decided to powder her own nose, Jack seemed to take no notice of me. He leaned against the building, boots crossed, hat pulled low, in a haze of smoke. A strange man, I thought, keeping to himself, yet offering strawberries to some old people sitting on a porch, just because he thought they might like a special treat. A private, yet giving, man. The two didn’t seem to go together. Was Lil right? Did he have other motives?

This man was about as easy to talk to as a tobacco stick. “You know,” I said, looking up into the glare of a streetlight, “bet the sky is full of
stars. Don’t you think? Saw the North Star earlier. It was a beaut. You ever look at the stars?”

“Going to rain,” he said.

I tried again. “You were so thoughtful to bring us those strawberries. Have you worked for Case’s Produce long?”

“Nope.”

“Where did you say you lived?”

“Didn’t.”

After that, my attention wandered. Red neon tubing that spelled out Schlitz, Busch, Miller, and Budweiser filled the windows and sent a red glow into the dark and across Jack’s smoky form. A tall, oscillating fan stood in the open doorway. As it moved, I caught glimpses of men and women talking, laughing, and playing pool. One couple danced slow and easy, their arms draped around each other. The music drifted outside, garbled by the fan’s loud humming.

It took my mind back to a carnival midway: colored lights, happy people, a Ferris wheel turning, the smell of onions, and dirty pavement beneath my feet.

“Only thing missing, Charlie … elephant ears fried crisp, dusted with powdered sugar.”

I must have been dreaming of those cool nights in October when the Lewis Brothers Carnival always visited Sweetbriar, bringing a whole week of pure delight. That’s the only reason I can think of to explain why I didn’t see them coming. But Jack did, even with his head down, hat pulled low.

“This ain’t good.” He ducked inside and disappeared from sight.

Suddenly, flashing lights were everywhere. They bounced off the windows filled with red beer signs, and off the Cershaw County cruiser. Car doors slammed like bullets in the night, and a strange glow surrounded the sheriff and his deputy as they rushed up to me. In the next instant, Blind George’s grew quiet. Someone turned off the fan as people gathered outside.

“Ma’am,” said the big officer as he peered into my face, “are you Agnes Marie Hopper?”

Before I could answer, the skinny one looked up from a paper he held in his hands, “Fits the description. Only it don’t say nothin’ about that jacket she’s wearing.”

“What’s she done?” asked someone from the crowd.

“Gone to a movie,” Jack said as he stepped up beside me. “Is that a
crime?”

Shirley rushed to the other side of me. “You fellas coming on a little strong,” she said. “You’d think this was a drug bust.”

“Sheriff,” I said, finally finding my voice to speak for myself, “if you would kindly turn off those gosh-awful lights, maybe I could think enough to explain, and everyone can go on back to whatever they were doing before this … this harassment started.”

“You tell ’em, Granny,” Blind George said, drying his hands on an apron as he came forward. “You got rights.”

Several voices echoed his sentiments.

“Settle down. Settle down,” growled the sheriff, eyes darting around and back to me. “All right now, let’s start over. I’m all ears.”

Not hardly
, I thought as he hitched up his pants. His heavy gun belt slipped back to its place under his bulging stomach.

The man seemed familiar. “Are you Hershel Cawood’s boy? You’ve sure got his chin and bushy eyebrows. Come to think of it, you walk like him too.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose like somebody with a terrible headache, he said, “He’s my granddaddy. Look, we’re just trying to do our job here. Got a missing person report not more than ten minutes ago, and you fit the MO. You got some people worried. Mighty worried. Give me a simple yes or no. Are you Agnes Marie Hopper?”

“Of course I am, young man. Where’s Hershel these days? Haven’t seen him in years. Used to bring me a bushel of the prettiest tomatoes you ever did see, every year without fail. I’d find ’em on the back porch. I knew where they came from because nobody could grow tomatoes like Hershel. Always sent Charlie over to his place with quarts of tomato juice I canned from those tomatoes.”

“Yes ma’am,” the sheriff said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and taking my elbow with the other.

The deputy shooed the people back inside Blind George’s. “Go on now,” he said. “Go on about your business. Excitement’s over. Nothing here to gawk at.”

The sheriff and I stood beside his cruiser on the passenger side. He opened the door and helped me inside. “Rest here a minute, Miss Agnes, and we’ll carry you over to—to where you belong. Granddaddy gets confused sometimes too. He used to walk out of Sweet Magnolia most any time day or night until they installed alarms on all the doors. Now if he so much as cracks even the front door, the noise is as loud as
a fire engine and the whole staff comes running. He don’t do it much anymore. I’ve suggested Miss Johnson give ’em a try.”

“Merciful heavens. You have? Where
is
Hershel?”

“Living over in Whitesburg. A home for Alzheimer patients.”

“My, my. I hate to hear that. I surely do.”

“Yes ma’am,” the sheriff answered as I settled into the front seat of the cruiser that smelled of leftover coffee and fried chicken.

Just before he shut the door, I remembered I hadn’t thanked Shirley or Jack for their assistance. “Oh, wait,” I said. “I need to speak to those people standing there with your deputy.”

He looked where I pointed. “Yes, well, uh, you wait right here, Miss Agnes. From the looks of things, they’re going to be joining us. Might have some questions to ask those two.”

He left me with blue lights pulsing across the lit dashboard, the static-filled microphone, and a shiny thermos, its green plastic cup half-filled with coffee. Outside, the lights whipped across the sheriff, his deputy, Jack, and Shirley. At first, they stood in a huddle, everyone talking at once. As voices grew louder and louder, they moved farther apart. Customers from Blind George’s began to filter outside again.

I flinched when the deputy got excited and threw his arms in the air. He shouted something to Jack and pushed him up against the building. The crowd surged around the men and blocked my view.

As Shirley tried to rush to the aid of her Baby, the sheriff grabbed her arm. With his other hand, he drew his gun and waved it above his head.

It was like watching an old movie, but I didn’t like where things were headed. “This is absolutely the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, Charlie.” As I opened the car door to step outside, a gun exploded into the night sky. All eyes were on the sheriff. He looked as surprised as the crowd.

With one hand holding onto Shirley, revolver still high in the air, he didn’t move. No one moved. It was deathly quiet, except for a squawking voice coming over the police radio. They could have been following a script. The gathering parted, clearing a path for the deputy and Jack.

“What on earth is happening, Charlie? Why is Jack handcuffed like a criminal?”

They walked toward the car. Shirley and the sheriff followed behind. His gun was now back in its holster, thank the Lord, and his lips pressed together in a straight white line.

Shirley’s lips erupted like a volcano, spewing fire and hot ashes. “Loitering? Jack never loitered in his life. Is that all you could come up with? Trumped up charges is all you got.”

By the time they reached me, I was standing outside, waiting.

Jack said, “Shirl, honey, hush. You’re not doin’ us any good.” She didn’t argue, but bit her bottom lip and looked like she might cry.

“Miss Agnes,” the sheriff said, his voice sounding tired, “would you be so kind as to get back inside the car?”

“Not until you tell me why you’re arresting this nice man. Do you know he waves to the people at Sweetbriar Manor when he passes by? Brings them strawberries? Does that sound like any criminal you know? What’s he charged with?”

The deputy spoke up. His Adam’s apple was bobbing so fast I thought it might jump right out of his neck. “We’re not formally charging him with anything—yet. Had to handcuff him to let him know we mean business.”

He sounded a mite too proud to suit me, and I told him so.

“We have to let
some
people know who’s boss around here, especially suspicious-looking strangers. Right, Sheriff?”

The sheriff didn’t answer, just pinched the skin between his eyes for the second time and shut them. I bet he had one of those migraines by now.

Shirley’s eyes, no longer soft with tears, now flashed with anger toward the deputy. “Listen, Larry, you little pip-squeak, just because I won’t give you the time of day when you hang around up at the Kut ‘N Loose, that’s no excuse to take it out on Jack. Take those cuffs off right this minute or … or I’ll tell the sheriff about those late-night phone calls. I know it’s you, breathing heavy and saying, “Oh sugar, you make my blood simmer, my—”

Sheriff Cawood’s face puffed up like a blowfish. “What in tarnation is she talking about, Larry?”