Prayers of Agnes Sparrow Read Online Free

she wants it to say Bright's Pond, Soli Deo Gloria .”
    A hush, peppered with several words of amusement or confusion, fell over the crowd like a heavy, wet blanket.
    “What in jumpin’ blue heck does that mean?” someone shouted.
    “Sounds like some witch's spell,” said another.
    “Witches? We don’t want no witches in our town.”
    “Maybe Eugene is right,” shouted another, “if she's talkin’ in spells, maybe it's a curse.”
    “It means,” I said as loudly as I could, “to God alone the glory.”
    “I don’t get it,” Studebaker said.
    “You saying we don’t believe in God?” shouted Frank Sturgis, Janeen's husband.
    “Of course not,” I said. “Agnes doesn’t want the glory. It isn’t hers to have.”
    Another three minutes of ruckus broke out as folks spewed nonsense about me not thinking they believed in God and bringing witchcraft to Bright's Pond. The whole thing gave me a headache. Feeling outnumbered I sat down.
    Bill Tompkins asked to address the council.
    “Maybe we should honor Agnes's wishes,” he said looking directly at me.
    “Witches?” said Jasper York who was hard of hearing but would never admit to it. “What's with all the witches?”
    “Wishes, Jasper,” I said leaning into him. “Agnes's wishes.”
    Jasper rested on his three-footed walking cane. “Oh, in that case, I guess it's all right with me.”
    But Bill's endorsement of Agnes's desires did little good as I only heard a few voices ring out in agreement with us.
    Finally, after Boris regained control, I again urged we table the petition, but a vote was taken in spite of my protest.

3
    A gnes and I still lived at the Sparrow Funeral Home. Our parents died in a train wreck when I was seventeen and Agnes had just turned twenty-one. A few days after the funeral, while we were staying with our Aunt Lidy, Boris Lender, Pastor Spahr, and some of the others helped sell off our father's mortuary equipment and dispose of what they could. The women in town did their best to take the funeral parlor look out of our home by recovering chairs and replacing drapes. But, no matter, it still looked like a funeral home and smelled like it at times, especially during high humidity when odors from the embalming room seeped through the floorboards.
    It was a large Queen Anne Victorian built in 1891, which meant we had miles of coursers and gingerbread, two turrets, and a wide wraparound porch with three hundred and fifty-one spindles. I counted them when I was seven. The entryway was two wide, dark green doors that opened out to accommodate a coffin. On hot summer days, guests arriving for a viewing would often sit on the porch, where my mother served sweet iced tea and cookies while they discussed the deceased and waited their turn to pay their respects. Therewasn’t any air-conditioning or even a fan inside. My father said a fan oscillating in the corner would have been undignified and could have mussed ladies’ hair.
    A bronze sparrow perched on a twig with one leaf served as our doorbell. You turned it and chimes sounded all over the house. We always stopped what we were doing, whether it was mid-stride on the steps or buttoning a shirt, because the chime generally meant there had been a death in town. Now the chime most likely meant that someone with a prayer need had come looking for Agnes.
    I stood at the door, shivering against the frosty air and touching the cold little sparrow. I wondered how to tell Agnes about the meeting.
    She was still wide-awake when I went inside. I stamped the snow that had been falling all night off my boots and hung my coat on the rack. I shivered. Agnes had managed to change into a sleeveless baby blue nightgown while I was gone. The cold never seemed to bother her as much as me. She claimed it was because she had so much insulation.
    “It's cold in here,” I said. I nudged the thermostat past seventy.
    Arthur greeted me and wrapped his body around my legs with a loud purr. I reached down and