Read Online Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction) by Carol Heilman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol Heilman
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had melted into the next until I could hardly tell one from another. I didn’t know at the time, of course, that I would never forget this Saturday—ever.
I continued writing.
What is this world coming to? Someone came into my room recently, though I don’t know exactly when, and took everything from my nightstand drawer. Everything except two packs of Juicy Fruit and one box of tissues.
Then I listed all the items I could remember, adding one last note:
Who? Why?
Back in my bed, I tossed and turned and tried to pray. This was one of those times Jesus would have to do my praying for me. The last look at my illuminated Baby Ben showed it was after two a.m. Even though my sheets were twisted into a wad, I slept a little, but by five thirty I was dressed and ready to talk about the robbery to anyone who might be awake enough to listen. After breakfast, I planned on reporting the incident to—whom? Miss Johnson? Certainly not. But if not her, then … who?
The hall, dimly lit, was deserted. To the left of my room, the EXIT sign glowed, sending out halos of red against the gray steel door.
In the other direction, down the hall near the main house, I spotted a man carrying a newspaper.
Oh, good, someone up and stirring around. I’ll tell him what’s happened.
Rushing toward him, I yelled, “Wait. Wait. I need to talk to you.”
When he stopped and faced me, I realized this was the big man who constantly chewed on a fat cigar—William Statton, the one who always seemed to be leaning against his doorframe, watching whenever I walked by.
“Merciful heavens, Charlie. Why, of all people, did it have to be him?”
I thought about turning and running back to my room, but it was silly to be afraid of someone I didn’t even know. So I approached this giant of a man and stuck out my hand. He grabbed it with his and pumped, the lingering smell of stale cigars making me nauseous.
“My name’s Agnes,” I said, wincing from his grip.
“Pleased to meet you. Pleased to meet you. Name’s William. William Statton. Where’d you get that pretty red hair? Reminds me of Mama’s. Yes sir, sure does. Everybody called her Red as far back as I can remember. Everybody did.”
I finally freed my hand from his and flexed my fingers, though I could hardly speak for the throbbing. “You lived here long?”
After sticking the paper under his arm, he cradled his chin with one hand and studied the ceiling. “Well, let’s see. Long? A day can be long. So can a week. Even an hour can be long.”
“Whatever Alice has, it must be catching,” I said, but William, who seemed lost in his thoughts, apparently didn’t hear me.
While he gazed upward, I backed up a step, then another, but suddenly he bent forward, his face inches from mine, eyes bulging like a bullfrog. “I came here a year ago this coming Sunday. A whole year and you think my son from Missouri would come to visit? Sends me candy. Horehound. I hate horehound. When they take it from my room, I don’t even care. Now if it were chocolate-covered cherries that would be a horse of a different color. Yes sir—”
“What?” I said, adjusting my hearing aid.
“I said they wouldn’t get one chocolate-covered cherry without a fight.”
“No, you said they take it from your room. Who does? Who takes your candy?”
He studied me, straightened to his full height, and said, “I need a cigar. Want one, Red?”
“No. No thanks. Gave up smoking.”
I followed him to his door and peered into his room while he reached inside a black umbrella to retrieve a cigar that looked like itshould have been tossed out ages ago. When he saw me looking, he grinned and shook his finger in my direction.
“Now don’t you tell. She hasn’t found that hiding place yet. Only a matter of time though. A matter of time.”
“If you’ll answer me one question, I’ll ask my daughter to bring you a box of chocolate-covered cherries on Sunday. You can celebrate and eat the whole box. Who
I continued writing.
What is this world coming to? Someone came into my room recently, though I don’t know exactly when, and took everything from my nightstand drawer. Everything except two packs of Juicy Fruit and one box of tissues.
Then I listed all the items I could remember, adding one last note:
Who? Why?
Back in my bed, I tossed and turned and tried to pray. This was one of those times Jesus would have to do my praying for me. The last look at my illuminated Baby Ben showed it was after two a.m. Even though my sheets were twisted into a wad, I slept a little, but by five thirty I was dressed and ready to talk about the robbery to anyone who might be awake enough to listen. After breakfast, I planned on reporting the incident to—whom? Miss Johnson? Certainly not. But if not her, then … who?
The hall, dimly lit, was deserted. To the left of my room, the EXIT sign glowed, sending out halos of red against the gray steel door.
In the other direction, down the hall near the main house, I spotted a man carrying a newspaper.
Oh, good, someone up and stirring around. I’ll tell him what’s happened.
Rushing toward him, I yelled, “Wait. Wait. I need to talk to you.”
When he stopped and faced me, I realized this was the big man who constantly chewed on a fat cigar—William Statton, the one who always seemed to be leaning against his doorframe, watching whenever I walked by.
“Merciful heavens, Charlie. Why, of all people, did it have to be him?”
I thought about turning and running back to my room, but it was silly to be afraid of someone I didn’t even know. So I approached this giant of a man and stuck out my hand. He grabbed it with his and pumped, the lingering smell of stale cigars making me nauseous.
“My name’s Agnes,” I said, wincing from his grip.
“Pleased to meet you. Pleased to meet you. Name’s William. William Statton. Where’d you get that pretty red hair? Reminds me of Mama’s. Yes sir, sure does. Everybody called her Red as far back as I can remember. Everybody did.”
I finally freed my hand from his and flexed my fingers, though I could hardly speak for the throbbing. “You lived here long?”
After sticking the paper under his arm, he cradled his chin with one hand and studied the ceiling. “Well, let’s see. Long? A day can be long. So can a week. Even an hour can be long.”
“Whatever Alice has, it must be catching,” I said, but William, who seemed lost in his thoughts, apparently didn’t hear me.
While he gazed upward, I backed up a step, then another, but suddenly he bent forward, his face inches from mine, eyes bulging like a bullfrog. “I came here a year ago this coming Sunday. A whole year and you think my son from Missouri would come to visit? Sends me candy. Horehound. I hate horehound. When they take it from my room, I don’t even care. Now if it were chocolate-covered cherries that would be a horse of a different color. Yes sir—”
“What?” I said, adjusting my hearing aid.
“I said they wouldn’t get one chocolate-covered cherry without a fight.”
“No, you said they take it from your room. Who does? Who takes your candy?”
He studied me, straightened to his full height, and said, “I need a cigar. Want one, Red?”
“No. No thanks. Gave up smoking.”
I followed him to his door and peered into his room while he reached inside a black umbrella to retrieve a cigar that looked like itshould have been tossed out ages ago. When he saw me looking, he grinned and shook his finger in my direction.
“Now don’t you tell. She hasn’t found that hiding place yet. Only a matter of time though. A matter of time.”
“If you’ll answer me one question, I’ll ask my daughter to bring you a box of chocolate-covered cherries on Sunday. You can celebrate and eat the whole box. Who
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