Read Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction) for Free Online Page A

dry
    like the rusted hull
    of Papa’s Jon boat
    down by the water’s edge.
    Granny says it’ll
    take days of rain
    before the ground
    gives way to boot heels.
    Miraculously,
    the red berries
    of the holly tree
    grow more brilliant
    and fat
    with each rainless hour
    as if to lay waste
    any cardinal’s worry.
    One of those berries
    in a bird’s beak
    is like a promising line
    to a poet
    long without a poem.
    My goodness, that woman is in agony when she’s not writing. I would bet her dry spells don’t last very long though. I entered room number ten filled with sadness for any writer who could not write, no matter what the time. But more than that, my heart ached for my own dry spell that seemed to stretch out before me with no end in sight—like walking across a never-ending desert. I sighed and fought back more tears.
    An afternoon fog settled over Sweetbriar Manor, except for a couple of blaring televisions. Even that noise became muted after awhile, swallowed by the quiet. Everyone was probably either napping or watching some silly soap opera. Never had the time or inclination for either. Besides, I had to get outside so I could breathe again. I put on my gardening hat, picked up my red purse, and eased the door shut behind me.
    On my way to the rear EXIT, I felt compelled to stop and see how Pearl was doing. She wouldn’t even speak to me in the dining room. I tapped on her door, waited, then tapped harder. It moved slightly, so I pushed it far enough to stick my head in. “Pearl? Pearl, you in here?”
    The thought entered my mind that I should come back later, but a painting on the wall caught my eye and drew me into her room. Awards,diplomas, and ugly-as-sin modern art surrounded this particular painting, making it stand alone—real, familiar, and beautiful. It was a watercolor of a hydrangea bush, shedding petals onto the sidewalk after a rain. I studied the painting for what seemed like a long time until I could no longer ignore my bladder and stepped into her bathroom.
    After flushing, I was washing my hands when a voice out in the hallway sounded like a loud, yapping dog. I turned the water off, stood perfectly still, and listened.
    “I’ve looked everywhere for her. Her daughter called. How could I say I didn’t know where she was? I’m responsible for you people twenty-four hours a day. Twenty-four long hours. That’s a load, I tell you, especially for what I get paid. If you see Mrs. Hopper, tell her to call her daughter. No, never mind. You won’t remember. I’ll put a note on her door.”
    The yelling stopped, and Pearl came into her room mumbling something. The television clicked on. I stepped out of the bathroom as she eased into her recliner. Her eyes were almost shut, just as an actress screamed, “But I thought you were dead!”
    “Knock, knock,” I said.
    Pearl shot upright straight as an arrow, her eyes wide with fright. “What are you doing in here? This is
my
room. You’re in trouble. Big trouble.”
    “Your door wasn’t shut. I—”
    “Go back home.” Pearl’s face was white as a bedsheet. Her hands nervously worked her necklace. “She won’t like you coming here.” Pearl turned her back to me, walked over to the window, and fussed over a pot of red begonias on the sill.
    I threw up my hands. “She who? Your mother? She was never around enough to know when I was at your house, or you were at mine. How can you remember something that didn’t exist and forget the things that did?”
    The television queen sobbed. Pearl turned her face to me. “Go home,” she said, her bottom lip trembling.
    I reluctantly went to my room and threw the note taped to my door in the wastebasket. I was in no mood to call anyone or even continue on my way out of this place. Where did I think I was going anyway, without a plan? Charlie always knew how to plan. That’s why he was a successful farmer. Not rich, mind you, but we managed to get along from one year to the next.
    My garage-sale