Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Marcia Kiser

Miss Agnes

They call me Miss Agnes. The young ones out of respect; the old ones out of fear. I've lived in this county all my life, and my memory is longer than a drought. Most of the folks 'round here remember my family. And just about everybody remembers my hickory stick. I taught their mamas and their papas, and their grandmas and grandpas. 'Course that was after the county built the big school here in town. Before that, I rode the circuit—a week at six different schools for seven months. Another reason for folks to fear and respect me.

At 18, I was riding alone to each of those schools. Mighty unusual in the 1890s for a well-brought-up young woman to be out along like that, but Father convinced the school board, and that was that. Father could be very convincing.

He started the building fund for the school here, so I wouldn't have to ride the circuit anymore. About a month after the school was built, Father died. He left me a note saying take care of Mama, which I tried to do. God knows, I tried to be a good and obedient daughter, but I'd always been a bit headstrong. Father had always taken my side, and would convince Mama, but I suspect she gave in because, well, the kindest way to put it would be to say I wasn't a late bloomer, I never bloomed at all. I've always been too tall, too thin and too smart.

Despite being as plain as a mud fence, I fell in love. And even more surprising, the young man seemed to reciprocate my feelings.

He was a teacher at the school. More like the principal, janitor, coach and handyman rolled into one. He wasn't at all put off by my height and he seemed to appreciate my intelligence.

The Sunday he came to call after church was a beautiful spring day, the sky clear blue and the sun warm with a soft breeze. I peeked through the lace curtains in the living room as he turned into the lane. He'd rented the best buggy from the stable—shiny black with bright yellow wheels—and a spirited mare. That horse fairly danced up the road.

As he slowed in front of the house, Mama came around the corner. I hadn't told Mama about my young man. Mama's tongue had gotten sharper every month Father was gone, and I hadn't seen the point of giving her a reason to sharpen it more. I rushed out of the house and down the sidewalk.

I introduced him to Mama explaining he'd come to call. Mama looked at me. As my young man started out of the buggy, Mama grabbed the buggy whip and slashed at him. He stumbled and fell back in the buggy. Mama whipped the horse and chased that poor mare up the lane.

She walked back to where I stood gawking at her. She slapped me once with the whip—across the face—then broke it in half and threw the pieces at my feet. In a voice I had never heard her use, she told me, "You promised your father to take care of me."

And I did.

After Father died, Mama started getting strange. Not just sharp-tongued, she'd always had that. But, she started worrying about being poor, even though we owned a good size farm and a large herd of cattle. She started saving everything—refusing to allow anything to go to waste. If I cooked too much, she'd eat everything left after the kids and I had our fill.

About a year after Mama ran my beau off, our garden was overly bountiful. The cantaloupes were especially good. And I dearly love a good cantaloupe. I left half of one on the table one morning for Mama. I knew she wouldn't be able to pass it by—not with her policy of waste not, want not.

Mama ate every bite and never complained about the taste. Arsenic, I'm told, has a very bitter taste.

Of course, I didn't mention that to Doc Robbins, who got there too late. In fact, I believe Doc Robbins was the first one to call me Miss Agnes.

Copyright © 2004 Marcia Kiser

About the Author
Marcia Kiser writes, works, and lives in Lubbock, TX. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and her short stories have appeared in Nefarious, The Thrilling Detective, Dusty Cowboy, Novel Advice Mysterical-E, FUTURES, and the recently released Novel Advice Anthology.