The Unfortunate Case of Agatha Bitters

Agatha Demon Bitters was an angry woman, and not because of her name.

Miss Agatha, who always comported herself as a refined, gentle lady, was a plain woman, but handsome. She was older than most and younger than a few, and among the very few things she did not need, aggravation was first on the list.

At the moment, she was pretty well fit to be tied.

It had all seemed a very simple proposition a half-hour ago. She spent her last dollar and forty-seven cents on a tram ride across town to get to her bank. There she planned to withdraw enough money to see her through the coming week. Simple.

The tram ride had not cost such an odd amount, of course. It was only a dollar and a quarter, but you have to give the operator something, and Agatha had found two nickels, a dime and two pennies in the bottom of the change pouch of her clutch. She had boarded the tram, and now here she was, in complete disarray through no fault of her own.

It was all that stupid boy’s fault. He had distracted her.

He began by insisting on showing off his propensity for chivalry, giving her his seat as if she were an invalid. No, that wasn’t right. He didn’t give her his seat. He offered her his seat. There was a difference. The former would be chivalrous for the sake of chivalry. The latter was a pretentious show of magnanimity and it carried with it the implication that she didn’t have to accept.

Of course, refusing would make her seem ungrateful for his act of generosity. It would seem a mean-spirited rebuff in a time when generous acts were all too rare. She had accepted, but only because she felt everyone looking at her, no doubt wondering whether she would be gracious or leave the poor, gentlemanly young man looking the fool.

Poor, gentlemanly young man indeed! If he were spry enough to spring from his seat to give it up to a woman he hardly knew, he should be walking in the first place and leaving the tram seats to those who needed them. Of course, then he would miss the opportunity to show everyone how wonderful he was.

When she nodded demurely, he had raised himself from the padded and cracked green plastic seat with a sigh that she was certain was meant only for her ears. He took a step and grasped, with his left hand, the chrome bar to which she had been clinging. He grasped it a good foot over her head with no effort at all and without reaching upward, as if to show everyone how diminutive she was.

The tram car jostled a bit immediately afterward, having lurched up over a cross street, and he seized the opportunity to wag his right arm about as if the jostling had thrown him off balance. Such theatrics had no bearing on the truth. The wagging about was only his way of subliminally welcoming the applause he anticipated from the other passengers as a reward for his act of kindness.

After his ostentatious balancing act, she almost changed her mind. She eyed the seat, the broad indentation slowly lifting itself like a tired lover stretching. If she didn’t sit, he would look the fool, as if he had risen for no good reason. Her nod of agreement had been subtle. The other passengers probably hadn’t seen it, so she had the choice. Something about that made her feel good.

She glanced sidelong at him. He resembled one of her sons, but certainly not the hinky one who was in New York doing only God knows what as he pretended to be an actor and slowly broke his poor mother’s heart. And certainly not either of the two who seemed to have jobs doing something but she couldn’t quite remember what. One thing was sure. If she couldn’t remember, probably they weren’t making any discernable difference in the world.

Of course, they were her children, so certainly they were good boys. Even the hinky one was a good boy and responsible for most aspects of his life, and that’s really all a mother could ask, wasn’t it?

No, this young man reminded her of Earl, her hard-working, loyal, practical son who at this moment was putting washers on shock absorbers out at the plant. He was working hard, contributing to society.

Like Earl, this one was handsome in a rough kind of way. He was pretentious, certainly, but perhaps he meant well.

Her gaze shifted back to the seat. The broad dimple was narrower and almost flat again.

She glanced up at the young man. He looked down, meeting her gaze, and this time she allowed the slightest smile to curl one side of her mouth as she nodded again, still very subtly, and released the chrome bar. She took a step, then another, then turned and set herself down. She relished the comforting sound of the cushion sighing back into its depression.

She laid her clutch carefully on the seat next to her, then looked about, casting various smiles and nods at her fellow passengers as she tugged smoothly at the fingers of her yellow gloves. Finally she had removed them and folded them between her palms the same way her mother had shown her almost eighty years earlier. She folded her fingers together over them, then laid her clasped hands demurely in her lap.

The young man’s shoes were brown. His trousers were a dark grey but his shoes were brown. His belt was brown too, but a different shade.

Was that a scuff on the toe of the right shoe? He was a working man like her good strong son. He was wearing scuffed shoes, but they were polished, indicating he at least did take pride in his appearance. No doubt he had opted to have milk in the refrigerator for his children instead of buying a scuff kit for his shoes, or better yet a new pair of shoes altogether.

She couldn’t see the soles, but she imagined the first layer was worn through and fine grains of rock were ground into the second layer. He probably had two boys and a girl, and a long-suffering wife who adored him and made sacrifices he never knew about.

She glanced up at him and smiled again, lightly, not wanting to be mistaken for a flirt, but as a small reward for his selflessness. His wife and children must be very proud.

A few blocks later, the tram slowed as it rounded the corner onto Main from Fifth Avenue.

Agatha unclasped her hands, looked about and rose. Like a diva accepting late applause, she bestowed a beatific smile upon the young man as well as a few of her fellow passengers. Then no doubt feeling that parting would be a sweet sorrow, she walked a few faltering steps to the back and out onto the platform.

Before the tram could pick up speed again, she grasped the chrome bar at the corner with her right hand and swung herself down. She was aware people were watching, and she was proud of her ability, at her age, to dismount without expecting the operator to bring the car to a complete stop. 

Unfortunately, just after she grabbed the chrome bar and raised her left foot to step down, the tram lurched. Her head cocked sharply to the right, and her right shoulder came up and caught the brim of her Maximillian natural-straw sun hat with its inconspicuously placed yellow beads, knocking it askew.

Now it was twisted down over her left eye. Beneath it her lips had formed a surprised O, as lips often do when some other part of the body does something unexpected. Behind everything else, her skin was glistening with the fine sheen of sweat that often accompanies embarrassing one’s self in public.

Caught up in the motion, she swung herself out and released the bar.

In the split second that elapsed between her releasing the chrome bar and her landing awkwardly on the rough asphalt in her two-inch heels, she realized she had left her clutch purse on board.

As she attempted to stop her momentum, to pull up short and turn back, her left foot hit a bit of gravel. That set her stumbling to the left like a drunken actor headed for the wings.

Her coral-roses-on-ivy print dress with yellow accents was swishing around her legs as if she were tap dancing her way across a bawdy stage somewhere, and her red-orange hair, which she and her beautician had labored over straightening only a couple of days ago, was frizzy with humidity and sticking out like something on Bobo the Clown.

After several steps, Agatha brought herself under control with a final little stumbling hop up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, where she stuck her left palm straight out to the side for balance and stiff-armed a passerby up against the bank building.

He frowned. “Hey!” Then he shrugged away and kept walking.

“Sorry,” she said, and once her dress had stopped swishing about as if it were adorning a hussy, she took a deep, comforting breath.

Then she thought of her shoes. Certainly during all of that she must have scuffed her beautiful two-inch white heels with the little yellow bows that were only a slightly lighter shade of yellow than the accents in her dress and the beads on her hat. The money for new shoes doesn’t just grow on trees.

She shook her head and looked down, expecting the worst. She inspected the toes first, then shifted her attention to the inside arches. Of course the outside of the shoes would scuff more easily. She turned her feet and peered at the outside arches, then the heels. Sure enough, her dressy, two-inch white high heels were—

Fine. There wasn’t anything wrong with her two-inch heels.

Briefly she thought the lord does indeed work in mysterious ways, saving her shoes but not helping her remember to save her clutch purse. Then she remembered the day was young. She would retrieve the clutch, and with a start like this, surely her shoes would end up scuffed. The soles probably were thoroughly scuffed already. It was just impossible for her to have nice things.

Speaking of nice things, in her left fist where her clutch purse should be, she was gripping the folded yellow cloth gloves that perfectly matched the accents in her dress.

She frowned. Why was she holding her gloves? Why wasn’t she wearing them? Then she remembered the tram.

She glanced up the street, then stepped off the curb and walked hastily, drawing a beeline just to the left of the narrow left rail.

She pumped her left arm as she walked, the rhythm keeping pace with her right foot. Had she left her Maximillian natural-straw sun hat home, she could have pumped both arms and made better time. As it was, her right hand was occupied with holding that hat on her head. Then again, she wasn’t about to let it go. Such hats were in great demand by discerning women.

There were only two rails and she could never remember which one was “hot,” as the kids said. She took that to mean it was electrified. For that matter, she could never remember whether either of them were hot. She seemed to recall that a third rail had to be involved somehow in order for anything to be electrified.

The one thing she knew for certain was that the tram wasn’t an independent operator. It had to stay on the rails, so if she followed the rail there was no way she’d lose the tram. Of course, the tram car itself was difficult to miss. From the surface of the street to the roof was a good ten feet, and the car was pretty close to eight feet wide.

The two eldest of her thirteen grandchildren, twelve year old twin girls, had pointed out that fact just last week, the last time she’d brought them to town. That was a mistake she wouldn’t make again anytime soon.

She’d misplaced her clutch purse that time too, and only after she’d caught up with the tram three blocks away did Tiffany Ann Porter pull her grandmother’s clutch from behind her back. The girl hadn’t said anything at all, but she had beamed a smile that would draw a ship with a blind captain through three miles of fog.

The little wench’s sister wasn’t much better. Tammany Sue Porter had pointed and cackled like a hen who’d just been spared being the Sunday dinner guest of honor. The thought that there was always next Sunday almost brought a smile to Agatha’s face.

Still, Miss Agatha Demon Bitters followed the rail simply because she preferred to follow the rail. And as she had patiently explained to the two rude little strumpets, she had more than earned the right to do what she preferred.

She was biased in her preference not only because she had earned the right to be. Following the rail was just good common sense. It was polished and shiny, so it was easy to follow, and it was right there. Besides, if she were caught up watching the back of the tram car, she might inadvertently step on the rail and learn once and for all whether it was hot. Barring that, she might at least break a heel in the dreadful depression that ran along either side of the rail.

Allowing herself just a moment of self-pitying wistfulness, she thought probably her poor old heart wouldn’t be able to take even the slightest shock from a hot rail. Of course, she couldn’t explain that to the future little Porter tramps. They were still wrapped snugly in the false immortality of youth. How either of them had issued from the loins of Earl, possibly the best, hardest-working son in the world, was a mystery.

Not for the first time, Agatha wondered what her daughter-in-law might be doing while Earl was laboring at the factory. Maybe she wasn’t as long-suffering as some people would have you believe. Maybe some thirteen years earlier she’d dallied with some sperm donor and managed to produce those two little heathens.

For just a moment she stopped pumping her left arm and moved her left fingertips to her mouth to seal in that thought. Certainly a word like “sperm” never should cross the lips or mind of a lady. Behind her fingertips she allowed herself a brief giggle, then resumed pumping her arm. This was no time for jocularity. The tram was getting away.

She didn’t care either way about the clutch purse. It was plastic, molded to make a poor imitation of leather, but it had the right pockets in the right places. She’d bought it at the Family Dollar store out of a bin during a fifty-cent sale. When she picked it out of the bin, she noticed it had no wrist strap. There was a fob on the end where the wrist strap was supposed to be attached, but the strap itself was gone.

She had turned to the young sales girl nearby and touched her lightly on the arm. She was wearing her Maximillian straw hat that day too. There could be no doubt about her refinement. She gestured toward the bin, wagging her index finger in a circle, and said, “All this stuff here is defective, that right? That why it’s only fi’ty cent?”

“On no, Miss. None’a that stuff ain’t defective. It’s jus’ on sale. That’s all stuff that’s marked reg’lar anywhere from a dollar on up to fo’ nine’y-nine. But today, if it’s in that bin, it’s only fi’ty cent. That’s why we call it a fi’ty cent sale.”

Miss Agatha smiled broadly. “Now see, that’s jus’ what I was thinkin’, me, that none’a that stuff was s’posed to be defective.” She held the clutch aloft, and just loud enough for other nearby customers to hear her, she said, “This clutch purse right here is defective though.”

She tapped the fob with the nail of her right index finger. “See right here? That there is a fob. That’s ‘cause there’s s’posed to be a wrist strap attached right there. See?” She tapped it again. “Now I like this sto’, an’ you know I do. I been comin’ here ever since ya’ll opened. In fact, I think that was still a year or two ‘afore you was outta school so you could come down here an’ get a job.”

She pointed at the girl with her right index finger and grinned. “Oh yes, I remember you, Missy. Always runnin’ down the hall with that brother’a yours. You was a cutie.

“Anyhow, I been comin’ here that long, an’ I like this store mostly ‘cause they always treat folks right here.” She held the clutch up again, as if offering it to the sales girl. “Thing is, I like this clutch right here too, even if it ain’t got no wrist strap. I ain’t nitpicky. I don’t mind that it ain’t got a wrist strap even though it’s s’posed to have one. But I don’t see no way I can pay the full price fo’ it.”

The sales girl tried to hide her frown, but she failed. “But it’s on sale, Miss. It ain’t on full price. That’d be a dolla’ nine’y-five on full price. But it ain’t a dolla’ nine’y-five see. It’s only fi’ty cent. ‘Amember?”

“Yeah, I most certainly do remember. It ain’t like I’m gettin’ the Alzheimer’s or somethin’, no. I’m just sayin’, if this clutch purse right here had a wrist strap, it’d still be in this bin, right? You said they wasn’t nothin’ wrong with the stuff in this bin, ain’t that right?” And she nodded at the sales girl, encouraging her to agree.

 Which the sales girl did. “Yes’m, that’s right. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with none’a that stuff in that bin.” She extended her index finger. “An’ ain’t nothin’ wrong with that clutch purse neither, ‘cept it’s missin’ that little strap. An’ thing is, ain’t no way to tell if that strap even used to be there.”

Miss Agatha raised her voice slightly, ensuring the second level of customers could hear her. “What you mean, ain’t no way to tell? It’s got a fob, ain’t it? ‘Acourse that strap used to be there. They ain’t so crazy in them fact’ries they go around puttin’ fobs on stuff even if they ain’t gonna slap a strap on it, no.

“Here’s the deal. This here clutch purse is defective, an’ I can’t see my way clear to pay full price fo’ a broke clutch purse. But I do like how it’s put together, this thing here, so I’m willin’ to offer you a quarter. Then we can call it a done deal.”

“But I done said it ain’t full price. That there’s the sale price.”

Miss Agatha nodded patiently. “Yeah yeah, we been over that, you an’ me. It’s the sale price, but it’s the full sale price fo’ items that there ain’t nothin’ wrong with ‘em.

“Now I’m fixin’ to give you a brand new shiny new quarter, me. I’m givin’ you two bits fo’ a clutch purse that ain’t even all there. I can swallow my pride that far, but I don’t think I can go no farther.”

“Now Miss Agatha, I just... what I mean, it wouldn’t be fair to....” She looked at the old woman’s eyes a moment longer, then emitted a sigh and turned toward the line of cash registers.

She waved at the clerk near the first register, getting his attention. “Bob, ring up Miss Agatha, would you? She’s payin’ us twen’y-five cents fo’ this defective ol’ clutch purse. She doin’ it as a special favor to us, I think.”

The she turned around and winked at Miss Agatha. “Be anything else, Miss?”

Miss Agatha put one finger to her chin, then shook her head. “Nope. No, I don’t think so.”

The sales girl smiled broadly. “All right.” She patted Miss Agatha lightly on the shoulder. “Well, you enjoy that new clutch purse now, y’hear?”

As Miss Agatha turned away, she said, “Well, I don’t know about that. It is defective after all, but I’ll try to make the best of it, you know.”

And now she was chasing that tram car again. That was twice in two weeks. If that clutch purse had the wrist strap that was supposed to come with it, she probably wouldn’t have lost it either time. It was annoying is what it was. She hadn’t ought’a spent that two bits on that ten-cent clutch purse. She should’a held out for one that worked like it was supposed to.

But really, she didn’t care either way about the clutch itself. She’d already spent all the money that was in it. She didn’t have a driver’s license anymore, and she’d misplaced her ID card over a year ago. Or had it been two years? Anyway, nobody ever asked for it so that didn’t bother her.

But her bank access card was inside that clutch, and that bothered her a great deal.

Now it was on that silly tram, an’ the tram was leading her all over creation with her two week old clutch purse rattling around on the floor somewhere. It was probably getting awfully scuffed. She hoped it wasn’t being kicked about by unruly children as well, or worse yet, stolen by somebody.

But no, it didn’t have anything inside worth stealing. Just her access card. If it weren’t for that access card she wouldn’t care either way.

At the next corner, just less than three blocks from where she had stumbled off the tram and begun her adventure, she caught up with the tram. It had stopped at the corner drugstore, its usual stop.

By the time Agatha came huffing up to the rear of the car, all the passengers had disembarked and the operator had walked almost to the back, checking for personal items. His eyebrows arched when he recognized her. “Miss Agatha, I was just lookin’ for you. You ain’t in the tram car.”

She reached up and grabbed the chrome handle. She seemed to grin past him. “Yeah, I know that, me. Good lord, Harold, the daffies ain’t got me yet. It ain’t like I done come down with the Alzheimer’s all’a sudden.”

He grinned. His voice was gentle. “That ain’t what I meant, now. You know I wouldn’t never be disrespectful to you, Miss. I just wondered, did you drop off the car accidentally or did you get off at yo’ stop again without letting me know?”

She’d pulled herself up onto the second step. “I don’t like bein’ a bother, no. Now you know that right there. An’ no, ‘course I didn’t drop off the car accidental. I don’t even know how that’d work. Mebbe if the flo’ opened up or somethin’, a body might jus’ fall through accidental. Or mebbe if one’a them daft kids had their nose shoved in their phone or whatever it is they always playin’ with they might walk off the back. You know, back in my day—”

“Yes, Miss, I do know you don’t like bein’ a bother. But what I’m sayin’, it ain’t no bother at all, see. That’s my job.” He took a step back to make room for her on the platform.

She stepped up onto the platform and frowned. “Sides all that, you know full well I stepped down off this thing when we got to my stop an’— Wait a minute. What’s yo’ job?”

“Well, drivin’ the tram, see, and that includes stoppin’ it when folks need to get off.”

“Oh, so now you thinkin’ I’m too old to be gettin’ off this thing while it’s still movin’ jus’ that tiny little bit?”

“Well no, Miss, but I do think—”

“You think what?” She stared at him.

“Well, I mean... that is, I think—”

“Spit it out, Harold, I ain’t gettin’ no younger.”

“Now Miss Agatha, you know I wouldn’t never talk to you with no disrespect an’—”

She wagged one hand in the air. “Yeah, Harold, I know you wouldn’t never do nothin’ disrespectful to me or around me or about me.” She pushed past him. “‘Scuse me, now. I gotta find my clutch purse.”

He turned as she passed by. “Oh, no Miss. I got it right here.” He held it up. “This’n’s yours ain’t it?” He flipped the little fob with his fingertip. “Used to be a strap on it. Get you one with a strap on it an’ you won’t lose it near as easy.”

She stopped and looked up at him. “Well why didn’t you say you had it, Harold?”

She took the proffered clutch purse and zipped it open. Her bank access card was still there, and there were two twenty dollar bills in the slot next to it.

She frowned. “I don’t recall there bein’ no money inside here, no.”

“Well we sure ain’t had it open none, Miss. Now you know me. You know I wouldn’t never do nothin’ to show you no disrespect, an’ that includes givin’ you money.”

She nodded, eyeing him. Something seemed different about Harold.

She wouldn’t need to go to the bank after all, not today. She might as well visit a bit. “Harold, you got a little time to visit? I guess I don’t need to go to the bank after all.”

“Yes ma’am. I got time.” He stepped back and gestured toward the door. “Why don’t we go in an’ set down?”

“Yeah, that’d be all right. Get off my feet fo’ awhile. An’ we’ll visit some.”

She stepped forward and he guided her into the car. She sat, enjoying the long, drawn-out sigh of the cushion as all the air seeped out. The sound comforted her, made her feel warm and safe and— She thought about it and frowned. “Connected, sort of.” like reality leaving a dream.

Harold sat across from her, watching her. “What’s that, Miss.”

“Oh, nothin’. I was just thinkin’ ‘bout this ol’ seat cushion. It’s comfortable. Makes me feel safe somehow, and sort of connected. I can’t really explain it.” She hesitated, still looking at him. Her brow wrinkled into a frown. “We ain’t visited in awhile, have we Harold?”

He smiled gently at her. “No ma’am. Been about a week I think.”

She paused again, then smiled. “Well... so how’s yo’ mama, Harold?”

It was the same question she always asked.

“My mama, Miss?” He smiled gently. “She’s doin’ good from what I can tell, an’ thank you for askin’.” He paused, then leaned forward just a bit and said quietly, “An’ how you doing, Miss Agatha? I mean really?”

She looked at him, then looked away for a moment and frowned. Finally she turned back to him. “I’m all right most of the time, Harold. I’m— What I mean, you know, how’s Earl? You seen Earl lately?” She frowned. “You know Earl, right? You ever hear from him?”

Harold smiled and looked at her eyes for a moment. “Yes’m, I know Earl.”

She looked at him, hopeful. “I thought so. An’ them heathen girls a’his?”

“Oh,” he said, and shrugged, “the girls— well, you know how girls are.” He snapped his fingers. “You know, come to think of it, that Tiffany girl jus’ had her third baby, another little boy, about two weeks ago. That makes you a great-grandma again, don’t it? She’s doin’ good too. She sho’ loves bein’ a mama, that’n.”

He hesitated. “You remember? You told me she makes a good mama.”

She looked past him out the window. Tiffany loves bein’ a mama? But Tiffany had just teased her last week with her clutch purse. She shook her head. No, that can’t be right. Tiffany and Tammany were all grown up now.

No, that wasn’t quite it either.

Tiffany was grown up. Agatha had attended her wedding. She was happy for Tiffy and her handsome beau. In fact, Harold was handsome that day too, walking Tiffany down the aisle.

Agatha glanced at him. He was still handsome.

She averted her gaze, looked at the floor, shook her head. Quietly she said, “Her weddin’... I ‘member Tiffy was so happy she was glowin’.” She sighed. “Sho’ wish Earl could’a been there, me.”

Harold waited.

Her gaze shifted a bit.

Harold’s shoes were black. He kept them polished, obviously taking pride in his appearance. The shoes went well with his powder-blue uniform with the black stripes down the sides of the trouser legs and the black belt and the powder-blue uniform shirt with the black pocket flaps.

And Earl didn’t have to wear a uniform in his job but he always polished his shoes just the same. They were black too, weren’t they? Maybe brown. She seemed to remember brown from somewhere, but she was pretty sure they were black. Like Harold’s.

Yes, they were black.

She put her fingertips to her mouth and tears welled in her eyes.

She had taken his black shoes and his dark grey suit to the funeral parlor after the accident. The suit he would have worn to Tiffany’s wedding someday. She frowned. That was some years back.

Another memory crept in. Tiffy was fourteen. She’d spent two weeks with Grandma Bitters, learning how to sew. Her daddy and her mommy and her sister were coming to visit and to take her home.

But the logging truck. The driver was lighting a cigarette and the logging truck crossed the center line, they said.

She shook her head, pain and frustration in her eyes. Such a small thing. Such a small, simple thing.

Harold had seen this before. He waited.

Earl steered hard right, and the soft shoulder took his car. It flipped him and his wife and his Tammany daughter into a thousand foot drop.

She had taken a grey dress for her daughter-in-law and a white dress for Tammany and Earl’s fine dark grey suit and black shoes to the funeral parlor. He’d always kept them so well shined.

Harold’s shoes were black too. She’d noticed they were the same when Harold had escorted her up to view Earl.

After the funerals, Harold had asked whether she needed anything, then gone back to his job. It wasn’t as high paying as Earl’s job so he couldn’t take a lot of time off, but he was a hard-working boy, contributing to society. He was a good son.

She raised her gaze to meet his. “You asked me if I needed somethin’, son. You a good boy.”

He stood, tears welling in his eyes. “Anytime, Mama.”

She nodded and stood, then took him in her arms. It must have looked odd to anyone else, the six-feet-three-inch Harold in his powder-blue uniform with the black accents leaning down and putting his head on the diminutive shoulder of five-feet-two-inch Agatha Demon Bitters as she cradled him. But Agatha wouldn’t care.

When he straightened, he wiped his eyes. “Anytime, Mama. Anything you need, you just say.”

She nodded. “Well, I do need to get over to the bank, me. I gotta get some money fo’ the week.”

Harold nodded and smiled. “All right, Mama. So....” Should he remind of the money she’d found in her clutch purse?

She took his arm. “Now I know I said earlier I didn’t really need to go, but thing is, a refined, independent woman gotta have some spendin’ cash, an’ I don’t know that fo’ty dolla’s’d get me through a whole week.”

He grinned. “That’s fine, Mama. You want me to walk you over?”

* * * * * * *