Rumours & Lies

by Timothy Quinlan

push the elevator button.”

  “So what, someone probably pushed the eleventh floor button by accident or something.”

  Noltan ran his hand through his hair; his face was contorted in a mixture of fear and anxiety. “Doctor, I’m having trouble with this. If this elevator were to plunge to the earth killing us both, it would be ironic on so many levels.”

  The Doctor looked perplexed. “Explain.”

  “It’d be ironic that we didn’t push the button, and then we died because we got in. It’d be ironic that I died as a victim of irony on the very day that I came to see you about this. It’d be ironic that you died, shortly after I came to see you about this problem.”

  “Noltan, I’m not sure all of those things are actually irony, given the strictest definition of the word, but that’s beside the point.”

  The elevator door began to close, but the Doctor calmly stopped it with his hand. “Your fear is rooted in the fact that you think that events which in hindsight can be deemed to be ironic are more likely to happen than events which wouldn’t be deemed to be ironic. This fear or this tendency to give more weight to ironic events is likely due to the fact that you watch an abundance of television, or go to the movies quite frequently.”

  Nolton nodded.

  “Now, I remember you telling me that you and your wife love to go to the cinema, or watch good movies on television or read good fiction. Well, things that are ironic get over exposed in the movies and in television.”

  Noltan rubbed his chin, and contemplated what the Doctor had just said. “So, what you’re saying is that there really is no more likely probability that an event, that happens to be ironic, will happen than there is of that event happening in the absence of irony.”

  “Right.”

  Nolton took a deep breath and seemed to feel better. “But it could happen right. The ironic event, I mean.”

  “Of course it could,” the Doctor said, his facial expression giving evidence of a slight discomfort.

  “And if it did, it would really be more of a coincidence than irony.”

  “Well no, this is getting confusing,” the Doctor said, and took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped his forehead. “It would still be ironic, but the fact that the ironic event happened would be a coincidence.”

  Noltan took a deep breath and contemplated what the doctor had just said. After a moment, he smiled. “Ok, let’s try this,” he said and started to enter the elevator.

  The Doctor put out his hand and stopped him. He had a nervous smile on his face. “Well, let’s think this over a bit. I have a little problem with coincidence.”

  Absence Makes the Heart

  When I see a homeless person during the holidays, or someone who seems a little more vulnerable than the rest of us, a sadness sweeps through me—it’s always been this way. I’m not ashamed of it, and I don’t think it’s a weakness as some do. Having compassion for people or worrying about the plight of the lonely or disadvantaged is something that can engulf you and render you emotionally numb if you let it. But it’s a real human emotion, an honest human emotion.

  Inevitably, I take the subway downtown at least once during the holidays, and inevitably I’ll see someone who looks like the holidays are a burden to them—a painful reminder that they’re alone. And then, I’ll think of her.

  Agnes Armstrong called our house in the middle of December, and stole my heart after only a few moments of conversation. She must have been close to eighty years old, and spoke in perpetual detours, but I fell in love with her almost immediately.

  “Mr. Sheldon?” The voice was soft, barely audible.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Agnes Armstrong, and I’m calling about your pamphlets; the ones all over the street.”

  For a brief second I thought I had littered inadvertently somewhere in our neighbourhood, and was being called out by a militant community watch program, but the thought passed, and then seemed ridiculous. “Oh, regarding our painting company.” My wife and I run a small painting company and had dispersed flyers in various neighborhoods over the months. The company phone number was a different line than the one Deloris had just called.

  “I should be honest with you; I called the other number—the one on the pamphlet,” she said, “but I got your answering machine or your voice machine or whatever they call it these days. The message said something about being closed until January, but I thought I’d try my luck; so I looked up your home number in the phonebook.”

  “That’s wonderful, but how did you manage to look us up?”

  “Well, I mean, Sheldon Painting. I assumed your name was Sheldon,” she said this while giggling an infectious little rolling giggle.

  “But how did you know our address?”

  The giggling stopped and she was silent for a moment, seemingly puzzled by the question. “I didn’t know your address Mr. Sheldon,” she said, and then paused before continuing, “I just started calling people named Sheldon from the phonebook. Do you know what number you are?”

  “Uhhh, I don’t remember”

  “Well take a guess Mr. Sheldon. Be a sport.”

  “How about four.”

  “My goodness,’ she said and starting giggling again, “your number sixteen Mr. Sheldon.”

  “Wow, I wasn’t even close,” I said, smiling now, caught up by the giggling.

  “That’s alright, most of them weren’t home. I only ended up talking to four or five of them so in a way you were close.”

  “I feel better.”

  “I’m sorry for laughing at you Mr. Sheldon. That wasn’t very kind of me.”

  “No worries,” I said and laughed a little myself.

  “Anyway, well, you see I really was hoping to get my living room painted. Thirty six years ago my husband and I painted our living room a very light green colour, a sort of minty colour, and it’s been fine but two days ago I woke up, came down stairs and thought; I despise it, I absolutely despise it. It’s odd but ever since I made the decision to get rid of the green, I just can’t bring myself to look at it. I actually felt sick to my stomach yesterday afternoon and I think it’s because I’m having some sort of chemical reaction to seeing these green walls.”

  “Well, we can’t have that,” I said, unsure of whether I was being put on.

  “Oh that’s tremendous Mr. Sheldon. You’re a real sport,” she said loudly with more enthusiasm and joy than I had ever mustered for anything in my life to that point.

  I sensed her pause and jumped in, “Let me get your name and address. Alright, I’ve got a pen, shoot.”

  “Oh, I hate that expression Mr. Sheldon. With the way the world is today, to speak that way just sends the wrong message to kids. I just hate it; I mean you just told me to shoot you Mr. Sheldon.”

  “Sorry.”

  “How that become an acceptable expression is just mind boggling.” She paused. “I’m sorry Mr. Sheldon, here you’ve been good enough to do me a favor and I’m trying to be motherly.”

  “That’s alright. You’re right. I’m glad you straightened me out. You can be motherly anytime you want.”

  “I’ll try and keep it to a minimum,” she said and the rolling giggles started again.

  “Now, it’s Miss Armstrong correct? And your street and house number is . . .”

  There was a pause and for a moment I thought we’d been disconnected. “It’s ‘Mrs.’ actually,” she said quietly.

  “Oh, alright. And the address is . . . ?”

  “Fifty Blackstone Lane,” she said, softly again. She seemed a bit distant now.

  “Now, let me take a look at my calendar; we obviously need to get rid of those green walls fairly quickly. Today is Monday and . . . Tuesday and Wednesday are no good. How about Thursday of this week?”

  Agnes was agreeable with Thursday, so we set a time and price, and she quoted me a reference number for a very fine mocha tint she had chosen at a local paint store. We bantered back and forth a bit more about everythi
ng from the recent solar eclipse to broccoli, and then I bid her a good evening.

  After I hung up, I thought about her correcting me when I referred to her as “Miss Armstrong”. Her energy and spirit were radiant, but she had sounded different, almost defeated when she had corrected me. Something had taken the steam out of her for a moment. My first thought was that her husband had passed away recently, and correcting her name had tweaked a little sadness in her. I felt a twinge of sadness myself.

 

  We showed up three days later on a coldish, drearily overcast morning. The house was a cute little bungalow in a mature neighborhood not far from our place. It was smaller than all of the other houses on the street, but seemed well maintained. There wasn’t a doorbell, and a large wreath and a small window on the door made finding a place to knock difficult, so I let fly an underhanded rat-a-tat-tat.

  A moment later, Agnes’ familiar voice whispered, “Hello, who is it?”

  “It’s Andrew and Linda . . . the painters,” I said loudly.

  There was a moment of silence which, I guessed, coincided with Agnes looking at us through the peep hole in the door. Next, all the appropriate noises as deadlocks and knobs were turned. Finally, the door opened ever so slowly.

  “Good morning,” she said, a happy smile from ear to ear.

  She was tiny, with short silky white hair and wore a very small pair of glasses that could have been made for a doll. Her cheeks were rosy, and her pearl earrings matched the strand around her neck. I guessed that she had made the effort for us, and I was touched. The smile was glowing and didn’t