leave her face. Agnes was clearly very happy to see us.
We made all the appropriate small talk, both Linda and I making a concerted effort to not sound jaded or cliché in our conversation with her. She was a sweet woman and her happiness made us happy. We set up our painting stuff, and were getting down to business when she emerged from the kitchen, hidden behind a giant tray of coffee and baked goods which, judging by the glorious smell, weren’t store-bought.
“I don’t want to be a bother, but I put this together for you; please help yourself. There’s cream and sugar—sorry it’s real sugar, that’s all I have. I hope that’ll do. You know they make too much out of eating sugar these days; I mean, I’m a diabetic, but I’ll just sneak some every now and again and I’m fine”
“Oh my goodness, this is fabulous. Thank you very much Miss Armstrong.” Linda blurted, clearly as embarrassed as I.
A confused look of wonderment slowly spread over Agnes’ face. She paused a moment, seeming to contemplate something. “Oh, it’s ‘Mrs.’, but please call me Agnes.”
She slowly made her way back to the kitchen and I turned to Linda. “I think her husband’s passed away. I’m not sure but I think he died recently.”
“You think he died recently.” Linda said, more than a hint of annoyance directed my way—clearly I should have mentioned this to her.
“Well, I made the same mistake with her name and it seemed to sadden her. Did you notice how she paused when she corrected you?”
“Not really. Sure you’re not imagining it?”
“No, pretty sure.”
“There’s a pair of men’s shoes at the front door. What do you think Andrew . . . maybe Agnes, despite the fact that she seems to be a tasteful woman, occasionally likes to take a jaunt around the neighborhood in men’s shoes.”
“Maybe she just leaves them there for the memory. And, if those are her husband’s shoes, where is he?”
“Out.”
“Bu . . .”
Linda interrupted. “Most men have more than one pair of shoes; those standing in this room being the exception.”
At that moment, Agnes emerged from the kitchen and Linda began a frantic, rushed routine of saying things like “we’re about to get started” or “let’s pour the paint.” All of this was aimed at steering me clear of asking Agnes point blank whether she was married. This, I wouldn’t have done; however Agnes rendered this fact irrelevant.
“You know it’s funny, but as soon as I told Frank about how I just needed to get these walls painted, he agreed that the light green was starting to irritate him as well. Can you believe that? Over thirty years with one colour and we both decide we hate it at the same time. Unbelievable.”
“So Frank is your husband?” I asked, Linda’s glare suggesting the question was indeed stupid.
“Yes, he is,” she said without hesitation.
“Perhaps, he’d like to come and check out the new colour before we start.”
“Oh, he’s out right now, but he trusts me with the colours.”
I grabbed a screw driver, reached down and opened a can of creamy mocha paint, uttering my most spoken words, “It’ll dry darker than it looks.”
She smiled, nodded her approval, turned, and slowly made her way back to the kitchen.
“Are you happy now?” Linda asked with much more than a hint of annoyance.
“She still had a strange look on her face when I asked her about her husband.”
“Yeah, probably because she thinks your casing the joint for a heist. I mean who wouldn’t be concerned if a total stranger asked an eighty year old if her husband was around. I mean that was a dumb question.”
“I asked if he wanted to come and see the paint,” I said with little conviction.
We were there for most of the day and there was no sign of Frank. I didn’t mention it again but that night as I lay in bed trying to sleep, I wondered and worried about my own plight. Would I live to be Agnes’ age? Would Linda and I both live into old age? Linda sensed that I couldn’t sleep, and asked me what was wrong. I told her that I didn’t think Agnes’ husband Frank was alive. I told her I still thought he had died and that our conversation that day had just been a lonely, frightened, sweet woman trying to fool herself into believing that he was still alive. Linda said nothing and eventually we both drifted off.
The next day we started early, and Agnes still took the time to look through the peep hole. She was made up again, delivered more baked goods on cue, and then disappeared somewhere in the house for most of the morning.
“Do you think she has any kids?” I asked as I rolled paint on the wall.
“She doesn’t have any kids. I already asked,” Linda answered.
“Really, no kids.” I had a pained horrified look on my face that made Linda laugh.
“Andrew, she’s married; don’t worry about this woman, she’s fine. I’m starting to wonder about you.”
“Where is he?”
“Agnes said he’s out again.”
“Where?”
“She didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”
“You know we should have showed up at like five thirty—he would have been here then.” I looked at Linda and we both laughed; the true absurdity of my thought process dawning on us. I got back to work and didn’t think about Agnes.
We made good progress, and as we stopped to eat lunch, I guessed we would be done by the end of that afternoon. Agnes appeared, a coy look on her face. “Andy, may I ask you to do me a favour?”
“Yes of course,” I said gently, amused at being called “Andy.”
“I’ve got some picture frames upstairs that I’d like to hang in this room when you’re finished painting it.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
“Can you help me carry them down?” Agnes asked, a trace of embarrassment on her face.
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll carry them all by myself. Where are they?”
“Follow me.”
I followed her upstairs. At the top of the stairs there were five very long wrapped objects which I assumed were frames. I quickly glanced up to take stock of the upstairs, hoping maybe to catch a glimpse of something that proved Frank’s existence. No such luck.
“These are the frames—they’re heavy. Are you sure I can’t help?”
“I’ll be fine.” I ran the frames downstairs one at a time and placed them on the floor in the room we were painting. Linda was eating a sandwich. I joined her, giving the frames a quick glance. They were covered in tissue paper, neatly scotch taped at either end—I couldn’t see the pictures underneath.
About half an hour later, Agnes appeared again, a warm winter coat covering her; her hair wrapped in a mauve scarf. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave for a couple of hours. I’ve got some errands to run. Would you like anything before I go?”
“No, we’re fine.” Linda answered. “We’re probably going to be finished before you get back. Shall we lock the door?”
“Yes please, here’s a key. Just leave it under the mat at the front”, she said and handed Linda a key and an envelope. “This is what I owe you.”
“Oh, thank you very much,” Linda said. “We can come back and collect it some other time Agnes. Perhaps you should make sure you’re happy with the job.”
“Don’t be silly, you’ve done a magnificent job. Please take the money.”
I had been hoping to return in a couple of days for the money. It’d give me a chance to meet Mr. Armstrong; it’d give me a chance to ease my mind. “Should we hang these pictures for you?” I asked, my wife’s glare burning through my skin.
“No that’s fine, thank you. Frank will hang those.”
Agnes left and my wife openly questioned my sanity. “Andrew, for the love of God, get it together—Frank will hang the pictures.”
“Linda, haven’t you ever just worried about someone, seen someone in a mall or on the street, and thought they were particularly vulnerable, and just plain worried about them. This
woman is sweet; I think she’s vulnerable. When she first called, I spoke with her for ten minutes; she’s has a certain innocence about her that’s precious. I have this vision of her going to bed alone at night, hanging on to the memory of her husband, her partner of so many years who’s passed away. It’s just this feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think she’s just set up a defense mechanism to deal with the unbearable pain of the loneliness. I don’t think Frank’s around anymore.”
“She’s fine and she’s married to probably a wonderful man and living very happily.” Linda said calmly, clearly not buying my theory.
“But we haven’t seen him.” I said, wanting Linda to prove me wrong.
“So what?”
“She’s late seventies; I don’t think Frank is working. Where is he?” I asked.
“I don’t know, maybe at the library or something,” Linda said dismissively.
“I’m going to open those pictures, and see if he’s in any of them.”
My wife looked at me, eyes wide with horror. “No. You are not!”
“Yep I am.”
She paused. “You know that you’d be breaking a law.”
“What law?”
“Invasion of privacy.”
“Not buying that.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Nope.” I said, and moved towards the frames.
“I’ll divorce you if you open those,” Linda said without emotion.
I stopped for a second; just long enough to determine that she wasn’t entirely serious, and bent down and started to unwrap the frames. I took special care not to rip the tissue, so that the frames could be rewrapped. When I’d finished, I laid the three long rectangular frames on the
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