Rumours & Lies

by Timothy Quinlan

ground end to end. It took us a moment to realize what they were; within each of the three frames were small five by seven pictures. They were Santa Clause pictures; the kind that get taken at Malls. Agnes was in each picture; a gentleman who we assumed was Frank was in all the pictures except the last three. Linda and I remained silent for a moment, and slowly contemplated the obvious.

  “He died three years ago,” I said, still staring at the last three pictures.

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Yeah Linda, we do. He’s not in the last three year’s pictures.”

  I bent over and looked closely at Frank. He was about five foot ten, slim, had white hair that was neatly trimmed, was conservatively dressed—perhaps a decade out of style, but was a wonderful looking warm man. He had the most vivid blue eyes I had ever seen. His appearance was remarkably constant throughout the pictures, and in the last one, he didn’t appear to be sick or facing imminent death. But he wasn’t young, and any assortment of things could have caused his death between his last picture four years ago and the next year’s solo effort by Agnes.

  Linda was silent, and I knew that she had finally opened her mind to the idea that Frank was indeed gone, and that his existence was now nothing more than a sweet old woman trying to avoid the pain of reality. I glanced at Linda and saw a tear slide down her cheek. I hugged her and we stayed silent, entwined in each other’s arms for several minutes.

  The rest of the afternoon was somber, but we finished the job, put the frames back in their wrapping, and quietly left Agnes’ home. Perhaps, enabling our own emotional defenses, neither of us mentioned Agnes for several days.

  Four days after we had left Agnes’ house, she popped back into our lives. “Agnes Armstrong left a message today Linda. Apparently we left one of our brushes there.”

  Linda hesitated a moment. “I see. Now you’ve never done that in eight years of painting.”

  “Would you rather I tell her to throw it out, or would you rather I go and see her.”

  “Go and see her.”

  “I’ll go tomorrow.”

  I decided not to warn Agnes that I was coming—didn’t want her to feel obliged to go to a lot of trouble. It was a bitterly cold morning when I pulled my truck onto her street. I spotted her getting on a city bus at the corner and immediately realized that calling would have been a smarter approach, but rather than turning around and going home, instinct made me follow the bus. As if she was communicating with me telepathically, an assortment of disapproving comments that Linda would surely have uttered raced through my mind. But what was the harm? I was curious to see what filled Agnes’ days; I still thought that there must be some way that we could help this woman, some way we could ease her pain.

  Following a bus is harder than one might imagine—it’s not the speed but rather the constant stopping. I clearly stood out; not passing the bus, but stopping behind it at every stop trying to see if Agnes was getting off. But who would suspect anything sinister? Who follows a bus? I played over in my mind what I would say to Agnes if she got off the bus and saw me, contemplated the idea of over emphasizing how very important the brush was to our business, but this made no sense. I settled on writing the whole thing off as coincidence. All of this contemplation ended up worthless as Agnes rode the bus all the way downtown. She got off in front of Grenadier’s department store and scurried in without looking my way. My mind flashed to the pictures in her home and I immediately understood what Agnes’ was doing downtown. Grenadier’s was where the pictures had been taken; she was here for the Santa Clause picture. Without understanding why, I found a parking lot with a spot left, parked my car, handed over an indecent amount of cash, and ran back to Grenadier’s.

  Santa Clause was located on the fifth floor, and as I ascended the escalators, I felt nervous. In my youth I had gone for pictures with Santa every year, and had always gotten nervous with anticipation, but as I approached the fifth floor, I was nervous for another reason. I knew that seeing Agnes get her picture taken, refusing to let go of a tradition that she had shared with nobody but Frank would sadden me, and I wondered what I hoped to accomplish by being there. I knew I wanted to help this woman, wanted to reach out and do whatever I could to ease her pain, but how could I do it without jeopardizing her pride. I decided not to approach her in the store; Linda would help me determine a more tactful way to reach out.

  Once on the fifth floor, I pretended to be browsing the merchandise all the while following the stream of children who were clearly heading for the toy department and the merry man himself. I was maybe thirty feet away when I saw her; she was next in line. She stood alone, her brown felt coat, hat and scarf neatly covering her tiny frame. Two young twin girls, eyes wide with fright, jumped from Santa’s lap and darted into their parent’s arms. Agnes gave them a smile, and then walked forward toward Santa. I pulled my ball cap down low over my eyes and pretended to examine a toy car in front of me.

  “Well, who do we have here?” Santa bellowed.

  “Agnes Armstrong—I’ve had my picture taken here for twenty five years.”

  For whatever reason, hearing Agnes say this caused my eyes to well up with tears. I wiped them and scowled at the little girl standing beside me staring at me. She ran off.

  “Yes, I think I remember you from last year.” Santa said, sounding as if he had uttered that very line a hundred times already that day.

  I looked up and saw Agnes give a doubtful glance towards one of the two girls dressed tastefully in elf gear. I wondered what was going through her mind—was the realization that Frank wasn’t with her evident at all within her thoughts? Would this be the last picture? Would she sleep tonight? Would the picture emphasize and underline the loneliness which she now was forced to experience daily?

  Agnes removed her coat, hat and scarf, and handed them to one of the elves. She was dressed tastefully in a long suede skirt and a cashmere sweater. The pearls were on her ears and around her neck. She looked great.

  She nestled against Santa’s lap, a hint of embarrassment on her face, held her chin up, and stared into the camera. Santa said something which I couldn’t hear, and Agnes’ face remained expressionless. One of the elves snapped the picture, and a tiny brave smile appeared on her face for a split second. She nodded to Santa, a begrudging, half-hearted approval washing quickly over her face, and moved to gather her coat, hat and scarf.

  Santa waved to the elf who had snapped the picture. “Gina, get this beautiful young lady a nice picture would you.”

  Gina smiled at Agnes who now had her scarf and coat on. Agnes shook her head and said load enough for both Santa and I to hear, but with a nervous voice, “He’s a bit of a dud isn’t he. I hope you have a better Santa next year.”

  Gina gave a look of mock horror, laughed politely and escorted Agnes over to the cash counter where her picture was being printed. I realized that Agnes probably didn’t get out much, and that this interaction was likely important to her. I waited for her to finish her business at the counter, and watched her put her hat on and walk away. She purposefully headed to the escalator, another picture with Santa Clause tucked under her arm. I wondered if she’d look at the other pictures when she got home—would that cause her pain. She melded into the crowd and she was gone.

  I decided to take the elevator down rather than the escalator, and forced my way in with an assortment of strollers, children and parents. Just as the door was about to close, a white gloved hand extended between the doors, and forced them open—it was Santa. He wedged himself into the elevator beside me. I said what I’m sure many of the children aboard where contemplating but were too nervous to spit out. “Hi Santa.”

  He turned, smiled, and extended his hand. “Santa needs a coffee,” he said in a voice void of any over exuberance. “Have you been good?”

  I smiled and shook his hand. “Mostly.”

  He smiled back at me. “Good enough.”

  I glanced up, and a warm feeling came over me; a feeling of ha
ppiness that I hadn’t experienced before and haven’t since. I couldn’t help but smile, and I wished Linda had been there beside me. Santa had the most vivid blue eyes I had ever seen.

  White Lies on Booker Street

  Sam Bannon was an industrious young man. The lemonade stand, which he had manned that Saturday morning, had pulled in five dollars on the nose, and although his business experience was limited, he sensed that five bucks was pretty good for a seven year old. He pinched both ends of a crisp five dollar bill, and held it up in front of his face; his father had proudly given him the bill in exchange for the quarters, dimes and nickels that had accumulated in his shoe box. The easy part was over, he thought, now for the real challenge. There were tough decisions on the horizon; five big ones could buy a lot of stuff.

  Sam hopped on his new green North Star bike and did figure eights in his drive way while he contemplated his most enviable dilemma. The problem as he saw it really wasn’t what he wanted, but rather what his parents would allow him to buy. He knew what five bucks could get at the variety store: twenty licorice whips, ten gum balls of assorted colours, a pack of fake tattoos and a pack of baseball cards. The total would be five bucks on the nose; he had worked it out already—to the penny. There’d be tax of