Stories with Mr. Paisley

"If walls could talk," how often have you heard that? I'm gonna bet you've heard it in some interesting situations! And by interesting, I mean you're probably happy that we can't talk. I know I'm not much to look at just now, but I've been around for more than a century, so I've been privy to a few things, and just because my man Marcus can't take a decent picture to save his life don't mean I ain't got some stories worth reading! So, grab a cup of tea or hot chocolate, a handful of your favorite cookies, keep an ear on the Super Bowl or whatever else is playing on TV and settle in for stories with Mr. Paisley. Who's that? That's me, of course. Mr. Paisley. The Wall. Can't you see the pattern on me in this picture? You can't? Well, I'm there. I'll have to talk later with Marcus and see if he can take some photography lessons. How embarrassing.

Marcus and I have talked some, though I read over his shoulder more often than not. The cat's out of the bag now, and he might decide not to work around me, but he's usually good company. Still, he can get too serious sometimes. The best times are when he falls asleep typing or playing a game on his phone. He sits there, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and I'm holding my breath to see if one of them will drop just enough to type a repeating letter along the page. He has surprisingly strong finger control, I must admit! When it's his phone, though, he'll be holding it in one hand and playing the game with the other, and then he'll doze off! His hands are suspended mid-air, his head tilts slightly to one side, and I wait to see if he'll drop his phone. (He never does.)

It's times like that I wish I could take pictures, but now that I've acquired speech, I try to communicate the humor I observe in the human behavior in my room. Of course, not all the human activity in my room is or has been humorous. We'll get to that later.

A few years ago, there were some plumbing drainage issues upstairs, and that's when Marcus knocked a hole in me. That's what this big white patch is here for now. It took a few years to get the room repaired, including me--he broke through me viciously with a knife and hammer--but I was repaired late last year. The man who fixed me knew his stuff! He told Marcus that if he wanted to paint me, he'd have to cover all of me with this white material first. I guess the man that put my paisley on me did it wrong, though I know he did it to sell the house to Marcus. He put the paisley on wrong, so the only way to redo the look of my room is "skim coat it," the repairman said, "sand it, and paint it."

Marcus moved into my house almost 20 years ago. Before that, the man that gave me my current name had the house for a few years. He was fixing it up and getting it ready to sell. I could have been in better shape when he got the home. The old man that lived here before he got it hadn't taken good care of any part of us for decades, and we needed some TLC--tender loving care--to be restored for new owners.

The truth is, we didn't begin as a house. We started as a train station. Then we became a school. After that, we were turned into a house. The old man that died here was the only one to live there until the young man bought it to fix it up. He rented it to a woman and her son, and then Marcus came along to buy it. And I've been in it for more than 130 years.

You might be tempted to think I'm old and past my time with age like that, but you'd be wrong. I've been fixed up and renewed at times over the decades, and I've always been careful to pass my memories to the next stud when one's getting replaced.

We were a train station briefly. The need for a schoolhouse was too great, so that's what we became. We were a one-room school in our town for more than 45 years, from 1898 to 1944. Then, a new school was built, and the children left us for another part of town. When World War II ended, the old man that died here returned from service and moved in. He lived here the rest of his life, raised a family, and ran a repair shop out of his garage. Unfortunately, he became too old to take care of the house properly, and we fell into disrepair, which I've already mentioned.

When Marcus moved in, he used to get a little spooked by hearing voices in the house when he was sure nobody was there. Eventually, he figured out what was happening, and I was confident we would have our second homeowner's death on our premises. Thankfully, he revived. When he'd overcome his shock, he began to ask questions, occasionally bursting into maniacal laughter before settling down again to resume his questions. He took copious notes, typed them up, and filed them away for future reference.

Marcus had a keen mind, especially regarding the history of our house, and he was disappointed that town records held little information on a building that factored so significantly for more than a century. His interest was piqued, and he asked me about it.

"Mr. Paisley, I'm curious about the foot traffic you saw when you were part of the train station. Tell me more about that, please."

"Certainly, Marcus. We only had a few general passengers, you see, because this line was primarily cargo and freight, but on occasion, we would get special events drawing passengers to Bucksport, where they could take a boat to places further south or east. I recall that in 1912, we had a passenger coming up from Bucksport claiming to have been a survivor of the Titanic when it sank. He said he'd fallen into the water, managed to float on detritus until picked up by a lifeboat, and somehow ended up on the Maine coast, making his way along until he got dropped off in Bucksport Harbor. I heard later that he had scammed some gullible citizens out of their money based on pity for him, and he had been jailed for fraud!"

Marcus shook his head. "I imagine there were many shysters like him during that time, just like we have them now."

"The Great War made its impact felt on us, too, Marcus. Many from our town went to fight, and the schoolhouse was a common meeting place before they went off to Europe and when they came home. Of course, we had engraved nameplates for the ones that gave their lives for the cause of freedom. Sadly, we did it again barely more than 20 years later, sending the men that had been children during the First World War to fight the Nazis and the Japanese. And then the North Koreans, the North Vietnamese, the Russians, the Chinese, and the Communists. War after war. Generation after generation. I saw these men when they were boys, Marcus. I heard their plans for their lives. Dying on battlefields was not in their goals. They dreamed of owning a car or truck, working a job they liked, and having a family."

And that is when Marcus would fall silent for a time. I think he was being respectful of my feelings. If he thought I had feelings, that is. He knew I could talk, but he needed to find out if my existence was as conscious as his.

"Are you okay, Marcus," I would ask.

"Mr. Paisley, do you...have feelings?"

He asked the question, finally. "Marcus, I have concerns and opinions. I find some of my observations unsettling and others comforting. When I am being remodeled, I ensure that my memories are moved to another stud so that they continue uninterrupted, and since I know what would happen to me if our house burned--I'd have to say, yes, I have feelings."

"But you don't have senses."

"You mean the five senses? Taste, touch, smell, and all that? No, I don't have those."

"Interesting. You have the emotional feeling of pain but not the physical sense of it, even though you described me as 'brutally attacking you with a knife and hammer.'" Marcus looked perplexed.

"I must agree with you, Marcus. It's interesting that I have a psychological sense but not a physical sense. I feel fear, but I do not feel pain. I feel emotions."

"Thank you for talking with me about this, Mr. Paisley."

"You're welcome, Marcus. It's refreshing to have someone willing to listen and talk in return. The old man used to listen all the time, but I couldn't understand his words. I think it was because he was drunk."

On other occasions, Marcus and I kept each other company quietly. Then I found out that he could sing. He began singing a melody I recognized from the Tin Pan Alley music I'd heard long ago, and I joined in with harmony. We were most of the way through the song before I remembered the title, "In the Good Old Summer Time."

"How did you come to know that classic?" I asked Marcus when the song ended.

"I used to sing in an a capella group. That was a crowd favorite. It just popped into my head while I was working. You've got some nice pipes there, Mr. Paisley. Great harmony!"

"Thank you, Marcus. The plumbing repairs from a couple of years ago improved my pipes." I waited to see if he'd get my joke.

"Hahahahaha! That's a good one! Very funny." Marcus beamed with happiness. "You nailed that one, Mr. P."

"Ahaaaa, Marcus! One of your own! Hahaha." I chuckled. "You're going to have to get rid of that old saying, "like talking to a wall" from your vernacular. It will never be the same for you again. I laughed again.

Marcus snickered and shook his head. "You got me there, Mr. P." He went to the kitchen for a glass of water. When he returned, he sat at his desk and asked me another question. "Mr. Paisley, did you ever see anything illegal happen here?"

"Well, Marcus, Prohibition was an interesting time. As you know, there's another room on the other side of me now, but it wasn't there a hundred years ago. I was the outside wall. More correctly, I was the inside of the outside wall. Access to the outside occurred just past me, and there were places inside me that were used to hide contraband whiskey. I never got a good look at who was moving the whiskey because they always approached from outside, but they used the base I rest on to smuggle the goods."

"There were times when some of the older students would sneak into the back corner here, just in front of me, to get their first kiss. And sometimes, those sixteen-year-olds would get carried away and do much more than kiss."

"Really?" Marcus seemed shocked. "I always figured kids were raised better back then."

"Kids are kids, Marcus. And sometimes, it wasn't the kids. Adults knew it was a good place for private assignations, so I saw all types of pairings in this room."

"What do you mean, 'all types of pairings'?"

"Do you truly want to know the dirty secrets of your town, Marcus? What if I told your secrets to someone else sometime?"

"Mr. P, I've lived here for almost 20 years, and this hasn't been a school for 80 years. None of those people are alive anymore! Besides, you're not going to be telling names of people."

"Fine, Marcus. I'll tell you, but don't take notes this time. These people don't need their stories turned into one of your bestsellers."

"Fair enough, Mr. Paisley. Let me put my computer away. I'll be right with you."

+++ 18 years later +++

"Chief? Can you come to look at this, please? I'm not sure if it has any significance or not, but it's all I can find that didn't burn."

"Sure, Scott. What do you have?"

"The darndest thing, Chief. Somehow, this section of the wall didn't burn. It's only about five feet by three feet, and one stud is attached to the drywall. The funniest part of the stud is it looks like a log, sir, not a regular cut, and the drywall has, I dunno, wallpaper stuck to it?"

The chief picked up the section of the wall and turned it over. He looked carefully at the stud before he realized what he was seeing. "Scott, this is no ordinary stud!"

"Duh, Chief. I just told you that."

"No, that's not what I mean. Call Mrs. Perkins from the historical society and see if she can meet us here."

"Now, Chief?"

"Yes, now! Then get your camera. We need to get as many pictures of this site as possible."

**BREAKING NEWS**BREAKING NEWS**BREAKING NEWS**

"This is Channel 12 News, and I'm Matt Simpson. This afternoon, the long-time home of best-selling author Marcus Wallace burned to the ground in mysterious circumstances. Crews from three towns worked to save the Wallace home to no avail. Marcus Wallace came under scrutiny many years ago when he published a book called, "Conversations with Mr. P," someone that purportedly had insider knowledge of the town's history, including sordid details of relationships that had been carried on inside the schoolhouse that later became Wallace's home.

This is the 150th year of the building's existence, having begun as a train station, then a schoolhouse, and finally, a home. Although the house is considered a total loss, one section of wall from Mr. Wallace's study remained intact, according to the Fire Chief. After consulting with the town historian, the paisley-wallpapered drywall is attached to a tree beam stud dating from 1890, the year the building was erected. The town will preserve this section of the wall. According to the historian, "We hope to learn more about our town's history from studying this section of that wall. We'll clean it up carefully and see if anything else comes to light that we need to know."

"I'm Matt Simpson for Channel 12 News. Thanks for watching this special report. We now return you to your regular programming."

Mrs. Perkins was true to her word. She knew what she was doing when it came to cleaning me up. I wanted to thank her but was afraid to speak too soon. She talked to me the entire time she worked on me, though.

"Don't you worry Mr. Wall. We'll have you cleaned up in no time. It's a miracle you survived. I don't know how else to say it! That was a terrible fire. It's all I can do not to cry about it. How? How did it burn? It's been there for so long! Anyway, let's get the smoke damage off you, Mr. Wall. Say... ."

And that was when she stopped talking. From the silence, I sense she was lost in thought, though she continued cleaning.

"Mr. Wall?" she was whispering now. "Can you hear me?" She put her ear next to me and waited.

"Yes, Mrs. Perkins. I can hear you." I whispered back, fearing the worst.

"I thought so, Mr. Wall," she replied. "You were crying when I picked you up on the day of the fire, and you sighed when I commented on the smoke damage." She gently wiped soot from the crevices between the drywall and the stud, and as she cleaned, she hummed, "Let Me Call You Sweetheart."

I sighed again. "Thank you, Mrs. Perkins."

"You're welcome, dear. Is..is your name Mr. Wall? Or is it something else?"

"I'm Mr. Paisley."

"You're Mr. P!" she gasped. "That's how Marcus did it."

"Did what, Mrs. Perkins? I haven't seen Marcus in ages."

"You don't know?"

"Don't know what, Mrs. Perkins?"

"Many years ago, Marcus Wallace published a book called, "Conversations with Mr. P," which revealed the sordid details of relationships of people in the town from decades past. It was a national bestseller, but it was controversial because he wouldn't reveal his source, and many people in town figured out who was involved. He left town and hasn't been back. Then, as you know, his house suddenly burned down just ahead of the 150th-anniversary celebration of the house, which was going to include guided tours of the home. His study was a highlight of that tour."

"Mrs. Perkins, many years ago, Marcus betrayed me. I know that because of what you have just told me. I also know who burned his house and why. However, there's no way to hold him accountable for it, except for one, perhaps. First, I will need your help if you're willing to give it."

Mrs. Perkins nodded her head before listening to what I needed. Then she left the room to collect my supplies. While she was gone, I considered what Marcus had done. Clearly, when he had set his computer aside that day, he had turned on a recording device so that he'd have my stories to transcribe later. He'd left the house a few days later for several weeks. While he was home again, his outlook on life had improved, but arrogance had worked its way into his heart, and his own behavior became similar to the people I'd told him about. He taught at the community college and began bringing students to the house for "focus" groups. As time progressed, I observed him grooming certain students as adults had groomed other adults from the town decades earlier or teens other teens. His students were of age, yes, but as a teacher, his position of authority made his actions unethical. I knew that in my feelings.

When Mrs. Perkins brought me what I needed, she set up the recording mechanism, and I provided the details about Marcus Wallace as I had about the other townspeople. Then I explained how I was Mr. Paisley, the Wall That Could Talk. Yes, I could spill the secrets of the past, but that also made me the target of the fearful. I described how I survived remodels and how I outlived the recent fire. I also expressed what I suspected about the fire. I included my suspicions about the motive. Mrs. Perkins stored the recordings in her fire safe when I was done. Then she emailed Mr. Wallace on my behalf, inviting him to see me.

Not surprisingly, Marcus showed up within two days. He looked older and greyer, and the humor was gone from his face.

"It's been a very long time since I've seen you, Marcus. What has kept you away?"

"Hello, Mr. Paisley. Oh, this and that."

"You seem a little surprised to see me, Wallace."

"Well, P, I'd heard the house was a total loss."

"Declared a total loss, insurance-wise. But I survived. Well, most of me. Mrs. Perkins lovingly cleaned me up. She heard me sighing and began talking to me. She asked me if I could hear her, and that's how we started conversing. As we talked, I finally learned how you betrayed me by recording a conversation you and I had when I specifically said I wanted it kept confidential, and you agreed. Then you recorded it, transcribed it, and published it!"

Marcus looked at me and then at the other walls in the room. "It's a great book, Mr. Paisley. Bestseller for 40 consecutive weeks."

"So, why did you try to burn your source?"

His head snapped back to me. "What makes you think I tried to burn you?"

"Oh, come on, Marcus, don't be dull. You know as well as I do that the only reason I'm still here is that you couldn't reach my final stud with the accelerant. How did my drywall survive? That's what you're wondering, isn't it? The pipes upstairs broke, and I got soaked. The accelerant separated me from the other studs, and I blew out of the house. One of the firefighters found me and gave me to the Chief. He recognized something and made sure I ended up here."

"That doesn't prove anything, P."

"No, Wallace, it doesn't. But what if word got to the Chief that you were seen at the house the day it burned, that you had motive, and that you've come to your senses and are ready to confess?"

"Why would I do something as ridiculous as that, Mr. Paisley?"

"I know how you acted with your students, Marcus."

"So, what?"

"Marcus, what if walls could talk?"