The Return of Agnes

"If walls could talk, I would have to leave the room," Mrs. Abudithia giggles to herself. "For I would be embarrassed by the stories they could tell." She says this to all the prospective tenants looking for an apartment at 7171 Avondale Ave. Funny how the future tenant is never curious enough to ask why, she usually asks dull questions about the water bill, the extra charge for parking, and the closest Starbucks.

Until today.

"Oh, do tell me about the last few tenants...where they...characters? Interesting types?" the woman asks.

I recognize this melodic voice. She is a previous tenant from a time ago, how many years has it been? Time sits in a trapped block, I'll fill in the missing years later. My senses are sharpening just now, and I hope to catch a glimpse of her before she leaves.

"I never knew the women personally." Mrs. Abudithia defends her earlier statement, and even I can tell that she wants to move on to other matters. Finally, the two blurry figures come into focus, they are standing in the center of the bright living room. Mrs. Abudithia, the owner, wears a red, floral dress, her shiny gold rings, and her medium-length hair shows a little more gray than I recall. The other figure has long, auburn-rose-colored hair, styled in a long braid across her shoulder. She gestures to each of the walls, her movements are fluid and graceful.

I remember her now.

Agnes DeBelle. She has returned!

I feel a bit unsettled, for this has never happened. Never has a tenant returned. Oh, Agnes. I remember you now, you reckless, wild thing! How I missed your drama, your yelling into the phone. The way you loved your men...I miss all of it. I had nearly forgotten!

7171 Avondale seems to attract one prototype: lonely, wanton, self-loathing types, except for you--Agnes. You were the exception.

So why are you back?

"I am relieved that you still have the lovely murals!" Agnes exclaims. She is standing in front of one, an Asian woman holding cherry blossom branches. This mural was painted by a tenant long ago, in the 1920s, when she couldn't pay her rent. She covered her rent payments by painting some murals in the other apartments, or so the story goes.

"Ah yes, nothing about these walls will ever change, not if I can help it! Look, this vanilla plaster--how lovely, but how delicate! You see? She can barely handle that mirror bolted to her!" Says Mrs. Abudithia, running her hands longways across me. Her fingernails graze and make me shiver, like someone running her hand across your back. "Yet--this apartment has had the appropriate upgrades: new a/c, granite countertops, an updated bathroom sink. Only the walls remain unchanged."

When they leave the room, a tiny piece of my plaster falls to the floor. I hear the key turn softly in its lock.

Walls do speak, Mrs. Abudithia. You'd be embarrassed to hear the tales, you say? Oh, you have no idea. Not yet, anyway.

Agnes has returned and I wonder why she would revisit the very place that left her so brokenhearted all those years ago. Agnes DeMille: brash, definitely a pacer, heavy eyeliner, and spun out of old, old money. Never mind that she is years older, her olive skin deepened with time. Her auburn hair has streaks of rose in it now, and this signals that she has not left her art behind her, and is still a free spirit.

I am located at the front of this medium-sized, one-bedroom apartment, right by the arched doorway. Out of all the walls, I have the best view. It would be too awkward to place a piece of furniture in front of me, as the angle would make it harder to walk through. Sometimes, just a narrow table will do, a place to put your keys, or your mail. Perhaps your Prada if you are in the habit of keeping tidy. The other walls deal with the burden of not having a full view: Lynda, Francesca, and Tamala: all deal with furniture, appliances, and pictures, and have to go through me to get the scoop. I am their eyes and ears. My only blind spot is the 12" antique gilded-carved mirror for anyone to check themselves before they leave this abode. The mirror is small enough that I can see around it.

"Say, Marilyn! Is that really Agnes? Why is she back? No one has ever come back. These women either move forward or backward after living in this place." Tamala suggests.

"Well, why not? I mean, for the price, this is the most gorgeous apartment in the whole neighborhood." Lynda pipes in.

"Lynda--while are you always making these sweeping, dramatic assessments? How would you know what the other apartments are like, and what the rents are?" Tamala asks.

I feel vibrations come through the outside hall, and I tell the others to be silent. A key slowly turns in the lock, and the door gently opens. I see the beautiful face of Agnes DeBelle for a few seconds. Normally, I don't get a close look at anyone's face as they breeze into the room. At best, I get a full view of the back of their head as they lock the door. But today is different. She stands there at the arched doorway, by herself, assessing the place critically. Her beautiful rose-auburn hair has a white gardenia is pinned in long, loose curls, and a thin, gray dress hangs loosely on her small frame. She has a wary look in her eyes, as if now--she has just learned something terrible, just uncovered an awful truth.

Whatever her problem is; I don't like the new Agnes. I want the old, fun one back. The one who couldn't paint enough blood-splattered orchids, as she told her one-night stand that he wasn't welcomed back, shooting another swig of Petrone from the night before. But in an hour, she would cry after he left, because she was afraid to get close to a man again.

This new Agnes now boldly walks into the center of the apartment, with nothing but a simple, black and gold crossbody purse strapped to her diagonally. Not a scratched-up Chanel, or a Prada. Her hands are free and ready: to assess, create, and anticipate. Where are her bags, her boxes of clothes? She doesn't look like she is moving in today.

She slowly walks the perimeter of the room. She stares right at me, touching me so lightly. It's then that I see her thick, band of gold. The Agnes I knew; the one who wouldn't even give a good guy a chance finally settled down. I wonder when she got married. I don't recall exactly how long it's been since she last rented. Ten years? But it could be less. All I know is that there have been four tenants since she was last here. Agnes moves on to the next wall.

She stands in front of Tamala. I can already hear Tamala huffing.

"She best be moving on," Tamala mutters. I gasp in horror. Tamala just broke our cardinal rule; the one that binds us: never do we utter a syllable while a living soul is in the apartment!

"What was that...?" Agnes says to herself. "I heard something." She looks anxiously around the room, her eyes upon each of us. Out of deep anxiety, a piece of my plaster crumbles; it's a big enough piece that even I can hear it hit the floor. Agnes hears it too and walks over to take a look. She kneels down, holding the jagged plaster in her hand, assessing it further. But why?

"There is blood on this," she says to herself. "And why? Why would there be?" Out of the tiny, crossbody purse comes a plastic baggie. That piece of me goes inside it.

"Anybody else got something they want to add?" she asks.

Her answer is silence. I can hear the clicks of her heels on the soft, refinished wooden floorboards, as she continues searching, listening--instead of measuring the wall space to see what furniture will fit, instead checking to see all of the appliances are working, she checks on all of us.

"Don't think I won't find out," she warns while standing in the living room. "The heat is turned up, but why is this room so cold? The other apartments heat up just fine! And why can't I get hold of any of the previous tenants? Is it because they had no family, the tenants were too easy to miss?" she asks. Another larger piece of me falls down to the floor. She spins around, her eyes wide, but she doesn't walk back over. She is scared; I can see her trembling. Her tiny legs shake, and there is nowhere for her to sit. Yet, with shaky hands, she takes a small device out of her purse. She plugs it into Francesca's wall and checks to see that it is working.

And without another word, she rushes out of the apartment. I hear the key turn in its lock, and I huff.

"Marilyn!" hisses Tamala, "You need to keep it together! You're falling apart!"

"And you can't control your urge to speak!" I argue back. "Falling plaster is normal, a talking wall is not!"

"Oh, the both of you! What is normal about any of this?" Francesca complains. She is right. We now confront our strange existence, one that has become normalized by our shared situation, our common tragedy. One that I don't let myself fully remember. But when it comes up, parts of me break off, that's how my anxiety expresses itself. When it comes up for Francesca, the electricity stops working. With Lynda: the heat shuts off. All the pictures on Tamala's wall start to crack at the frame. But if nothing too uncomfortable is said or spoken of, this beautiful apartment hums and runs beautifully. Until it doesn't.

Why do none of us mention that each tenant seems to leave us in terror if she ever leaves at all? Yet--all of us have left something behind: blood, a dress, and a letter. None of it has helped us in any way. At least, not as of yet.

"Well--you are the oldest of us, Francesca. Can you tell us?" I ask.

"Tell us what?" Tamala asks.

"Oh, as if you don't know. She wants to know why." Lynda responds.

"Why what?" asks Tamala.

"Why we are all trapped, stuck in time! Stuck in this apartment," says Lynda. "Why our memories are as warped as the wallpaper, the plaster, the faux finishes. Why we don't remember our previous lives or wish to remember them? Instead; we just live through the lives of the new tenant, it takes all of the little energy that we have."

"How far back does your memory go?" I ask, caught between wanting to know, and not...

"Since Ronald Reagan was shot, so at least as far back as 1981. That's the first big world event that I can recall." Francesca answers.

"No, I was referring to events of the women here, in this apartment. What is your first memory of a tenant?" I ask.

Francesca needs a minute. She hesitates as if it is painful to gather.

"Girl--say not another word! I can't take this crazy talk! Just because Agnes Miss Thing wants to live here again does not mean we have to fall apart and start revealing all these terrible secrets. Say nothing else puh-lease!" Tamala insists.

"Tamala--we need to know, even if we don't want to hear it. Francesca?Lynda? Before I completely fade out, won't you tell us?" I plead.

The room goes quiet, and I can feel myself running over with anxiety. Soon, I will sleep, and won't be present for another day or two. But before I completely go silent, Lynda makes sure she gets the last stab:

"You--Tamala, Marilyn, and Francesca--you all are afraid of what you might hear. You're afraid to know how we all came to be trapped in this room. But wouldn't you rather know? And make peace with it?" Lynda asks, exasperated.

I don't know how the others will respond, but I can tell you this: the return of Agnes is going to shake us all up. We have never braved such a topic as what Lynda is willing to give details on. And I know that I am not ready for all of it. Still--I try to force myself to listen, even if I no longer respond to the group. Like playing possum.

"Tamala, I'm sorry but yours was the saddest. If I had tears, I'd cry them. You literally starved--"

"If I had a picture on the wall, the frame would crack right about now," Tamala warns, her voice starting to shake with anger.

"Lynda-that's enough!" Francesca warns. "It's her story, and if she doesn't want to hear it, then let it alone!"

Francesca is so mad, the lights snap off. The electricity is out once more.

***

I wake very suddenly. How did this happen? I always sense the vibrations coming down the hall. How did I not hear Agnes enter the room?

Today she represents strong. Her pretty curls are all bundled up on top of her head, no more white gardenias. She wears gold bangles that clang every time she moves her right arm. She is dressed in a business suit. Oh please! Bring the artist Agnes back! Where are the adoring men, the empty bottles of alcohol?

"I retrieved my device," she taunts, placing it in her purse, I can't wait to hear it later. Wonder what sounds I'll come across?" she asks, without looking up at us. "In the past twenty years, eight women have gone missing from this very apartment," Agnes announces. "Why is that? Where are you?"

The lights flicker above. The thermometer dial dips down. More of my plaster crumbles.

"If there is an evil presence in this room, please know that my family, my husband, my entire tribe knows that I am in this very room. They will come for me should you try anything stupid."

Agnes receives no reply. Not a wall, an appliance, nothing speaks or makes the slightest sound.

"I'll start with one missing woman a day, how about that? And just so we are clear--I've rented this apartment for the full year. But don't think I'm moving in. Cause that's not happening." She gives a wry smile. "I'm doing a story, just so we are clear."

She picks up her purse as if she is going to leave. But as she heads to the front, she stops suddenly. She looks at each of us, not knowing who to focus on.

"Marilyn Casy? I'll start with you. Kind-hearted, sensitive, and gullible, you let a friend of a friend of a friend live with you for a few weeks. She was the last person to see you. Annette Cedarling. Well, anyhow, she pretended to be you for 2 years. I'll leave you with that little tidbit to go over. Something will reveal itself--ooohhh...Oh no..."

As if I were my old self, I am having a seizure. I shake and I shake, the plaster falling off me like some sort of terrible skin that I had gotten used to. I can't bear to hear what happened to me. I cannot face it. But as it turns out, I don't have a choice. But as I refuse to remember--Agnes is recalling it for me. And because I am a wall, I have no choice but to passively listen.

Maybe the others, especially Lynda, are brave enough to speak. But not me, I am a listener. And after all these years, I became quite adept. I listen, and I feel vibrations for keys in their snug locks, light hallway footsteps, the mail, and other tenants. I am the first to shut down; overwhelmed by my reality, though the others go on talking. But if a tenant addresses me, well then, that changes my level of engagement.

Agnes leaves the collection of my plaster be for the moment.

"Your aunt, and your two cousins...they tried, Marilyn. They did! They filled out a police report. They had Annette arrested! But due to a lack of evidence, they could not charge her with a crime. Your family could not afford detectives. But why did so many of your personal belonging end up in a pawn shop? Your ruby ring, the large, round one set in white gold? It once belonged to your mother. Or how about that pink, quilted Chanel wallet that your sister gave you? A tuffet chair by Arhaus. Your countless books on estate jewelry! These were only a small bit of the items from your previous life. But they were yours. Annette was so careless!" Agnes speaks to each wall, not knowing who to address fully.

Beyond my ability to keep it together, a large, two-by-two feet section of plaster splits, it creates its own path into other paths that also split. Agnes's eyes are wide, and I can see her clearer. I never knew that she had gray eyes, or that her nose had a slight bump. She's prettier than I thought! A tiny force!

"Were you aware of the messages that you wrote in those jewelry books? Messages pleading for help? Annette never thought to check! Lazy thing! She brought all your goods to the pawn shops, used booked stores, and resale shops in her own neighborhood. I had no problem finding these treasures of yours."

And with that, she brings out a small box from her cross-body purse. I feel myself start to shake again. It's a bright red, velvet box. Belonging to a family of jewelers. From my mother's side of the family, before everything started to go so terribly wrong. It was in my family...it was ours! Mine? Yes, mine!

Agnes lifts the lid, and there it sits: my round, very red, ovalish-ruby. On a filagree band of white gold. It was one of the plainer designs, compared to our lavish settings of the previous generations. I feel myself collapse.

The mirror that was once bolted to me crashes down on the floor. Tamala yells out, "What is happening to us?" And now, I'm not the only one shaking. They are too. The whole building trembles all around us. Agnes runs to the front of the room, and tries to leave, but she cannot. She bangs on the door from the inside, out of pure panic. The wood splits, and there is a terrible scream from the back of the room. I howl out the words "No, not her! Spare her! Spare her! Don't let this happen to her!"

She kicks off the door knob in her desperation. What good is it to open a door without a doorknob? I gather my newfound energy.

And with a sound I have never recognized in my entire existence, I screech, so slowly: "Let Agnes go!!!" Oh, it's an awful sound; deep, resonating. So demanding. But the door flies open, and she is free to go.

Her eyes dart toward the floor and she grabs a handful of plaster. Quicker than the wind, she runs out. The door slams shut behind her. In a few seconds, everything is quiet.

"Marilyn. What have you done, you absolute fool! We almost had her!" The low, shaky voice of Olina beckons me.

An artic chill has entered the room. Soon, bits of ice will form on my wall.

"Olina," I say softly. "I will never be like you." And with an extra bit of edge, I add: "I didn't deserve my fate. I wonder what you did to earn yours."

I don't hear a response, because I slip away from the wall I was contained in. Usually, I shut off, and I shut down. But not this time. I squeeze through one of the cracks. It's a tight squeeze, a bit painful, but soon I float out to the middle of the living room, and I face the walls in front of me.

"We all met a sad fate here, in this very room. One we didn't deserve--except for you, Olina. And so to make sense of it, we all observed the tenant, her life--embraced her successes, rolled our eyes at her weaknesses. And whether she left for the moment or forever; we had fun with her weaknesses like a bunch of bitter gossips--only because we were so saddened by our own loss. So we talked, and talked, and talked--did we not? But never about our own sadness! Just the sadness of the women we observed! And when she was at her weakest--you all would try to claim her as one of us! Pull her into this existence! How awful! Why do you think I forced myself to shut down most days?" I ask, my voice loud, questioning.

"How impressive," Olina says sarcastically. "The weakest wall of them all finally stands up for herself, get it--girls? Stands up? Haha hah."

The others laugh, but I squeeze through that large gap between the door and the floor. I could say more, but I risk being drawn back in or trying to save one of them. And so on I float, I float past all the other apartments, the smell of coffee brewing, the sound of couples laughing. It makes me think of Noah and I.

Noah...? Oh, it's been years since I even thought of him. That laughter reminded me of a sound long since forgotten...Unless...Well, of course, it can't be him. I am sure he moved on in his life--years ago! But I hang out in the hall, just in case. I have all the time in the world to find out if it is really him or not.

Before too long, the door opens, and a middle-aged man steps out. Oh my, how much time has passed? Is it him? I shift my position to get a better look. Thinning hair, glasses. My, my, still so handsome and fit. It's him, it's my Noah. I find it strange that he still lives here, and I now recall all our late-night visits, back and forth, between our two apartments.

He leaves the door open as if he is waiting for someone to exit so that they can go wherever they must be off to. Not a minute later, out steps a light-haired, very petite woman with an angry look permanently etched into her face. I dare not drift further, and I recognize her--though it pains me. Back then, she had that same disgusted look. That was always Annette. She only softened up when she saw a man she liked. Unfortunately for me, it just so happened to be my man.

I have a choice to make: as Noah fumbles with his keys, and she is distracted by her phone, I can slip into their apartment. Finally, I can come to terms with what happened to me. Better still--I can haunt her. I couldn't do that until now, as I wouldn't have known where to start. Maybe she'll be driven to confess? Maybe Agnes DeBelle will beat her to it?

I dash inside before the door closes. Oh, Noah. You live in such sadness! This crowded apartment has no light, no smell. Maybe I will liven things up for you! I certainly know how to shake things up.

But I will not cower, reabsorb myself back into the wall. I will drift, wander, and hover as I please. My spirit is so much stronger now that I am out of that plaster. As I wander around Noah's apartment, I test my newfound strength: I knock pictures over, push dishes onto the floor, flip a chair on its side. I recognize some of my old objects! All of my items, vases and paintings, I will leave undisturbed. This little snug couple will soon put two and two together.

Oh Agnes...so many people make a difference in other people's lives...but so few make a difference in other people's afterlives.

Thank you, Agnes DeBelle! Thank you for returning to 7171 Avondale Avenue. And setting me free! And now, I am tired, so I hover near the fireplace. I clearly hear the key in its lock, and I prepare for their reactions.