Agnes's Arc

Chapter 4 of 10

The next Sunday, Agnes drove to the bakery alone. She wanted to see the tackle box gone from the shelf. She wanted to see Melissa breathing without a man in the room. The bell rang. Melissa was behind the counter, kneading. Allan was behind her, pulling a tray from the oven. Agnes stopped in the doorway. Sunday. Ten in the morning. He should have been at a river an hour ago. "Mom," Melissa said. Her voice was careful. She lifted one hand to her collar. A silver locket sat there, small and new. Melissa's thumb pressed the face of it. Agnes had not seen the locket before. Melissa saw her notice and gave a small, tired nod. A signal Agnes did not know she had been waiting for. "Allan," Agnes said. "It's Sunday." He set the tray down. Flour on his forearms. "Batch came out wrong yesterday. I have to redo it." "Redo it Monday." "Customers Monday." "Customers every day," Agnes said. "That's why we picked Sunday." Allan looked at Melissa. Melissa did not look up from the dough. Her thumb was still on the locket. "One Sunday," he said. "One. The world doesn't end." "It ends for her," Agnes said. "You gave your word. She's wearing it around her neck." Allan looked at the locket. He went still the way he went still over a ruined loaf. Agnes held the stillness the way she had held it before. She did not flinch. He wiped his hands on his apron. He walked to the back and came out with the tackle box. "Fine," he said. Not warm. Not sorry. But moving. He went out the back door. The truck started. The truck left. Melissa put both hands flat on the counter. Her shoulders dropped an inch. Agnes had not known they were that high. "He would have stayed," Melissa said. "If you hadn't come." "I know." "He'll resent it." "Let him." Melissa untied her apron. "There's a place I want to show you. I've been going Sundays. While he fishes. I didn't tell him." They walked two streets over. Melissa unlocked a small wooden studio tucked between two shops. Inside: an easel, jars of brushes, paint tubes lined up on a shelf. A half-finished canvas on the stand. Yellows and greens. A field. A woman with long reddish hair sat at the workbench, cleaning brushes. She looked up. She did not smile fast. "Melissa," the woman said. Flat, careful. "You brought someone." "My mother. Agnes. She rents me the corner," Melissa said to Agnes. "Cheap. She doesn't ask questions." "I ask one," the woman said. "Whether she wants tea." "No, thank you," Agnes said. The woman nodded and went back to her brushes. Agnes looked at the canvas. At her daughter's hand on the locket. At the door Allan had walked out of, on time, because Agnes had made him. One Sunday held. Agnes had bought another week. She did not know how many weeks were left to buy.