After the funeral, Agnes telephoned Marsha and asked to see John’s studio. A week later, Marsha opened it up for her. John’s paintings leaned in rows against the walls. Though the smell of linseed and oil paint lingered, the room was otherwise empty except for a chair in the centre. An anvil rose up inside Agnes, slamming everything delicate into a pulp. John’s foot had kicked this chair, his final act.
She turned to Marsha, asking, “Why is that here?”
“It was part of his story.” Marsha moved past Agnes into the studio.
“I can’t bear to look at it,” Agnes said from the doorway.
“I treasure everything he touched,” Marsha said. She smoothed her hands over the back of the chair and looked up. Agnes turned into the hallway, blinking hard, but not before an involuntary glance at the stu
