Burgundy Backpack

I first met Agnes shortly after I turned 15, walking home from school toward our crowded apartment complex. She was sitting on one of the benches that surrounded the perimeter of the playground adjacent to our building. What made her noticeable was that she wasn’t watching the kids like the other spectators on nearby benches, but rapidly writing in a notebook she had settled on her lap. There was a large burgundy backpack resting near her feet, and she was dressed in a bunch of loose flourishing clothes that make it unclear if she was in some sort of dress or pants or something else. She could almost be mistaken for a student except for the lines in her face, even more visible as she scrunched it in focus on her notebook, making her look closer to the age of the grandparents nearby watching the children.

I can’t tell you exactly what made me walk over to her bench, I’m not normally one to approach strangers, but I had never seen anyone so enraptured in writing. As I neared her, I cleared my throat. “What are you doing, ma’am?”

Agnes, startled out of her concentration, squinted up at me and frowned. “I’m writing my thoughts so I can go back and read them later, but I ain’t no ma’am.” She had closed her notebook.

Blushing, I quickly apologized and started to walk away.

“Now hold on a minute dear, I didn’t mean for you to go. My name is Agnes and I’m happy to make a friend, especially one with an inquisitive mind,” she said in a loud voice so I wouldn’t miss it, “just not a ma’am.”

Uncertain, I returned to the bench and sat down beside her. “I’m Ashley, though my friends call me Ash.”

Agnes put out her hand to shake, and I was taken back by the strength in that calloused hand as it squeezed mine.

“Well Ash,” she said, glancing around our surroundings, “what brings you here?”

“I live over there, on the 8th floor,” I said while pointing up in approximation to the window of the complex that held my bedroom in the tiny apartment I shared with my parents. I always said it was a good thing I was an only child because there was no room for anyone else. It sure made it lonely though.

With that, our conversation was started. We got through the getting to know you questions. I learned that Agnes had no family but enjoyed sitting near the peals of children’s laughter as she reflected on the world. She liked to come to write here at least twice a week, which surprised me as this was the first time I had noticed her.

I told her about my tiny life in my tiny apartment. I told her about school, but not how I wasn’t doing very well there. I told her about my family, but not how despite the fact that I’m not shy, I don’t really connect well with other people.

It was starting to get dark, and I had some homework I needed to struggle through, so I made my goodbyes. As I walked away, I caught one last glimpse of Agnes. Though I couldn’t be certain, it looked like she had pulled a smaller black notebook out of one of the backpack’s pockets and writing something inside of it.

At home, I took myself to the desk that made my room even more cramped, and spread out my work. I hated writing. I could never seem to put what was in my head onto paper. My current English teacher, Mrs. Riess, had recently pulled me aside to let me know I needed to put in a stronger effort or risk failing. She’s not the first one to tell me that, but in a school as large as mine there just aren’t enough resources or time for anyone to follow up.

This time, as I put pen to paper, I tried to imagine myself as Agnes, so furrowed in concentration as she used the sounds around her to help her write. I tried to visualize writing something I’d like to go back and read later, as she had said. Though I wasn’t creating anything that would be called high quality work, I did find it easier to get through my current assignment than I had in months.

A few days later, I noticed Agnes again and didn’t even hesitate as I flung my backpack down next to hers and joined her on the bench. Closing whatever she was working on, she smiled at me warmly. “Hello Ash, what have you been inspired by today?”

The words of greeting about to come out of my mouth halted, and I stared at her dumbfounded with my mouth slightly open. Nothing ever inspired me. I just went from my cramped apartment to my cramped school and back again. No one had ever asked me anything like this.

Seeing my hesitation, Agnes smiled. “There are so many possibilities in this world,” she said, “and all we have to do is see them.”

Unable to speak, I took out my recently graded English assignment and thrust it toward Agnes. She grabbed it with those strong, sure hands, and gave it a glance. The most noticeable thing on the paper was the big red C minus marked at the top. She pinched her lips together before turning back to me. “Rough day?”

“No,” I said in exasperation. “That’s actually the best grade I’ve gotten all semester. I just can’t write!” I couldn’t help it, I blinked furiously and looked away.

Agnes hummed to herself for a minute before speaking. “When it’s not in your heart, your head can’t make it hit the paper,” she said finally.

I wiped my eyes, thanked her, and went home. This time I definitely saw a little black book come out of her backpack as I was leaving.

“Has anyone else noticed Agnes?” I asked that night at dinner late that night. My parent looked at me with quizzical faces.

“Who is that, honey?” my mom asked. I described her as best as I could.

My dad’s face saddened a little and he grabbed my hand and walked me to the window. It’s hard to see the playground from up so high and across a street, by as I looked at where my dad was pointing I saw. On the bench was a mishmash of clothes and a distinguished burgundy backpack under the head of a sleeper.

“She isn’t always stuck outside,” my dad said to try to comfort me. “Usually she stays at the shelter a few blocks away. She only sleeps outside when they get too many people over there. She always volunteers her spot.” I guess he’d know, being a social worker. Visits to the local shelter were a frequent thing for him.

After that, I’d sit next to Agnes every time I saw her. We didn’t have much extra but I always made sure to drop off some treat when I sat down. Sometimes it was just a bag of chips or an apple, but I always tried to leave something.

Agnes wouldn’t acknowledge the food. Instead she greeted me each time asking about my inspiration. During these conversations I slowly learned how to express myself better. I’d bring her my papers, which were slowly starting to improve. Mrs. Reiss had even drawn a smiley face on the latest one, impressed with my progress. The smile on Agnes’s face was even better.

This is how Agnes and I interacted for years. She would never take me up on my offers to take her somewhere warmer. She’d just stop writing her inspiration in her notebook as I approached and discuss mine with her. I had finally found mine. I wanted to write, and I wanted to go to college. My scores in not just English but everything increased as I opened up my mind. Unfortunately, it hadn’t helped my finances. Though we never discussed them, Agnes couldn’t help but be aware that I wasn’t exactly flush with cash. We tended to keep conversation on the pleasant, more cerebral things. After each visit the little black book would make an appearance for a moment before being tucked back in her bag.

As I was nearing the end of high school, my visits with Agnes were more infrequent. Not only was I more busy with finals but she wasn’t at her bench as much. I had hoped that meant the shelter was more able to take care of her. Sometimes I’d look for her outside my window but she wasn’t there.

One Saturday morning as I opened up our apartment door to look for Agnes, determined to see what my friend was up to, I nearly tripped on something in the hallway. It was the burgundy backpack.

“Agnes?” I called out. There was no one in the hallway. I grabbed the bag and brought it to our small kitchen table.

It seemed obvious the bag was left for me. That’s why I opened it up. I had always assumed Agnes kept food and spare clothes in the bag, it seemed obvious. Instead, what I found were her notebooks. I opened one up, flipped through it, growing more and more puzzled. The deep views on life I was sure were in them were actually just illegible scrawling. Page after page, it was all just nonsense, notebooks full of lines and scribbles.

Remembering the little black book, I opened up the side pocket and found it right where it belonged. On the front page, written in childlike script, were three shaky letters. A-S-H. Underneath my name was a series of faces, like the kind they use on pain charts at the hospital. The first one was a full frowny face, the next one the same. These faces progressed, page after page, hundreds of face. The frowns started slowly bending upward, and the last several pages consisted of nothing but happy faces. She had documented my mood from every single one of our visits.

I felt the sting in my eyes and tried to blink away the tears as I searched the rest of the backpack. I was surprised to find a medium sized interior pocket. I unzipped it and had to stand back, because tightly folded inside the pocket were countless $100 bills, all made as tiny as possible. I unfolded a few and realized some were much older than the rest. This was when I called for my dad.

Hours later, my dad returned, backpack in hand. He had been at the police station. We had been concerned that Agnes would leave all these extremely personal, albeit bizarre, possessions here.

With an audible sigh, he started to explain. “They say she’s Agnes Trumwell, and her father was some sort of whiz in business. Her family had been really well off. Growing up she had seemed like a bright young lady but as she approached her twenties her behavior started to get bizarre. Testing showed she was losing her faculties but there was simply nothing to be done. She never caused problems or was anything but kind so they didn’t want to institutionalize her.

“Her family is gone except for a sister who gave her $100 every few weeks. It was all that Agnes would accept, though the sister didn’t think she was spending it. They can’t find her, but when the police spoke with the sister, she said she was aware of a young girl named Ash and that her sister wanted to have her things. ‘For school’ Agnes had told her. The police and the sister agree the backpack is yours. There’s $20,000 in there.”

As I sit in my University classroom, the one I was able to go to thanks to some scholarships and Agnes’s generosity, I still wonder what happened to her.

Thank you, Agnes.