Authors: Brian MacLearn
I said, “Thanks,” and Melissa took it as an invitation to sit down across the booth from me.
For the next twenty minutes, I did my best impression of someone who was totally engrossed in the lost dreams and dashed hopes of perfectly innocent Melissa Chambers. Nothing that had happened to her had ever been her own doing. When she flunked out of college, it was because her roommate got her caught up in the party life, and she never had time to study. Later, when things were looking up and she landed a decent job in the city, her mom got sick and she needed to come home and help out.
The one thing about Melissa that hadn’t changed was her uncanny ability to hold a conversation with whoever happened to be present. She bounced from one subject to the next, sometimes in the same sentence. I nursed my beer and did my best to listen politely. She finally asked what I was doing back in town. The second it was out of her mouth, her face contorted into a dreadful look of sorrow, and she apologized for being so stupid. She offered me her condolences and was saved from further conversation as the front door opened. Melissa excused herself, using the opportunity to escape and avoid further discomfort.
I turned my thoughts back to the little cabin in the mountains of the painting. I pictured myself standing by the stream with a fishing pole, bent nearly double as I reeled in my supper. I had just about landed the biggest trout ever caught when someone set another glass of beer down in front of me. I was about to say how I really didn’t need one when I smelled the familiar cologne belonging to Larry Dittmer. He asked if he could join me and I nodded. He slid into the warm spot just vacated by Melissa. He didn’t say anything and took a long pull on his beer, downing half of it in one swallow. I kept my eyes on the painting for as long as I could, then let them lower to look over at Mr. Dittmer. He was staring intently into his beer; I took his cue and looked for answers in mine as well. We sat silently for several more minutes. Melissa stopped by to see if we needed another. I shook my head no and Larry finished off his and handed it to her for a refill. She brought it back and left us alone, to our silence, once again. I stopped in here to think about my life and so far, the only thing I’d accomplished had been listening to Melissa recant her life’s troubles, and to currently sit in silent anticipation of another unavoidable conversation to come.
Larry took another long swallow and, finding his voice, began our talk. “Stacy says you’re interested in renting out the old store?” I nodded, and he continued, “You want to make it into a music studio? Not sure how it will go over, but I’m not a good example…people laughed at me when I picked up the family and moved them here to start my furniture business. Now they call and ask me for special favors.” With that, he smiled, and I felt the uneasiness in the air start to melt away.
I raised my beer and took a large swallow. When I had walked into Larry’s store earlier ,I was hoping to get an opportunity to re-earn his respect, and now, here he was, and in his own way, letting me know I already had it and really never lost it. This fact was not lost on me, and I was extremely grateful for his company and his concern for me.
After exchanging a few more tentative comments, we soon fell into an easy banter. We asked all the questions two good friends would ask after a long absence from each other. I found out all about the success of his business and the eight full-time employees he needed just to keep up. He asked me about San Diego and my band. We came back to the old store and the plans I had for it. He offered to remodel it for me in any way that I saw fit. Like the father he used to represent to me, he even offered to defer my first few months rent until the business got going. The one topic never mentioned was Allison and her son. We both realized that topic was currently off the table and best reserved for some other day…if ever.
For a while, the conversation turned serious and we talked about Grandpa Jake and Grandma Sarah. My father was only mentioned briefly, when he asked about the house and if I was going to live there. I told him honestly that I didn’t know what the outcome was going to be. I said my dad and I would have to sit down and discuss it. He gave me a queer look after my comment. I’m sure he was trying to picture the two us together in a room holding a discussion. I smiled, and we changed the subject back to the plans for the store. Melissa stopped by our booth a couple more times, but neither of us wanted anything else to drink. When the conversation had run its course, Mr. Dittmer slid his empty glass to the end of the table. He threw a ten on the table and made his move to get up and leave.
I was sorry to see him go. The talk with Larry had helped to reaffirm my decision to come back home. I was in better spirits than I’d been just a short time ago, after my encounter with Allison.
Before he walked past me, he put one big hand on my shoulder and said in parting, “Jason, I’m glad to see you home and happier to know that you intend to stay! You have been missed these last few years,” and with that comment, he made his exit. I watched him as he walked away, across the well-worn floor tiles and out the front door.
For a moment, I didn’t know what to feel; his comment had made me both happy and sad at the same time. I also couldn’t help but wonder if he was just speaking for himself or if maybe he was sharing sentiment from Allison too. I made a promise to myself as I sat there…the time to move on in my life was here and now! If that meant facing a life without the chance of reconciliation with Allison, then I would do what I could to keep our memories meaningful between us. She had moved on with her life, and it was time for me to do the same also. I would do my best to restart my life here in town and not live in the past. Allison would be hard to get over, but she didn’t deserve any complications, especially from me. I made a solemn vow to try and be the type of friend who Allison would find comfortable and meaningful…if she’d let me. I felt better and got out of the booth, stopping by the bar to pay for my drinks. Melissa smiled and told me that Larry had already taken care of it. I shook my head. “Welcome home Jason,” ran through my mind and, for once, it was a good thought. I pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to Melissa. With a sincere smile I said, “Thanks; it was nice seeing you again.” Her mouth popped open, and I hustled to the door before I was caught in another conversation.
Melissa did manage to get in, “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime,” but the door closed, covering up any chance of Melissa hearing a reply.
Chapter 15
I made my way home both happy and sobered by the experiences of the afternoon. I felt a sense of relief at seeing Allison, getting it over with, so to speak. During these past years, I had never thought of Allison being a mother and having a family. Thinking back, about seeing her with a son, made me realize that some things in life are their own rewards. I once believed she and I would be the ones to raise a family, living happily ever after. That dream was over. I took in several of the old houses as I walked, trying to picture myself living there with a wife and family of my own. I couldn’t shake the image in my head; it was always Allison whom I pictured standing next to me. She would be hard to let go of, but I felt more directional than I had in a long time. Knowing myself, if I put my thoughts and efforts into opening the downtown music store, I might eventually move on. I had several other obstacles to overcome and a few demons yet to fight as well.
Tomorrow was going to be a long day with the lawyer’s appointment and dealing with the influx of mourners and well-wishers. I needed to start work on my eulogy too. I had no idea what I was going to say. It struck me as I walked the last couple of blocks, that I knew Grandpa, but didn’t know Jake Owens. Climbing the steps up to the porch, I decided it was time to find Grandpa’s journals and do some reading. I opened the front door and went in. Hearing voices coming from the back of the house, I walked down the hall, into the kitchen to see who was there. Great Aunt Vicky and Aunt Marcie were sitting at the table, deep in discussion over a stack of papers scattered about. Neither of them heard me approaching, and I decided to retreat and let them continue uninterrupted.
I made a quick peek in the living room; it was empty. I stopped by the stairs and tried to focus my hearing upward. I didn’t catch the sounds of anything unusual. I opened the door to the front bedroom, going straight to the display shelves, holding the stack of Grandpa’s journals. Grandpa Jake had over forty journals packed tightly on the shelves and several others resting in the open space on top of them. I grabbed one of the loose ones and flipped it open to the first entry.
10/23/2002
It rained heavily this morning, nearly an inch. Good thing the cold weather held off or it would have been a blizzard instead. Rain didn’t stop Sara
h
, she and Janis made their walk down to Bill’s with raincoats and umbrellas. Later in the afternoon, I went down to the store to help Larry with a special-order clock. When he gets it done, it will be shipped to California. It’s hard to believe that he now has three fulltime people working for him and he is still well behind in his work orders. Told me last week he was thinking about buying a bigger place to expand his workshop.
I quit reading and flipped to the last entry, noting that it was dated April 25, 2003. I skimmed through the passage and it read like the first entry…the weather and what he and Grandma did during the day. I flipped the pages and stopped midway into the journal, again not reading much in the way of excitement or deep insights. I was beginning to think reading the journals would be more painful than I originally imagined. It wasn’t because they were written by Grandpa and he was now gone; it had more to do with not wanting to read all about the historical weather of Cedar Junction.
I was about to put the book back on the shelf and rethink my notion of reading them when I caught sight of a jagged edge to one of the pages as I flipped through the journal. I opened it to the page and saw where Grandpa must have accidentally torn it. I almost didn’t catch it, but from somewhere deep in my subconscious I registered a fleeting thought. I had a nagging feeling I was missing something extremely important. I read the entry before the torn page and learned that on December 18, 2002 the weather was nice and sunny and the outlook for Christmas snow wasn’t very good. The next entry talked about what Grandma Sarah was planning to send me for Christmas and how she had a case of the blues, because I wouldn’t be coming home for the holidays. This made me exceedingly sad, especially since this was the last Christmas before she passed away and I had missed it. I remembered getting her package and the new wallet she had sent me. I reached a hand behind me, placing it over the pocket where the wallet now rested.
Not wanting to dwell on Grandma, I turned the page and read the entry for December 21, 2002. It was looking up for Christmas snow and the weatherman gave it a fifty-fifty chance. Grandpa Jake had bought Grandma a new pair of gloves and a purse, which he was absolutely sure she would take back. I laughed out loud at that. Grandpa was always giving Grandma gifts that she more than likely ended up returning to the store. He tried several times to talk her into letting him give her a gift card, but Grandma would tell him it was the thought and effort that counted, not the gift.
My heart was playing tug-of-war, between happiness and sadness, memories and reality. I closed the journal and reached to put it back on the shelf when something gnawed at the edges of my mind. I reopened the journal to the spot where the torn page was. I flipped forward and backwards, not noticing anything at first, and then I saw it. There was a journal entry missing. I looked at the dates of the entries prior to the torn page and then after it. The entry for December 19, 2002 was not in the book. At first, I didn’t think it was all that relevant; maybe my grandfather didn’t have anything worthwhile to write about on that day. It could have been he wasn’t feeling well or even just forgot to jot his thoughts down that day. Even as I was thinking it, I really didn’t believe it. In all likelihood, Grandpa would have written something. To prove it to myself, I went page by page throughout the entire journal and found no other missing dates. The remaining entries were in perfect, chronological order. I scrutinized the open space between the journal entries. It was nearly imperceptible, but I could see where a page had been removed.
The locked room in the basement, a missing page from the journal, pictures arranged to form a heart on the wall, was my grandfather hiding something or did he just appear to be losing his marbles towards the end? I couldn’t shake the feeling I had stumbled on to something of great significance. I would have to go through all the journals to see what other entries might be missing. The earliest journal on the shelf was from nineteen seventy-eight, two years before I was born. I hunted around the room and couldn’t find any other journals to precede the earliest one. The closet was full of half finished canvasses and paintings, banished to the darkness of the closet. Grandma had put all of her painting supplies into clear plastic containers to easily identify the contents. As I picked up each one off the shelf in the closet, I could see that none of them contained any journals.
I went all around the room, one more time, and then it hit me. There were no other journals, because Grandpa had only started writing in them, starting with the earliest one that I had found. I racked my brain trying to remember if I had ever heard Grandpa, or even Grandma, talk about him writing earlier in his life. Nothing came to the forefront, so I let it rest. I began feeling better, and the disquieting feelings were starting to fade. I sat down on the floor and started straightening up the journals, putting them back where they belonged on the shelf. On a hunch, I opened one from nineteen eighty and flipped the pages to make sure there were none torn out; there weren’t. Something told me not give up until I was thoroughly satisfied. I opened the one from May of 1998 to January of 1999. I knew even before I cracked the binding that in outward appearance, it looked smaller than the other journals. Flipping through the pages, I noticed there were several missing. In some cases, the journal entries would skip nearly a week.