If I Can't Have You ...

IF I CAN’T HAVE YOU …

I was so excited. It was perfect!  

Let me back up a bit. I refurbish unloved furniture. Usually its hand-me-downs, or inexpensive pieces found on Facebook Marketplace. Sometimes, like today, the pieces are what I like to refer to as orphan pieces — pieces I find on the curb on garbage day, or at the side of the road. Today’s find was just sitting there, beside a dumpster, waiting to come home with me.

It was a lovely desk. I didn’t know why someone would throw it out, but they did. It had a centre area for a chair with a long shallow drawer above the opening, and three drawers down each side. Mind you, it had been painted a number of times. I could tell because the surface was scratched and chipped and underneath the vibrant fuchsia paint that covered it, I could see white, black, an avocado green, another layer of white, and, if I looked really closely, the original wood. Oak, maybe, possibly hard maple, but definitely not pine. So, score! A hardwood desk would be easy-peasy to resell. I was stoked!

So, I hauled it into the back of my truck, and set off for home, my treasure secured in the bed. When I got home I manhandled the desk off of the truck, put it on rollers, and guided it into the garage, aka my workshop. I flipped on the overhead lights. I have invested in good LED lights that cover the entire area, and in the stark lighting, I saw that my treasure definitely needed a lot of TLC.  

Always, first things first. I checked how the drawers pulled and closed. The middle drawer, along with five out of the six side drawers moved effortlessly. The sixth side drawer, not so much. In fact, I had to reef on it to open it, then wouldn’t close properly. So, I took the drawers out, labelling them so that I would know which drawer went where, and placed them on the work table. A cursory examination showed that all seven drawers were in good condition. So, I turned my gaze on the desk body, itself. Maybe it was the middle wooden slide that kept the drawer centred? Sometimes they shifted, or broke, which prevented the drawers from closing fully. All the slides looked fine, and were solid. So, I broke out my flashlight, and had a peek. And there, way in the back was something crammed in behind where the top left-hand side drawer would be. What was it? Maybe a book? Or some paper? Maybe a notebook? For sure, something made of paper. I stuck my hand into the opening — after I put on my gloves, because eww, spiders and other nastiness could be back there — and quickly grabbed the object. It was a book. It had been plastered against the back of the drawer, open, revealing lines and lines of handwriting. And it was old. I gently closed the book, and looked at the cover. “Journal” was written in gold script across the front.

I had found someone’s journal. Huh. I set it aside, and took another look inside the desk now that all the drawers had been removed — maybe there were more treasures. And, unless a broken Barbie doll arm (how did that happen?), a hair scrunchie, three bobby pins, a stray earring, and seventeen cents were considered treasures, I had struck out.

I put my “finds” in a pile, and turned back to the desk. First things first, a good vacuuming, and a good cleaning. Looking at the desk, I figured maybe three days before I could get it on the market. I had bills to pay, and rehabbing furniture was my side hustle, so I had to work smart. I got to work immediately. After a good cleaning, I took my carbide scrapper and removed as much paint as I could before turning to my sander. After a couple of hours, I was almost finished stripping the desk. I was contemplating my next move — paint, or restore the original wood, or a combo of both — when my eyes travelled to the journal.  

I picked it up, and fanned through the pages. Whoever had written it had used every available inch of space. The writing went from the edge of the page right to the middle binding. The writing itself was small and crabbed, the letters close together. I shut the book and looked at the outside cover. It was larger than the diary I had written in as a kid. All the girls I knew had written their secrets in the small diaries that had the latch that held the diary closed, and could only be opened with a tiny brass key. Instead, this journal was larger, and held closed by a wide elastic piece attached to the back that had long since lost its stretch.  

I opened the cover. Maybe whoever owned it had put their name in it. It would be neat to be able to return it to its original owner, like all those feel-good stories on the news. But, there was nothing, just the date — January 6, 1968.

I was intrigued. This could be almost like a time capsule. If this person wrote about the mundane aspects of their life, like I did, this could be a fun blast from the past. I fanned the pages again, and a small piece of paper fell out:  

4387 West Ninth Street, Apartment 102.

Hmmm. There was a Ninth Street near downtown. I wondered if that was where the person lived. Or maybe a friend. After fifty-five years, I was pretty sure that the person had probably moved on — both figuratively and literally. But, maybe they had family? Who knew? I could try, right?

But to try and find the owner, I first had to figure out who the owner was. And to do that, I had to read the journal. I stopped for a moment, considering the ramifications. Was it invading the person’s privacy if I read it because I was trying to do the right thing? If the person hadn’t wanted anyone to read it, they would have destroyed it, right? Much like I destroyed my own diaries. I decided to read some of the journal — just enough to find the owner. I opened the cover and started to read.

January 6: Mrs. Wilkins said that we should all keep a journal, and she handed these out at the beginning of class. She said that it doesn’t matter what we write about, just that we write — reflections, song lyrics, poetry — our choice.  She says it is a good practice to get into, and we will be glad we did, as it will be an accurate accounting of our teenage years.

I guess so. But what will I write about? I don’t have an exciting life, like some of my classmates. I don’t play sports like Craig and Andy. I don’t have a group of friends like most of the girls. My family isn’t big, like Allan who has four brothers and two sisters. It’d just Mom, Dad, and me, so not very exciting. I hope I have enough to write about.

January 7: I think I’ll just record my thoughts. Mrs. Wilkins said that recording thoughts is a valid activity. She said that we can write about absolutely anything. One codicile, though — never lie in our journals — being true and truthful to ourselves is the most important thing. Even the little things count. For example, if I didn’t like breakfast, say that, and then — this is important — explain why I didn’t like it.

After I read the first two entries, I thought about Mrs. Wilkins — probably long retired. More than likely in her eighties, at least. Maybe she was still alive. If I could track her down … But I needed to find out more about our author. If the woman had been a teacher her whole adult life, she probably taught hundreds of students, maybe even thousands if this was high school. No way she'd know who wrote this. I continued to read.

January 28: I got a job today! At Casey’s Grocery. Mr. Casey himself interviewed me. I started today, right after the interview! I am going to be a bag boy, shelf stocker, and if the customer wants their food delivered, I can use the store’s truck, when needed. I’m so excited. I’m going to save my money for a car. All the guys at school have cars. It’s so cool. Maybe if I get a car, I’ll be cool, too.

Ah-ha! More clues! Our author was in high school, old enough to have a license, so over sixteen. He worked at Casey’s Grocery. That’s not so much help because it doesn’t exist any more. The internet tells me it was on Grover Street. Google Earth tells me that there’s a Whole Foods there now. I sighed and kept reading.

February 14: Valentine’s Day, and I think I’m in love. I was at work today, and this amazing woman came through my checkout. She was so beautiful. Long blond hair, the greenest eyes, and such a kind face. What’s that word Mrs. Watkins used in English today — elegant. That’s it! She was so elegant. She’s older than me. Of course she is, but I don’t think that much older. She was wearing a skirt and top, and looked … breathtaking. After I finished packing her groceries, she said, “Thank you Donnie.” I almost died. Her voice, when she said my name … magical.

February 15: I can’t stop thinking about the woman from yesterday. I even dreamed about her. And she knows my name.  She called me Donnie.

February 28: She came back to the store today, but she wasn’t at my check-out. I couldn’t stop watching her. Today she had on slacks and a sweater. Her clothes made her look closer to my age. Maybe she’s not that much older than me. She smiled at me when she left. My heart jumped in my chest!

March 6: This is the third Wednesday in a row that my true love has come into the store, and now I know her name, and where she lives. She wanted her groceries delivered in at six p.m.. I told Mr. Casey that I could do it, no problem. He said that would be great. So I did. Her name is Louise Truscott, and she lives at 4387 West Ninth Street, Apartment 102. When I delivered the groceries, I said, “Here you go, Mrs. Truscott.” And she laughed, “No, Donnie, it’s Miss Truscott. But you can call me Louise.” Louise! Her name is Louise. I got to see the inside of her apartment, and it looks like she lives alone, so probably no boyfriend. I’m so lucky! She gave me a dollar tip. I’m never spending that dollar. I’m saving it forever.

And, right there, was a dollar bill taped into the journal, with March 6, 1968 written below. It was held in by old cellophane tape, and most of it had lifted and left an ugly yellow outline of the bill on the page, but there was still enough glue to hold it in place.

I considered what I had read. Donnie (new clue) had it bad for Louise Truscott. Poor guy. And if she was living on her own in an apartment, chances are he didn’t have a prayer with her. Younger guys with older women, there’s a bit of a taboo about that.  Here I thought that unrequited love was the purview of girls. Apparently not. Teenage boys can get smitten as well. Donnie was a perfect example..

As I continued reading, I noticed that Donnie was focussing on Louise Truscott more and more, to the exclusion of most of the other events in his life. Every time she was in the store, he wrote longingly about her — what she was wearing, what she bought, whether or not she spoke to him. She never had her groceries delivered again, which disappointed Donnie. Then the tone changed.

April 4: I borrowed Dad’s car tonight. I told him that I had to go over to a friend’s house to work on a project. But there is no project. I went to Louise’s apartment instead. Nothing creepy, I just wanted to see what she did at night. Her apartment is on the main floor, so I could watch from across the street. I should tell her to shut her drapes, but that would ruin my view. I watched as she made dinner for herself. She must have been listening to music, because her mouth was moving and she was dancing around. I wish I knew what kind of music she liked. I could like it, too. She was still awake when I left at 9:30. I wonder what time she goes to bed. I wonder what she wears.

Creepy! It seemed that Donnie had just graduated to stalker. I continued to read.

April 18: There was a man there tonight. How could she? Doesn’t she know that I love her?  

April 22: The same man was there, again. I can’t stand the thought of him being in there with my Louise.  

April 23: He won’t be bothering her anymore.  

I was shocked! What had Donnie done to Louise’s boyfriend? I couldn’t stop reading now.  

April 30: Louise was in the store today, and looked a bit sad. I hope she wasn’t mourning the ex-boyfriend. He doesn’t deserve her attention.

May 1: Louise wanted her groceries delivered today! I was so happy. I was going to ask her if she wanted to maybe go on a date with me. But she wasn’t alone. She had a girlfriend with her. And it looked like she’d been crying. I hope not over her ex-boyfriend. I need to talk to her. To tell her that it’s going to be alright. I decided to go back later, with Dad’s car. Maybe we could go for a drive together.

But that’s not what happened. When I went to her apartment, she was surprised to see me. I told her that I was worried about her, and she told me it was nothing. That everything was fine. I told her that I was sorry that her boyfriend had dropped her. That was my mistake. She asked me how I knew about her boyfriend. I stammered that I had seen them together. She wanted to know where. I said here. She told me that I had to go, and that she was going to tell Mr. Casey about my visit, and that I had been peeping through her windows, and I would get fired. I couldn’t let that happen. I started towards her, and she started to scream, so I grabbed her. I wasn't going to hurt her. I just wanted to talk to her. She kept trying to scream, so I put my hands around her neck, to make her be quiet. I didn’t mean to kill her. She just wouldn’t stop screaming.

I buried her in the woods, right beside her boyfriend. Now they can spend eternity together, and I can see where they are every time I walk through the woods to school.

Holy shit! What had Donnie done?

**********

Detective Carlos Ito looked down into the hole the forensics team had excavated.

“So, two sets of skeletal remains?”

“Yup,” said Detective Terry Waits. “One female, one male.”

“How’d you know where to look?”

“The journal. Missing persons had two hits within a week of each other from 1968. First was a George Graham, aged twenty-three, never showed up for work — they made the report. His car was never found. Figured he’d skipped town. The second, Louise Truscott, parents reported her missing. Foul play expected because everything was found in her apartment — purse, toothbrush, clothes. It didn’t look like she’d taken off. Neither case was ever solved. Until now.”

“How’d you figure out who Donnie was?”

“Easy. Found a listing for a Mrs. Edna Wilkins. She’s ninety-two now, living in an assisted living facility. I found out she worked at Central High School. So, I went there, checked out the records, and found one Donald Parsons who was in Mrs. Wilkins English class in January 1968. Records told me where he lived. There’s still a path through the woods to the high school from his house. Interesting fact. In 1992 one Donald Parsons bought the treed lot we are now standing on. There were plans to build houses here in the ‘90s. I guess Donnie couldn’t let Louise and George found, so he bought the land. He’s still the registered owner.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Yes he is. He’s seventy-three, living the good life about five miles from here. He’s a retired engineer. Never married. We’re checking other missing persons cases from the area.”

“Good call. Once a sociopath, always a sociopath.”

“True,” said Waits. “Let’s go pick him up.”

“I’m right behind you.”