You Deserved Better

Something felt off about the last letter I’d ever read from my best friend. The wabbly writing. The detached sentences. The shortness of it all.

Aaron, alot has changed.

To you I leave my teel necklace,

something to remember me by.

Truely, a tough journey its been.

Paint with all the colours of the wind, my friend

- Jules

Films crowded my eyes, but I blinked them away. Some might call me tough, but the truth was, on the inside, I was hopelessly formless. Paint with all the colors of the wind. It was our saying that we stole from the movie. I can still remember the day we sang it, laughing like dumb kids without a care in the world, as we darted through the golds and yellows of the autumn path, and skipped one legged across the creek. Two adventurers. Neither one of us with any clue of life, but both with the fiery passion of adolescence.

Then came the teenage years of sophomore plays, and Friday night football games. Our only care in the world, the touch of a hand, or the glance of a blushed smile passed in the hallways. Always having each other throughout the good and the bad. And the bad did come, and when it did, we shared that too. I lost my mother at the eight, and then hers at sixteen. Life without a mother was hard. But what we lost in maternal bonds we gained in each other; each day growing more and more close.

Her dad’s drinking got worse after her mom died and Jules was left alone to pick up the pieces. I was there, but when education came calling, I had to go. I asked her to come with me, but she refused. Family comes first she said. Her mother’s saying. Joe needed help more than she needed school. Though, to me, Joe seemed fine; spending most of his time gambling and drinking with odd friends and changing women than doing any real parenting. Always trying to score big.

So, then it was off to dormitories and late-night study sessions. And I would look forward to weekends when I could slip away and take the train back to the little old town I’d once called home. We'd go for midnight walks in the incandescent lights of the park. And that’s when she’d told me. I’m sick, she said, redness burning my cheeks as she did.

You’ll get better! I replied hopelessly. But we both knew; it was her mother’s gift. I’ll return. Every weekend! No, I’ll drop out! And we can spend the rest of the time together. Remember that time we swung the rope ladder and fell straight into the creek. She stopped me that look only Jules could do. No. She urged me towards an education that now, in comparison, seemed hollow. You worked too hard for this. You’re going back.

And so, reluctantly, I returned, and when exams finished the phone rang. I knew what it was. Then two busses and train ride home and here I sit, foolishly alone in the diner on main street waiting to be picked up, my rucksack at my side, gripping the last vestige of writing I will ever receive from her. Staring at the funny way she makes her g’s, or the perfect slant with which she writes, holding the teal necklace in one hand.

A tap on my mug, which now pours with fresh coffee. I look up from deep thought and see the waitress. Something about the lined expression and magazine lipstick tell me I’ve seen her before.

“So sorry about your friend.” She grimaced.

I say nothing, only bow my head slightly in a nod, and as she walks away, I notice the pep in her step, as if new life’s been breathed into them. I look outside to dad who is waiting for me in the sputtering ford.

I get in the truck and stow the sacred note in my pocket, alongside the necklace.

“Where’d you get those?” He asks.

“Joe dropped them off for me at the post office. “

“Joe? Like Jule’s Joe?”

“Yes.” I mutter.

“I’ll be damned. Thought that man only thought of himself.”

Then he gave a begrudging grunt and we drove off.

When we get home, he waits outside for me while I go and put on my black suit and tie, spray a few shots of cologne, and come back out.

The funeral’s at noon he says and asks if there’s anything I want to do around town before heading over. There is one thing, but I shut it out.

The funeral was over quicker than it began. Practically everyone I knew was there; everyone but Joe. Friends, family, teachers - the town librarian. I couldn’t help noticing a brooding anger build within me as we waited for his arrival, but after half an hour of waiting and with whispers he’d went gambling we carried on.

Mrs. Hammon, our eleventh grade English teacher went forward with an evidently pre-prepared eulogy; just in case. It was beautifully written, and even better spoken.

Later, she turned into a thick mess of hysterics and laughter as someone recounted the story where Jule’s accidentally wondered into the boy’s changing room instead of her own. Assuming, since the guys were entering from the right, the left must have been hers, though it certainly wasn't and she walked into four football players butt naked slinging towels at each other.

“I laughed so hard milk came out of my nose.” sniffled a friend.

“She made me feel seen.” Said another. “She was always so kind.”

“Aaron do you remember the time you two played Romeo and Juliet in grade eleven and the whole crowd broke out in laughter when she fudged her lines!”

I chuckled a little. I do. That was after Rusty had died and I’d drowned myself in every extracurricular activity I could, and she came with me, even though she hated plays.

On the drive home, my mind kept returning to that note. It was the last piece of her I had. I stared at it in my bedroom at home. There was just something about it that didn’t sit right. I brought it close to my nose squinting deeply at it, as if she had scrawled a hidden message in mouse’s writing. Nothing. But still something was off.

I got up, flicked my desk light on and looked at it through a magnifying glass, even counted the microscopic threads of the thick paper through one giant eye.

I sat back, deflated.

For someone who writes a lot, she sure does have bad spelling. I wasn’t the best but even I could see that’s not how you spell ‘teal’, or ‘truly’ for that matter – plus she’s missing an apostrophe here. I chuckled. – Wait. Hang on.

I grab another paper from my desk drawer and scribble some letters down starting with A. There are five misspelled words: alot, teel, truely, its, and colours.

A

T

T

I

C

Friggin hell! If I hadn’t been such a bad speller myself, I would have figured it out sooner. She was sending me a message!

When the adrenaline in my bloodstream settled, I found myself knowing exactly where she meant. The farmhouse attic. Her house. Where we played hide and seek and told ghost stories.

I leaped from my desk sending papers and pens flying in various directions, gave a brief bye off to my dad who was watching The Price is Right and grabbed the keys to the pickup and hauled off, making sure to pass the casino on my way.

Sure enough he was there. That red dusty camero parked front row for Joe Rosewood, spending what little money he had left in this world on cheap dice and rigged slots.

Pulling up to the farmhouse I followed the moonlit path to the back door. The key under the gnome was still there, and I crept inside.

The wind hammered against the old wooden walls, whistles of dust flew with each angry blow. I crept through the inner entrance and up to the main foyer. No lights were on and Joe was at the casino, but when I saw two packed suitcases at the foyer, I wondered who was packing, and if they were still here.

“Hello..” I called, but nothing returned, just the wheezes of a worn house.

Up another staircase, and one unlatched swing of an attic door and I’m standing in a place I’ve been before.

The bulb chugged angrily as I pulled it. A familiar setting. An old doll house, a swing rope with a seat hung from a rafter, dusty pillows we used to sit on to tell ghost stories.

Come on Jules… What did you mean, Attic?

Another gust of wind yelled as I poked around.

After thorough checking I noticed an old floorboard loose by the toy clarinets, red and blue, that we used to play. Under, hidden among the cobwebs, a leather-bound book.

I felt its patterned exterior. Another piece of you.

What happened Jules? What are you trying to tell me…?

I opened the notebook to the dog-eared page intended for me.

This is a record in case anything ever happens to me. I've been trying to get out, and I'm not sick. He's been poisoning me for months. All the sickness, all the symptoms, were all him. I found him last night sprinkling it on my food. The phones are out so I’ve hidden this here in case I can’t get away. I believe he did the same to my mother. We were never sick.

Julia

May 05th, 1998

The slam of the front door and two leathered voices now bounded up the rickety stairs. I peered down, seeing Joe, red faced and drunk, pressing a woman up against the wall. They exchanged messy blows of smeared kisses; her lipstick adding various hues to Joe’s already sun beat face. A closer look, and it was that woman from the diner. The one who seemed oddly chiper.

They slid into the living room, giggling. In the cellar there is a phone, I could call 911, give them the journal, and wait for his arrest, but I had to pass their eyeline first and not get caught.

I used the gusts of wind to mask my creaking steps, but the last betrays me, and he catches my eye.

“You!”

I move quick, slamming the basement door in front of me and locking it tight.

"Get the gun Joe!"

I run downstairs to call 911.

Hello, I have an emergency, 921 Castor Lane. There’s someone trying to kill me. Please hurry.

The phone line cuts out. He’s went outside and cut the hookup to the house.

“I’m gonna getch you!” he taunts, fiddling at the cellar door from where I entered the house.

I run back up the stairs, knock the woman to the ground with her shotgun in hand. We wrestle furiously for the win, but before I have a chance, I feel cold metal kiss the back of my neck.

“Get up.”

I stand, and as I do the room heaves in rapid contraction as my life passes before me. What if they kill me? Hide the note, say I was an intruder.

“You sick bastard!” I yell, accepting they'd be the last words I'd ever speak.

The door crashes and I see nothing but bright lights and sober faces looking in at me.

I’m saved.

***

Six months have passed and its autumn again. Joe Roseman has been found guilty of two cases of first-degree murder, and one case of insurance fraud, and here I am at the bank going through Jule’s belongings.

The teller slides me the key and I open the box. That girl wasn’t planning to stick to this old town after all.

$20,000, strewn together, old waitress tips, garage sale funds, and paper route sat sternly in my hand. I want you to have this more than me Jules, I whisper in the empty room.

I leave and when I get to the autumn path that twists to the creek, where we played as kids, I toss in the necklace to the glistening river. Beautiful and still.

Paint with all the colors of the wind, Jules

Aaron