Disclaimers: You know the drill. Don't own it. Want it, but don't own it. C'est la vie! I GOT 20 REVIEWS!! YAYA! *Does the happy Snoopy review dance* And, I'm done. On with the story…
Chapter Seven
Delaney, holding the diary in one hand, and unwrapping knickknacks in the other. This diary, though engrossing, was starting to depress her. The more she read, the more she felt sorry for Moira. The entries for the rest of October were filled with boredom, loneliness, and angst, as Moira appeared to have slipped into a mini-depression with the death of her grandfather. It was heart breaking to read the girl's thoughts and feelings about wanting to be whole again. She described her loneliness as a hole inside of her that desperately needed to be filled:
…If you held my heart to your ear, you would probably hear the ocean- for there is nothing there. Work is a joke. I do nothing but sit and stare all day. I've taken to drawing pictures of people I see on the street through my window. New York has fascinating people. David likes my drawings, of course, I keep giving them to Les, because I don't want them around, but David told me that they're very good for someone who has never had proper training. However, if there isn't anyone on the street, I simply can't draw. I find it impossible to delve back into my mind and draw something from my imagination. For example, I actually attempted a picture of Grandpa, but it didn't turn out right, and I couldn't bear to try again….
There was more, but Delaney put down the book and finished the little display of valuable junk that she collected. One thing was certain, the answers to her questions about the trunk were all in that diary somewhere. It hadn't taken long at all to find out about the hair. It felt kind of weird (actually it felt slightly morbid) for her to be holding the brown lock in her hand as she read about why it was in the box in the first place. Delaney had returned the lone curl to it's box and now, the remaining items of the little box were spread out on the bed.
She looked around the room. It was two-thirty, and, in her eyes, she'd gotten a lot done. Keaton was downstairs, working on the kitchen, so she knew she wouldn't be disturbed if she took a little break. She sat on the bed, folded her legs underneath her, and picked up one of the sketchbooks. With help from Moira's descriptions in the diary, Del was able to slowly match faces with names as she flipped through the pages.
"That's Les, and Dutchy." She murmured, tapping their faces with her fingertip. "Racetrack, Blink, Boots…Mush." She turned the page and came across a picture of the boy Moira had drawn so many times throughout her art career. In this one, he was sitting on the edge of a rooftop, feet dangling off the edge, smoking a cigarette and looking up the sky. While she'd been reading the diary, Delaney had been placing this boy to be David. And it made sense, with all the mention she had made of him, the sketchbook was surely filled with more of the same thing. But she recalled that in one of the entries from September, Moira had said that David didn't smoke, and this boy in the picture obviously did. In fact, he was smoking in quite a few of drawings, so it couldn't be David. But then…Delaney smiled as realization hit her. "Jack." She said aloud, tapping the picture. "This one has to be Jack."
With that in mind, she flipped through page after page of drawings, counting the ones where Jack was featured, either solo or with a few other people. The number was beyond ten, so Delaney (never being much of a math wiz) began keeping a tally on one of the empty cardboard boxes. By the time the sketchbook ran out of paper, Moira had drawn Jack Kelly, no more than thirty-six times! Thirty-six out of fifty pieces of paper! So what had happened? She was getting conflicting stories from the diary and the sketchbooks.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Keaton asked, coming into the room, out of breath from running up the stairs.
"Unpacking." She lied, closing the sketchbook. Her husband raised an eyebrow.
"Is that right? I'm not seeing that much done." This made Delaney sigh as she motioned to the dresser.
"Knick-knacks! Do you see them? They're lovely!" Keaton laughed at his wife's antics and kissed her,
"They are lovely. But seriously, Del, what else have you done?" He asked. She sighed and got to her feet, dragging him over to the dresser, where she pulled open the top drawer.
"Look, I'm organizing by order of how they go on your body, ya know?" He looked a little confused. "Socks and underwear up top." She closed that one and pulled out the next one, "tank tops and tee shirts on one side, sweaters on the other." Del closed the middle and yanked on the last one, "and pants are down here. But notice, if you will, that the lighter fabrics, denim and khakis are on the right side, while the heavier knits, corduroys and such, are over here on the left." She had used her row of drawers as an example, but assured her husband that his was set up the same way. He laughed.
"You amaze me sometimes."
"Ha! You mean I amaze you all the time." She smiled at him, proud of her work. He smiled back.
"So, really, Del, about the rest of this room…." He looked around and raised his eyebrows. She followed his gaze at the numerous cardboard boxes and things strewn everywhere.
"I'm going for organized clutter."
"Right. Come on, Slugger, I'll help you."
The couple spent the next hour and a half unpacking, organizing, and cleaning their new master bedroom while they listened to the Eagles greatest hits. Halfway through 'Take It To The Limit,' Delaney laid down on the bed, closed her eyes, and continued lip-synching the words, hoping her husband would get the point, stop cleaning, and come over and kiss her. He didn't. She sat up, grabbed the sketchbooks and went back to playing her little game of 'guess the newsies.' Keaton turned around to see her bent over the books, chewing on her lips, like she always did when she was thinking.
"What're you looking at now?" He asked, sitting down next to her. She pointed to a picture.
"That's Crutchy."
"Crunchy?"
"No, Crutchy. Notice the crutch." Delaney rolled her eyes and turned the page.
"Who's that?"
"That would be Jack. And the guy he's talking to, that's David. As of right now, David is Moira's best friend."
"Wait- wait. What are you talking about?"
"The diary, my dear husband, the diary." Keaton rolled his eyes.
"Not this again, Del."
"Yes, this again. You make it sound like a disease. It's fascinating! The poor girl, weird mother, dead grandfather, but luckily, her and Jack have come to a truce. I'm happy for them." All of this information was met with a completely blank stare.
"That means absolutely nothing to me, Del. You do know that, right?"
"But it should! Don't you get it? She lived in our house, Keaton! She probably slept in this room! We wouldn't know that if it weren't for that basement, and we get to have a look into what her life was like. You never know, I might uncover some kind of secret of the univer-"
"STOP! I get it!" Keaton cut her off. "Fine, read away." He motioned to the diary. She gave him a confused look, and turned her eyes back to the book. "Out loud, Del."
"Are you serious?"
"Well, if you're going to discover the secrets of the universe, I want to be a part of it." She laughed and shrugged as he pulled himself behind her, so she could lean against him.
"Well in that case…" Delaney opened the diary to early November, took a deep breath, and began to read, out loud, to her husband.
