The Diary

The Diary

         It was a small house on a narrow street, at the end of a dead-end block. The paint was either peeling or already gone. Devin Lane guessed that it was originally painted white, or at least some color such that when it faded it faded to white. He had been with the Hampshire Village police department almost three months. In the larger cities they didn’t call a detective unless it was apparent that some sort of foul play had occurred. But, Devin was also the only detective that the little town had. In Hampshire Village anytime one of its 25,000 (more or less) residents died, outside of the hospital or nursing home, or even caught cold, he was expected to prepare an official investigation report.

         He pulled up to the house at the same time the County Coroner was unloading his van. The two men exchanged greetings and walked to the front porch where an uniformed officer waited for them.

         "Hi, Devin. Hi, Mr. Fuller," the uniform said with a nod.

         Devin caught the difference and thought, "Why is it I’m called by my first name and it’s ‘Mister Fuller’ to him?"

         "What ya' got here, Tracy?" Devin asked the uniform.

         "Old woman--she’s been dead for some time, I suspect. Kinda rank in there." The officer motioned towards the open door.

         Devin and Gerald Fuller entered the house together. Fuller walked on towards a room located off of the small living room. Devin looked around the living room for a moment.

         "Nothing amiss in here." He thought.

         Everything appeared to be in its proper place. It wasn’t pristine, but it wasn’t out of order either. He noticed people milling around in the room where the coroner had entered; they were doing things that were routinely done on these occasions.

         Devin entered the room. Hattie Kay Jessup, was sitting upright in the middle of the bed. She was wearing a tattered old housecoat over what appeared to be a simple gingham nightshirt. The covers were pulled up to her waist. He made a mental note of the handmade country quilt that comprised the top layer of covers. He was familiar with the style.

         "My grandma has made a thousand of those," He thought. "The funny thing is that you can’t buy it for a hundred dollar in Dillard’s today. Hell, you can’t even buy one at all."

         There was no doubt that Hattie Jessup was dead. From the sweet and faintly putrid smell that was hanging in the room, she had been departed for enough time for decay to begin its work. It wasn’t bad yet; but it soon would be. Hattie sat there with her hands folded together in her lap. Her eyes were wide open and here was no expression at all on her face. She looked like she was waiting, For what? Devin knew they would never know. He was quite convinced that if she had not died she would have still been waiting like that, right where she was.

         Devin walked back out to the porch. He approached the uniformed officer and asked, "Who found her?"

         Officer Tracy nodded in the direction of the front lawn. Another old woman, the carbon copy of Hattie Kay Jessup stood out by the curb. She looked a lot like Hattie, not exactly, but a lot. She was the same size, same kind of housecoat, same vacant stare. The only difference was the wrinkles were arranged differently.

         Devin didn’t know Hattie. But that wasn’t unusual, the only folks he had met in three months were living in the County jail or skipping bond two states away. He walked out to the old woman at the curb.

         "I understand that it was you who found her, ma’am. Is that right?" Devin asked in his most polite 'young man' voice.

         "Yes, that’s right. I found her." Was the quiet and simple response.

         "How’d you come to find her? Were you checking on her or something like that?" Devin prompted.

         "No, nothing like that. It was Oscar." She responded matter of factly.

         "Oscar? Now, who is Oscar?"

         "Oscar is the cat--her cat Oscar. He was making quite a racket. For about a week now that cat has been sitting by the back door wailing away. I came over here to shoo him away. The door was unlocked, so I just came on in. She just had to do something about that cat; and I was going to tell her so. I found her like that, just this morning." She finished the explanation and looked to Devin for approval.

         "Thank you ma’am. Do you know if she has any family?"

         "No." she replied with no other input.

         "Well how long have you known her?"

         "Well, I don’t. I mean I don’t know her."

         "How long have you lived here next to her?" Devin continued.

         "About 15 years." Was the reply. "I know her name was Hattie," she added.

         "Thank you ma’am," Devin nodded and walked back to the porch.

         "How in the world can someone live next door for fifteen years and not know your neighbor?" Devin marveled, "What a cold and lonely world this can be."

         He returned to Hattie’s bedroom. Gerald Fuller was finishing his work there. He checked Hattie over physically, photographed her, and moved her into the body bag. They were just lifting her lifeless body onto the gurney as Devin entered.

         Glancing quickly at Devin, Fuller confirmed what Devin already suspected, "Short work here Devin. This one is open and closed. It’ll take a little work back at the morgue before I’ll be able to tell you the cause of death. That’s all for me here. It’s all yours." With that simple statement Gerald Fuller accompanied Hattie out of the house and left Devin standing alone in the bedroom.

         Devin took one last look around the room. Then he noticed it. "How could I have missed this?" he chided himself.

         Laying on the nightstand was a small book, a child’s diary. He picked it up, he unfastened the latch, and he opened it. He stood there quietly and leafed randomly through the pages. Then he began to read the entry on successive pages. He remained fixed to the pages for a considerable time fascinated by what he found. In a fine neat script Hattie had written an entry on each and every page, until one week ago:

                   May 5, Thursday: "No one came today."
                   May 6, Friday: "No one came today."
                   May 7, Saturday: "No one came today."
                   May 8, Sunday: "No one came today."

……

                   September 21, Wednesday: "No one came today."
                   September 22, Thursday: "No one came today."
                   September 23, Friday: "No one came today"

…………

                   December 6, Tuesday: "No one came today."
                   December 7, Wednesday: "No one came today."

         And then the last entry: December 8, Thursday: "No one came today. No one came"

         He was overwhelmed by the significance of the diary. His mind raced to understand what Hattie had gone through. Devin tucked the diary into his inside coat pocket. He would take it with him, as a reminder of how lonely the world could be. It would also remind him that it did not have to be so. He purposed in his heart to do his part to notice the Hattie’s who came into his life. He would not let someone live next door and not know them.

         He also knew that, regardless of what Gerald Fuller found as the cause of death, what had killed Hattie Kay Jessup was loneliness. His official entry in his report would be that the only crime here was lonliness. Devin committed, at that moment, that occasionally he would visit Hattie’s grave, so that it may not be said, "No one came."