Personal Effects

by E. M. Kokie

  It’s been getting harder to ignore how hard she is to ignore. Sometimes it’s so stupid — she does something with her hand or mouth or laughs at a joke or, hell, sits too close, and I’m scrambling for cover. I have to remind myself not to stare.

  She has soccer, and her other friends, her “girls’ nights,” and sometimes a party. Sometimes she goes on dates, and I sit home and try not to think about what she could be doing.

  I have her calls and her texts, car rides to and from school, and a night or two a week when it’s just us — not to mention all my fantasy versions of her, who fill in when she’s off having a life.

  And since November, we have all this new weirdness — mostly mine, I know — getting in the way. She’d been busy all fall, fitting me in, between everything and everyone else. I was pissed at her. Sometimes even at the fantasy versions of her. But when we heard, I couldn’t call her, couldn’t say it, and I’m not sure she’s ever going to forgive me for her having to hear that T.J. was dead from someone else.

  Still, after T.J. died, she was right there, whenever I thought I’d lose it. But it got so that I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t tell her what I needed — too close to saying what I wanted, and I felt like shit for wanting anything when he was dead.

  She spent one too many nights trying to carry a conversation by herself, then she pushed a little too hard and I said some stuff I can never take back, about how she’ll never understand. For a few weeks, we hardly talked at all. Things got better for a while, but not back to where we were. There’s only so much of her worried looks I can take, but at least now I bail before I can say something to make her go away for good.

  Dad’s recliner creaks and groans overhead. I can track his bedtime routine by the sounds. Slow steps to the kitchen. The water runs as he washes his glass. After the water, he checks the back door — open, close, lock. Lights off. Then down the hall and up the stairs, the sound of the creaky second step, and a few minutes later he flushes the toilet and water flows through the pipes. Walking down the hall, into his room, probably dropping his watch and wallet on the bureau, tossing his clothes in the hamper. Then the squeaking bedsprings. Every night — at least the nights when he makes it upstairs — it’s the same routine. Once he’s snoring away, he’s out until morning, barring something really, really loud — like a train through the living room.

  I creep up the stairs and stand in the open door to the kitchen, listening for the bedsprings. Back downstairs, I slide under the covers. Shauna will be calling in less than two hours.

  And yet, for ten minutes I lie there awake, thinking.

  All that’s left of T.J. is in that bag.

  No way Dad would just throw away the flag from T.J.’s coffin. Wherever it is, the bag has to be there, too.

  I’m not giving up.

  I won’t give up until I find it. Or until there’s nowhere else to look.

  Yeah, I’ve already looked everywhere. Time to look harder. Time to start emptying boxes, moving furniture, banging on walls, and pulling up floorboards.

  I can snoop around the downstairs and out back in the shed or garage whenever.

  But I’ll take a look at Dad’s book, see where he’s scheduled to be the rest of the week. Whatever day he’s farthest away, I’ll tackle the upstairs again. Less chance he’ll stop home and catch me.

  Better wait until Thursday or Friday, at least. Maybe then I’ll have healed enough I can outrun him if I get caught.

  AS THREATENED, SHAUNA CALLS EVERY COUPLE HOURS FOR all of Monday night into Tuesday morning, well past the time when it’s clear I’m not gonna slip into a coma. Eventually, I threaten to turn off my phone if she keeps it up, and she finally stops.

  With Dad gone and my phone silent, I sleep until lunchtime.

  But once I’m awake, I start to go stir-crazy. The quiet’s making me nuts. I’m climbing out of my skin. Too awake and jittery to sleep. Too achy to move. Kind of hungry, but too pukeish to actually try to make something.

  The stupid part is I miss Shauna’s calls. They’d be a good distraction. Especially because then we’d hang up and I’d be here, by myself, with time to kill and her voice still in my head.

  But she won’t call now, and there’s no way I can call her, not after making such a scene to get her to stop.

  The upstairs is tempting me. But it would be suicide to risk it today. He’s local, and no telling when he might decide to stop home. Worse, even if I had a couple hours, it’s not enough. I need a whole day so I can search hard but slow, and careful, and have time to put things back together right. One single thing out of place could give it away. Can’t risk it. Not today. Besides, I can barely move.

  I snuck into Dad’s bag last night and looked at his book. He’s local all week. But next week he’s scheduled to be way up north. Means he’ll leave early, be home late, and there’ll be no chance of him surprising me. I’ll have to find a way — go in late or cut out early, something.

  The phone rings, as if he’s sensed what I’m planning. The house phone. I don’t even have to look at the caller ID: Dad.

  “You up?”

  “Yes,” I say, trying not to shift and make the bedsprings squeak. And good morning to you, too, Dad.

  “Good. Enough lazing around. Find something productive to do.” The “or else” hangs there between us.

  “I already left a message for Mr. Anders to see if he can get me on a crew later this week.” It’s a lie, but a harmless one. Dad’ll never call Anders to check.

  Dad says something to someone else, his voice just as irritated as with me. Good to know that not all that pissed off is about me.

  “Call Anders again. See if he has anything tomorrow.” Tomorrow? “Dominick low-balled his bid on the display case, but he couldn’t go below twelve sixty-five.” Twelve hundred dollars? “I want this paid and done asap. I told Pendergrast you’d have the first half in by the last day of classes.”

  Half? No fucking —

  “No way he gets to say shit about this family, like he’s gonna have to chase us for it.”

  Shit. Dead set on some insane deadline, just to make this suck that much harder. “I’m not sure —”

  “Call him again.” Dad hangs up without anything else. No “I’ll be home for dinner” or asking how I feel.

  I stare at the phone, ready to chuck it against the wall. Everything still hurts like hell, but I’ve got two weeks to come up with more than six hundred dollars. Even with what I’ve got saved up, it’s gonna be tough.

  T.J. worked for Anders & Sons all through high school, and I’ve worked for Mr. Anders the last three summers. That first summer, he just had me mowing lawns or running errands or doing other odd stuff now and then when I needed money — like picking up supplies at the hardware store or cleaning the paintbrushes at the end of the day. But the last two summers, I’ve worked my way up to a full-time spot on one of the crews that comes in after the serious renovation work is done. Usually I sand, paint, clean up, or install the final touches, the light-switch covers and doorknobs and cabinet doors and handles. It’s not bad — the guys are OK, and I make more than I could doing pretty much anything else.

  I return the phone to the cradle and dig for Mr. Anders’s cell number. While I listen to the phone ring, I brace for the conversation. He’ll find me something. I know he will. But he’ll be pissed I got suspended. Maybe so mad he won’t let me work during the days I should be in school. It would be just like him to say I should study and not get to make money for getting in trouble.

  “You need the money badly?” Mr. Anders asks after I ask if he can give me any work right away.

  “Yeah. I have to come up with twelve hundred dollars fast. Any way you can use me this week?”

  “This week?”

  “Yeah, I was hoping Thursday and Friday.” Not tomorrow. Probably couldn’t hold a hammer or crouch down tomorrow, but I’ll have to by Thursday. “Then maybe after school and weekends until school’s done?”

  “A
fter school, weekends, sure, maybe. But Thursday? What about school? Matt —”

  “I got suspended. There was a fight. Display case got busted. That’s what I need the money for. I have to pay for it.” Freaking Dad. “I really need the money.”

  Anders blows out a breath across the receiver and then mutters to himself for a minute. I know this is a lot to ask. He’ll either be eating the extra cost or shorting someone else, one of his year-rounders, or maybe some guy with a wife and a bunch of kids.

  “OK,” Anders says. Some papers rustle near the phone. “I have an interior painting job a couple blocks from you. You can work that starting Thursday. The crew I’ve got you on for the summer doesn’t start until the third week of June, but I’ll look at the schedules and see if I can use you somewhere else until then.”

  “Great.”

  “Might not be painting. Might be some cleanup or hauling stuff.”

  “Whatever you have. It’ll be great. I really appreciate it.”

  “OK, well, see you Thursday. Get there by eight. On Fenton. You’ll see my sign out front.”

  I leave a voicemail for Dad, telling him about the job. Then make a circuit of the downstairs as best I can. I look everywhere I can without bending over or reaching too high — in every drawer and cabinet, in or under everything on the shelves and in the hutch. Then I knock on all of the panels and walls, looking for any space he could have hidden the bag or T.J.’s things. Nothing.

  When I start jumping at every car outside, I spread my algebra notes out on my bed and pop in a movie I know so well I can close my eyes and just drift. Best if Dad finds me down here and zonked out, ignoring my homework, as he expects. Actually doing my homework would be that step too far.

  The walk over to the job site on Thursday morning feels weird. The neighborhood is too quiet, with everyone off at work or school except for the old people, the moms, and the little kids. I keep looking over my shoulder, like a cop car or something’s gonna come along and ask why I’m not in school. But by the time I get to the house, being out alone feels kind of cool, freeing, and my muscles are loosening up, less stiff with every step. I don’t even have to look for the ANDERS & SONS sign, because Mr. Anders is out front, leaning against his black truck sporting the blue Anders & Sons logo on the side. Between all the years T.J. worked for him, and now me, we have a gazillion of his shirts, that logo across the back, splattered with a variety of different color paints.

  A second too late to be smooth, I wipe my hand on my jeans and reach out to shake his hand. But when he sees my scabby, messed-up knuckles, his hand stops midair. Instead of shaking, we both pull our hands back and nod hello.

  I don’t know what to do or say, so I wait for him to start.

  Somehow it feels like an interview, or a test: maybe he isn’t sure he really wants me working for him anymore.

  “Well, you don’t look too bad,” he finally says. But then he looks at my right hand again and looks away. For the first time I feel a little weird about the fight — maybe not the whole fight, but how bad it got. I pull my hand behind my leg so he can’t see my knuckles. “Are you really up for working?”

  “Yeah. Not everything, but I can sand, scrape, paint. Maybe not ceilings, because of the ladder, but . . .” I try to stand real straight, like my knee and shoulder aren’t throbbing. “Yeah. And, uh, I really need the money.”

  “So you said.” His mouth flattens out into a lipless line. “How much trouble are you in? I mean, other than suspended. Did you have to talk to the police, or . . .”

  “No, no, just the suspension — and paying for the display case that got smashed.”

  “Your dad OK’d you working so soon? Still seem pretty banged up,” he says, motioning toward my hand, and then my face.

  “He’s fine with it. More than fine.” I laugh a little. A mistake, because Mr. Anders’s eyes narrow. Shit. Dad is cool with Mr. Anders, and not just because Mr. Anders is retired Navy or because he hires a lot of guys from military families. But I’m never sure how cool Mr. Anders is with Dad. “I really need the money,” I say again, staring at his boots.

  “OK,” he says, even though it sounds like anything but “OK.” “I just wanted to check on you before you started. So, if you’re sure you’re well enough to work . . .”

  “I’m fine.” He fiddles with the edge of the binder, watching me. “Really.” I hold my arms out, showing him I’m fine. Too bad I have to drop my shoulder fast.

  He steps closer. “Look, Matt, my dad wasn’t easy to please. I get it. And I had my fair share of fights. But . . . take it from an old fighter, OK? Just play it cool for a while. Sometimes you’ve just got to tell people what they want to hear.”

  Easy for him to say.

  He reaches over and pats my back. I shift away, and my backpack slides down my arm.

  “And working for me this summer will be good. You’ll be around some other guys who understand. Just, until then, keep your head down, and take care of yourself, OK?”

  I nod, mainly because I know he means well, even if he has no idea how ridiculous it is to say the right things to Dad or to deal with the shitheads at school who don’t know jack.

  Mr. Anders hands me a package of blue painter’s tape to take in to Jerry, who’s overseeing the crew, then waves me toward the house.

  “Thanks, Mr. Anders.”

  He holds out his hand to shake, and I shuffle the tape and my backpack, trying to get my hand free, but it gets caught in between. He just chuckles and pats me on the back again, a little harder this time.

  The first time I met Mr. Anders was in a house like this one. I was eight. Dad and I stopped by to drop off T.J.’s lunch. Mr. Anders was holding a ladder while another guy measured something near the ceiling. He reached across his body to shake Dad’s hand, without taking his attention or his other hand off the ladder. They pointed me down the hall to find T.J.

  I followed the sound of the music, T.J.’s music, dodging materials, tools, and wet paint. Nervous to be walking through the house alone, but I could hear the music and T.J. singing along, his scratchy voice loud over the other voice in the room.

  “Wait, wait!” T.J. laughed. “This is the best part.”

  When I made it to the doorway, T.J. was crouched over the CD player, turning up the sound.

  He stood up, playing air guitar as the music squealed out. The other guy, older than T.J., grimaced and shook his head, but he also smiled at T.J.’s elaborate performance. And I watched, all the way to the end of the song, because I couldn’t not watch T.J. when he was playing air guitar.

  “How could you not —?” T.J. started to say to the other guy, dancing toward him, still sort of tuning his air guitar. But then the guy looked at me, and so did T.J. “Matt!” he yelled. “Finally, someone who appreciates my playing. That my lunch?”

  “Yup,” I said, holding the bag out in front of me with both hands.

  “Great, I’m starved. Come on.” He was already through the kitchen and near the back door by the time I could catch up.

  Every time I step into one of these houses — guys working, music, the smells — it feels a little like I’m gonna turn a corner and find T.J., covered in sweat and paint, singing along to his air guitar.

  The long hours of work help clear my head. The rhythmic sanding and scraping is nice to breathe with. And the work is good. After a while, I stop hurting so much. It helps me remember why, all those months, I ignored the crap. I’ve been ignoring assholes my whole life. I can do it a little longer.

  “Matt, you need more stain?” Jerry asks from the doorway of the kitchen. I look down, realizing I’ve been working on the same cabinet door for a while. Thankfully, it doesn’t look all blotchy or too dark next to the others.

  “Uh, no, I’ve still got a couple cans after this one.”

  I carefully put down my brush and lift the door, moving it to the counter behind me to dry.

  Jerry watches me. Not saying anything, just watching, until I’ve got another
unstained cabinet door set up on the sawhorses. I wipe the surface down to get rid of any dust or stuff that could ruin the stain, taking extra care with the grooves. Then I wait, staring back at Jerry, because it feels weird to start staining with him watching. Like maybe he’ll say I’m doing it all wrong.

  “OK, well, I’m going to run to pick up the paint. If you have any problems, Carl is in the front room, working on the floor. OK?”

  “Sure.” I pick up the can, but I still wait. Eventually he leaves the kitchen.

  Jerry used to be just another one of the guys. Now that Mr. Anders lets him supervise the crew, he’s quieter, more serious, less fun.

  When T.J. was working for Mr. Anders, Jerry was one of the new guys: he’d been at the university, but something happened and he dropped out.

  He was OK then, but I like him better now, even with the staring.

  Jerry’s one of the guys who came to T.J.’s funeral. A bunch of them did, all in a group. Mr. Anders came later, on his own.

  EVERYTHING ABOUT THE WEEK BEFORE THE FUNERAL WAS hell. But it was nothing compared to the funeral itself.

  It was so cold. Too cold even to snow. Dad had bought me a new suit and shoes, but he didn’t bother with a coat, and none of my regular coats were nice enough. I froze all day.

  We got to the funeral home really early. People were already starting to set up on the sides of the road, like there was going to be a parade. Flags everywhere.

  After Dad met with the escort, and they’d checked out the inside of the casket, they closed the coffin and Dad went into the office with the funeral home director. He left me with T.J.

  It took me forever to make myself inch out of the family-room doorway and walk over to the casket.