Personal Effects

by E. M. Kokie

  WHEN I CALLED FOR DIRECTIONS, THE GIRL ON THE PHONE said, “Look for the palm trees.” In Wisconsin? I should have asked more questions, but she didn’t really give me a chance, and I didn’t want to call back.

  I circle around again, and once again face a one-way street heading in the wrong direction. I’ve been round and round these streets and still have no idea where I am, or where I should be.

  Some more lefts, another right, and I’m thinking of sleeping in the car. But there, twinkling lights, and lo and behold: palm trees. Green, plastic, twinkling-green-light-outlined fake palm trees. An illegal U-turn and I’m here, and wondering how I could have missed it the first eighty-seven times around this block.

  At first I don’t see anyone inside, but when I open the door, a bell jingles and a woman pops up from behind the counter.

  “Hey. You made it! Assuming you’re Matt. Are you Matt?”

  The woman is out of some kind of time warp, or maybe one of those trippy movies. Tall and thin, long neck, pale-pale skin, and no makeup, save the blue glittery teardrop painted on her cheek, just below her right eye. Ring through her left eyebrow, and a speck of diamond in her nose. Flowy white blouse with flowers and butterflies along the neck. And a necklace that hugs her throat in a ripple of tiny, shiny beads. The overall effect is pretty, and earthy, and almost childish. But then there’s the hair: long, clumped, and deadened dreads, tangled and tied to hang down the center of her back in a dirty-blond bunch. Just weird enough for me to know I am so not in Kansas anymore — or Pennsylvania, for that matter.

  “I’m Maya.” The accent, flat and nasal, is almost comical, and just all wrong.

  “Uh, hi, yeah. Sorry about the calls and being late and all.”

  “No prob. You made it, didn’t you?” Definitely weird. “But listen, can I get you checked in and show you where to go? Because I do need to close up for the night.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.” You betcha. I drop my stuff next to the desk and dig through my backpack for my stash of cash.

  I find out during the surprisingly quick check-in that she’s a grad student and has lived in Madison “for-ever,” so I should feel free to ask about places to go, restaurants, cooperatives, community involvement opportunities, if I want to “give back” while I’m here. That last bit, the giving back, she punctuates with a huge, hopeful smile. I nod and smile and mumble something I hope sounds positive and uninterested all at the same time. I am here on a mission, with no time for anything else.

  She barely looks at my ID. I count out the money for my room, relieved they still had my single left even with my almost-too-late arrival. I’m not sure I could sleep in a room with a bunch of strangers.

  When she’s done with the check-in, she sort of dances out from behind the counter. I pick up my stuff and start to follow, but Maya twirls to a stop just past the desk. I shift my stuff, waiting, but she just stands there with a stupid look on her face — kinda like a smile, but without her top lip showing. Is this some kind of joke? What the hell?

  She just stands there, smiling that odd, annoying sorta smile.

  “What?” I ask.

  She tips her head toward a sign on the wall just before the hallway. WE ARE A SAFE AND SHOELESS ENVIRONMENT . . . WTF? “Huh?”

  “We are a shoeless environment. So . . .” She looks down at my feet, her face comical and expectant.

  “Oh, uh, right.” I toe off my shoes, then shuffle everything so I can pick them up. “Socks OK?”

  “Yup. Good, then,” she says, turning on her heel and heading off. I have to race to catch up. “We’ll get you all settled, and then I have to skee-daddle.”

  She is skipping. Down a long hallway, around a corner, and through an open area.

  “Common area, communal kitchen, TV and computer room there. There’s Internet service, but it’s su-low.”

  Another short hall. I look around, try to take in as much as I can without dropping everything I’m carrying. She’s still talking, now about food. My stomach growls.

  “. . . from the place next door. But they have veggie entrées, too, and they’re actually really good. And there’s plenty of vegan and even raw-foods places around, if you prefer. Oh, and the co-op has the best vegan peanut-butter cookies.”

  Except for the peanut-butter cookies, it doesn’t sound too good. And how good could vegan cookies be?

  “Coed dorms, divided dorms, a few other singles and doubles, bathroom.” She points out spaces and places in a blurring cadence timed to her skippy-trippy feet. “If you change your mind about the single, we can switch you to a dorm room tomorrow,” she says, like it would be a good thing. Would save me some money, but I don’t think so.

  Through a door and down a short three-step jump. I miss the last step and shuffle myself and my stuff to keep my balance.

  Maya calls out some greetings and introductions as we go. A guy named Lyle, with no hair and at least three rings through his lip, says, “Was-sup,” and then goes back to strumming a guitar. It’s missing a string. A guy I think she calls Kack merely grunts as he slides past us on his way out. A young couple with gross-smelling takeout containers smile and bob in unison and slip back into their room. I’m so not hungry anymore. A couple of pretty blond girls, not from around here either, I’d guess, but on their way out and dressed to party. An old couple, wearing identical sweatshirts from some state park. Huh.

  “We’re almost full, but a lot of people are out. You’ll see more people around tomorrow. We’re almost there. Your room is actually on the main floor. You just can’t get to it from the front area.”

  That is not at all surprising.

  We pass another dorm room, and I decide no amount of savings will tempt me to sleep there. No freaking way. Too full of strangers. And strangers who are too strange. And who reek. Three guys and a girl. Smile. Wave. Seem nice, but . . . man. I hold my breath for a couple of doors.

  In the last room at the end of the hall, a girl is leaning against the door frame, laughing into the room, where music is playing. She sips from a bottle of something in her hand and turns to smile over the lip at us when she sees us coming.

  “Hi, Maya,” she says, all the while watching me.

  “Hey, Harley, this is Matt. He’s in town to . . .” Maya turns to me, head tilted, forcing me to get another whiff of her very smelly hair. “I didn’t get around to asking what you were here in town for, did I?”

  “Uh, no,” I stumble, caught unprepared for questions. “Just, uh, visiting.”

  “U-Dub? Friends?” Harley asks, but her eyes twinkle, and I think she’s mocking me.

  I have no idea what the first part means, but “friends” I’ll take. Good cover. “Yeah. Friends,” I answer, not bothering to be more specific.

  Her mouth turns up in a heart-shaped smile. She narrows her eyes, like she’s trying to figure me out, and runs the tip of her tongue around the edge of the bottle. I have the sudden urge to tug at the collar of my sweatshirt. It’s choking me. But with the backpack and duffel and shoes and all, I can only crane my neck, trying to get it loose.

  “Well, nice to meet you, Matt. If you need anyone to show you around, or . . . anything, let me know. I’ll be here,” she says with a wave of her hand. Then a wink.

  Before I can respond, Maya pushes me on, but I can totally feel Harley watching me all the way down the hall. I look back. She tilts her head. Smiles. I stumble, hit the wall, and drop all my stuff. Harley’s laughter is definitely at me, and not nice, and yet I can’t help but look back again. She pivots back into the room with a toss of her hair.

  At the bottom of the stairs leading down to my room, Maya turns unexpectedly and I almost run into her. She waves me into the room.

  “Bathroom just at the top of the stairs. Let me see — what else do I need to tell you . . . ?”

  She dives back into the spiel she’s been running through in between distractions and introductions. Too much information all at once, about house rules and community space and safe enviro
nments and lockout times, and eventually she just hands me a bunch of papers.

  “You’ll be fine. Stu will be here in the morning. He’s been around for-ev-er.”

  Guess that’s longer than Maya.

  “He’ll be able to answer any other questions, and whatever. You got what you need for tonight? Great.”

  Maya disappears in a swirl of skirts, leaving me alone in the spartan room. Door closed and locked, I sit down on the unmade bed and swallow the sudden realization that I am actually here, with no more than a few days to find Celia and Zoe, and deliver T.J.’s letter.

  A WHOLE DAY AND NOTHING TO SHOW FOR IT. TECHNICALLY more, if you count the drive and last night.

  In my head — at home, all the way here, even last night, before I fell asleep — I had it all worked out.

  Get up early, go to the address on the envelopes, look around. Wait. Celia would come out and go to work, maybe with Zoe in tow. I know from the letters that she takes the bus. I figured I’d catch a good look in the morning. Follow the bus to see where Zoe goes to day care, then on to the library where Celia works. Maybe hang around, see her go to lunch or run errands, then maybe on to some of the other places, like the playground or the ice-cream place. All in plenty of time to position myself back on their block to see them come home again. I thought maybe I’d even be able to hear Celia talk to a neighbor, maybe watch Zoe play on the front lawn. Piece of cake. Just watch and wait.

  I hoped, maybe, I’d get lucky. Maybe Celia would come home early, like she said in some of her letters, take Zoe to the park. In some of my better fantasies of how this could go, I imagined that Celia would recognize me and she’d know who I was. And I wouldn’t have to tell her anything. She’d just know.

  Instead, I spent all day stalking them without a single sighting.

  It sure doesn’t help that I can’t drive within two blocks of their house. The whole damn street’s torn up, equipment everywhere, piles of pavement and dirt. This morning there were men there working, but this afternoon they’re gone, leaving all the piles and equipment vacant. I parked the car three blocks over, near the lake — close as I could get — and walked down.

  There’s a river that flows parallel to the street, emptying into, or maybe flowing from, the lake. I’m not sure which. I parked myself there, across from their house, next to a big tree, and I watched until pretty much everyone else on the block had come home. Still no Celia or Zoe.

  One of the neighbors kept coming outside to sweep her front walk. I leaned against a tree, trying to blend in, staring at the big dirt-mover thing next to me, anything to hide what I was really doing there. But she was obviously watching me watch the house. I left before she could call the cops or something. Back in the car I had to admit — my plan sucked.

  I drop my backpack and shoes and fall back onto the bed in my room. I owe Shauna a call, but I just lie there for a few minutes, gathering my courage.

  She’s in the middle of something when she answers. I can hear her moving around, and she’s only tossing me halfhearted responses. Finally, there’s the soft click of a door closing and I have her full attention.

  The frustration of the day lets loose. When I come up for air, she laughs, but not like she thinks it’s at all funny.

  “So it’s not as easy as you thought.” There’s more than a little I-told-you-so there. “To be honest, I always thought it was insane to basically stalk the woman and then think she’d invite you in.”

  Shuffling paper. Sounds. But she’s not talking. She should be giving me a hard time, reminding me I should have brought her with me. But all I’m getting is her you’re-so-stupid sighs. I’ve seen her do this over and over — it’s just not usually directed at me.

  “You still opposed to calling her on the phone?” she asks.

  “No way.” I suck on the phone. Obviously.

  “Okaaayyy. So, if stalking her isn’t working, and the phone is out, then it’s probably time to go to the library where she works. Right?”

  I push my chin into my chest, bite the inside of my lip.

  “Come on, Matt.” She laughs, at me. “You know that’s what you’re going to have to do, unless you’re going to just mail T.J.’s letter to her. This isn’t rocket science.”

  I guess I deserve the attitude. But it’s not helping me want to go to that library, where I don’t belong.

  “Well?”

  “I’m not sure I can get in if I’m not a student.” Visions of being detained by university cops for trespassing play through my head.

  “Won’t know if you don’t try.” She sounds tired of me. Not even pissed anymore. Pissed would take more effort. More interest. “And that’s probably your best bet.”

  I know she’s right. I knew even before I called her I would have to go there tomorrow. I guess I just needed to hear her say it. But the thought of actually going into the library really freaks me out.

  “Hold on,” she whispers. There are muffled sounds. Then voices. Then I can hear her saying good night to her mom. Then her door closes again. She picks up the phone, but she doesn’t say anything for a too-long-for-normal pause. Maybe she’s in more trouble than she told me.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go.” Her voice is strained. “The battery’s dying and Mom will kill me if she finds out I’m on the phone.”

  “On the phone at all? Or just with me?”

  “I’m definitely grounded for a yet-to-be-determined time. I don’t know exactly what level of groundedness I’m in yet.”

  “How —?”

  “She won’t say.”

  Shit. If her mom won’t even . . . “And your dad?”

  A puff of her breath — I can practically hear her thinking. I used to have this uncle-y thing with Shauna’s dad. It was sort of fake, with lame teases and little pats on my shoulder, but it was better than hate. If he hates —

  “Honestly? I think he’s most pissed about the car, something about the insurance. But he keeps hugging me. He even took me out for ice cream after Mom left for bingo, and then he stumbled through this totally bizarre conversation, with a whole lot of sports metaphors about responsibility and trust and other stuff I have scoured from my brain. It was a little too A Very Special Episode of The Grubers for me.”

  “Like he’s happy it’s only me on the lam?”

  “Yeah,” she says softly.

  I close my eyes. Hit my head back against the wall. Yeah, part of me wishes she were here right now. Hell, yeah. But I know I made the right decision. Even if she hates me for it.

  “Shit,” she says. “Battery. Bye.”

  “Shaun?” Shit.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  She sighs, and I think she’s hung up, when she says, “Call me as soon as you meet her. ’Night.”

  Not exactly still in hate with me. But not a whole lot better. I’d do anything if we could just talk like we used to, if we could just go back to how things used to be. Well, almost anything. And the almost is pretty much the problem. So, maybe this is just the way it is.

  I pull the lists and directions she made me out of my backpack. I open the red folder to see her handwriting, small and sharp, in numbered rows, and on the tab of the folder. I’d know her handwriting anywhere. It’s neater than when we were ten, but the same, sort of slanted and way more legible than mine. If someone put a hundred pieces of paper in front of me, I could totally pick out the one Shauna wrote. If she was writing me letters, I’d know her letters from how she wrote my name on the envelope, before I even looked at the return address.

  Maybe T.J. saw Celia’s handwriting on his letters and felt the thrill of knowing it was from her before he even opened it. Maybe he rubbed his finger over the words to have some kind of connection to her. They wrote letters, even with e-mail and all, to have something to touch, to feel. Celia said as much, but did T.J. feel it, too? Did he smell her on the paper?

  I keep thinking about Saturday night at Stacy’s. I imagine I didn’t wuss out — that when
Shauna asked if I wanted a candy, I said, “Yeah,” and stole hers right out of her mouth. That I got to taste her mouth, and put my hand under her shirt. That we made out all night and she never asked to come here with me. I can imagine what her mouth would have tasted like, would have felt like, her hands . . .

  When I’m done, and the buzz has faded, I sink back into reality. I can’t go back. I missed my chance. She’ll never let me back there again. She never does — when a guy screws up this bad, he’s done. Not always dead to her, but might as well be. She never gives them more than a nod or a look again. They never get a second chance.

  Well, except for Michael. Michael’s got some kind of do-over card. But, then again, he’s never screwed up. She just always gets annoyed and cuts him loose.

  Maybe now she’ll take him back and go for the goal.

  And if she did, nothing I could ever say about it.

  The best I can hope for is maybe she won’t punish me forever. Maybe someday we’ll be us again, even if we’ll never be us.

  I’M USED TO COLLEGES LOOKING LIKE COLLEGES, SEPARATE and distinct from the towns around them, so that you know when you’ve crossed the border. Like Sucks U. back home, with its red brick and columns and green areas, all tree-lined, like a private park. You have to pass through a gate on either side, each marked by a spotlit sign, announcing the school’s borders. You can’t drive twenty minutes in eastern Pennsylvania without seeing a college or university, but they’re usually clearly marked, so you know when you’ve crossed into la-la land.

  This is all city. But I must be “on campus” now, because there’s a parade of kids being led down the street by a clipboarded guide in a red shirt. And the buildings have names like people. Definitely college turf.

  After parking in the cheapest place I could find, I hit the street. One of Shauna’s printed maps shows College Library, so I head that way, cutting through a shady area between buildings, past food carts and stalls selling stuff. Past students. Past a guy in orange coveralls playing a tiny flute. Past crazy guys arguing and two girls hanging up a banner. Past a couple kissing hard, right there on the sidewalk.