Personal Effects

by E. M. Kokie

  “Nothing, really. But, uh, I am kind of in the middle of —”

  “Hey, are these from her? The girlfriend?”

  “Look, Harley, I’m really kind of busy, so —”

  “They are!”

  She reads, her fingers crumpling the stack she’s holding. Drops one onto the wrong pile, shoves a stack off the bed with her knee.

  “Wow. How fucking sad.” She looks up, waving one at me. “She must be seriously depressed. But meeting your brother’s kid went well? Did she call you Uncle Mattie?” she asks with a teasing smile.

  I ignore all the wrong and try to figure out how to get her to put the letters down and leave without looking like an idiot.

  She whistles. Waves her fingers. “Caliente. Seriously, she writes some steamy letters.” She clears her throat, tilts her chin to perform. “. . . I close my eyes and think about your fingers digging into my hips, your lips whispering against my ear, it’s almost —”

  “Enough,” I say, grabbing the letter from her hand. “What is wrong with you?” My hands are shaking. She has to leave.

  Her face goes from entertained to shocked to sad. Her mouth trembles.

  “Sorry, Matt. I was just . . .” She looks at the other letters, puts them down on the bed very carefully. “Sorry,” she says.

  “S’OK.” It’s not, but I just want her gone. She’s part of yesterday, when everything was good.

  “And why does this one have its own protective little bag?”

  “Give it.” I hold my hand out.

  Her eyebrows arch up. Then she turns the bag, examining the label.

  I lunge at her, but she flails away.

  “Stop, or it might rip,” she says, batting away my hand.

  I watch her, my heart pounding. I clench my hands to keep the anger down.

  “Is this . . . It is, isn’t it?” Eyes wide, hands still turning it. “It’s from him! To her!”

  “Give it to me.” I barely recognize my own voice.

  She moves right but then slides across the bed so I can’t reach her. Before I can get around the bed, she has a finger under the fold in the bag.

  “No!” I slap at her hands, grab her wrist and twist.

  “Ow!” she yelps, dropping it.

  I pick it up, smooth the edges. The letter is safe in my hand. I shake off the terror and move across the room.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt it. I just thought —”

  “You don’t get to think, not about this.”

  The right side of the label is ripped just a little. I smooth it down, willing it to fix itself.

  “I was only kidding.”

  I walk around the bed and put it into my backpack, then slide my backpack under the bed.

  “Seriously, Matt.” She walks toward me, and I tense. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d flip. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Matt.” Her hand on my arm. “I’m so sorry. Let me make it up to you, OK?”

  I just want her to leave, so I can think.

  “Want to go to a party?” she asks, eyebrows up, crooked smile.

  “What?” Is she stupid?

  “I’m supposed to meet some friends there. Should be way cool.”

  Does she not get —?

  “Come on. You’re obviously upset. It’ll do you some good to get out of this room for a while. And it’ll give me a chance to make amends. OK?”

  “I don’t think —”

  “Aw, come on. I was just kidding around. It’s fine.” She waves toward the letter. “All tucked away and safe. So . . . what else are you going to do tonight? Come out with me.”

  “Harley, I don’t want —”

  She grabs my hand and bounces next to me. “We don’t even have to stay long, but you really need to blow off some steam. And I owe you. So, you should place yourself in my very, very capable hands for the evening.” She bites her lower lip and looks up at me through sparkly, spiky lashes. “You won’t be sorry.”

  She pounces on me, throwing her arms around my neck and plastering herself to me.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  Her hands slide over my shoulders and she pulls herself up until her face is close to mine, rubbing her tits up and down my chest.

  “Matt? Are you really going to stay here and brood, alone, when you could be out with me? Having fun?” She bites her lower lip again, inches up on her toes. My hands started out warding off her advance, I’m sure, but somewhere along the way they sort of started holding her up.

  She shifts closer, until her hips push against me. I try to pull back but she hangs on, grinning bigger.

  And then she’s kissing me, her lips smashed to mine, her tits squashed between us. Her tongue’s in my mouth. She pulls my head down.

  And then I’m kissing her back, sort of. My tongue’s in the way. She grabs my face, guides me, helping me kiss her better.

  Cigarette smoke and strong perfume.

  But she’s still kissing me, and even wrong smelling, it’s good. I’m grabbing her ass.

  She guides my hand to her tit. Shit. Total handful. She’s getting into it. She winds her arms around my neck and grinds into me. She’s got to feel me, but she pushes up and kisses me harder. Holy shit.

  She shoves against me, forcing me to step back. I keep taking steps until my legs hit the bed.

  “OK,” she says into my mouth. “We’ll stay in.”

  She giggles, smiles up at me. Fuck! Her hands are under my shirt, pushing it up. Whoa! WHOA!

  She pushes me down. Paper crinkles, my hand hits paper, too. The letters.

  Harley reaches out to sweep a pile off the bed. I grab her arm, but she thinks I’m pulling her in and just pushes another pile out of our way.

  Shauna was so careful with the letters. And made the folders and directions and all. Folding the map, holding it to her chest. You’ll have to be nice if you want me to share.

  Harley’s in my lap. Her mouth on mine. Not the right mouth.

  I yank my face to the side and her lips skip across my cheek. She tries to kiss me again. Part of me wants to — wants to bad — but I shove her off me.

  She laughs, but not nice. Mean. Like that first night.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, wiping her mouth.

  I rub my hand across my mouth and cheek. Hate the taste of her. The cigarette smell that fills my nose.

  “You don’t . . .” She stands up, tugging her shirt down.

  “Sorry.” I put more space between us. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I can’t.”

  Maybe I could just shove her out the door.

  “I don’t get it.” She squints up at me. “Felt like you could . . . like you were into it.”

  “Totally not you.” Well, sort of her. “You’re hot as hell.” Her face goes mad. “And sweet and great. But . . . I can’t.” Not with her, but I can’t tell her that. “I’m sort of . . .” She glares. “There’s . . .” I need to get her out of here. “I’m . . . lame. I suck. Sorry. Maybe you should just go.”

  Maybe she’ll be so pissed she’ll leave. And I can go back to kicking myself. Again.

  But she doesn’t move. Just stands there, looking at me. Pissed, I think, but still not moving.

  She pulls a pack of gum out of her pocket. She unwraps and then folds a piece into her mouth, chewing and thinking, shaking her head. She fiddles with the pack. A bit of bright pink catches my eye, a blur on the side of the pack as she rolls it between her fingers.

  I remember what that pink sticker felt like, when I smoothed it down where it wraps over the edge of the pack, in line at the gas station in Illinois.

  The scene on the Terrace flashes back through my head. My backpack wasn’t where I left it after I went — no, after she sent me — in to find popcorn. She was looking for what? Money? My money was in my wallet, but Shauna’s money was in the small, hidden pocket. I checked after Curtis brought it back, but didn’t bother counting it. Looked like it was all there and . . . I
just knew they didn’t take any. If she found it, she didn’t take much. Maybe a few bills?

  “Listen, can you just drive me to the party?” She sounds different. “It’s across town, and I’m running low on cash. I really need to catch up with my friend there.” Her voice is different, hurt, something else. And I don’t care. I stare at the sticker.

  “OK?” she asks.

  Curtis and Celia had my backpack. And they didn’t take anything. Didn’t even look through it.

  “Matt?”

  I finally look at her face. She looks the same, but not.

  “Back for more money?” I ask.

  “What? I don’t know what you —”

  “That’s my gum.”

  She starts to shake her head.

  “The price tag. It’s mine. From my backpack.”

  She looks down. Turns the pack over in her hand. “I didn’t think you’d mind,” she says, flirting again. Fluttery eyes, looking up through her lashes and that crooked smile.

  Yeah. No. Not this time. “Save it.”

  Her innocent smile slides into a smirk. “Ahh.” When she looks up, it’s like she’s someone totally different. Older. Colder. “Got me.” She holds it out to me.

  “Keep it.”

  “Great.” She shakes her head. Chews. Studies the price tag, flicks at the edge with her nail until it tears. “What are you going to do?” she asks, rubbing her forehead with the side of her hand.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  I open the door and wait. Just before she passes through the door, she turns, but I stare past her into the hall until she leaves. Then I count the money. She only got about thirty dollars, but who knows how much more she would have stolen tonight. I don’t think that’s all she wanted, but I’m not stupid — it had to be at least part.

  I carefully put all the letters back in their envelopes in order and then secure them in their bag and put it in my backpack.

  Even after she’s long gone, I can’t get Harley’s smell out of the room — cigarettes and that coconut smell and some kind of perfume. Makes me miss Shauna even more. I haven’t turned my phone on since this morning.

  I’ve already broken the only promise I made to Shauna before I left. But I just can’t talk to her yet. Not with Harley sort of still here. And not before I know what I’m going to do.

  I’ve lied to her enough. She’ll want to know when I’m coming home, and I don’t want to make her any more promises I can’t keep.

  I check T.J.’s letter one more time, just to make sure it’s OK.

  The bag is still sealed down; the letter’s fine. One corner of the label is just a little bit torn. I’ll just tell Curtis it was an accident.

  And instantly I can picture it: handing Curtis the letter. His letter. The letter I came here to deliver. To him, even if I didn’t know it.

  I can hear Dad’s voice in my head, all the things he’d say about Curtis. About those people. Before yesterday I would have laughed. Did Dad say that stuff to T.J.? How many times has Dad called me a fairy or a girl? Pretty boy? I know he called T.J. those things, too. I heard it. God. I close my eyes. How many times did I say faggot or homo or fairy in front of T.J.?

  Yeah. T.J. lied. By not telling me, by all those years not telling me anything, he lied. But did he lie because he thought I’d hate him? On that hike, in the dark, near the fire, or later, in the tent, when he got quiet, did he want to tell me? Or did he think I was just like Dad?

  Curtis said T.J. talked about me, enough that Curtis and Celia acted like they knew me. He couldn’t have been planning to just forget about me if he talked about me. Could he?

  And Curtis said T.J. was supposed to tell me. About him. About them.

  My head is pounding. My eyes burn. I just want to sleep, for like a week. But tomorrow I have to face them again.

  And the day after, or maybe the day after that, I’ll have to face Shauna. And Dad.

  I WAKE UP TIRED AFTER A NIGHT OF FITFUL SLEEP AND taunting nightmares. I run upstairs to piss and find some food. Other than someone using one of the showers, the hostel is quiet.

  Back in my room with a soda and a pack of peanut-butter crackers from the vending machine, I man up to brave my voice mail. I inhale two of the little cracker-sandwiches and half my soda before the phone even finishes spooling through its waking up. But as soon as it’s awake and reconnected to the mother ship, the alerts start popping up: five new voice mails and three new texts.

  I put the phone on speaker, hit the buttons for voice mail, punch in my code, and wait. The annoying voice announces my messages in turn.

  Matt? Shauna. I almost smile, because she does that a lot, pauses like she’s just making sure I’m listening. She huffs into the phone. Frustrated. You said you would call tonight, so I waited up. But it’s late now. Almost three here, so . . . almost two there . . . maybe you’re still out? Well, I’m going to sleep. I’ll leave the phone on vibrate, so call, if you want.

  If I want. So much in that. I delete the message. Message two. Hey. Shauna again. I wince. She’s worried, or pissed. Hard to tell. Where are you? Pissed. Call me. I mean it. I need to hear about last night. . . . I hope everything’s all right and you’re just having fun or something, but . . . if not . . . Just call. Please?

  I close my eyes and hit the delete button. I don’t really want to hear the next, but I let it come anyway.

  Matt. Hello. This is Roger Anders. I left you a message at home the other day, but I haven’t heard from you. Can you please call me as soon as possible? Long pause. Listen, I need to talk to you. . . . The second long pause makes my heart stop. Shit. Does he know I lied to him? It’s Sunday morning. Just call me as soon as you can. Damn.

  I press the button to save the message, and while I’m running through scenarios in my head, the next starts to play. It’s Shauna again. Seriously, Matt, way uncool. Shit. Call me. You owe me that. I’m starting to worry that I should be, like, I don’t know, calling the cops or something. Like we’re wasting precious finding-you-alive time, while I’m thinking you’re ignoring me. So . . . if you do not call by noon, I am totally dialing 911. Or, you know, whatever number I have to call to get the police in Madison.

  OK. So I’ll be calling Shauna. As soon as I’ve listened to the last one.

  Listen. Shauna again. Fuck. Whatever’s going on — your dad was here. He came to my house. Wow. Call me. I think she’s hung up when she makes this growly sound and continues. Deadline still stands. And now I wish I hadn’t said dead, because if you are, I’ll feel bad, maybe, but, whatever . . . I’m still pissed at you. And I’ve had to deal with your dad. So, just call me, you big jerk.

  Before dialing, I look at the texts, too. A couple of short directives to call and one picture from Friday of Shauna making her I’m-serious face next to a “call me” sign. I feel like laughing, but, like, hysterical laughter. I must be cracking up.

  Mr. Anders first, because it’s almost ten a.m. there, and I’m not ready to talk to Shauna. My fingers shake as I scroll back through the calls to find his number. He answers on the second ring, before I’ve even had a chance to brace myself for the conversation.

  “Mr. Anders? Hi, uh, this is Matt? Matt Foster?”

  “Matt! Thank you for calling me back. Listen, I need you to start early. Tomorrow, if you can. Derek and Pauly were in a car accident, not too serious, but they’ll both be off for at least a few weeks. Even with shifting some of the others around, I’m short at least two on the crew working the Southside condo renovation. So, I was hoping you’d be willing to try your hand at some more advanced work.”

  My head tries to process the information. First, I’m not in trouble or losing my job. But he wants me to start tomorrow, and that’s impossible, and so maybe that means I’ve lost it anyway. But renovation work? He’s still talking.

  “. . . it’ll be challenging at times, and the hours can be somewhat longer, but it’s better money, and, well . . . I thought maybe you were ready to give it
a shot. If you want, that is.”

  “Yeah. Yeah! That’d be great. I really appreciate the chance to, uh, do more than paint, to learn, even . . . You really think I can, you know, do more?”

  No response. Maybe we got disconnected? “Yes. You do good work, Matt. And I think you’re ready to try something more advanced, see if you might like this kind of work.”

  “Oh, man, Mr. Anders, that’d be great. Really great. You won’t be sorry. I’ll work really hard and be really, really careful. Promise.”

  “I’m sure you will — work hard and be careful, that is. So, can you start tomorrow?”

  “Uh . . .” I calculate the drive in my head. If I left right now, I could be home by tomorrow morning. But I can’t leave just yet. I haven’t done what I came here to do.

  “Matt?”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . I’m here. It’s just . . .”

  “Are you OK? You’re not . . . hurt, are you? Or . . .”

  “No, I’m fine, but . . . I’m not at home, and I don’t think I can get back in time to start tomorrow.”

  “Where are you? Are you in trouble?”

  Yeah. But not like he thinks. “I’m fine. I’m just . . .” And once Dad is done with me. “Uh, I’m out of town. And it’ll take me until tomorrow afternoon, at least, maybe tomorrow night, to get home. Can I start Tuesday instead?”

  “Yes. Yes, Tuesday is fine.” His breath rushes across the receiver in a gust. “Tuesday will be great. Just come by the house on Henry and I’ll take you over to Southside and introduce you to Raymond. He heads up the crew there. OK?”

  “Great. Thanks, Mr. Anders. I really appreciate this. You won’t be sorry.”

  “I know I won’t, Matt. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  My heart is pounding. I realize I’m squeezing my phone in my hand, and the beeping on and off of the speaker phone reminds me I have another call to make.

  I steel myself for Shauna. It barely rings before Shauna answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  “Hey.” Short.

  “Sorry. About not calling. Things have been . . . Sorry.”