Personal Effects (33 page)

S
TANDING ON THE BACK PORCH
, I
STARE THROUGH THE
window in the door at my father sitting at the kitchen table.

The letters have been organized into neater stacks around him, and he’s hunched over the table, staring down at something in front of him.

I am weirdly calm. Scared shitless, but calm. Maybe this is what it feels like to be bracing for war.

He looks up when I close the door, but doesn’t turn his head until I’m even with him. His first look morphs lightning fast, too fast to understand, stealing my calm.

“Where you been?”

“Got back earlier. Stopped home. Then ran by Shauna’s . . . in case she needed the car.”

He stares at me. Unmoving.

On the table in front of him, framed by his hands, is the red bag and T.J.’s stuff from the morning of the funeral. Everything’s laid out in a neat row, including the medallion.

I force myself to look at him.

The silence is dense.

I focus on the medallion.

“Where’d you go?” he asks.

“Madison, Wisconsin.”

“Why?”

His voice is too calm, makes me shiver. “Deliver a letter.”

“To?”

“T.J.’s boyfriend.”

He jolts in his chair. I go on before I can lose my nerve.

“I mean, I thought it was a letter to a girlfriend, and there were all these other letters that I thought were from her, and I thought . . . but when I got out there, it was for her brother . . .” I swallow. “Curtis.” Dad flinches. “His name is Curtis.”

His fingers flex, but he doesn’t lift his hands from around the stuff. Too calm. It hits me.

“You knew.” Pounding in my ears. “You knew, didn’t you?”

He looks away, his jaw clenches and releases. “I didn’t
know.
”

“But you . . . suspected?”

“When he was a kid, I thought maybe, and then later, but . . .” He sits back a little and rubs his hand over his face before continuing. “Your brother never said anything.”

“And you didn’t ask.”

“No.”

“Why?”

He stares at me. Shifts his jaw. Then answers. “I didn’t want to know.”

“But why, why did you think, I mean, what . . . ?”

He leans all the way back in his seat, folds his arms over his chest. Just when I think he won’t answer, he does. “Dan.”

“Dan?” I rack my brain, flip through my memories, trying to see it. Dan and T.J. were friends forever, as long as I can remember. But even in all those times they kicked me out of the room or I sat in the hallway trying to hear through the door, there’s nothing that I can say would have tipped me off, even now.

Dad’s chair creaks. “Few weeks before T.J. enlisted. I saw them. Together.”

My eyes bug out.

“Not like that,” Dad says roughly, disgusted. “Nothing like that. Just . . .” He exhales hard, waving his hand in front of him, then drops it back to the table.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He shrugs, like I just asked what he had for lunch. “He knew I had seen them.”

“But you didn’t talk about it? You didn’t ask? You —”

He shakes his head.

“Why? Why would you —?”

“I figured the Army would take care of it, and if not . . .”

“Take care of it?” Shit. “Like what, knock the gay out of him?”

He drops his chin into his chest. “And if not, I didn’t want to know.”

“And later, all those times he was home on leave? Leaving again, going back to war, when he might never come back?” My voice cracks, and I grip the counter behind me to steady myself. “You didn’t even ask? To try to understand? For him?”

Tension flows through him. He slowly shakes his head from side to side.

“And now?”

The silence stretches between us. Finally, he opens his mouth. “If he chose to be . . . like that, then I didn’t want to know. But . . .” Dad turns his face away from me. His shoulders tremble. When he turns to face me again, he looks so old: eyes sunken, face lined, lips thinned out and pale. His hand strays as if he’s gonna touch something, but his fingers fall to the table and stop a couple of inches from T.J.’s dog tags. He swallows hard. “Knowing anything would be better than . . .”

I can’t look. His hitching breaths ignite the terror at the base of my skull, but everything else screams for calm. I’m not going anywhere. From the corner of my eye, I see him touch the tags.

“I’m not going to enlist.” His hand jerks, fingers pushing the dog tags out of line. “No matter what you do, I’m not doing it. So, if you’re thinking about kicking my ass every day until I do, we might as well start now. But I’m never going to do it.”

He gently lifts the dog tags and lays them on the table back in their place, straightens the chain and pats it down.

He tilts his head, strokes the chain. Shakes his head, like he’s arguing with himself. Or making up my side of the fight. My heart pounds, pulse loud in the quiet kitchen. A week ago I’d have been ready to bolt. Now I have to stay.

He finally stops muttering to himself. But his clenched jaw says the fight is far from over.

“I’m not enlisting,” I say again, stronger.

“Then what —?”

“I don’t know. But not that.”

I tense for it, whatever is gonna happen now. Hoping I don’t run as soon as he moves.

I hold my ground. “I’m not enlisting. And I’m not going to college, either,” I say, going for broke.

“Then —”

“At least, not right away,” I add fast. “Maybe later. I don’t know. But not right away.”

His hands clench. Unclench. Clench. He glares. I don’t look away.

He’s not backing down. But he’s not trying to kill me, either. I’m not stupid; he’s not giving up. But I said it, and I’m still here.

His chair scrapes back from the table and I shudder with the sound, but my feet stay rooted to the floor.

He leans back in his chair. Then nods to the chair next to him.

I take the three long steps across the kitchen and sink into it. My legs tremble under the table.

He stares at me, like he’s just realized I’m sitting there.

“I’m not going.” Anywhere.

He wraps his arms across his chest. A rumble of sneering, sad laughter. “What, then? Because you’re in serious danger of pissing your life away.”

“I was thinking maybe building? Construction? Something like that?”

“You’re pissing away your chances and gonna have fuck-all to show for —”

“I’m not.” I flinch and lean away, then look. He’s puffed up but not swinging. “I’m not gonna just be some loser. But . . .”

“And your girlfriend? Think she’s gonna be happy working all her life? Both of you busting your butts just to make ends meet?”

The question hits me like a fist.

“Whatever else, Shauna has a chance to make something of herself. You gonna hold her back? Make her struggle while you work a series of dead-end jobs? Seriously, Matt. Where is your head? You’re on a one-way ticket to nowhere, and I am not gonna let that happen.”

His fist hits the table. I jump.

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m gonna figure something out. Maybe talk to Mr. Anders. Something. Something that I’d be good at that wouldn’t make me want to kill myself.”

I hold still under his scrutiny.

“Dad . . . I’m not T.J. And I’m not you.” I don’t know who I am yet. “Can’t you see that? And just let me . . . let me have a couple years to . . . figure it out? Figure out . . .”

We sit in silence. Me waiting, him having some conversation in his head.

“You
are
going to pick it up next year,” he says finally. “Come up with a plan, a plan that gives you a future. And you’re gonna have to hustle to make sure you have enough credits to graduate, since you failed Spanish.”

“Huh? I thought . . . the hold, since I didn’t pay yet, I didn’t think . . . They sent my report card? Or . . .”

“I paid for the case,” Dad says, nodding his head to the side. “All of it. Told Pendergrast you were visiting family for a few weeks. That you needed a break.”

Wow.

“Don’t get used to it. You screw up again, and you can clean up your own mess. And you’ll be handing over every single paycheck until you pay me back. You hear?”

“Yeah.” Wow. Failed Spanish, not surprising, but does that mean I passed everything else? “So, my report card?”

“On your desk. And clean that room. It’s a sty. If you want to be treated like a man, start acting like one. Take responsibility. Follow through. And don’t think I’m gonna let up on you. Not for one minute. I’m not gonna let you float through next year and then get some job after graduation and piss away your money and live here free. You can forget that.”

God, I hope I’m not still living here a year from now. That will be priority number one: find a job that pays well enough so I don’t have to live here.

“Understand?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m not going to let up about college, either. You
are
going to make something of yourself, if I have to stay on your case twenty-four/seven. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” I’ve taken the battle, but the war’s far from over, and next time he’ll have reinforcements and maybe even forget that he’s happy I’m home. Yeah. I get it:
Embrace the suck.

I stare at the stuff in front of Dad. A few weeks ago, I would have done pretty much anything just to hold this stuff, maybe have the knife, the dog tags. Now as much as I’d still like to have these things, they’re nothing compared to what I already have. Except for one thing. And it’s not for me.

I reach out and pick up the medallion from in front of Dad. Close my fist around it so the cord hangs free but the medallion presses into my palm.

His hand slaps over my wrist like a vise.

I don’t let go.

“Drop it.”

No. Not even when it starts to hurt.

When he twists my wrist, I yank back, hurtling out of my chair, which clatters to the floor behind me.

“We owe it to him,” I say, trying to hold my ground. “To T.J. and to Curtis.”

“I don’t owe that . . .” He swallows the rest, but doesn’t let go.

“What, Dad? That fag?”

“Shut your mouth.”

He wrenches my arm, tries to get it behind me, but I won’t let him, twisting with him, like T.J. taught me to. It hurts. It hurts like hell. But I’m not letting go.

Too much. I yelp.

Dad lets go. I stumble to the table, the medallion still in my hand. I stand up, catching my breath, looking at the medallion on my palm.

He leaps at me but I jump back, clutching it.

“Don’t make me fight you, old man.”

He stops cold, and stares like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“I will, if I have to, for T.J.” I shift my feet, try to get a better stance. And when I realize he’s not coming at me, I carefully put the medallion in my pocket. He watches my hand and then looks at my face again, blinking a dozen times.

“It doesn’t mean anything to us,” I say. “But it will to him.” And so will that box, black-and-white, meant for that apartment in Madison.

Dad deflates. And I’m still standing.

The clock in the living room dongs, and time starts again.

My stomach growls loud enough for even Dad to hear.

He shakes his head. Laughs a little. Then his face shifts into a sneer. A growl rumbles deep in his throat. “I can still take you. Anytime I want. Don’t think I can’t.”

I laugh, out loud, for the first time in this house in as long as I can remember — maybe since T.J. last sat here at this table with us — because the thought never crossed my mind.

Dad’s hand lands on my shoulder. His grip is too hard, his fingers too rough, but it doesn’t make me flinch. Not at all.

Pizza has never tasted so good. Not even the silence at the counter, both of us eating standing up, can ruin it. And when Dad retreats to the living room, I hear him pause, curse under his breath, and then head upstairs. I bet he gets a new TV tomorrow.

I drag my duffel and backpack down to my room. I could sleep for a week. But I’m only gonna get the one night. Gotta work in the morning. And before sleep, I’ve gotta call Shauna.

But before all that, there’s one more thing I have to do.

I dig through my backpack until I find the envelope of pictures from Curtis. I flip through them until I get to the one of T.J., on the hike, looking so much like he did on that mountain fourteen months ago.

I walk over to my desk and turn on the light. I fish three of the pushpins out of my drawer. I push the green one back into its ghost-hole at the start of the trail in Georgia. I trace my finger over the trail of holes up the map, and then push the red pin into the hole marking the end of the trek in Maine.

Next to it, I tack the picture of T.J.

A debut novel is a milestone, an event to be savored and shared. I am grateful for the love, encouragement, and support of many, many people, most of whom know who they are. Special thanks are due as follows:

First, I wish to thank all those who have served in our armed forces, and their families. I especially wish to thank those LGBTQ service members who served under “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” including the over 13,000 military personnel who were discharged because their sexual orientation became known. I owe special thanks to those who have written and spoken publicly about their experience serving under “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” I also thank those who have shared their experiences, publicly and privately, as casualty assistance officers, casualty notification officers, staff of the Joint Personal Effects Depot, and as the family or friends of deceased service members. They helped me understand the amazing work done by those charged with handling the persons and effects, as well as notifying and assisting the families of service members killed in action. They have my profound gratitude for their work, for their service, for their sacrifices, and for their willingness to share their experiences. While I have made every effort to accurately reflect how T.J.’s family would have been notified of his death, how his remains and effects would have been handled, and to show (within Matt’s very limited point of view) some of the assistance that would have been offered to his family, I have, of course, fictionalized those events. Any errors, shortcomings, or aberrations are mine.