Unclaimed Baggage

by Jen Doll

  The Wachowskis do a double take. I don’t blame them for turning in the opposite direction, toward the souvenir stands. But Doris has plowed ahead to talk to the old guy for some reason. Nell and I wait as Jack begs his parents to let him stay with us.

  “OK, but stick with the big kids,” they tell him. “Absolutely no running off this time. Do you understand?” They look at me and Nell. “Keep an eye on him, OK?”

  We nod, and so does Jack. “I won’t even walk off, either,” he says.

  We join Doris, who’s chatting to the guy dressed up like a Confederate soldier about the stray balloon sighting we had over by the woods this morning. I want to ask him about his outfit, and why he’s wearing it in the twenty-first century, but I can’t get a word in. “Not mine!” he says of the missing balloon. “We tie her down real good every night.”

  “I think it really was the Planned Parenthood balloon!” I say, but no one pays any attention because this guy, who introduces himself as Earl, has offered to take the four of us for a ride in his balloon “for the low, low price of five dollars for teens, and the kid rides for free.” Doris whispers that we should do it, to show Nell another side of the South.

  “Plus, information gathering!” she says.

  Nell is unsure. “What’s up with the whole Civil War thing?” she asks.

  Earl hears her and launches into his spiel. “You gotta have a shtick, you know? Everybody wants more than just the standard balloon ride. The deal is, I’m a Confederate soldier, and we’re going up for surveillance, just like they did in the old days, except now we’ve got a bit more power and, luckily, less war,” he says. “Get ready to take a peek over yonder at enemy lines.” He eyes Jack. “Kid, can you behave yourself up there in the air? You’ll do what I say? No funny business, like trying to climb over the edge or throw stuff over? Don’t tell me how old you are. I don’t want to know.”

  “He’s very small for his age,” I say. “He’s actually in college. Pre-med.”

  Jack nods vigorously. “I promise I’ll be good.” He holds up his pinky.

  “Ah, ye olde pinky swear. Yer speakin’ my language. Hop in, then, quick,” says Earl, and helps Doris and Nell and Jack and finally me into the basket.

  He points to a woman down on the field who’s waving sweetly as she releases the remaining ties keeping the balloon on the ground. “Betty Lou. Love of my durn life.” He blows her a kiss, which she catches and pretends to put in the pocket of her old-timey petticoat.

  “Hey, buddy, watch this,” I tell Jack, pointing to Earl’s deft management of the balloon’s internal components. The guy may look like the ghost of a Confederate soldier, but he knows what he’s doing. Jack shouts in glee as fire shoots from little burners into the opening of the balloon, and pretty soon we’re sweeping through the field, lifting gently as we go. The surge of power comes with a rush of sound that makes it hard to talk, so we grow quiet, mesmerized by objects below getting smaller and smaller.

  “We’re flying!” shouts Nell, pointing out her parents, shrinking in our view, on the ground: “Look, Jack, there’s Mom and Dad!” We yell and scream, and they probably can’t hear us, but they’re watching, so they wave as we swing higher into the air.

  Then we’re simply floating, suspended in time, the quiet punctuated by Earl letting off occasional bursts of heat to keep the balloon steady. I’m more at peace than I’ve felt in a long time, happy to watch everything go by and listen to Earl’s talk about how it works.

  “I pull the cord here, see,” he says, “and that makes us go lower. But if I punch the gas on the burners, we’ll lift up again. Hot-air balloons were used in the Civil War for aerial reconnaissance and artillery spotting. That’s a fancy way of sayin’ it let people see who was comin’, and how best to fight ’em. Spies flew some of these, and information was transported this way, too.”

  Doris and Nell are pointing out various town sites, living in real time instead of the past.

  “There’s the wave pool,” Nell says. “And the waterslide!” We move out over the river for a few minutes, gazing down at the brown water, and Doris claims she sees a water moccasin, which makes Nell scream.

  “Look, Grant!” Doris says, pointing to a rescue crew with a cherry picker trying to free the balloon we saw earlier from the tree it got snagged on.

  On the way back, we take a spin over town, getting close enough to see the sloping tops of our houses.

  “There’s Unclaimed,” says Doris, pointing to the gray metal roof of the store. We all gaze at it, thinking about how, if it were another day, we might be inside that building working. Either way, I realize, we’d be finding things.

  All too soon, it’s done; we’re heading back down again. Jack peers eagerly over the edge of the basket, the tip of his nose barely clearing it.

  We land with a light bump, and quickly Betty Lou and a younger man with a beard and his own gray suit are securing the basket and Earl is helping us out. We each accept his hand and jump lightly onto the grass, then thank him and walk away in a daze. People are clamoring to get on board next.

  “That was awesome,” I say.

  “It was pretty cool,” agrees Doris. “I love that you can see so much from up there! Stuff you’d never see from any other vantage point.”

  “Totally,” says Nell, but she looks concerned. “I still don’t get it, though. Why is he a Confederate balloonist? Are there Union balloonists, too?”

  “Not in Alabama!” says Doris.

  “Some people around here are really into Civil War history,” I explain. “And some of those people say the South will rise again, or whatever. I had one teacher call it ‘the War of Northern Aggression.’ And a lot of Civil War battle reenactments really do have the South winning.”

  “Isn’t that kind of racist?” asks Nell.

  “Yes,” says Doris.

  “Well, it’s heritage,” I say. “It’s our history. It’s a way of teaching people about what happened—”

  “The thing is, Earl is harmless, and he’s doing it for business, not because he actually believes ‘the South should rise again,’” interrupts Doris. “If he’d been spouting off nonsense like that, I never would have agreed to get in his balloon. But if you’re wearing a Civil War uniform, you’re still pretending to be someone who fought to keep slavery legal in America. You may not ‘mean’ to support it, but you are. And how do you think people who aren’t white feel when they see that guy in that uniform? Aren’t there ways of teaching—and, for that matter, running a business—that don’t include that?”

  Nell is nodding. “Ashton would definitely feel weird going up in that balloon. And so should we.”

  “You have a point,” I say. “I didn’t think about it like that. Hey, did you know that a bunch of people protested the Confederate flag hanging outside the courthouse this spring, and a couple months ago, they actually took it down?”

  Doris smiles at him. “I was part of that protest.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” I ask. We share a look, and the odd thing is, I kind of want to kiss her again, and maybe not just her hand.

  “Then shouldn’t we have said something to him?” asks Nell. “Like, told him what he was doing was wrong?”

  Doris smiles. “Probably. But sometimes it’s good to get organized first. And I have an idea for a new protest now.”

  “Hell yeah,” I say. “I’ve never been part of a protest.”

  “I’m so in,” says Nell.

  Our next stop is the funnel cake truck.

  “Now, this is a tradition I can get behind,” says Doris.

  “Me too,” says Nell.

  “Me three,” says Jack.

  I order two with extra powdered sugar and chocolate syrup—they’re big enough to share. The woman taking the order gives me a wink.

  “You got it, hon,” she says, and throws in a bag of powdered-sugar-covered fried cast-off dough for free. “A man has to eat! All that football!” We walk away carrying our load of go
odies, which we split four ways between us. As we lie on the grass licking powdered sugar off our fingertips, I think about how some traditions are worth keeping, while others need to end immediately so new, better ones can start. Or as Jack said yesterday, Every shtick has a use-by date.

  35

  Nell

  None of us wants to leave the balloon festival, but Grant and Doris promise we’ll all come back together next year. Meanwhile, a tent has been set up in the middle of the field to help crowdfund for repairs to what really does turn out to be the Planned Parenthood balloon. We head over to make our donations, and Doris tells a woman named Alanna about how she and Grant saw the wayward balloon this morning and reported it. “Finding things, it’s kind of a talent of hers,” says Grant, and Doris blushes. By the time we leave, we’ve told them all about Unclaimed Baggage. They’re planning a trip to the store before they head back to New York City, where they’re from.

  “Where do you even keep a hot-air balloon in New York City?” asks Grant.

  “Manhattan Mini Storage,” says Alanna. “None of us have an apartment big enough to fit this baby!” She pats the side of the balloon. We sit for a while and listen to the group tell stories about their adventures: They travel to different festivals around the country to help educate people about sexual health, she says. After New York, their next stop is Taos, New Mexico. “It’s fun, but it’s also genuinely useful,” Alanna explains. “Meeting people face-to-face and having real conversations is the best way to share what we do, and to really help those who need us. Otherwise everyone has these preconceived ideas. And the internet gets in the way as much as it connects sometimes!” I nod. I’ve seen how things can get ugly in the comments, even on the store Instagram.

  Alanna is giving her business card to Doris. “Let’s stay in touch,” she says. “I’d love to repay you for the favor somehow!”

  “Aw, it was nothing,” says Doris, smiling.

  Grant’s gazing longingly at the balloon. “Part of me wishes we could come with you,” he says quietly, and Doris gives him this look, almost like she’s seeing him for the first time.

  I imagine the roving balloonist life, the literal highs and lows, the fresh air that never stops. But I’d miss Ashton, and my friends—old and new. For me, well, I think I like to keep my feet firmly planted on the earth. With occasional perspective-shifting trips to see things from above ground level, that is.

  As we’re packing stuff in the trunk of Doris’s car to head back to our houses, my phone emits a special ring. There’s that picture I love, and the emoji with the heart eyes.

  “Ashton’s back from camp!” I yell, and answer. “Hi! Oh my God, I missed you! How are you? It’s been FOREVER!”

  Doris and Grant roll their eyes and smile. I know I’m being a total cheeseball, but Ashton’s voice is all that matters for the moment. The whole way back to my house, I talk to him nonstop about the balloon festival and our adventures, including going up in the air with a guy wearing a Confederate uniform.

  “Yikes,” he says. “So that stuff you hear about the South is true, huh? You sure it’s safe for me to come visit?”

  “Yes!” I say. “It’s not all like that. A lot of things are great. You’ll see.”

  He tells me how he got the MVP award at camp, and that his coaches think he has a shot at playing for a Division I team in college.

  “It was awesome,” he says. “But I missed hearing your voice. Hey, what do your parents say about my trip? Is Jack ready to try to beat me at Lego Star Wars?”

  “Totally,” I tell him, which is a lie because I haven’t told them yet. But I will. I change the subject. “What do you want to do while you’re here?” I ask.

  “Maybe we can go to that water park you told me about,” he says. “The wave pool sounds fun. And I want to see the store! And meet your friends.”

  “They want to meet you, too,” I say, and Doris and Grant smile and nod.

  “And I want to just hang out with you,” he says, his voice getting softer.

  “I want to just hang out with you,” I croon back. I close my eyes and imagine his face, and we murmur back and forth to each other until I realize the car has stopped moving. I open my eyes. We’re at my house, and Doris and Grant are peering over the front seats at me in the back, my phone cuddled up to my face.

  “Oops,” I say.

  “I really can’t wait to be properly introduced to this guy,” says Grant. “He seems very compelling.”

  “Should we tell him she’s having a secret, passionate affair with her phone?” Doris asks.

  “Hey, Ash, I gotta go,” I say. “I’m being mocked mercilessly for being happy.”

  “OK, Pony,” he says. “Counting the days till I see you!”

  I hang up. “So, do you two monsters want to come over?” I ask my friends. “We can hang out in the playhouse and eat the rest of my mom’s potato salad. She ended up bringing a tub of it home after all. She’ll be thrilled if she doesn’t have to look at it in the fridge anymore.”

  “Signs point to yes,” says Doris.

  36

  Doris

  The next day, I’m back in my car, listening to this awesome crashy-yelly song called “Debaser” by the Pixies, an indie group that was popular in the ’90s. Cat got me hooked on the band when a shipment came in that included a whole stack of their records and she started playing them in the store. It’s kind of weird, but I love it. Even though I don’t really sing, I sing to this one, because it’s just about saying the words as loud as you can.

  I crank it up and shout along, and even though it’s Alabama-July hot outside, I open up the windows because I want to feel the air around me, warm as it is, to let the air in and the music out and feel alive. I’m on my way to Unclaimed Baggage. Red has asked me to come in to move some fresh merchandise out to the front. With the balloon folks in town, we’ve been selling more than usual—T-shirts and camping equipment and a ton of rope, but also toiletries and books and even some cooking stuff. I stop at a red light, and the woman in the car next to me looks at me in surprise, like I’m some ridiculous kid blasting my obnoxious tunes, and I realize it’s Grant’s mother. She waves at me, and I think she wants me to stop so she can say something, but I don’t—I can’t, I shake my head, I have to keep going. I know too much about her son to be caught in conversation with her; I’m a girl with the gift of gab, and I’m afraid I might spill. She slows down and, uh-oh, she’s getting in a lane behind me, following me.

  I divert my route, hoping to lose her. I turn left at the church instead of right, and by the time I’m at the Family Mart, I think she’s gone. But as I reach the Unclaimed parking lot, there she is, Mrs. Collins in her shiny minivan. She’s a smart lady. Of course she could have guessed that was where I was going.

  “Hey, Doris,” she says, rolling down the passenger side window and leaning across the seat to talk to me. It looks like she’s not going to get out, which I take as a good sign. “Where’s the fire? I coulda sworn you were trying to lose me back there.”

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. Collins,” I say, pushing my sunglasses onto the top of my head. “I had to make a quick stop before getting to the store! There’s an … inventory emergency.”

  “The store is closed today, isn’t it? That’s what Grant told me.” She raises her eyebrows like she’s scared she’s going to catch him in a lie.

  “That’s right. Red asked me to swing by specially, so I could replenish the floor for tomorrow. The balloon people are buying everything!”

  She looks relieved. “Ah, don’t let me stop you,” she says, and waves a manicured hand.

  I roll up my windows and grab my bag from the passenger seat and am locking the doors to my car when I notice Mrs. Collins hasn’t moved. She’s staring straight out at the pavement in front of her. I hope Grant’s fainting spells aren’t some kind of hereditary thing. I wave “bye” at her, but when she doesn’t respond, I get a little concerned. I go over to the driver’s side window and knock on
it, doing that universal sign for “roll down the window, please?” She does.

  “Oh, Doris,” she says, and I can see her eyes are red and puffy, like she’s been crying. “I’m just so worried. Tell me Grant’s OK? I feel like you’re one of the only people who really knows him. I wish I’d had girls. Girls are so much easier to understand. How is he doing? What does he talk about? Does he seem happy?”

  I want to tell her that Grant does seem happier. And better. Of course, there was the weird incident at the campground, and part of me thinks I should talk to his mom about that. What if he’s really sick? But the nurse said he was fine. And the truth is, maybe I don’t want Grant’s mom to suspect anything’s wrong with him because that would mean he’d be able to spend less time with me. At work or out of it.

  “Oh, he’s doing great!” I say. “He’s so much fun to have around. He’s a hard worker, too. You should see how many boxes he can carry at a time.…” I’m burbling a bunch of meaningless nonsense, but she’s smiling, so maybe it’s helping.

  “That’s so nice to hear. You and … what’s your other friend’s name? The one who works with you and Grant?”

  “Nell.”

  “You and Nell should come over for dinner. I’d like to meet her! We need to spend more time with Grant’s friends,” she says. “He talks about you.”

  “That would be nice,” I answer, wondering what Grant Collins is telling his mother about us, and whether she means “you” in the plural or the singular sense. Does Grant Collins talk about me, Doris Dailey? I can’t ask that any more than I can tell his mom he blacked out at the campsite. Or about his playhouse confession.

  So even though I don’t know if I believe this, I say, “Mrs. Collins. Everything will work out OK. It will.” I want this to be true so badly, I can feel myself trying to will it into being. I want it to be more than OK. I want it to be good. For me and Grant. And wanting matters. It has to.