Unclaimed Baggage

by Jen Doll

  “I was hoping you could ring me up,” she says.

  “Byron could have done that,” I say, and she shakes her head. “I wanted it to be you.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask.

  “Well,” she says, “I owe you an apology.”

  I’m inclined to think I’ve entered a parallel universe. Grant and Nell are watching, and they seem as befuddled as I am.

  “I’ve thought long and hard about what happened at the balloon festival. I wondered why you’d say those un-Christianlike things, and I took my concerns to Pastor John. He reminded me that your aunt Stella, God rest her troubled soul, had a huge influence on you. It’s hard to repair that sort of damage, so I decided not to take it personally. You simply need to be in the presence of people who know the right way forward. People who are bound for the Kingdom of Heaven, not … the other place.”

  “What I said wasn’t about my aunt,” I tell her. “It was about what happened on the waterslide. That boy—Teddy Scruggs—groped me. I told him to stop, and he didn’t.” I speak the way I wish I could have the day it happened. “And you didn’t do anything about it. You took his side. Stella was the only one who defended me. Why would she be in hell for doing the right thing?”

  Despite her professed desire to say she’s sorry, Mrs. Stokes gets her panties in a wad fast. “You must not have told me what really happened,” she says.

  “I was a kid! I had just been assaulted!” I say. “You didn’t seem open to listening. In fact, you’d made up your mind that what Teddy told you was the truth.”

  “Well,” she says. “Let’s not go overboard, using that word, assault. That boy was a member of the church. He didn’t hurt you.”

  “He didn’t hurt me?” I ask. She doesn’t get it at all. Not one bit.

  “All those priests who molested little boys were ‘members of the church,’ too,” interjects Grant. I want to hug him for being on my side.

  “Just because you’re a member of a church doesn’t mean you’re a good person,” adds Nell.

  “And you can be a good person without ever being a member of a church,” I say. “Like my aunt Stella.”

  “Like Doris,” says Grant.

  Byron’s come over to see what’s going on, and he’s got my back, too. “It’s also not real nice to go around saying people have gone to hell because they believe in a different religion than you do, or because they don’t go to church,” he tells her. “I may not be a Bible scholar, but I can tell you that.”

  Mrs. Stokes crosses her arms in annoyance and stomps one foot, like a child. “Pastor John says we should open our hearts to sinners. Conversion of nonbelievers only makes the Kingdom of Heaven greater. That’s what I’m trying to do, if y’all would just let me. Why are you being so difficult?”

  “So you’re not here to apologize, you’re here to try to convert Doris?” asks Grant.

  “I’m here to try to save her,” she says. “And with that windfall you’ve come into, perhaps you want to donate something to help others, too? Your ten-dollar bill”—she sniffs—“at the balloon festival was appreciated, but now it seems you’re in the position to be a lot more generous.” She’s talking about the coins, and suddenly I understand her real reason for wanting to apologize, for coming in at all. “You, too, Grant, are welcome back to the fold at any time.” She gazes over at Nell and gestures in a way I’m sure she thinks is generous. “The Yankee can come, too.”

  I try not to laugh at her sheer audacity as I ring up a new pair of ballet flats (Mrs. Stokes must have hundreds), a copy of the King James Bible, a dog collar, and a plastic chew toy shaped like a bone. “Did you get a dog?” I ask, just to change the subject.

  “Yes,” she says. “Animals are special, aren’t they?”

  “Well, dog is God spelled backward,” offers Grant.

  Instead of responding to him, Mrs. Stokes gives me the very same look she gave me back at the water park, as if she was seeing something dirty and unforgivable. “Your aunt wasn’t so perfect, you know.”

  “What are you talking about?” interjects Nell. “Her aunt died trying to save two kids at a beach in France!”

  Mrs. Stokes is bagging her own items, refusing Byron’s help. She’s pissed we haven’t been more amenable to her attempt to smooth things over. She’s probably even more pissed I haven’t promised her the gold coins for the church, but they’re not mine to give—not that I’d turn them over to her if they were. I can’t wait for her to leave the store and take her attitude with her, but before she does, there’s a final shot. “You should ask your mother about your aunt,” she tells me. “You might as well know the truth. You’re practically an adult now. It’s high time they treated you like one.”

  She hustles out in a huff, and I’m left staring at my friends and wondering what Mrs. Stokes knows about Stella, and if it’s something I want to find out at all.

  Luckily, if there’s one thing it’s near impossible to ruin your appetite for, it’s Ruby’s.

  41

  Nell was right: The purple suitcase was, in its own way, a MacGuffin, though it was never owned by someone named Daphne. It was an object that had captivated Doris and Nell, and impelled them, especially Doris, to action. She wanted to find out what it was about, what its story was, and why. You can’t always judge a suitcase by its cover. You have to open it up, dig around, investigate, make assumptions that may or may not be proved true. You have to trust your instincts and keep looking.

  The suitcase—which bore no trace of its owner’s name or the tracking tags that would have shown exactly where it had gone, and when—was quickly forgotten, a trail too cold to bother with, in favor of the bag of coins. Money is certainly a MacGuffin, particularly to people who are less intrigued by the story and more thrilled by the idea of what a lost and found treasure might be worth, and who would lay claim to it. This monetary mystery motivated people from all over the country to follow the news closely as more information was revealed, and to make wild and speculative offers on the bag of coins, even once Red said it was not for sale.

  The appraisal had come in, and the coins had their own story. They were artifacts, with a history all their own, and they were priceless. They would be donated to a museum, Red declared, so other people could see them and hear their story, too.

  Maria Lopez explained it all in a segment watched immediately by townspeople and, soon after, by curious people around the world who’d heard of the discovery and wanted to know more. “The mystery has been solved!” said Maria into the camera, in a special report from news headquarters. “The gold Coronet Head twenty-dollar Double Eagles and silver Seated Liberty Half Dollars found by three Alabama teenagers while unpacking luggage at the store Unclaimed Baggage were part of a stash of shipwrecked gold that in total might be worth as much as one hundred eighty million dollars in today’s currency! The boat, the SS Republic, sank during a hurricane off the Georgia coast in 1865, roughly six months after the Civil War ended. It was carrying Reconstruction-era coins and other precious artifacts—including pickles!” Maria stopped and gave a big wink to the camera. “No pickles were found in the suitcase.”

  The video of Maria talking to the three teenagers, and her follow-up once the coins were appraised and the mystery solved (insofar as it could be), went viral. The clips were seen by more people, in fact, than the amount of dollars the discovered coins were worth. But the numbers were close, and what something’s worth varies, after all. It’s really just a matter of who wants it the most, and what they’re willing to pay.

  Of course, the story went further than any newscasters or journalists or TV watchers, or even the teenagers who found the coins, would ever know—it always does. The legend of the lost coins had been handed down, generation by generation, within an old Southern family. One of their ancestors had been on the ship. He had died in a lifeboat after trying to save others, and his bones had sunk along with his gold. It was a story about courage and heroism but also a reminder of the desolation and
degradation of war, how hard it is to build but how easy, and wasteful, it is to destroy.

  Then the shipwreck had been discovered in 2003. The coins were no longer lore but reality. A dedicated investigator had returned them to the Scruggs family. But most of the family members didn’t care about the legacy—all they wanted was what they considered their share of the gold, so they could buy fast cars or big houses or who knows what. It was a matter of bitter estrangement and infighting, and it had torn the family apart. Harvey Scruggs was ninety-five years old; he’d been the keeper of the coins since they’d been found. He hadn’t seen fit to pass them on to his weak-willed son, or to his son’s son, who was even worse, and certainly not to his seventeen-year-old great grandson, Teddy, who even without the coins might well bring shame to the family name. Perhaps he already had.

  Harvey was sick of the family dysfunction, and he was also plain sick. He had cancer, and at his age, he wasn’t a good candidate for the usual treatments. He didn’t have much more time. He took this fairly well. “Heavens, I’m ninety-five,” he told his doctor, who was a kind woman and a sympathetic listener. Scruggs almost considered giving the coins to her, if only he could be sure his ungrateful family wouldn’t get wind of it and cause her no end of pain. “I’ve lived a good, long life. My wife is gone. My friends are gone. My only living family members are bent on harassing me for money. All I really want to do now is lie on the beach in Mexico, drink cold beer and eat really good guacamole, and spend a little time in peace.”

  The doctor nodded. “Maybe you should.”

  It took a while—air travel was so much more complicated than it used to be, what with the new security measures. And where did a ninety-five-year-old man even start to think about getting a fake passport, or forged travel documents? But Harvey had come up with his plan, and he’d done it. He’d flown from Huntsville to Tucson, and in Tucson he’d simply left his bag—one he thought would never be traced to an old man—at baggage claim. He’d carefully removed any identifying stickers, and he’d walked right out of the airport. He left the coins in their hiding place, a secret compartment he’d built himself in that bag, and felt a wave of serenity fall upon him. A driver met him and took him to Nogales, Arizona. He walked across the border himself, and a second driver picked him up and drove him farther south. He kept traveling, ending up in Bahía de Kino, where he ate guacamole daily and lay on the beach and occasionally visited an internet café to see if there was any news about the coins. Maybe he’d stay put; maybe he’d move on. He was playing everything by ear. But he hoped the coins would eventually be found and treated properly by someone. He felt that would restore his faith in humanity.

  Meanwhile, his family could duke it out on their own. He’d left an updated will in his house and another one with his lawyer. His property would be divided among his family members when he died. But the coins, he specified, would go to whoever had found them.

  Finally it happened. He saw the headline he’d been waiting for, and he breathed in deep when he saw his name wasn’t mentioned at all. They had no idea. Maybe they never would. He couldn’t help smiling as he watched the clip featuring pretty Maria Lopez and the teenagers who’d discovered the coins. Maria had asked the dark-haired girl what she’d do with the money, if it were hers. She’d discussed using it to pay for her college education, and maybe to start a charity in honor of her aunt, who’d died while trying to save two children from drowning. “I want to do things to connect people, like she did,” the girl said. Scruggs beamed. His spoiled great-grandson would never have thought to do something like that with the money.

  It all supported what the old man had by now come to believe: Sometimes you had to give something up to get what you really wanted in the first place.

  42

  Doris

  Today is an occasion, so I put on the flowery dress my mom bought me a while back that I still haven’t worn. She smiles when she sees me in it and helps cut off the tags. I haven’t yet brought up what Mrs. Stokes said about Stella. Nell and Grant and even Byron all think it was just the rantings of a bitter lady. I need some time to figure out what I want to do with that information—if I should pursue it or forget it forever.

  For now, I’m putting it out of my mind, because bringing Stel up to my mom has the potential to end in disaster, or at the very least, a migraine. And this day is about fun. The plan is to pick up Ashton from the airport and then the four of us will go to Cat’s good-bye party at our town’s best and only Mexican restaurant, La Casita. From that, who knows? As long as we’re together, it’s going to be a great time.

  When I pull into Nell’s driveway, she runs out of her house with two giant helium balloons. One has a teddy bear on it hugging a big heart, the other says HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

  “Oh my God,” she says, getting into the passenger seat and holding a balloon down with each arm so they don’t float up into the window as I drive. “You look so gorgeous! You should always wear dresses.”

  “I’d be way too cold at the store. What’s with the balloons?” I ask.

  “The teddy bear is for Ashton,” she says. “The other’s for Cat.”

  “I don’t know how to say this but … you do know it’s not her birthday?”

  She’s unfazed. “These were the only ones they had at Family Mart. But who doesn’t like balloons? Who cares what they say?”

  “Good point,” I say.

  Then we’re at Grant’s, and he’s doing his lope out to the car, long legs and arms. I breathe in audibly, and Nell looks over at me and smiles.

  “You like him, don’t you?” she asks, and it’s more of a statement than a question. “You’ve liked him since the balloon festival. Maybe before.”

  “What’s the use?” I say. “It would never work.”

  “I wouldn’t assume that,” she says mysteriously. I want to know more, but he’s already opening the car door and getting in the back.

  “Hey, ladies,” he says, leaning forward to give us a simultaneous hug. “Are we ready for a road trip?”

  “Semi road trip,” I say. “It’s less than forty-five minutes to the airport! But I made us a mix. It’s called ‘Unpacking 3.0,’ which includes all the best songs of ‘Unpacking 2.0’ and none of the songs of ‘Unpacking 1.0’ because I’m over that one. Plus it’s got my latest favorite Harry Styles, because no mix is complete without him.”

  “Play it!” says Nell. “I’m so nervous. I need something to calm me down.”

  “What if the airplane loses Ashton’s luggage and Doris is forced to find it?” asks Grant.

  I forward to the song I want and press play, and “Baggage Claim” by Miranda Lambert starts. It’s a little on the nose, but playlists never gain from subtlety, in my opinion. And I drive.

  “Can you hold these?” Nell asks, passing the balloons back to Grant. “I need to check my phone. I’m monitoring Ashton on a flight-tracking app.” As she delivers a play-by-play of his coordinates, Grant and I share a glance in the rearview mirror. He raises his eyebrows at me, and I wink back and wonder what Nell meant, exactly. I haven’t dared to think too much about me and Grant, on account of Chassie, on account of everything he is and everything I am, but just like there’s this question swirling in my mind about Aunt Stella, so also there’s a thought, maybe even a hope, about Grant. Could we be something more than friends?

  Forty-five minutes later, we’re rolling through the passenger pickup at Huntsville International, and I see the suitcase first, not the guy. It’s a black wheelie bag that’s pretty standard until you look a little bit closer and see that it’s got a huge Cubs logo on the front.

  It’s baseball, so.… “Hey, would you call that an Ashton?” I ask Nell, pointing.

  “Oh my God,” she yells, and I stop the car, barely, before she jumps out and runs to him. He grabs her and spins her in the air just like I’ve seen people do in the movies, and they kiss. I pop the trunk, and Grant gets out to help put the suitcase in it.

  “Don’t worry,
man,” Ashton says, throwing his luggage in the back.

  Nell changes seats with Grant so she can sit with Ashton, and Grant is up in the passenger seat, next to me. It’s like we’re on the double date that Nell mentioned way back when, except my date is the most unlikely person I’ve ever thought about dating, and I’m sure he doesn’t think about me that way. I glance at him and he’s staring at me and we both blush. Does he? I look back at Nell in the rearview mirror for help, but she’s occupied.

  “I got you a balloon,” she tells Ashton, who laughs and then reaches over and tugs her ponytail, which I happen to know she’s worn on purpose today.

  “I brought you a present from the girls—and something from me, too,” he says. He pulls two wrapped gifts from his bag, and Nell digs in.

  “Y’all, Nisha and Morgan sent a home manicure set, with really great colors!” she says. “Grant, you’re going to love this dark gray matte!”

  “Sweet,” says Grant, and he looks over at me and smiles again, this time wiggling his fingers.

  “Ashton, you didn’t!” Nell’s waving a book around. “It’s by the author of The Maltese Falcon, and it’s about this fabulous couple that goes around solving mysteries in 1930s New York City! How did you know I wanted to read this?” she asks, and he says, “I pay attention.”

  “You’re adorable,” she tells him.

  “No, you are,” he says. “Especially when you say ‘y’all.’”

  “OK, OK, you’re both adorable,” says Grant. “If I didn’t like you, Nell, and therefore you, Ashton, I might say nauseatingly so.”

  “We haven’t seen each other in months!” says Nell. “We’re allowed.”

  “Fine, I’ll just crank up the music, then,” says Grant. He reaches over and turns up the volume and then, as if this is natural as anything, he puts his hand on my knee. “I’m totally into this mix,” he says. I narrowly avoid hitting a parked car on the way out of the airport.