Personal Effects

by E. M. Kokie

  But. But he, and Dad . . .

  “If I had stayed . . .” T.J. shrugged, his arms moving up and down over the letters across his chest. “I have no idea where I’d be, assuming Dad and I didn’t kill each other, or . . .” T.J. swallowed the thought, a sour one by the look on his face. “The point is, this was the right thing for me. For me. Then. Now. I’d do it all over again. But, Matt, we’re at war. Wars that aren’t going to end anytime soon. You enlist now, and you’ll be deployed somewhere within a year, maybe sooner.”

  I swallowed hard, my throat tight and dry.

  “Fine if you’re ready. They’ll train you up, teach you what you need to know. But they can’t teach you to want it. So, if you know what you want, and what you want is to serve, then you choose it — eyes open, fully committed, your choice. But if not . . .”

  A shudder rolled through me.

  “Yeah,” he said. “If you let him bully you into it before you’re ready, you’re gonna be thoroughly screwed.”

  I was screwed no matter what. But . . .

  “And if you’re not sure, wait.” He nodded and leaned closer to me. “Wait. It’ll be there. Do something else for a while; see what you want. And if you decide later to join up, then great. It’ll be your decision, and I’ll be there to cheer you on. But don’t do it for him, or me, or because you don’t know what else to do. Do it because you want it, or not at all.”

  Something had just shifted between T.J. and me, something big. Like five of the eight and a half years between us evaporated.

  “I don’t want you to get yourself killed because you are trying to make him proud — or make me proud — or because you go before you’re ready.” My eyes burned. He laughed, shaking me a little. “Then I really would have to kick your ass.” He was teasing, but I couldn’t look at him.

  I rubbed at my eyes. I felt like laughing, but it wouldn’t come. All this time . . . all this time I’d been torturing myself, trying to talk myself into it, like I thought he had. Except not, because he’d wanted to go.

  “SNAFU, right?” I finally asked. Situation normal: all fucked up. Like always.

  With one more squeeze, he released my shoulder. “More like, Embrace the suck.”

  “Huh?” I didn’t know that one.

  T.J.’s face shifted into a crooked smile. “Embrace the suck. Yeah, the sitch with Dad and school and all sucks, but deal with it, ’cause you’ve got no other choice but to deal.”

  Embrace the suck. Should have been the Foster family motto. For generations. Laughter welled up from nowhere. I jerked with the effort of keeping it in, like holding in a cough. But it bubbled up again, and I just tipped my head back and let it come. I laughed until my eyes streamed, until my sides ached, until T.J. laughed with me, the kind of full-body laugh that makes everything feel good. We laughed until halfhearted hiccups of comfort and familiarity floated between us.

  “Matt,” he said, his voice so soft I had to lean a little closer to hear. He wouldn’t look at me, and from the side I couldn’t figure out the look on his face. “I’m a damn good soldier. Damn good.” I could see him laughing at himself inside his own head, even though just a bit of smile and a little huff of laughter shook loose. “But I needed orders and discipline. I needed someone to take me apart and put me back together again, the right way, to make me strong, to give me honor.” T.J. looked at me long and hard. He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Whatever else I am, or whatever else I’m ever gonna be, I needed them to make me strong enough to be that man. But you, you’re already smarter than me. And stronger, in your way — you’ve weathered Dad all by yourself. You have nothing to prove. To Dad. To me. To anyone, except maybe yourself. You’ll find your way, a way that uses your smarts, and who you are, and that doesn’t involve war.”

  T.J. put the truck back in gear before I could say anything, and I was glad, because I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  “Find something else, something that makes you happy.”

  My throat ached, my eyes blurred, but right then, driving down the road with T.J. behind the wheel, I wanted to just head west and keep going, away from Dad, away from T.J. having to report back, away from everything.

  I wish we had.

  “SIT.” FIRST THING DAD’S SAID SINCE THE SINGLE QUESTION in the car.

  He yanks one of the chairs out from under the kitchen table with his foot. With my ass planted there, Dad’ll be between me and both exits from the kitchen. But I have no choice, so I sink into the chair. For the hundredth time since Pendergrast’s office, I hope I’ve read Dad’s mood right, and he’s not just recharging for round two.

  My neck’s so stiff, it might break if I turn my head, so I give up trying to read his face. Instead, I track his path around the kitchen by sound.

  Refrigerator. Sink. Cabinet. Sink. Freezer. Creak of the ice tray. Ice in a glass. Stray cubes in the sink. Clatter of empty ice tray on the counter. That cabinet opening. Twist of the screw top from the bottle. Whisper of scotch against ice. Long gulp. Silence. Crack-hiss of a can being opened. Silence. Clink of ice on glass. Smaller sip. Smacking lips. Silence. Deep breath. Silence. Movement. Then his feet are directly in front of me. I risk the pain to look up.

  “Here.” He thrusts a dish towel bundle at my chest and then motions toward my face. “Put it on that eye.”

  The bundle is clunky but dully cold, filled with some of Dad’s precious ice. I hadn’t expected that. I also hadn’t expected the soda he plunks down in front of me on the table, the can hitting the scarred Formica just a little too hard. He directs me to the can with his chin and waits for me to take a sip before he continues with his drink.

  “Thanks.” I didn’t get enough air behind it, but he doesn’t seem to take it as weak, or mocking, or anything.

  He settles into the chair next to me, stretches and shifts until he’s comfortable. Then he moves to take another sip, but pauses with the glass halfway to his mouth. I brace for it, but he just takes a nice long drink. Then the glass is on the table. He exhales and smacks his lips again. It’s a good sound. I can practically hear his muscles relaxing as the scotch does its thing.

  “Do I want to know what happened?” Dad asks.

  “Didn’t Pendergrast —?”

  “I want to hear it from you.” His eyes don’t move. Not even toward his drink.

  “Usual crap.”

  I look down so he can pick up the glass. When he doesn’t, I stare at it, watching the light filter through the scotch and ice. His hand flexes on the table. I hold my breath until he picks up the glass. I don’t exhale until it’s safely on the table again, his hands relaxed beside it.

  “If it was usual, why today?”

  “Don’t know. I guess . . .” Shit. How many times has he said, Don’t guess. Know or shut the hell up? “It was just too much today.”

  “And?”

  Clink of ice. Smacked lips. Glass on the table.

  “And I lost it.”

  “What did his shirt say?”

  Shit.

  Dad cracks his neck. “Pendergrast. He said something about if the kid was saying crap, maybe even his usual crap . . . but that this time it was something about his shirt?” The hand wave makes it clear Pendergrast tried to explain, but Dad was beyond caring then.

  It’ll sound lame. And if I say it wrong, or he thinks I’m messing with him, or even for just saying T.J.’s name, Dad could go ape-shit. But if I lie, and he catches me in it, I’m screwed.

  I can see Pinscher’s shirt in my head. Not the bloodied and ripped-up version from after the fight. How it looked before, when I closed my hand over the black words and yanked.

  Dad’s hand flexes.

  I close my eyes, trying to breathe and to figure out how to say it.

  “Today, please.” Only Dad can make “please” sound scary.

  “He was just there, like always, in my face.” I open my eyes and look at him. The words won’t come. They’re here, in my mouth, or throat, maybe even my stom
ach. I have to force something out. “I hit him. He was saying all this stuff. And, I hit him, and then . . . I just couldn’t stop.”

  “The shirt?” Dad asks again.

  “It had . . .” I stumble, catch my tongue, see it in my head: the red words on the front, OUR Troops, and on the back, Pieces, and then the black words, in my fist. I make myself say, “His name on it.”

  “So what if the little shit had his name —?”

  “Not his name.”

  Dad stares, not getting it. The vein in his temple pulses. He rolls his shoulders. “Then —”

  “T.J.’s.”

  All the air gets sucked out of the room.

  “What?” Dad’s hands clench into tight fists on the table.

  “It was a list, of troops. And . . .” Acid climbs up around the knot in my gut.

  “Troops?” His hands unclench and clench again. Tighter. He shifts and leans closer, swelling in his chair. “This kid. His shirt. Had a list of troops —”

  “Yes.” Stupid. Never get in the way of Dad exploding. “It said, Support OUR Troops. OUR, like, from around here. And on the back . . .” I can still see it in my head — and my hand, covering T.J.’s name, like I could make it go away.

  His jaw locks like a spring trap. His fists go white-knuckled with rage. I’m not sure how long we sit there, but he doesn’t reach for his drink once. My legs fall asleep. I float out the top of my head, wait for the explosion.

  “This kid.” His voice makes me shiver. “He had your brother’s name on his shirt?”

  “Yes.” Everything’s far away, except for Dad’s hands.

  “And he knew you’d seen it?”

  His focus could shift fast. I nod.

  “How?” he asks.

  “I could see some of it from across the hall, the Support OUR Troops: Bring Them Home part, and on the back . . .”

  He focuses hard on me.

  Burning sour creeps up my throat. “Not in . . . pieces.” Then all the names on back. And T.J.’s name. I gag.

  Dad pushes the soda closer. I take a gulp, then another. I have to say the rest.

  “I made him turn around, so I could see the names, and . . . I covered . . . I . . . grabbed . . . it.” I swallow. “He knew. Michael told him to put his sweatshirt back on, but . . .”

  Dad’s eyes go distant. His hands are palm down and calm on the table. I wait.

  Finally, he blinks and looks at me again, in a way he hasn’t looked at me in forever. His neck relaxes and his head bobs for a few beats. I mimic his nod of recognition. Amazing. We’re cool. I press the ice against my eye to hide my relief.

  Dad lifts his glass. Two sips. He rolls the glass between his hands, the ice and golden liquid swirling back and forth. Another long sip.

  My stomach growls. Dad grunts a laugh. Not a bad sign, all things considered.

  He waves the ice away from my eye. It takes everything not to flinch when his hands come near my face. He presses his thumbs along the bones under my eyes and across my jaw, runs his hands over my shoulders, ribs, and finally ruffles through my hair, feeling my skull.

  He must be satisfied, because in one fluid move he gets up, grabs his drink, and pushes his chair back under the table with his foot. In the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, he turns and uses his drink to signal for my attention, like I would take my eyes off him until he was out of the room.

  “You’re out of school until next Tuesday. Pendergrast wanted you to do some bullshit in-school suspension for part of it, but I told him where to go. No one is putting you on display for doing what needed doing.”

  I nod again, accepting the time.

  “So, get some sleep. Take it easy for a few days. But don’t think you’re gonna laze around the house for the next week. You’ll need to work. That display case is gonna cost a chunk.”

  Great.

  “And from what I hear, you’ve got some serious studying to do.” He narrows his eyes. “We talked about this, after the midterm reports.”

  Yeah, the side of my head still remembers the slap that ended that little chat.

  “Hey.”

  I clench my teeth to stay quiet.

  “Failing? Not an option.” His eyebrows climb. “You want to piss away any chance at college? I can’t really stop you.” Another sip, and then the glass is in motion as he waves it for emphasis. “Means no ROTC. No Officer Candidate School. You want to throw all that away? Fine. But if you think you’re going to blow finals, flunk out, and that’ll be it? Get you out of college and enlisting? Think again, boy.”

  I press my split knuckles against my leg to keep still.

  He takes a step back toward me and stops, like something is holding him back from coming all the way over here, something I should be very thankful for.

  “If I have to sit on your ass for the entire time it takes you to get your GED, kick it every day until you are enlistment eligible, I’ll do it. It’ll suck for both of us, but if I have to drag you every step, I’ll get you there.”

  I force myself to stay still. If he comes any closer, I may not be able to keep from running.

  He points at me with his nondrink hand. “I am not gonna watch you implode.”

  It’s not like it’s my life or anything.

  “You hearing me?” He shifts his feet.

  “Yes, sir.” Reflexive and voice cracking, but enough to keep him where he is.

  “Time to get your ass in gear. Or so help me . . .”

  He turns fast and leaves the room, the words hanging behind him.

  I stay at the table until I hear the groan of his recliner and the hiss-click of the TV turning on. I wait for the garbled sound of twenty-four-hour news and the creaking shifting of Dad’s weight settling down. Only then do I let my shoulders relax and release my tired legs. It’s safe to find something to eat and head to bed. He’s done for the night.

  I choke down half a bowl of soggy cereal before my stomach revolts. Leaning into the cold edge of the table, I breathe through my nose, trying to hold off the puke. Sour burn crawls up the back of my throat. And I’m right back there, six months ago.

  I was sitting right here, debating between eggs and grilled cheese, chugging the last of the orange juice straight from the carton, when I felt something crawling over the back of my neck. I turned my head toward the door, spilling juice all over my chin and down the front of my gray T-shirt. I was halfway to the door, nearly empty carton still in my hand, when I heard them on the front steps. I opened the door before they even rang the bell. I knew. Before I even saw the uniforms, I knew.

  THE UNIFORMS ASKED FOR DAD AND THEN DIDN’T SAY another word. I had trouble getting anything out loud enough to carry upstairs, and I couldn’t move.

  All I could think was T.J. is dead.

  When I got my voice to work, it took three yells before Dad cursed and stomped down from upstairs. He was ready to rip me a new one for making him come to me, but then he saw me, and then them, and he missed the last step, landing with a lurch. I wanted him to say something, but he just looked at them.

  After that moment of flinching, almost stumbling, shock, Dad was stoic: nodding gravely, shaking hands, dead. They said their spiel. I couldn’t hear it over the noise in my head.

  The woman, who did all the talking, was OK. Older. Calm. Somehow like she was as much a part of this as we were, but not like in our faces or anything. She shook my hand and didn’t once look at the juice all over my shirt.

  The guy hovered near the door until she gave some kind of signal, and then they left, like they’d never been there.

  A different uniform showed up later — our CAO, casualty assistance officer, Cooper. He was younger than the others, and friendly, but all business, with papers and questions, a binder full of stuff to be done. While CAO Cooper was making a call, Dad downed two quick drinks standing at the sink, staring out the back window. Then he brushed his teeth and gargled. When he came back into the living room, Dad acted like everything was fine, lik
e we were just having some kind of visit. I could smell the mint from all the way across the room. I’m sure Cooper could, too, and that he knew exactly why. Before going into the living room, Dad snagged my arm and shot daggers at my shirt, shoving me toward the stairs, like Cooper cared what I was wearing or what I smelled like.

  Eventually some neighbors came by, crying, carrying stuff, smiling sad fucking smiles. Dad stared them out the door. Then the reporters and the cameras. Cooper got some other uniform to handle them. One short interview and then Dad ran them off, too.

  All through the planning, Dad stayed mellow, quiet, slightly buzzed. Just dull enough to handle it, I guess, but it made him slow sometimes. Too slow. Cooper would sometimes look at me when Dad would zone out for a minute, like I could do anything, or even acknowledge that there was anything that needed doing or why. But he’d just wait, like no time had passed, until Dad could handle it again.

  I just wanted it all to go away. The people. The plans. The uniforms. Everything. I’d have given anything to have gone to sleep and woken up when it was over. The constant, awful anticipation was choking me.

  Everyone had all these questions, but no one could answer the only one I cared about. No one would tell me what happened.

  Eight days later, a different uniform, the “escort,” arrived with what was left of T.J. He said the least. I don’t remember his name, but I remember his face clearly. He was about T.J.’s age and height, but his hair and eyes were dark. There was a scar on his cheek, a rippling, pinkish line from his sideburn to his jaw. He had that hard-body stance like the guys in T.J.’s unit, like a steel rod had been grafted onto his spine. When he shook my hand, he nearly crushed my fingers. But he looked me in the eyes.

  The morning of the funeral, he sat Dad and me down in a small office at the back of the funeral home and pulled out a bag with what was left of T.J.’s stuff. One by one, he passed the things to Dad.

  T.J.’s dog tags, gleaming on their chain, like they had been scrubbed and polished.

  His beat-up sport watch, band fraying a little near the buckle, a patch of some kind of tape on the other side.