by E. M. Kokie
The three footlockers sitting in the middle of the floor are made of heavy black plastic. New, not scarred. These haven’t been anywhere but wherever they packed his stuff up and here. Inside could be anything, could be everything.
An itchy anticipation crawls over me.
I can’t stop hoping for all kinds of things.
Then cold dread sweeps it away. There are zip ties locking the footlockers shut. I try pulling at them, to see if they can be opened or something. But there’s no way in except to cut them.
I stand there, staring at them. If I cut them, and he comes in here, even just to check, he’ll see what I’ve done right away. I was hoping to take just enough so that he’d never really know. Now he’ll know whatever I do. Shit. No choice. Whatever happens, I can’t walk away, not again.
I race down the stairs, through the house, and into the kitchen. Dig around until I find the scissors and some tape.
I examine the zip tie loop through the latch of the first footlocker again, just to make sure there isn’t some way to pull or stretch it open. There’s not. No way in except to cut them. I’m wasting time.
The scissors are awkward in my hand. It takes me three tries to get them positioned just right to cut the zip tie up near the top of the latch where the cut won’t show unless Dad looks closely. My hand shakes. The first cut feels like it takes forever, almost vibrating through my fingers, ending with a whisper of sound.
I pull the loop free and test the plastic, lining up the ends. It’ll be easy to tape the ends back together enough to hide the cut some, at least from across the room.
The first bit of excitement cuts through the fear. I’m actually doing this.
The latch snaps up with an audible pop, slapping back at my fingers. I open the lid a little too hard, and it falls back with a loud bang. For a split second, I wait for the sound of Dad’s feet or an alarm. But the pounding fear fades fast as I look inside.
On top is a heavy coat and a set of sheets, smelling like some probably supposed-to-be-odorless laundry detergent. The sheets look pretty new, even though T.J. had been in Iraq this last time for almost six months and on base before that. Was this just his stuff from the last tour? He had to have left some stuff in storage or something, right? Maybe that stuff comes later. Or maybe they don’t even know where it is. Who knows.
I lift out the sheets and the coat and lay them aside. The coat slips, unfolding in my hands, too fluffy and slick. I try to refold it, but without something to hold it down, it doesn’t want to be folded. I dump it beside the sheets. A flat, faded-out pillow is next, nearly as flat as the one on the bed behind me. At least it still smells a little familiar. I put it on the opposite side of the footlocker.
Next are some clothes — a couple of sweaters, jeans, thermal shirts, and sweats. Nothing all that interesting or special, and all of it smelling like strangers. No sign of the T-shirt or sweatshirt I want the most. Got to keep moving.
Next down are bags of socks and underwear, and then shoes — sneakers, loafers, flip-flops. A pair of low hiking boots I think he loved more than any other shoes he’d ever owned. I pull them out. New laces, not even creased or worn, still tight and clean. The boots are too big for me; stupid to take them. I put them back in.
An old pair of slippers — worn and beat-up, and duct taped at the bottom. I didn’t even know he wore slippers.
Other shoes and clothes. Nothing worth taking. I pack everything but the pillow back in as best I can and shut the lid and slip the zip tie back in place. Takes me four tries to get the edges lined up and the tape in place to hold them together without looking wrong or having a bunch of tape sticking off the side. But once I get it right, you can’t even see the cut without looking real close. Perfect.
The second footlocker opens just as easily. But as soon as the lid hits the floor, I forget how to breathe.
T.J.’s uniform is laid out on top, still in plastic, fresh from the dry cleaner’s, waiting for him to put it on. My gut clenches, and for once I’m glad I didn’t have dinner. My hands recoil. I can’t touch it. But having come this far, there’s no turning back. And I can’t live without knowing what else is in there.
I make my shaking fingers approach the thin plastic again. I lift it up by the plastic and swing it over to the bed, and then smooth it out flat so it won’t get wrinkled. My eyes won’t look away. I stand there, staring, hands cold and head dizzy. A car horn outside jars me loose. I need to move on.
As far as I can see, the footlocker is full of more folded clothes. Mostly his everyday uniforms, but other clothes and some small bags of stuff, too.
I’d been expecting something more. That I would open them up and immediately understand something more. I’d see something that had been T.J.’s and get what he had been thinking or doing right before. Or I’d see something meant just for me. Some piece of T.J. that would be all mine.
But I didn’t count on everything being handled and reorganized, sanitized, and not by his buddies or anyone who even knew him. I didn’t think about some stranger packing everything up in secure plastic bags, with no clear answers for me.
Kneeling down, I start to sort the stuff. The first bags hold nothing interesting. I sift through things, glancing and moving on until there’s a pile of the everyday crap of T.J.’s life, none of which is going to answer any questions.
The next layer isn’t any more enlightening: some more clothes, washed clean of all traces of T.J.; a striped towel; a fleece jacket with some kind of logo; and finally, together under the rest of the clothes, the T-shirt he wore the day we left on our hike, the one with the crack in the word ARMY, and his favorite sweatshirt, with the ripped pocket. I put them both to the side, pumped to at least have those.
More plastic bags. A few books. A handheld game player and a bag of games. A bunch of CDs, mostly by groups and singers I’ve never heard of. Some aren’t even in English. I pull out a couple of the CDs that look interesting and put the rest in the pile to go back in.
I practically dive into the footlocker for the next bag — T.J.’s laptop, his battered case empty next to it. But when I lift it, the bag’s too light, and when I open the bag, there’s a gaping space where the hard drive should be. A letter in the bag says it was damaged beyond repair. Losing that hurts. I guess down deep this is what I wanted the most, so much so I didn’t even have the guts to wish for it. I drop it onto the pile of stuff. No point in taking it without the hard drive. Disappointment seeps up inside me. What if there isn’t anything here that can tell me anything important?
A Discman. A few more plastic bags of CDs, and one holding some papers. I shuffle the papers around. Statements and forms. Some pamphlets with other soldiers’ names. Memorials. Other dead guys T.J. had known. No thanks.
I repack the footlocker, with, I hope, something at least close to the care used to pack it originally. I lay everything back in neatly, stacking some things to make it look full even without the small pile of stuff that’s coming with me, until all I have left is the uniform on the bed. I force myself to once again pick it up by the plastic edges and, as gently as possible, lay it in on top. I smooth out a couple of ripples. Someone who didn’t even know T.J. made it look perfect. The least I can do is try to keep it that way. I slip the zip tie back through the closed lid, wrap tape around the cut, and slide it so the tape doesn’t show as much.
In the third footlocker, there’s more clothes, and then a portable DVD player and several bags of DVDs. I look them over one by one, wondering which was his favorite, which ones he watched over and over, which ones he would tell me to watch, if he were here.
I have to take a deep breath and make myself keep going. If I stop to dwell on the stuff I wish I knew, on all the ways I wish I had known T.J. better, I’ll lose it. The DVDs go into the pile to go downstairs, but I put the player aside to put back in. The DVDs, Dad will never notice around my room, but the player, covered in stickers and so obviously T.J.’s, will make him ask questions.
T
he next layer down, I hit pay dirt. T.J.’s iPods — three of them, all different sizes. They’re beat all to hell and scratched and are probably the things he loved the most out of everything here. Most people don’t need more than one. T.J. took all three with him on deployment. He probably had some reason — something about their uses, or time, or convenience. Hell, maybe even types of music. He bought the Shuffle the last time he was home — he couldn’t resist its tiny size. But I guess he just couldn’t bring himself to get rid of his first true-blue one, even with the others.
T.J. always fell asleep to music. Ran to it, too. He did pretty much everything to music. I can’t wait to hook them up and try to figure out what he listened to the most, what he fell asleep to in the middle of a war zone, and what he listened to last. God, to scroll through the songs, see his history in music — maybe even some of my own. Probably a lot of songs I first heard through the closed door of this room, my ear pressed against the other side. I put the iPods in my keep pile and move on.
His camera’s a mess — scratched and cracked and held together with some kind of tape. I can’t get it to turn on. No memory cards. I put the camera back in, at least for now.
A few more books, some falling apart, like they might disintegrate if I handle them too much. T.J. didn’t read much when he was home — a book or a magazine by his bed, maybe, but he didn’t just sit around and read. But these, all beat up and creased, he read these a lot. One in particular is held together by a rubber band, with the front and back cover gone, and the pages crinkled and fluttering like it’s been wet and dried out at least once. Another says Stories from the Appalachian Trail, a scrap of paper sticking out, marking a page. I choke, hold my breath, push on my eyes. I’m not ready to see what’s on that page, how far he read before . . . I put the four books with the pile to go downstairs.
The next layer’s a blanket I’ve never seen before. Then a box, black-and-white and glossy, with some kind of shiny stones or shells in an intricate pattern on top. I pull it out of its plastic bag. The inside smells like wood, but it’s nearly as glossy as the outside. It’s beautiful, and I have no idea why T.J. had it. It doesn’t look like something he’d carry around with him, and I can’t see him giving it to me or Dad. But there’s something about it. I want it. But no way could I pass it off if Dad saw it in my room. Too much to risk.
More plastic bags with nothing interesting. At the bottom are a couple pairs of jeans. Kind of a letdown, and I feel sick to my stomach. I was sure I’d find some answers, but I’m leaving with just some stuff. Some cool stuff, but still.
I reach in to roll up the jeans so they’ll take up more room. My hand hits something more, something underneath them. I yank the jeans out and toss them aside.
At the bottom, like afterthoughts, are more plastic bags.
Something crackles in the air around me, shoots through me.
I drag the first one out with shaking hands. Pictures. Stacks and stacks of pictures. I open up the bag and grab some at random, their slick surfaces sliding around.
The first picture’s all light and dark. But after turning it, a window and side of a building, and some sign in a foreign language, becomes clear.
I dump all the pics back in their bag. The other three bags are full of envelopes, loose letters, and cards, even a couple of drawings.
Shit.
The things people sent him. I grab all four bags. No doubt they’re coming with me.
I glance at the clock in the kitchen on my first trip downstairs. Shit. Later than I thought.
If I can get it all downstairs, hide it, then even if Dad finds out, maybe he won’t be able to find it all.
I’ll hide my stuff better than he ever could. But I know, even if he finds out, I’ll deal with it. No way he’s taking anything back.
I repack the footlocker as fast as I can, one layer at a time, but not nearly as carefully as before. Too much to lose now. And still, so many times I have to resist the urge to add to my sizable pile, knowing there’s every chance I’ll never get another look. It hurts to put the black-and-white box back in, but of all the stuff, it’s the thing Dad would know, on sight, was wrong. I just can’t be that stupid.
It takes three more trips to get everything down to my room, and on each trip, things fall and my spastic hands scrabble to gather them up again. I toss stuff onto my bed and run back for more. When it’s all downstairs, I stare into T.J.’s room again.
From the doorway, everything is exactly in the places I found them. The footlockers are exactly where I found them, and I rubbed my shoes all over the carpet so there are no obvious dents or roughed-up places to give me away. From the hallway, you can’t even see that the footlockers have been opened. Dad would have to go all the way in and crouch down to see that the zip ties have been cut.
Back down in my room, I start to panic for real. A bunch of T.J.’s things sitting around in piles will beg questions. There’s no telling when Dad might get home, or when he might get it in his head to come down and check up on me.
I dump the stuff from my lowest desk drawer into a trash bag and then put most of the smaller stuff in there. The T-shirts and sweatshirt I hide in my bureau, underneath my other sweatshirts. The books and DVDs get stacked under the desk, in the back, behind the comic books I haven’t read in a while. Then I push my desk chair in as far as it will go.
In the bottom of my closet is my box full of hiking stuff. I dump it all out, and then shove the bags of letters and pictures into it and slide it under my bed. Close enough to grab in an emergency, but still out of sight.
Then I wait for Dad to come home.
DAD’S TRUCK DOESN’T PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY UNTIL after midnight. I hold my breath, listening as he moves through the house.
Instead of going right upstairs, he walks around the kitchen. I hear the cabinet. He gets a drink. If he comes down the stairs, I might shit my pants. If he heads to the recliner, I’m gonna have to sweat it out some more.
Then I hear it: the open, close, lock of the back door. The steps pause near my stairs. I dive for the bed, ready to pretend I fell asleep listening to the music. But the door doesn’t open, and his footsteps head through the living room and upstairs.
I wait for the water through the pipes, the sounds of him walking around his room, and count to one hundred. Wait some more, and there’s nothing but silence. He has to be out. Then, moving as quietly as I can, wincing on every step, I grab my backpack. I drop it next to my nightstand, in case I still need to hide the letters and pictures, quick and portable-like, or make a run for it.
Just before climbing back onto the bed, I slide the box out from underneath it and turn on the bedside lamp. I pull out the bag of pictures. The first few I grab are of buildings and people, looking like every pic I’ve ever seen of Iraq. One of two little boys holding thumbs-up at the camera, the smaller boy holding a candy bar clutched in his hand. A couple of some kind of market, with colorful stalls. Some kind of water. A sunset over a city.
Next are three of guys from T.J.’s unit, or maybe another unit, but Army guys, recognizable even in jeans and tees. They’re standing in front of a restaurant or a bar. A couple of pics of the same guys at some kind of party, but this time all looking a little wasted. One of T.J. leaning over with some little kids — he was blowing up balloons. His face, so happy. I stare at it for a long time, then slip it into my backpack, in the small pocket at top.
One of a woman in uniform, dark skin and hair, serious, except for her eyes: her eyes seem to be laughing, maybe at T.J. taking the picture? Maybe she’s in T.J.’s unit? Another picture of her, more relaxed, sitting at a table under an umbrella, with T.J. and two other guys. She’s the only one in the sun, and her dark skin is glowing, shiny and kind of coppery. Her hair’s pulled back from her face, cool sunglasses on top of her head. She’s beautiful, smiling into the camera. The other people around the table, including T.J., smile, too. A couple more of them, in different places, but the same clothes. More pics of kids.
Some soldiers in full uniform talking to a classroom full of kids. Another of the woman with T.J., arms around each other. He’s grinning his shit-eating grin, and she’s laughing, her feet dangling like he had just lifted her off the ground.
Lots more of Iraq. Buildings. People. Streets. Lots of other soldiers. Even more pics of kids.
Another of T.J. and some guys around a picnic table. These guys don’t look like Army, but I have no clue where it was taken, or who they are. Were they friends? A woman leaning against a fence. A whole bunch of a lake, houses on the other side. Some people windsurfing. A cat on a chair. Still so many in the bag. So many people I don’t even know. Who are they?
And letters. Cards. Three bags. The sheer number of letters is overwhelming. Dizzying.
I push the pictures to the end of the bed and reach into the box. The first bag’s about three-quarters full. I tug it open and grab a handful of letters. Shuffling them into a neat pile, I get all the return addresses aligned. Someone in North Carolina. T.J.’s friend Dan. Mitch, from work. Florida. Texas. Wisconsin. I grab some more, scan the names as they slide across my lap. There are so many. Some don’t even have envelopes. Some classes sent pictures and handmade cards, with little-kid signatures.
About two dozen in, I find the first one from me. No envelope. Before his birthday, probably in with the package we sent. Written fast and stupid. It’s even pretty sloppy. Lame. Idiot.
One with Dad’s business labels. Another from Dan. Mr. Anders. I stop and start to read that one, then feel weird, like if I read his letter, it’ll be hard to look at Mr. Anders next time I see him. I put it back.
A few more from strangers. A girl T.J. went to high school with. Some with return addresses of classes, schools. A card from Dad and a letter from Denver, from one of T.J.’s buddies I’ve actually met, from his first tour.
I work my way through the whole bag, reading a few at random.
Whenever I wrote T.J., I never knew what to say. Reading some of the letters other people sent him, they all sound a lot alike — how proud they are; how thankful — but at least they had something to say. Nice stuff, but nothing interesting, really.
