Personal Effects

by E. M. Kokie

  PEOPLE COME AND GO. EVERYONE WITH SOMEWHERE TO BE, or someone to be with. Except me. Can’t go back to the hostel. No money to waste. No gas to waste. Only time. And for the first time in . . . ever . . . I’m not running or hiding or scared out of my skull. I’m completely on my own time — no Dad, no school, no work. Not even Shauna.

  And I have no idea what to do, but I don’t care.

  My stomach growls. I’m so thirsty the fountain’s looking good. I haven’t had anything since this morning, and that was just a soda and some peanut-butter crackers.

  I’m pretty sure there’s somewhere to get food at the building next to the library — I could smell it while I waited outside.

  I follow the sounds of people and the smells of food and end up on a huge patio area next to the lake. Tables and chairs and people everywhere. And a grill. Eight dollars gets me two brats and a huge soda.

  My first bite of brat is messy and good. Spicy mustard and spicy-sweet brat, surrounded by just-soft-enough roll. Juice on my chin, over my hand. After practically inhaling the first one, I force myself to eat the second more slowly, putting it all the way down between bites and consciously chewing each delicious mouthful.

  Kids are feeding the ducks at the edge of the lake, splashing a foot or a hand in the water now and then. I wonder if Celia ever brings Zoe down here. If maybe T.J. sat right there, Zoe in his lap, waiting for Celia to get off work.

  I wipe brat juice and mustard off my hands, then pull the picture out of my pocket. One of the corners got all bent. I smooth it down, then run my finger around the edges, not quite touching their faces.

  Celia looks older now. Fancier, her hair and her clothes. I thought she’d look haunted and broken. Sure, she’s sad, but she was totally there. Even when her eyes got all sad talking about Zoe, she was on solid ground. Not broken at all. Strong.

  “Matt, right?”

  I look up. A girl. Well, a girl-shaped darkness surrounded by the bright sun. She shifts, and then I can mostly see her face.

  “Harley,” she says. “From the hostel?”

  “Oh, uh, hi.”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  With me?

  She tilts her head to the side, then laughs at me.

  “Sure. Sit.” Freaking moron. I push the last bite of the brat to the side. Too messy to eat in front of her.

  She ignores the empty chair across from me and grabs a chair from the table to my right, where some guys are gathering up their stuff to leave. Several of them stop to look at Harley, and I can see why, now that the shock has worn off. She’s wearing the shortest shorts I’ve ever seen. I could palm them and touch skin above and below. Tight pink shirt that barely reaches them. Smallish tits, but nice — could palm those, too.

  She reaches behind her to tug her bag off her back. Smooth, tan, sloping belly. A tattoo — some kind of sun, but with lots of colors — circles her belly button. A ring with a sparkly bead in the middle. Hot as hell. I lean over the table to cover the bulge.

  She pulls her chair to my side of the table, right next to me, then shifts around until she can face the sun. She smells like suntan lotion. The coconut-smelling kind.

  “I love hanging at the Terrace,” she says. “Brats. Beer. The lake. Maybe we’ll get lucky and some windsurfers will go out later and we can bet on who will fall in the water first.” I can’t see if she’s teasing or serious behind the dark glasses, and I can’t move away from the table yet. “One of my favorite summer pastimes: watching windsurfers face-plant in the lake. So, what are you up to?”

  I swallow a big gulp of soda to buy time. “You know, seeing campus.”

  “Sure,” she says. “Man, that brat smells good. Ever had their popcorn? Really good.”

  “No, I, uh, just found this today.” I don’t know what else to say, so I slurp at my soda and watch the kids play in the water. “How long have you been in Madison?” I finally ask, for something to say.

  “Oh, I come and go.” She shifts the angle of her chair again to get all of her pale legs in the sun. “I’m killing some time before I start college in the fall, and I have a lot of friends here. Always someone around.”

  Starting college in the fall: that helps with the age. I would have guessed seventeen or eighteen, but then she mentioned beer, and they were carding everyone.

  “Listen,” she says, not even looking at me. “I could really use a drink, but I left the rest of my cash back at the hostel. Could you spot me for a soda? I’ll pay you back later.”

  “Oh, uh, sure.” Only a couple of bucks. “Here.” I pull a ten out of my wallet.

  She ignores it, face toward the sun. “Thanks. I’ll take a diet.” She tips her head back even farther.

  “Oh, OK,” I say, getting up from the table.

  “And get some popcorn, too. You should try it,” she says. “Have to go inside for the popcorn.”

  “Right.” Inside. I look behind me at the long building. “Where?”

  She waves her hand. “Just go inside. Head to the right. You’ll find it.”

  I weave between the tables, dodge little kids with ice-cream cones and a large group following one of those red-shirted clipboards. Once inside, it takes my eyes a few moments to adjust to the dark. Goose bumps climb up my arms in the air-conditioning. Around a corner, and there’s a bar, with a big popcorn machine. I wait in line.

  Another five dollars down. The journey back is more treacherous. I leave a trail of fallen popcorn behind me; like Hansel, Shauna would say. I shove her out of my head. Too weird while hanging with barely dressed Harley.

  Harley is right where I left her. Well, not exactly — she’s moved the table and chairs and everything to face the sun again.

  With my hands full, I’m having trouble getting around the obstacle course of chairs she’s left in my way. I almost trip over my backpack, but manage to push it aside and get to the table without spilling too much.

  “Oh, great,” she says, sitting up and reaching for the drink first. She tips a bunch of popcorn onto a napkin on the table and starts tossing popcorn into her mouth between sips.

  I sip at my own soda and try not to be irritated that she made such a mess of everything while I was inside. Now I’m wedged in between our table and the foreign guys sitting behind us. I think they’re talking about her, laughing the way guys do when they can see that much skin. Or maybe they’re laughing at me.

  She happily eats her popcorn, giving me funny looks, like I amuse her, but not in a cool way.

  “What?” I ask when the irritation becomes too much.

  “Nothing,” she says, still smiling weird. “You’re cute when you’re all paranoid.”

  I gulp down my soda, feeling my face go red.

  “What are you really doing here?” She squints at me, holds a popcorn kernel out and then tosses it into her mouth.

  “What, uh, huh?”

  She smiles and tosses another popcorn kernel in her mouth, pushes her sunglasses up on top of her head, and folds her arms over the table. Pale eyes intense.

  “I was watching you earlier,” she says. “Saw you cutting across from Library Mall. Thought you were headed here, but then you went over and stared at College Library for like an hour. So, what’s the deal?”

  What the hell?

  “Relax,” she says. “I’m not going to blow your mission. I was just wondering what was up. Ex-girlfriend? New girlfriend? Robbery? Espionage? Private investigation? Stalker? What?”

  “Huh?”

  She laughs loudly and then settles back in her chair, taking the popcorn with her. “Come on — I’m bored. Share.”

  No way. “Nothing’s going on. I was just . . . looking around. . . .”

  “Yeah, not buying that.” Harley tosses a kernel at me. “Come on! Tell me something. You have to!”

  “No, I don’t.” I start to stand but she grabs my arm.

  “Relax — I’m sorry. I was just curious is all.” She nods toward the chair. “Sit. Please?”

  M
y brain is saying go, but my legs aren’t moving.

  “Pretty please?” she says, pouting, with that bottom lip that makes me have to sit or run.

  So I sit. My head is spinning. I should have left. I could still go, in a minute.

  “It’s just, you looked all weight-of-the-world when you were watching the library. Now you seem totally happy.”

  I probably look like a dork.

  “Totally cute,” she says, playing with her straw.

  I don’t believe her. But then she circles the straw with her tongue and I don’t care.

  “So . . . you gonna tell me what’s up?”

  I shake my head, but clamp my lips together. Can’t go yet, but I’m not saying anything.

  “I am a very good spy,” Harley says. “Maybe I can help with whatever is going on. Natasha to your Boris.” She tosses another kernel of popcorn into her mouth with an evil smile. “I’d make a very good Natasha. Well, not good, but you know what I mean, dahlink?”

  Um, no, not so much.

  “Oh, come on,” she says. “Boris and Natasha? Rocky and Bullwinkle? Oh, man, good stuff. The cartoons, not the movies. The movies were bad, even if Rene Russo was seriously hot as Natasha.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “OK. Clearly, you are not picking up the thread. Natasha is a kick-ass spy. Well, she should be, anyway, if it weren’t a cartoon that relies heavily on a moose and squirrel always ending up on top. So, let me be your Natasha and help with the spying or whatever.”

  She is intently drinking her soda, watching me, with that smile. Nice smile.

  “Tell me about the chick with the kick-ass braids.”

  Whu-huh? “You saw —?”

  “Yeah, I did.” She shrugs, like she practiced it. “Who is she? Maybe I can help you sweet-talk her or whatever.”

  My head’s saying get up and go, but everywhere else is staying put — except for my stomach, which isn’t too happy with the brats.

  “Hey, kidding around aside, you seem like a really nice guy,” she says, all serious and friendly. “I just want to help if I can.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “Oh, so the first meeting was successful? Or was this a reunion?”

  I reach around for my backpack — time to leave.

  She grabs my wrist. “Come on, Matt. I can keep a secret.” Yeah, I’m sure she can. “And you can’t lie for shit.” She crosses her heart and holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  What could it hurt? And I’m busting to tell someone. And it’s not like I’ll ever see her again. . . .

  “She your girlfriend?”

  “No,” I spit out, skeeved out by the question. Gross.

  “She hugged you pretty hard . . . like she wanted —”

  “She was my brother’s girlfriend,” I blurt. Stupid. I could stop here. But . . . “She didn’t know I’m here, and I wanted to surprise her. So . . . I waited. Then . . .”

  “Was your brother’s girlfriend?” She raises her eyebrows. “She’s not anymore?”

  “Yeah. Uh, he died.”

  “Oh,” she says, all teasing gone. “Sorry. How long?”

  Two hundred and three days. “Seven months.”

  “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

  “S’OK.” I slurp at the watery soda at the bottom of my cup to try to open my closing throat.

  “Hey,” she says, leaning forward. “I’m really sorry. How can I help?”

  I look out at the lake, back at her. “Um, thanks, but, really, there’s nothing you need to do.” It’s done. The hard part’s done.

  Then I’m holding the picture. I didn’t mean to take it out. But I did. So, I just keep it in my hand, play it cool.

  Like in slow motion, she reaches over and traces my fingers. She turns my hand over. My fingers tingle, waiting for hers. But she grabs the picture instead.

  “No, wait —”

  “She’s pretty. And the kid’s cute.” I clench my hands.

  “Give it back.”

  “Sure,” she says, nodding, but she’s not handing it back.

  “Please?” Please. Please. Please.

  She puts it in my hand, but then keeps her hand there, covering it. “His kid?” she asks softly.

  I pull my hand back, shove the picture in my pocket. Nod. My heart’s pounding. I should have left. I’ll leave. As soon the dizziness passes.

  “Heavy.”

  “Yeah,” I say, calming.

  “What’s she like?”

  “She was nice. Meeting her was —”

  “No, the kid. Must be weird to —”

  “Haven’t met her yet.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.” Why am I still talking? Go, idiot.

  “Seriously heavy. But good. Hey.” Her hand taps my wrist. Sweet smile. She looks different, nice. “It’s very, very cool.”

  “Thanks,” I say, barely. Her hand squeezes mine.

  “Very, very cool, Matt.”

  I can’t talk, for a lot of reasons, so I just watch her hand.

  “OK, well, I have to run.” She pushes her sunglasses back onto her face. “But I’m really glad I came over here. Will you stop by and let me know how it goes?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “And, for luck.” She leans down and kisses my cheek. Her lips pull back and then brush over my mouth. Then she’s gone as suddenly as she arrived, weaving between tables and heading in the opposite direction from the one I need to go, taking the last of the popcorn with her, but leaving her soda cup for me to throw out. The foreign guys stare after her, and then look at me like I’m a lab rat. My cheek still tingles where she kissed it. I can’t feel my lips.

  I PAUSE ON THE BOTTOM STEP OF CELIA’S HOUSE TO BRUSH off my shirt. I had to settle for my least-dirty pair of jeans and the black collared shirt, hung out the window to air out while I showered. I test my breath on my hand. I couldn’t find my gum, so I guess it’s OK.

  Two doors on either end of the porch. I ring the bell for the left door, number 754.

  Should I have brought something? I have the letters and pictures — and T.J.’s letter — in my backpack, but should I have brought something else? Like flowers or something? Maybe something for Zoe? Shit. Too late now, I guess. But tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll go out and get her something. Like a stuffed animal. That’s what uncles do.

  “Hi, Matt,” Celia says, swinging the door open with one hand, a yellow-and-white dish towel in the other.

  “I’m a little early — I know,” I say.

  “No worries,” she says. I can see inside, a short hallway, then a glance of warm-brown-and-gold living room through the open door behind her. “Come on in.”

  I wipe my feet off on the mat outside her door, twice, then follow her in.

  The room is nice. The walls look like they’ve been covered with brown suede, like if I touched them they’d be soft and plush. Furniture, tables, stuff on the walls. A home.

  “Have a seat. I just need to finish one thing for dinner, then we can talk. Can I get you something to drink? Soda? Iced tea? Juice?”

  “A soda’d be great, thanks. But, uh . . .” I look around, looking for Zoe.

  “Zoe?” Celia asks. “She’s at a neighbor’s.” Missy’s, probably. “I thought we should talk first.” Celia’s face is so serious, cautious, more cautious than at the library even.

  “Oh, yeah.” I bite my lip to hold down the smile I can feel coming. “OK.” Don’t act like an idiot.

  “And my brother will be home soon, too. So . . .” She stares at me. “He’ll come by, when he gets home.”

  “Great.” I try to look cool, but happy, like I’m totally excited to meet her brother. But what if I look too excited, or stupid. Or . . .

  “I’ll get that soda. Coke OK?” I nod. She waves toward the couch behind me and then heads across the room and through a doorway. I lean my backpack against the side of the couch before sitting down, and then wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.
I can’t believe I’m here.

  Across the room, near the door, is a long table with lots of pictures on it, including a couple of pictures that look familiar, even from here.

  I get up to take a closer look. At the far end of the table is the picture of Celia, T.J., and the other two guys around a table with an umbrella, beach behind them, all of them relaxed and laughing at the camera. Behind it is one of Celia standing next to the lighter-skinned guy from the vacation photo, who’s holding Zoe. Could this be her brother? His skin is lighter than Celia’s, but they’re standing close. Here he is in another one. And another. Must be.

  “Here,” Celia says, leaning out from the kitchen to hand me a glass with ice and soda, bubbles fleeing up the side of the glass.

  “Thanks.” The glass is already slick with condensation. I concentrate on not dropping it.

  “I’ll be right back. Then we can talk.”

  I turn my attention back to the pictures. I let my eyes slide over them, and slowly move back down the table. A formal picture of a younger Celia in her uniform. One of an older couple — must be Celia’s parents. They look nice. Some of other people I don’t know. One that looks kind of familiar, Celia holding Zoe, like the picture in my pocket, but with T.J. and the tall, darker-skinned guy from the beach pictures, too. Bet this one was taken the same day. A couple more of just Zoe at various ages.

  A big picture of Zoe and Celia’s brother. Then a black-and-white one of Celia and her brother at some kind of fancy event — all dressed up and Celia in a fancy dress, holding flowers. Maybe a wedding? Could she and T.J. have gotten married? My heart thuds and speeds up. Was this one from their wedding? I quickly scan all the pictures for their wedding picture, looking just long enough to rule each out before moving on. None. Then back at this one. I pick it up. Needing to see it closer. Something’s weird. Celia and her brother, has to be, but when was it taken? Maybe this was at a family wedding, like a cousin’s or something? Her arm is linked with his. Maybe they were in the wedding? Her dress is fancy, but not like bride fancy, and she’s not wearing a veil.

  The front door opens, and a tall guy in a suit shuffles through, juggling some kind of briefcase, two cloth bags, and some other stuff.

  “Hi,” he says when he looks up and sees me standing there. “You must be Matt, right?”