by E. M. Kokie
Curtis makes this sound, like the last dregs of a killer cough. “I never said good-bye. Thought it would jinx him. Guess maybe I got that wrong.”
I look at him, his face struggling to hold back the pain. He gets it. This . . . thing, inside me, choking me, hating me.
“I hate him sometimes,” I whisper. “He just . . . I know it’s stupid, but he left, and I hate that he’s never coming back.”
“So do I,” he says. “But I love him all the time. Still. And I miss him. There’s this huge, gaping hole . . . And sometimes I can’t tell which I’m feeling.”
Yeah. Exactly. Only ten times worse, because now I feel like I never knew him at all.
“He was proud of you,” Curtis says with a crooked half smile. “It was always, ‘Matt this’ and ‘Matt that’ . . . Whatever fear he had, that this would . . .” He waves between us, shaking his head. “He loved you. And he was so proud of you. Know that.”
I close my eyes. If I move, if I breathe, all the pieces of me will shatter and fly away. Dizzy dark splotches, but I can’t breathe yet. If I breathe, I’ll explode.
A knock at the door breaks the moment, and we both exhale loudly. Curtis puts the box on the table and opens the door.
“Hi,” Celia says, looking first at Curtis with sweet sisterly eyes, and then, once satisfied, at me, less sweet but not hard. “Everything OK?”
“Uh, yes. Right?” Curtis asks, turning to me, hand planted on his hip.
“Yeah,” I say after a beat. “Good.”
“Good,” Celia says with a genuine smile. “We thought we’d grill out.” She takes a cautious step inside, hands clasped in front of her. “Matt, will you join us?”
“I really should head out.” I’m not sure I can take much more. I have this insane feeling that if I don’t leave right now, this will all go to hell again.
“You’ve got to eat,” she says, moving a little closer, looking at Curtis, maybe for backup. “We could eat soon? Anytime really.”
Curtis shrugs at me. “It’s up to you, but might be good to get a good meal into you before you hit the road.”
“And I thought you might still like to meet Zoe?” Celia asks.
Zoe. Not his daughter, but T.J. loved her, played with her, taught her stuff. Yeah, I’d like to meet her.
“OK. Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Great. Come out back when you’re ready and we’ll throw the food on,” she says, hurrying out the door.
Curtis’s smile follows her out. “Carson family motto: When in doubt, feed.”
It’s now or never. “Uh, I have something for you, too.” I reach for my bag.
He sits back down on the very edge of the sofa, clenching his hands between his knees as if to keep himself from grabbing it from my hands.
“First, I thought you should have these back.” I hand him his letters. He sinks back and clutches them to his chest. Then he looks at me warily, maybe hearing the “first” in his head.
My hand shakes as I pull out the other letter, and I hold it to my own chest before slowly extending my arm and handing it to him. His eyes slide over it and he moves his face to be able to see it better, but continues to clutch at the letters held to his chest. I can tell the moment he understands what I am handing him. His whole body jerks from someplace deep inside. He drops the bag of letters onto his lap before covering his mouth with trembling hands. He rocks back and forth a few times before finally gaining enough control to reach out a shaky hand and take the letter.
It shudders between his fingers, the plastic bag making small crinkling sounds. His hands shake so much I am surprised he doesn’t drop it. He turns it over and back and then over again. His fingers trace the label holding the bag shut. He looks up at me with wide, wet, pained eyes.
I shrug, answering the silent question. With a sudden inspiration, I try to save us both. “What kind of guy do you think I am?” Tears race over his face, but his smile says he got it.
I gather my letters and photos, and slide them back into the box, trying to ignore the awful sounds radiating out of Curtis.
His gulping sobs slow. His hands shake when they wipe at his cheeks. Deep breaths to calm himself. He shakes his head and flutters his hand between us. I get his thank-you even without the not-quite smile. But I can also see something else brewing. When he turns to look at me, his face is shuttered.
“This is . . . more than I hoped. But . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t know if you’ve gone through all of Theo’s stuff yet, and I think he would have had it on him, but . . . he had a medallion. I got it for him in Rome. If you —”
The floor falls away. I nod. Try not to react. “In the stuff they gave Dad just before the funeral.” I swallow. “There was a medallion on a cord. A saint?”
“Yes. Saint Sebastian.” Curtis laughs quietly, like to some private joke between him and T.J. “Pretty much Theo’s personal guardian, as the patron saint of soldiers, athletes, and queers. Not to mention credited with bringing the gift of speech to a girl named Zoe.”
I can’t speak.
“But, yeah, I’d . . . I’d really like it back, if there’s any way. I’m sure your dad . . .”
“No. Sure. I’ll look for it. When I get home.” I can’t tell him, not yet, not until I’ve looked everywhere.
“If your dad could —”
“I’ll send it to you.” I’ll have to find it first, but if I have to tear into the walls or, hell, even fight it out with Dad, I will. Please let it just be somewhere hidden, still to be found. “I promise.”
Curtis nods through a new wave of tears and clutches the letter close again. I’ll find it. And I know just the box to put it in when I do.
I slide the whole box of stuff into my backpack. I’ll read T.J.’s letters later. Maybe I’ll even wait until I get home. I’m not ready yet. And knowing they’re mine, to keep, the urgency’s gone. Curtis must feel the same, because he smooths the bag holding the envelope from T.J. and carefully lays it in the center of the table, the small curving of his lips a silent promise. I’m sure I’ll always wonder what the letter says, but I don’t think I’ll ever doubt that I did the right thing.
DINNER IS NICE. I CAN’T REALLY SAY FUN, BECAUSE THERE’S a heaviness hanging over everything, and we all try a little too hard to pretend we can’t feel it.
When we first came out into the backyard, Celia pulled Curtis close. I turned and watched Will slap brats and burgers on the grill to ignore their murmured conversation. After, Curtis disappeared inside and Celia slid her arm over my shoulders and led me closer to the grill. She patted my back while she talked.
During dinner, Celia and Will tell me more stories about T.J. At one point, Zoe chimes in with her own version, something about ice cream and big spoons. I never quite get it all, but she smiles and says “Uncle T.” and I can see a little more what he had here.
Curtis is quiet over dinner, kind of not even there. He smiles in the right places and answers when Will or Celia prod him to tell a bit of a story. But his eyes are unfocused and his body tense, like he’s waiting for this part to be over. How many days did I come home from school and I couldn’t remember anything about the day? I’d bet that right now he wants to be upstairs with that letter, and the hurt. I get that. I can’t let myself feel it yet — too far to drive first — but I get it anyway and know exactly how it will feel when I let myself feel it.
I stay later than I intended. And then this feeling comes over me, like it’s time to go home. Not just to leave, but to take myself back to my home.
We exchange telephone numbers and e-mails. I write down my address and e-mail in Celia’s address book, and then put my cell number into Curtis’s phone.
Celia and Will give me a bag of snacks and sodas for the road. Will shakes my hand. Celia gives me another of those too-tight hugs, but this time I’m ready and I hug back, feeling the ends of her slick-shiny braids under my fingers before I let go. They both extend “anytime” in
vites for visits and say to call if I need anything. Anything at all.
Zoe gives me a sticky-wet kiss on the cheek and hands me her plastic frog to take with me. She tells me his name is Froggy. I stick him in my pocket and then pat it with my hand to make sure he is secure. She takes my hand and walks me to the side yard before Celia intervenes. The look Zoe gives me is like an adult’s, in her little-kid face. And then she hugs my leg. Celia hurries away with Zoe, but I see her tears.
Curtis walks me down the block to the car. Once there, he nudges the tire with his shoe while I toss my backpack and the snacks onto the passenger-side seat.
“Listen,” he finally says in a rush, “do you have enough money? For gas and . . . whatever?”
Before I can answer, he is digging into his pocket and pulling out a wad of cash.
“Here.” He pushes his hand toward me. “Take it.”
“No, really, I’m fine,” I say, backing up and pulling my hands behind my back.
“I’m sure you could use it. Take it,” he says again, pushing it at me.
“No, I’m good. Promise.”
He seems to struggle with what to do, before dropping his hand to his side, but he doesn’t put it back in his pocket. Instead, his fingers rotate the bundle over and over.
“You sure?”
“Positive.” There’s nothing else to say. Well, at least nothing here, now, next to the car. “Well, I guess I should go.”
“If, uh, you . . .” He stops and starts again. More determined this time. “If you want to talk, or if you ever need anything . . . you have our numbers and e-mails. Just . . . drop us a line now and then. Let us know how you are. It’d be nice, to have someone who understands, when it’s hard.”
I nod, because I don’t think I can talk. I open the door and look back to say good-bye again. Curtis’s right there. He grabs my shoulder and then tugs me into a hug. It’s weird, and awkward, and I tense with the shock of it, but then I’m hugging him back and it’s OK.
“Go,” he says, pushing me away. “Before we both make idiots of ourselves. Text or e-mail me, to let me know you got home OK.”
I get into the car and fasten the seat belt and put it in gear. I pause to look out at him. It feels like I’ve been here for months, like it’s been weeks, not two days, since I met him. I can hardly believe the guy who tried to hit him was me.
He smiles and waves again. But before I can pull out, he stops me with a hand on the door frame.
“Just in case,” he says, tossing the wad of cash through the open window and onto the far side of the passenger seat. “Don’t be stubborn. Now, go.”
He takes off at a loping run back toward the house. I turn the car toward home. At least, I think I do. It may take me a while to find my way out of this crazy-ass town and get turned toward home.
Home.
CROSSING BACK INTO PENNSYLVANIA FROM OHIO, PANIC starts to set in.
For most of the night, I was flying along I-80 in the center lane, just me and the truckers. But around four a.m., the traffic picked up, and since then I’ve had to start paying attention again. Cars weave in and out, faster and slower, getting in my way and bugging me, making it harder to drive at a steady speed.
I stop for my third infusion of caffeine since midnight. If I cut myself right now, I’d probably bleed coffee.
The sky is starting to slide toward purple, pink, and gray as the sun rises. My whole body is tense and tight from the strain of driving for so many hours in a row, and each adjustment of speed or shifting lanes takes all my strength and focus.
But when I see the signs for McConnells Mill State Park, I have to detour. Takes about half an hour, and then I’m there, not too far in, but parked near an overlook, staring out over a gorge. Not too far from where we might have gone, if T.J. had come home.
Before the hike itself, but after the detour to talk, T.J. buzzed with energy, seemingly caught in the pure joy and fantasy of freedom. Grooving along, tapping out the wrong beat, and only singing some of the words to the songs on the radio. Pulling into Raccoon Creek State Park, he grinned like an idiot at the ranger manning the station.
But on our last night, in front of the fire, he got quiet. Poking at the flames with a stick, staring at nothing. So much of that trip was a blur, but that last night is burned into my skull, even though nothing really happened.
“You OK?” It was a stupid question. I even knew then it was a stupid question. But it was as close to what I really wanted to know as I could let myself get. When he focused on me, T.J.’s look was kind of confused, so I tried again. “You were just staring, but . . . are you OK, I mean, being up here?”
His mouth succeeded in making the shape of a smile, and at the time the tension in me eased just a little, but it wasn’t a happy face. The pops of burning wood sounded loud while he tried to answer, starting and stopping a few times before actually getting anything out.
“Yeah, being up here is great. It’s just . . .” He leaned back again, and I lost his face in the shadows. “I don’t know, too quiet, I guess. Head gets heavy. You know?”
“Like a headache?”
He rolled onto his side and his face disappeared into the darkness. I was relieved when he rolled back into the firelight and I could see him again.
“No, like the quiet invites all the thoughts you usually drown out with noise, and they all start asking to be heard, and I don’t know, your head just gets . . .”
“Heavy. Yeah, I get that.” But I didn’t. Not really. Not then.
“Even when it’s quiet, over there, it’s never this quiet. There’s always something else to focus on, if the thoughts get too loud. Even the tick-tick of the truck, or the breathing of the guy next to you. Something to focus on to make all the inside stuff quiet down.”
I made a big deal of clearing my throat, sitting up straighter, trying so hard to be more than his kid brother. And he did look at me — really look at me — for one long beat. But then his eyes and face changed, and his look became kind, like he was looking at a kid. Too kind. So kind it felt more like a slap. And then his face settled back into a flat mask.
He never told me what was in his head, being loud. And I didn’t ask. Instead, I started talking about school, and Shauna, and Dad, and whatever came into my head. Nothing that was really important. Nothing that mattered. And I knew right away that he was somewhere else again, somewhere heavy. I didn’t even bother to stop. I just rambled. Occasionally he would nod or make a sound, but he didn’t even really hear what I was saying.
Maybe if I had waited. If I had stayed quiet. If I hadn’t filled the space with bullshit, maybe he would have said it. Maybe he would have told me the truth.
Ultimately, a heaviness settled around both of us, like the words I was saying were trapped in the smoke from the fire, creating a haze. At the time, I worried that whatever he was hearing in his head was about the war. And up there, in the dark, I was scared. Scared to know what he had seen, what he had done. Maybe even a little scared of him. Even scared for me. I didn’t want to know what I might have to do if I gave in to Dad. So I didn’t ask the right questions, and he never told me what was clouding his eyes and making his head heavy.
He was probably thinking about Curtis, maybe even regretting that he was wasting five minutes of leave with me, instead of being in Madison with Curtis. But maybe he was trying to figure out if he could tell me, or if he should tell me, or how. Maybe he was already getting ready to leave for good, leave me behind, and didn’t know how to tell me that. Whatever it was, I didn’t ask because I figured, ultimately, whatever was in his head was about death.
It never occurred to me it could be about life.
DAD’S TRUCK ISN’T IN THE DRIVEWAY. I KNEW IT PROBABLY wouldn’t be. He’s never home in the middle of the day. But I still feel a weird mix of relief and disappointment at seeing the empty driveway.
Maybe I knew deep down this was a trial run, but I’ve been talking myself into the confrontation with Dad for the las
t hour, maybe even the last twenty-four hours. Now it seems like a waste of effort. Still, home, even with whatever’s about to happen hanging over me, looks pretty good. I need to curl up for a week, or at least a weekend, in my cave of a bedroom, dark, and a little too warm, and mine. Not yet, I know, but that much closer. Soon.
I let myself in the side door, halfway between the kitchen and my room, and hold my breath. “Dad?” I wait for any signs of movement. “Da-ad?” Nothing. Nothing at all. I relax a little, but not all the way, not until I’m sure.
I stop dead one step into the kitchen and drop my duffel on the floor. The sight is incredible.
All over the kitchen table, in no apparent order, hundreds of pieces of paper, all different colors and sizes, with all these folds, so they don’t lay flat. And envelopes, all these envelopes, one on the floor next to the table, with one of those red-white-and-blue return labels winking up at me. The empty box on the floor makes my stomach flip.
I can hardly understand, let alone believe, that Dad did this. I sidestep my way to the closet in the hallway, never taking my eyes off the table, littered with failed condolences. I open the hallway closet slowly, and see exactly what I expected to see: nothing. The empty box in the kitchen, the letters . . . Dad opened them. He opened them all.
I rest my forehead against the closet door. I turn my head and glance into the living room. My knees go weak. I can’t move closer, and I can’t back away.
Dad’s TV is in pieces. It’s on the floor, on its side. The screen isn’t just broken: it has a hole in the middle of it, and the glass all around it is crackled and ragged, like he put his foot through it, or maybe a bat or something. The TV stand is in pieces, too. And whatever used to be on the hutch in the corner is now scattered debris next to and around it, and the hutch door is hanging by one hinge. All around the living room, stuff is broken and in pieces on the floor. There’s a fist-size hole in the far wall.
I backpedal into the kitchen, like if I turn my back on the destruction, or take my eyes off the TV, something will attack me.
