Read Online Personal Effects by E. M. Kokie - Free Book Online

eight. Dad and I stopped by to drop off T.J.’s lunch. Mr. Anders was holding a ladder while another guy measured something near the ceiling. He reached across his body to shake Dad’s hand, without taking his attention or his other hand off the ladder. They pointed me down the hall to find T.J.
    I followed the sound of the music, T.J.’s music, dodging materials, tools, and wet paint. Nervous to be walking through the house alone, but I could hear the music and T.J. singing along, his scratchy voice loud over the other voice in the room.
    “Wait, wait!” T.J. laughed. “This is the best part.”
    When I made it to the doorway, T.J. was crouched over the CD player, turning up the sound.
    He stood up, playing air guitar as the music squealed out. The other guy, older than T.J., grimaced and shook his head, but he also smiled at T.J.’s elaborate performance. And I watched, all the way to the end of the song, because I couldn’t
not
watch T.J. when he was playing air guitar.
    “How could you not —?” T.J. started to say to the other guy, dancing toward him, still sort of tuning his air guitar. But then the guy looked at me, and so did T.J. “Matt!” he yelled. “Finally, someone who appreciates my playing. That my lunch?”
    “Yup,” I said, holding the bag out in front of me with both hands.
    “Great, I’m starved. Come on.” He was already through the kitchen and near the back door by the time I could catch up.
    Every time I step into one of these houses — guys working, music, the smells — it feels a little like I’m gonna turn a corner and find T.J., covered in sweat and paint, singing along to his air guitar.
    The long hours of work help clear my head. The rhythmic sanding and scraping is nice to breathe with. And the work is good. After a while, I stop hurting so much. It helps me remember why, all those months, I ignored the crap. I’ve been ignoring assholes my whole life. I can do it a little longer.
    “Matt, you need more stain?” Jerry asks from the doorway of the kitchen. I look down, realizing I’ve been working on the same cabinet door for a while. Thankfully, it doesn’t look all blotchy or too dark next to the others.
    “Uh, no, I’ve still got a couple cans after this one.”
    I carefully put down my brush and lift the door, moving it to the counter behind me to dry.
    Jerry watches me. Not saying anything, just watching, until I’ve got another unstained cabinet door set up on the sawhorses. I wipe the surface down to get rid of any dust or stuff that could ruin the stain, taking extra care with the grooves. Then I wait, staring back at Jerry, because it feels weird to start staining with him watching. Like maybe he’ll say I’m doing it all wrong.
    “OK, well, I’m going to run to pick up the paint. If you have any problems, Carl is in the front room, working on the floor. OK?”
    “Sure.” I pick up the can, but I still wait. Eventually he leaves the kitchen.
    Jerry used to be just another one of the guys. Now that Mr. Anders lets him supervise the crew, he’s quieter, more serious, less fun.
    When T.J. was working for Mr. Anders, Jerry was one of the new guys: he’d been at the university, but something happened and he dropped out.
    He was OK then, but I like him better now, even with the staring.
    Jerry’s one of the guys who came to T.J.’s funeral. A bunch of them did, all in a group. Mr. Anders came later, on his own.

E VERYTHING ABOUT THE WEEK BEFORE THE FUNERAL WAS hell. But it was nothing compared to the funeral itself.
    It was so cold. Too cold even to snow. Dad had bought me a new suit and shoes, but he didn’t bother with a coat, and none of my regular coats were nice enough. I froze all day.
    We got to the funeral home really early. People were already starting to set up on the sides of the road, like there was going to be a parade. Flags everywhere.
    After Dad met with the escort, and they’d checked out the inside of the casket, they closed the coffin