Read Online Personal Effects by E. M. Kokie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: E. M. Kokie
Tags: Fiction, General, Historical, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Death & Dying, Siblings, Parents, Homosexuality, Military & Wars
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people. But there were people everywhere. A line out the door. More uniforms. I almost backed out of the room.
Shauna and her parents made their way through the crowd and stayed near me in the doorway to the family room until I could get up the courage to take my place next to Dad.
“Matt,” Shauna said, her breath near my cheek, “you don’t have to go up there.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said, steeling myself for the walk.
Her fingers caught mine, and she held me back until I shook them off and stepped out from the safety of the dim side room.
A gazillion pairs of eyes turned on me. Buzzes of sound, and tears. And none of it mattered. All that mattered was getting up there next to Dad. I took another step. Shauna touched my back.
I don’t actually remember the walk. But I remember clearly the moment when I fell in line beside Dad. He didn’t move a muscle. I knew he’d seen me come up and that he was pissed I hadn’t been there when they opened the doors, but he didn’t look my way to say so or stare it at me. I looked back at Shauna, now crying into her father’s shoulder, made sure she knew that I knew she was there. Then I matched Dad’s stare ahead.
We stood next to the casket forever while people filed past. Most of the time Dad looked like a statue with his hands clasped in front of him, face stone. Only some people got an acknowledgment, a handshake, mostly guys who had served with T.J. or Dad’s friends and employees. Most everyone else got a stare, at best. I shook all the hands, said the thank-yous, tried not to breathe my puke breath on anyone. Sometimes Uncle Mac stood between us; sometimes he scurried around, talking to people, making sure things were where they were supposed to be. Aunt Janelle handed out tissues and smiled at people through her free-flowing tears. I didn’t look at the casket again. Except when Mr. Anders came in.
A whole group of the guys had come at the beginning, weird and quiet, respectful in their funeral clothes. But Mr. Anders came later. I almost didn’t recognize him, in his suit, his hair slicked back. His shoes gleamed. Regulation shine.
Dad broke his pose to shake Mr. Anders’s hand and held it a beat longer than I think Mr. Anders wanted. Then Mr. Anders stepped back to shake my hand, reaching over to grab my shoulder, too. My eyes burned, and I stared at his shoes, stared at them all the way to the casket. And then I couldn’t help but look as he held his hand over his heart and then laid it over the flag-draped wood. More than anyone else, Mr. Anders felt real. Like it hurt all the way through him, too.
Back at the house, I heard Uncle Mac tell someone they’d only been able to find one of T.J.’s arms. Really stupid, but I hoped it had been his right. I needed it to be his right arm. It seemed really fucked up that after all of that, I might not have touched T.J. at all.
Now I can’t care. Even if it was his arm, it hadn’t been him, not really, because whatever was in that casket, it wasn’t T.J.
T HAT NIGHT, EVEN AFTER A LONG-ASS DAY OF PAINTING and staining, I get home before Dad. Inside, the quiet presses on me, almost egging me on to take a quick look upstairs. But Dad could be home any minute. Next week. I can wait another few days not to tip him off.
I head outside with a soda and some chips.
The long hours of work helped clear my head.
Sun warmed and temporarily less hungry, I wait for Dad. As soon as he cleans up and heads out again, I’ll call Shauna. I need to see her, and need to be distracted. Next week can’t come soon enough.
Mrs. Russell across the street spends half her day pretending to do stuff in her yard so she can snoop on the neighborhood. Today that means she spends a long time pretending not to watch me.
Another reminder that I’ve been ignoring these people my whole life: Mrs. Russell in particular, since the day we moved in and Dad said to stop staring at the old lady sweeping the street.
Dad’s truck pulls into
Shauna and her parents made their way through the crowd and stayed near me in the doorway to the family room until I could get up the courage to take my place next to Dad.
“Matt,” Shauna said, her breath near my cheek, “you don’t have to go up there.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said, steeling myself for the walk.
Her fingers caught mine, and she held me back until I shook them off and stepped out from the safety of the dim side room.
A gazillion pairs of eyes turned on me. Buzzes of sound, and tears. And none of it mattered. All that mattered was getting up there next to Dad. I took another step. Shauna touched my back.
I don’t actually remember the walk. But I remember clearly the moment when I fell in line beside Dad. He didn’t move a muscle. I knew he’d seen me come up and that he was pissed I hadn’t been there when they opened the doors, but he didn’t look my way to say so or stare it at me. I looked back at Shauna, now crying into her father’s shoulder, made sure she knew that I knew she was there. Then I matched Dad’s stare ahead.
We stood next to the casket forever while people filed past. Most of the time Dad looked like a statue with his hands clasped in front of him, face stone. Only some people got an acknowledgment, a handshake, mostly guys who had served with T.J. or Dad’s friends and employees. Most everyone else got a stare, at best. I shook all the hands, said the thank-yous, tried not to breathe my puke breath on anyone. Sometimes Uncle Mac stood between us; sometimes he scurried around, talking to people, making sure things were where they were supposed to be. Aunt Janelle handed out tissues and smiled at people through her free-flowing tears. I didn’t look at the casket again. Except when Mr. Anders came in.
A whole group of the guys had come at the beginning, weird and quiet, respectful in their funeral clothes. But Mr. Anders came later. I almost didn’t recognize him, in his suit, his hair slicked back. His shoes gleamed. Regulation shine.
Dad broke his pose to shake Mr. Anders’s hand and held it a beat longer than I think Mr. Anders wanted. Then Mr. Anders stepped back to shake my hand, reaching over to grab my shoulder, too. My eyes burned, and I stared at his shoes, stared at them all the way to the casket. And then I couldn’t help but look as he held his hand over his heart and then laid it over the flag-draped wood. More than anyone else, Mr. Anders felt real. Like it hurt all the way through him, too.
Back at the house, I heard Uncle Mac tell someone they’d only been able to find one of T.J.’s arms. Really stupid, but I hoped it had been his right. I needed it to be his right arm. It seemed really fucked up that after all of that, I might not have touched T.J. at all.
Now I can’t care. Even if it was his arm, it hadn’t been him, not really, because whatever was in that casket, it wasn’t T.J.
T HAT NIGHT, EVEN AFTER A LONG-ASS DAY OF PAINTING and staining, I get home before Dad. Inside, the quiet presses on me, almost egging me on to take a quick look upstairs. But Dad could be home any minute. Next week. I can wait another few days not to tip him off.
I head outside with a soda and some chips.
The long hours of work helped clear my head.
Sun warmed and temporarily less hungry, I wait for Dad. As soon as he cleans up and heads out again, I’ll call Shauna. I need to see her, and need to be distracted. Next week can’t come soon enough.
Mrs. Russell across the street spends half her day pretending to do stuff in her yard so she can snoop on the neighborhood. Today that means she spends a long time pretending not to watch me.
Another reminder that I’ve been ignoring these people my whole life: Mrs. Russell in particular, since the day we moved in and Dad said to stop staring at the old lady sweeping the street.
Dad’s truck pulls into
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