Personal Effects (30 page)

Curtis laughs, maybe the first real laugh I’ve ever heard from him. “The end of a long night of drinking to celebrate Will’s graduation from law school. Will puked three times
during
the graduation ceremony the next day.”

I pick up one of T.J. lying on the ground with Zoe, both of them absorbed in whatever they were doing, not even looking at the camera.

“She was crazy about him.” Curtis moves down the table and picks up another one, one I’ve seen before — Zoe facing the camera, her lips pursed. “This one is from the last time he was home. He was trying to teach her to spit for distance, much to Missy’s irritation.”

“I remember, from the letters.”

Curtis carefully places the picture back on the table.

“Everyone keeps telling me to put these away. That it’s time to move on. Like it’s the pictures that are the problem.” He turns one of the photos a little more toward him. “It hasn’t even been seven months,” he says, like he’s talking to someone else.

“At least you have them to put away,” I say, before I can stop myself. “I mean, we’ve never been real into photo ops, you know?” And Dad got rid of the few we had. “There were just a few of him in his stuff.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” Curtis sinks down into the couch, his arms and legs neatly arranged, like he’s posing for a portrait. He waits for me to sit down, then pulls a small box onto his lap and places its lid on the table in front of him.

“It’s not a lot. You probably have much better things, more personal, at home — but there were a few things I thought you might like. Including”— he sifts through the box until he pulls out a small envelope, turning it to slide a small stack of photographs into his hand —“these.”

He hands me the stack. I see right away, on top, a copy of the picture that started all of this. The one of Celia, Zoe, T.J., and Curtis. It’s a little smaller than Celia’s framed copy, but bigger than the one T.J. cut up.

“I thought you might like a whole one.”

The next one down is of T.J. in uniform, but not at attention. Relaxed. His shit-eating grin on full display, hand extended toward the camera.

“That one was taken at a charity event. He was so proud in that uniform.” Curtis’s smile makes my stomach flip, like when I read the sexy parts of the letters. “He strutted and preened like a damn peacock. God, I miss that. His confident strut into a room, knowing everyone’s eyes were going to be on him. And they were. Everyone’s.”

I can’t look at it long, but I think, later, I might like it. The next is one of T.J. on some mountain, smiling, a valley spreading out below him.

“I figured,” Curtis says, “that with how much you all shared in the hiking, you probably never lugged a camera along. I thought, well, it was the closest one I had to how you must remember him best.”

I can’t answer. I nod, I think. My fingers touch the edge of the picture. This is the one — this is who he was, to me. I slip it under the others.

A few more shots of T.J. with various people, doing various things. Curtis tells stories I’ll never remember. But the pictures are nice, even if they are of times and places I don’t know.

The last two are smaller than the rest, and the surface and paper feel different. When I shuffle them to the top of the stack and turn the larger one right-side up, I almost recognize it. Almost.

Curtis sits quietly next to me while I study it. Without even knowing the people, you’d know it was old, older than the others. But I can look at my face, T.J.’s Little League uniform, Mom’s flattened-out smile and hollow eyes, and know this was taken right before the end. Nine or ten months, at most, before Mom left. Dad looks the same, really. In my head, I can see him like he is today, a little older, hair a little more flecked with silver, eyes surrounded by crevices instead of lines. But the hard, steady look, giving nothing away, is the same. His body, strong and steel-straight, the same. His clothes are even nondescript enough not to stand out, not like the rest of us.

“T.J. said this was the last picture he could find of all four of you,” Curtis says quietly. “He kept it close, and when he deployed, he put it in the box with some other stuff he didn’t want to lose.”

I’m only half listening, already turning to the last photo. This one I don’t recognize at all. Well, I recognize Dad, younger than in the other, thinner, his hair even shorter, and in uniform. It’s hard to look away from that alone. But I force my eyes to slide to the left, to the woman who is clearly Mom, but not like I’ve ever seen her. She’s smiling, her eyes are alive, and her hair is all done up. She’s wearing a dress and gloves. She’s really pretty. I’d never thought of her as pretty before. Dad’s holding T.J. He’s missing his two front teeth. Dad’s holding him so proudly, and his arm is around Mom, and T.J.’s arm is around Dad’s neck. They’re all smiling. Happy. What, three years before me? Maybe four? And they’re all happy.

“Theo said this was taken the day your dad got promoted to staff sergeant,” Curtis says beside me.

“I don’t even know where this was taken.” The cinder-block wall screams base housing, somewhere, and I could probably figure it out if I could think.

“North Carolina. Theo said your family lived on base until he was almost ten.”

I shake my head, mouth suddenly dry. I can’t stop staring at Mom. “I’ve never seen her look like this. She was really beautiful.”

“I know,” Curtis says. “Theo said she used to set her hair on rollers, and sometimes she would let him play with the curls before she brushed them out.” His eyelids flutter at the thought. “I can picture it, you know? Little Theo, one thing when your dad was away, another when he was home. . . . Must have been hell to have to pull it all in every time he came home.”

I try to remember, to see it. But I can’t. “I don’t remember Mom in rollers or T.J. any different or . . .”

“You wouldn’t,” Curtis says, his voice firm but not harsh. “You were a baby when your dad got out and moved you all to Pennsylvania. And by the time you were older, well, I’m sure Theo had learned to be what your dad needed him to be. He’d have had to. And your mom . . .”

“Was a fucking mess. Nothing like this.” I barely resist the urge to crumple the picture in my hand. “Toward the end, most days we were lucky if she showered. Funny, Dad washes out of the Army, and Mom stops washing at all.”

“He didn’t wash out, Matt. Your mom couldn’t handle it.”

My stomach drops. “Handle what?”

“Any of it. Life on base. The long absences. Taking care of herself, much less you and your brother. She was falling apart. Theo said she’d always been a little . . . up and down. But after her father died, she never seemed to get back on track. Just before Theo’s tenth birthday, she had a little breakdown at one of those wives’ events. There was a meeting. Your dad didn’t really have a choice. So, he got out and moved you all to Pennsylvania, where he could have a regular job, and he thought your grandmother could help keep it together.”

“Then Grandma died. I don’t remember, but I know that’s what happened.”

And then Mom fucked it all up anyway. What, three, three and a half years later? She took off. And before she left, in that house on Mulberry, she was always such a mess. And he was always so angry. My memories of the fights shift in my head. Maybe when he was yelling about none of it being worth it, he didn’t mean me, or us, so much as her, or the move, or getting out.

I look at the two pictures again. Mom was so beautiful once, but Dad’s always been pretty much the same, and maybe that’s all he could be. And T.J., then, didn’t seem scared of him, but Curtis said T.J. was different when it was just T.J. and Mom. Maybe when Dad was around all the time, T.J. stopped getting along with him?

T.J. must have taken these with him from home, but I wouldn’t even know where to look for more. Does Dad have boxes of stuff somewhere? Or did he chuck them all at some point after T.J. took these? What else don’t I know?

“Anyway,” Curtis says, bringing me back to the present, “he had some stuff here, some clothes and things. I’ve kept them . . . you can look through them if you want, now or . . . but there are some things I think you should have now, some stuff he had on his desk here that I think he’d want you to have. His favorite hiking gadgets — his compass, fire starter, pocketknife. Some papers. I’ve pulled them together so you can take them with you now. You can look through them later. Along with these. These are from me.”

I turn to look at Curtis, who’s picked up a stack of stuff and is holding it to his chest, a small smile on his face. He holds the pose for just a few seconds and then swings his arms out, pushing a stack of envelopes into my hands. My fingers fumble around the shifting papers, trying not to drop them all. Once I’ve gathered them in, I turn them until one rises to the surface, faceup. An envelope. Everything slows down. Hot and cold. Something pounds in my ears. T.J.’s handwriting. Celia’s address. I look up for confirmation.

“It’s just a few, I know, but I thought you might like some of his letters. I picked a few that seemed . . . I don’t know . . . most Theo-like, if that makes any sense, and more, huh-hhmm, brother friendly, if you get my drift,” he says, tucking his chin into his chest and raising his eyebrows. “Didn’t want to scar you for life or anything.” He flutters his eyes, long lashes over a slanted-chin pose. My face gets hot.

I can’t speak. I can’t move. He has just handed me a piece of my brother back. Curtis, who yesterday I wished didn’t exist.

“I . . .” I swallow, try again. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you will do just fine.” Another pointed smile.

“Thank you,” I say as enthusiastically as I can. “Seriously, oh, man, this means . . . this means so much to me. Just . . . thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he says, pleased. Not happy. He’s not happy. Neither am I. But I think maybe we both are as close to it as we have been in a very long time.

I carefully shuffle the letters into an orderly stack. Curtis didn’t have to do this. Later, I’ll read them, and it will help. I know it will. God, T.J.’s letters.

“I didn’t even say good-bye,” I say, surprising myself.

“When?”

“The last time he was home.” I can see it. That last night, before heading to bed, we grabbed right hands and T.J. pulled me into a sort of rough hug, but it wasn’t really good-bye — at least, not a good-bye that you say to your brother when he’s walking into danger, when you might never see him again. He came by my door early in the morning, and I pretended to be asleep because I didn’t trust myself not to spaz or something. I was being selfish: I didn’t want to ruin the high of the trip or look like a wuss. Now sometimes it’s all I can think about. “I didn’t even say good-bye. Not really.”

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.