He laughed.
Ines sat up and patted the bed, excitement in her eyes. “What was your favorite kid’s book?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Tell me something about yourself.”
Achilles shrugged. “I talk all the time.”
“But never about yourself.”
“My dad was a manager at the mill, and my mom a housewife and part-time bookkeeper. Not much to it. I say what’s on my mind.”
“Tell me something new. How should I describe you on Facebook? Should I say, ‘Hi mom, I’m bringing someone over for dinner. You’ll like him. He only says what’s on his mind’? Actually, she might like that.”
Achilles smiled. He had only heard of Facebook, but she planned to tell her mom. Would he even be around long enough to meet her? What was she like? He knew only that she lived Uptown, on the river side of St. Charles, near that fancy theater.
“How did you get your name? Tell me again.”
“With only a knife, my father killed a bear named Achilles, the strongest and smartest prey he ever hunted. My triple-great-grandfather, a Greek, was said to be a descendant of Achilles. My mother liked the name.” After each tale, they laughed.
It wasn’t Tyrone, or Tyshaun, or Tyrell, but he would’ve preferred John, Mark, Luke, Matthew, or Troy. Kids teased him but adults liked it. The drill sergeants told him he’d have to earn it, but his father said, Never question your birthright. Of course Achilles had read the books, but had never understood the part about the birthright. Achilles was his father’s idea. His mom wanted to name him Price, after her great-grandfather, a fearsome middleweight boxer. His father had wanted to name him after a warrior, not a mere fighter. “Honestly, I didn’t even know how to spell it,” his mother always joked. His father had always dreamed of playing pro football, and attended Georgia Tech on a scholarship, so when she saw Achilles spelled out, she thought she’d been tricked into naming him after a muscle. She wouldn’t put it past her husband, because they had funny names on that side of the family: You know you have a distant cousin named Bicep. After a month of reading, she decided Achilles was a good name, better than Price. But, there was no point in telling Ines all of that.
He carefully untangled himself from Ines and tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of water. The light from the refrigerator illuminated the pictures on the wall, a houseful of strangers, not that different from his home. Sure, the Conroys looked good in the photos on his mom’s nightstand. There was the year they dressed as the cast of The Wizard of Oz. His mom was Dorothy, his father the Scarecrow, Achilles the Lion, and Troy the Tin Man. Dressed in full costume and makeup, they posed in the barn. They looked happy, like people in a magazine ad. Next to that was his parents’ wedding photo, which obsessed him. Would he have liked the young man with the bull neck and brick jaw, the young woman with the button nose and bouffant? Would they have liked Achilles? It was hard to guess, because in all the photos in the house, Achilles is a magic trick. One minute he’s not there, the next he is. For an encore, see Troy.
Ines’s invitation to another screening filled him with dread. He imagined another obscure art film and Margaret, her every grin a reminder of his hair-trigger incident, pointing at him with her whole hand, shaking with the palm down, like she expected a kiss. Fortunately, she wasn’t there because it was a real screening. The Common Ground Collective, as Ines called her charity, cosponsored a picnic and medical van at Iberville Park, a single city block where houses had been cleared away and a small playground, now rusted, had been installed in their place.
When Achilles arrived, Ines’s two longtime assistants, Dudley and Mabel, were setting out the food. Dudley piled Mabel’s lap high with platters, and she wheeled to one of the folding tables, carefully arranging the food in neat lines. They bickered constantly, he accusing her of being too slow, she accusing him of piling too much weight on her.
“This is a wheelchair, not a pickup.”
“You got a mighty big cab, and a hell of a lot of cargo space.” Achilles found it hard not to laugh at that. Mabel was quite heavy. A large, short woman whose oversized tits spilled over her lap like two small, fidgety children, she smiled easily, and when she stopped to snack, she used her breasts as a shelf, her plate as stable as if it were on an airplane tray. Whenever she passed Achilles, she would say, “He’s just mad because I can wheel faster than he can walk.” Achilles helped them carry a few loads for the sole purpose of being a part of their obvious and infectious joy.
“Thanks for the hand, son,” said Mabel. Her voice was deep, and son reverberated. If things were otherwise, would he have spent summers with someone like Mabel? Achilles looked down at her, the dark spots on her cheeks, the thin elastic pants, the bumper stickers on the back of her wheelchair. They were only recently homeless, according to Ines, losing their house after forty years of marriage because her diabetes treatments had broken the bank—and failed. She was scheduled to have one leg amputated the following week.
When they were finished, it looked like a real barbecue, the tables piled high with ribs drenched in gooey sauce, steaming piles of fried chicken, and several huge bowls of potato salad that were so cool to the touch that Achilles had gladly carried them all. There were a few dishes he didn’t recognize, but couldn’t wait to taste. There were also several large bowls of fruit that went largely uneaten throughout the afternoon). A desk next to the van held flyers with exercise and diet tips, and cookies for all the brave kids.
After the food was arranged and the technicians had set up the medivan—red as a fire truck and outfitted with an awning—Mabel rang a cowbell. Flyers had been posted for weeks but no one wanted a checkup. A few kids grabbed some chicken and darted back into the shade, but the adults stayed hidden from view. All the people who were milling about on their porches and stoops not long ago had vanished, and now, save for the medivan generator, it was as silent as if a tank battalion had rolled into the center of town. When volunteers knocked on residents’ doors, music stopped and chair legs skidded to a halt.
Then Ines arrived, wearing a brightly colored African dress and matching head garb. She greeted Achilles with a quick smile, distracted by the fact that there were more volunteers than patients. Using the van’s PA system, she reminded everyone that they had been eating fried fish and oyster po-boys every Friday, that they needed their cholesterol checked, that they needed to stop being selfish, that their health was not their own, but belonged to their children and grandchildren. “Show thanks for your life by respecting it! Come on y’all, this isn’t Tuskegee!”
A few people chuckled, and Achilles laughed along with them. He didn’t get the joke, but after spending the time with Mabel and Dudley, after seeing Ines wearing such an outrageous outfit, he felt almost happy.
At the sound of Ines’s voice, curtains parted and venetian blinds ruffled. First singly, then in twos, people poured out, flocking to her like sparrows to St. Francis. They followed her dreads, the kente cloth, the brilliant yellow head wrap shining like a torch. They saw her clear, bottomless eyes and knew they could talk to her. And those who didn’t come right out, she coaxed out, and for those difficult to coax, she enlisted the neighbors. And the deputized neighbors did their duty, rounding up their reluctant friends. First among the volunteers was Bud. Achilles restrained himself as Bud hopped from door to door, joking and laughing, the African medallion dancing with each step. He watched Bud help a man in a wheelchair down the stairs and refill water cups for a group of old women, each of whom he addressed by name. And, he watched Bud greet Ines like an old friend, and her smile in turn, and when that moment came when they stood in a triangle at the cookie and flyer table, and Ines introduced them, Bud grinned a grin of someone beyond firing range, his smug tongue sitting there like a target.
“This is Bud, a Common Collective regular. The other volunteers gave him a rough go at first, but he’s doing fine now.”
“That’s me. I like to help,” said Bud. “And, I don’t ho
ld no grudges. That’s one thing I like about myself.”
Ines gently prodded them back into the street to escort more people to the vans. Bud limped off with a swagger, giving Achilles the thumbs-up. He imagined wrapping his fingers around Bud’s neck, and imagined Margaret hearing the story later and telling Ines, Girlll, let me tell you some-thin’ ’bout dose here black men. Ines drifted to the other end of the park, shaking hands, kissing babies, and hugging old ladies. She was always on duty. She’d said he was like a bulldog, her constant companion; however, she was the one who was indefatigable. He would have let evolution take its course. He said, Feed the homeless to the hungry. She said, You and your soldier’s humor. He said, Legalize drugs and let the weak weed themselves out. She said, The people aren’t weak, they are hurt. They have endoracism.
Endoracism?
Even after she explained it, he was doubtful. How could someone be racist against himself. Besides, wasn’t “endo” another name for pot? That was more likely the problem. He tried to imagine scenarios in which he didn’t hire himself, or paid himself less. Less than whom? His other self? In the end he pooh-poohed the idea and let slip, “So if I hang myself, does endoracism make it a lynching?” She did not laugh. Ines was a woman who would look a prostitute in the eye and say, “Come to the shelter, sister. Take your body back, and your life will follow.” She would look a junkie in the eye and ask, “Brother, why are you killing yourself?” They rarely had an answer, but they rarely turned away. Neither could Achilles.
At the end of the day, as the salad was packed up, Achilles kept his eye on Bud. He waved as the van drove off, then went to the house he had seen Bud leave earlier. The door was answered by a girl no more than seven, wearing pigtails with big blue Babar barrettes. Her ears were pierced with red studs and she wore a red polka dot sundress with Little Red Riding Hood embroidered on the chest. Bud appeared behind her, a Babar book in hand, his smile fading once he saw Achilles.
“Hey Dauphine, sugar, this is just grown-folk talk here, you hear. Go on, baby. Go back and watch TV. I’ll finish reading to you later.”
Bud claimed to have shown the flier to someone who said Troy might be at the camelback. He didn’t remember who told him, but he swore it was the truth. “I didn’t have nothing to do with it. I swear. I’m clean now.” Bud raised his hand. “Hand to God. I’m clean, and I didn’t even know those boys. I just heard people stay there.”
Achilles pushed Bud against the house. Dauphine drew the curtains back.
“It’s okay, baby. Unky B tripped,” said Bud. “You know he gets the itis.”
Achilles made Bud lead him back to the green camelback. Bud was silent this time, no singing, no banter, and, surprisingly, no begging. When he pulled up in front of the burned-out shell, Bud shook his head and whistled.
“Goddamn man. You did that? You in the army? You a cop?” He looked worried now, hesitating when Achilles ordered him out of the car. Achilles ripped the mailbox off the wall and read the names aloud to Bud: Joe, Angela, and Raymond Harper, and in smaller letters, Angie, April, and Amy. Bud didn’t recognize the names, and flinched when Achilles slammed the lid. Bud was right to worry. He was lucky he wasn’t a muzzle muffler. Two months ago, he’d have been whining about the gun at his cheek while Merriweather asked, What’s wrong? You want some lipstick on it? Two months ago, he’d already have a burlap sack over his head and quick-cuffs cutting into his wrists, turning his hands numb, and his karakul, that fuzzy hat that looked like a beaver’s ass, would be under someone’s boot.
If he was spunky—like the butcher in Lai’pur—he might have his kurta stretched over his head and his salwar down around his ankles. If he wore a pakul, the round hat—like the carpenter in Khost—it might be lit on fire and tossed like an angry Frisbee. If he were the suspected insurgent in Nangarhar, his wife’s burqa might be ripped open or her hajib removed, her flawless coppery skin reflected in twelve dilated pupils. His kids might be dramatically, theatrically removed from the room, but not taken so far away that he couldn’t hear them cry. If he were the Jalalabad schoolteacher reported to have Al-Qaeda ties, his dog might be shot and his Koran might be pissed on, after a few pages were ripped out, balled up, and hackey-sacked. He might be stripped. If he survived that, his goats might be slaughtered and dragged through the mud, by the other villagers. He might be beheaded before the mosque. He might be hung in the town square.
But before that happened, shamed that his wife saw him piss his pants, he might accuse her of infidelity and stone her, or only cut her nose off if he felt generous. Were he the stonemason in Konar, he might slit her throat with an ornate Khyber knife. He might throw petrol on her hair, light a cigarette, take a few deep drags, toss the cherry at her bound feet.
But Bud wasn’t in Afghanistan. He wasn’t the unfortunate host of a squad assigned to stabilize his country. He was only Unky B, an old man who needed to get back to his granddaughter. He was in New Orleans with Achilles who, after learning that Bud didn’t actually know any of the people who had lived in the house, lost all his steam. Achilles who, after punching Bud once in the neck and forcing him into a headlock, felt his own voice break as he whispered Shhh, it’s just like sleeping. Achilles who, after tearing up as Bud curled into a ball at his feet, his medallion in the dirt, helped him up, dusted him off, and drove him back home so Unky B could finish reading Babar’s Little Circus Star. Achilles who sat there in the park, in the car, in the dark, for almost an hour, was suddenly tired, amazed by the things he had seen so far in his short life, wondering why he was such a coward and where the other Achilles was when you needed him, who even now heard Troy, saying, I could have come alone.
Troy had never needed him, as he made clear after the Khost suicide bombing. Achilles discovered a dead teenager in the shadow of a roadside stand at the edge of the blast radius, reclined against the wall like he was napping, his embroidered Kashmiri hat covering his eyes, one sandal on, dusty feet akimbo, a half-eaten piece of bread in his lap, his body unblemished, save for the flies at his open mouth and a brilliant red dot on his left temple. One slender nail must have caught him dreaming. The wall behind him, the ground, his clothes, were all unmarked, nothing else showing any sign of debris from the explosion, as if he wasn’t even in the blast radius. Achilles wondered if he had been killed elsewhere and placed here to make it appear that he was a bombing victim, but the dirt was undisturbed by tire tracks or brush marks, except a single trail of footprints leading to and from a small brick kiln almost a hundred yards away, which explained why his hands were caked in mud. Achilles leaned in for a closer look.
“He picked the wrong side of the building to take a break on,” said Troy. “Smells like he’s been here for a while.”
Achilles nodded. He hadn’t heard his brother walk up.
“But they smell like motherfucking dogs when they’re alive.” Troy scanned the horizon, and then the ground in the immediate area, looking for tracks. “Poor fucker. I’d want to go out fighting. Maybe for a regular guy this is the best. You spook him?”
“No,” said Achilles. When an army had suicide in the arsenal, the rules changed. In past weeks, three Americans had died trying to help wounded Afghans who had been booby-trapped. So, they only spooked the injured, giving a prick or prod, from a safe distance, if possible. Sometimes they used sticks, sometimes they just tossed rocks. If alive, they called the medics, maybe. The locals sorted the dead.
Achilles took aim as Troy threw one, then two rocks at the feet. The kid yawned and sat up, stretching as the ladybug at his temple flew off. They watched him return to his kiln, dragging his feet, his shadow trailing in the dust behind him.
“Why didn’t you shoot him?” asked Troy.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was the spook,” said Troy. “I thought he was fucking dead.”
The kid was at the kiln, stirring mud. He propped the lid open with a stick and lowered in a brick, shielding his face with his free hand. He saw them staring and
waved.
Achilles waved back.
“I guess it’s not too late,” said Troy, looking around.
“Fuck that. You’re kidding, right?”
Troy wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, but he was right. They could have shot him and gotten away with it. Achilles kept seeing that ladybug flutter off. He should have fired. What if Troy had died? He’d have to continue on, even though he’d no longer have a purpose for being there. No one had to explain what it meant when Humvees crawled back with black bags tied on the roof like kayaks. He couldn’t imagine riding back to camp with his brother strapped overhead like excess luggage.
Troy walked off in the direction of their squad, busy overseeing the locals clearing away the rubble. “I could’ve come alone.”
Achilles had called hospitals looking for anyone with the names the Harpers had given him. He was, he hated to admit, officially at a dead end. Troy would have handled it better, extracted information from Bud. Troy would have screwed Ines the night they met and already moved on to one of those cougars he was into. Maybe after seeing a picture, he would go after Ines’s mom. As he said, The daughter is the mother’s business card. Troy would have it all locked up. But would Troy have spent so much energy looking for him?
CHAPTER 11
ACHILLES THE DOGGED, SHE SOMETIMES CALLED HIM. AT OTHER TIMES, Achilles the Determined. When he corralled the men into a line, Achilles the Enforcer. After walking toward gunfire and breaking up an argument at the corner, he was Achilles the Brave. He would have applied these same attributes to Ines. He often watched her from across the room or down the hall, waiting to see her flinching, to catch her stepping back when a homeless man approached, to find her rubbing her palms against her pants after shaking hands. She never did. She lived her politics. He couldn’t find a chink in the armor of this strange white woman who said she loved the world and lived like it too. The only creeping question, and one that he didn’t really want to think about but had to consider as a possibility, was that she was interested in him only because he was black. He knew not to ask. Merriweather always said, Asking a woman why she likes you is like asking her why she’s with you is like saying she shouldn’t be. But after meeting her mother, how tempted Achilles was to ask, even though at that point he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
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