After that, he knew their bodies were made for each other. He hadn’t felt this for Janice. He melted at Ines’s smile, and just the sound of her voice on the phone earned a salute. Achilles was unaccustomed to so much downtime, but found himself feeling less guilty as time went on. For one thing, didn’t helping Ines mean that he was always looking for Troy while she was working? For another thing, Troy was a grown man, wasn’t he? He was probably fine and would show up when he was good and ready. There wasn’t any guarantee he was still in New Orleans anyway. Achilles deserved some R&R, didn’t he?
But the biggest reason the guilt receded was because he was happy. He had never before had such access to the female body. But he didn’t think that was why he was happy. His first week in Goddamnistan, he realized that he had been happy at home but had never known it. He missed Janice, the mill, the cool quarry water, everything that up until then he had thought he was doing to pass the time until his real life began. He’d had nothing but time, and it felt like a burden, like the proverbial rich man whose fortune drives his insomnia, except that Achilles’s fortune was time, and he was always looking for ways to spend it. That first week on rotation, before he learned to shut it all away, to hope for nothing, what he wouldn’t have given to be home helping his father weatherize the house or cut the grass or shore up the barn, but once home, all those tasks lost their nostalgic luster and he wanted a rifle in his hands and a pack on his back and to be doing something that mattered. Anyone could cut grass, but not everyone could clear a room in 5.2 seconds. Then, after the funeral, he’d have given anything to do that again, running the mower along the drive while his dad warned him away from the rocks, as he did every single time, even when Achilles was home on leave. He had not realized at the time that maybe Watch the rocks was another way of saying I love you. He’d learned to take whatever pleasure came his way, and Ines was all his. No kids, no ex-husbands, no crazy brothers.
Of course it helped that he’d never known a woman more comfortable with her naked self. Even prostitutes around the bases covered up after the act. He wondered now if that was to keep him from getting more than his money’s worth. With Ines, it was different. She would spring out of bed and roll a joint, or sweep, or read, or make phone calls nude. That was something Achilles could never do. To be nude on the phone was impossible. Besides, to whom would he talk nude? Since he’d stopped returning Janice’s calls, he didn’t have many telephone conversations with any woman other than Ines. It would seem gay to be naked on the phone with his friends. It would be too creepy with his mother. He didn’t even like it when Ines was nude while talking to her own mother. Other than that, everything was perfect, and his only concern was what to say when his brother did show up.
He imagined that after finding Troy, they would drive straight home. Troy would be exhausted from his search, but appreciative, in his case meaning quiet but responsive, unlike their last ride home when he had been sullen. He was rarely sullen, but when opting for radio silence became nearly catatonic, prompting Merriweather to once say, “I fucked noisier pussies!” When they squeezed through the front door, their mother and aunts would cheer and clap, welcoming Troy home, but more so applauding Achilles’s tireless efforts. Kisses and hugs, cries and sighs. His mother wouldn’t be wearing that backpack, not around company. Their names up in glittering letters, the party would finally begin. They could even have that parade Janice had mentioned. Sure, Troy had a Silver Star. But Achilles had Troy. Instead, Achilles received a voice mail and one text message: TROY ON WAY FROM NEW ORL!!!! ANY MINUTE NOW!!!!
A dozen exclamation marks! When he called her back, the line was busy, of course. Thirty minutes later, his mother’s line was still busy. She and Troy were probably talking to each other, laughing the whole thing off, as Troy did so well. Achilles had been out on the road for almost two months, but it felt like two years. All of that crap and he didn’t even get a phone call. He counted them, twice. Eight exclamation marks!
When he finally spoke to his mother, she didn’t sound like the same person who had sent the text message. She was so composed he wondered if it was for his benefit.
“He must have gotten one of your messages,” she said. “That’s the only way.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“He would have done it for you. And know what else? You were successful. You were there when it mattered. I was counting on you, and you came through. Your energy and faith and belief.” She had big plans. She’s going to cook for her sons. She’s going to have that extra room built on the back so they can put in that pool table their father always threatened to buy. She’s going to let them have a dog. They could build a kennel out back, or have the dog in the house, if they want. Every prohibition was lifted, every pledge affirmed, every courtesy extended. Though, of course, this didn’t mean that she expected them to move home. No. Not at all. She’d never suggest such a thing. Preposterous. They were soldiers now, men. Their country might call them to serve at a moment’s notice. In fact, Achilles didn’t even need to come home now. No, she was only saying that they would always have a house to come home to. Always. A comfortable home. The home they always wanted. Their home, really, because, as she explained with a smile in her voice, “No one is going to be around forever.”
He said he would leave the very next day, but he dreaded returning home, recalling those few nightmarish days, the lame laugh tracks, the preposterous comic books, the cheesy British accents. He packed anyway.
Having heard that in the seventies it was a backpacking haven known for the hospitality of the natives, he had often wondered what Afghanistan looked like in the deep sleep of peace. How would New Orleans feel now that it was only he and Ines? Now that Troy had resurfaced and headed back to Maryland, would Achilles have the same vertigo as on his first day home, when he awoke and didn’t know what to do? Surprisingly, he didn’t. The morning after his mother’s call, he felt free, a little nervous, like a puppy testing the leash, but free. So when Ines called that morning and suggested a staycation, he agreed. One more day couldn’t hurt. She shuffled a deck of souvenir cards featuring the top fifty-two New Orleans landmarks, and they each selected two. Because they did this over the phone, she had to tell Achilles what he had selected via the sexiest proxy in the city: Jackson Square and Café Du Monde. Meanwhile, she’d selected the Zoo and Café Du Monde.
His last trip to the Quarter was a blur. He and Wages had made the obligatory stop at Pat O’Brien’s and the Dungeon, then spent the afternoon daiquiri shop hopping, so Ines said he was still a Quarter virgin. They went first to Café Du Monde for hot chocolate made with real milk, and beignets—the blessed French pastry flash fried and dusted with confectioner’s sugar. Ines called it sacrilege when Achilles ordered his without sugar. She ate hers proper, so that the first bite released the dulcet steam trapped in the center, coating the tip of her nose and making a mustache. In a deep voice she said, “Kiss me, dammit.” And he did, quickly, suddenly shy, stealing a kiss that tasted of sugar and chocolate and lipstick. She dipped her beignets in hot chocolate and watched the sugar float on top, clumping up and clinging to the side of the mug. He followed suit.
Ines looked at Achilles’s ashy hands, pulled a bottle out of her purse, slathered his hands with lotion, and massaged it in until his hands were smooth and gleaming, even the knuckles shimmering like wet coffee beans. She did this without skipping a beat in the conversation, and when she finished, his hands were throbbing. He hadn’t known that nonsexual contact could be so intensely pleasurable, so intimate. In high school, in an attempt to segue into seductive slang, he’d once told Aiko, “I was thinking about you last night.” In response, she’d blushed and said she was thinking about him too. After much coaxing and whispering, she admitted that she’d imagined walking with him and holding his hand and laughing, much laughing, smiling. He’d thought she was joking. Now he understood. Everything in his body ran loose, his limbs slack and free, blood pounding in his temple, the vein in his thumb thrummin
g.
After Café Du Monde, they sat on a bench in the center of the Quarter, in Jackson Square, a park girdled in ornate fencing, and beyond that bordered by a courtyard of eighteenth-century townhouses skirted with baroque wrought-iron galleries. Behind the park stood St. Louis Cathedral, its white stucco walls glowing in the sun like an enchanted palace. On the other side of the park was a queue of horse-drawn carriages, Jax Brewery, and, above the ridge, ironically, the Mississippi. Rock doves darted from finger to finger of trees that rose from the ground like hands reaching for the sky. Leaves purled in the background, tourists submitted to caricature artists, and the shadow of Andrew Jackson’s statue chased a sun-seeking golden retriever across the lawn.
Ines’s smile was a flame, igniting all it touched. Old men saw her and proffered toothless grins, babies stopped crying. Even the retriever occasionally ventured into the shade that had crept over their bench to offer his cold wet greeting. And everything Ines anointed with her smile Achilles liked, including the golden retriever, when he usually preferred Labs. He was proud to be with this woman with a smile like fire, spreading as if carried on the wind. Ines touched his hand and pointed to the petal of a black-eyed Susan pirouetting across his shoe. He picked it up, placed the spot of yellow in his palm, and blew it back into the wind. A tall, slim man loped across the park, turning away as soon as he saw Achilles. Achilles sat up and stared. The man was light-skinned, but his shoulders were too narrow. A few minutes later, another man who looked like Troy passed. He wore a blue suit and loafers. Troy had never worn a suit in his life, not even at their father’s funeral.
“Observant Achilles.” Ines kissed him on the neck. “That’s what I like about you. You’re so vigilant.”
Achilles shivered, his body thumping from the kiss, his mind still split between Ines and Troy, between his pleasure at being with her and his resentment about his brother not calling, a resentment that grew by the minute. He so wanted Troy to call. Achilles had earned that much. The man in the blue suit passed again and winked. Achilles pulled Ines close. She hummed softly against his neck. “I feel safe with you,” she said. “I know there won’t be any unpleasant surprises.”
They rambled and giggled, talked of where they’d been and where they yet hoped to go. Her voice made every destination appealing, though he was satisfied with the Vieux Carré, which thrummed with energy. In the background were two yellow-rumped warblers playing in a fountain and a steamboat’s paddle and stack, the latter lightly smoking and red at the tip, like a cigarette recently stubbed out by a beautiful woman.
Gone were the coffee can planters, the crumbling cornices, and the mindless litter. It wasn’t the New Orleans he’d met with Wages. It wasn’t the same city at all. The only thing missing was Troy. He could at least call to say thank you. If not that, at least hello.
“Flak jacket, babe,” said Ines with a wink. It was what she said to him when he looked tense.
Achilles sat up. What a smile. It wouldn’t hurt to stay one more night.
She called “twisting” the only tangible skill she’d learned in college, a skill she employed on a semiregular basis, often on Saturday nights. She liked to smoke on the roof of her apartment building, pointing out her favorite spots in the city every five minutes and pointing them out again five minutes later. Though he had only smoked once before, in high school with Troy, and the nearly incapacitating paranoia lingered for several days, Achilles had been joining her, finding it pleasant. While his physical tolerance was unchanged, he was sufficiently accustomed to spikes of paranoia.
Wearing sheets like togas, they climbed the fire escape to the roof. After it kicked in, and he felt the cottonmouth, the hyperconsciousness—he could hear his stomach growl, his heart beat, his blood rush—all he could think was, pancakes or eggs? It was upside-down day, when they would eat breakfast food for dinner, and Achilles couldn’t decide what would be better.
The sun had just set and the weather was perfect, warm but with a cool breeze off the river. Someone a few floors down was watching Saturday Night Live with the window open. The building only had seven stories, so they were low enough to also hear the hum of cars and the occasional drunk at the sports bar across the street cheering on the Saints. He could feel the wind on his neck, so slow it was like a hand gripping him and working around to his chest in short, frisky bursts.
Pacing as she spoke, she started talking about work, which she often did before the high kicked in, noting random aggravations and slights. She was morally offended by the reluctance that charities had for working with each other, which she blamed on faith-based initiatives. Achilles followed her purposeful strut as she walked with her head forward and down, almost as if she were dictating to an unseen secretary.
The Saints must have scored, because a cheer erupted from the sports bar. Horns blared. “Are you listening?” she asked after the noise died down, clapping. When she clapped, her thighs shook. He was getting another hard-on.
She mirrored his lascivious grin. “This is serious.” She stepped over to the parapet wall and looked out over the horizon. “You can’t not love this city, no matter what it does wrong. It’s like a wayward sibling, a spoiled little brother. It’s like a prodigal son, except you always return to it.” She pointed toward Lee Circle, where a streetcar trundled round the turnabout. “See there, that streetcar? From that corner where it turns up Carrolton down to the zoo is the island where I grew up. That’s how I think of it now, as an island. It’s a small town. Sooner or later, everyone you know will cross paths. Don’t you love it here?” She toked.
Achilles walked over to Ines and put his hand on her ass. “I like it here.”
Smoke sputtered out as she laughed. “I like you liking it there. But what about here?”
He stuck his nose between her breasts. “I like it here. These are great, perfect. I don’t even know why other women bother to put breasts on in the morning.”
She laughed and pushed him away.
“Careful,” said Achilles, swinging his arms in an exaggerated manner, as if he were at risk of going over the edge.
“What about you? Why don’t you talk about yourself more even when you smoke?”
“I talk about myself all the time.”
“Hmmph!” said Ines. She straightened to her full height. Her startling profile was set off by the billboard across the street, the white of her sheet eating up the black background. She was so sexy. Sometimes he just wanted to bite her, to just bite a big fucking chunk out of her ass. Ines stomped once, then twice, as if testing out the floor. She rounded her shoulders and paced back and forth with heavy, tromping steps. “You hulk a little, hunched like you’re under pressure, like there’s something you’ve got to hold so tightly, hold it until it hurts you, like you’ve been kicked in the stomach, like you’re carrying a secret and you think if you squeeze it tight enough, it will become a diamond.”
“Bullshit,” said Achilles. “I don’t walk like that. That’s how you walk when, when, when you’re stoned.”
“You can take the flak jacket off.”
A troop of rollerbladers towing a boombox in a baby stroller stopped at the intersection and performed the dance routine from “Thriller.”
“See.” Ines closed her eyes, took a drag, and held it in so long that Achilles gently pinched her to make sure she was still breathing. A car cruised by blasting a local rapper. Achilles recognized the song but didn’t know the artist’s name. Ines laughed and bobbed her head to the music. “I’m wrong. You don’t walk like that. But why don’t you talk about yourself?”
To avoid appearing as if he was holding back, Achilles forced himself to meet her gaze, staring directly into those amber eyes. If, at that moment, she asked him the wrong question, he would give her the right answer. He would tell her everything. “Like what? What do you want to know?”
Ines twirled a dread and hummed. “Why do you walk like that?”
Achilles swallowed, eyes big. Where to start? Ines placed he
r hand over his mouth. “Don’t be mad. I’m just joking. What’s your favorite superpower?”
Achilles whispered, “Flight.” They’d already had this conversation, but unlike the frustration he felt repeating himself to Janice, this felt comfortable and familiar, their shared history a source of pride.
“Right, because invisibility isn’t a superpower. I asked you this already. I was stoned then too. What about not sleeping or not eating for the rest of your life?”
Achilles bit back the answer to her earlier question.
“Well?” asked Ines. “Food or sleep? What goes?”
“That’s no contest,” said Achilles. “You can’t do anything while you’re sleeping, and while you’re sleeping you don’t know you’re sleeping, so drop the sleeping. No one spends that much time eating anyway.”
“What about dreams?”
“I don’t remember them anyway.”
“Good answer. In Nola, people spend a lot of time eating. But I agree with you. I hate people who say they’d give up eating, like that means anything but that they’re stupid. I’m always like, ‘If you can give up eating, you have no big-picture view of life.’ Next question. What would you do if you were invisible and didn’t sleep?”
Sometimes when he was drunk, his mind was so clear it surprised him. This was one of those moments, and he was surprised to have it stoned. Without hesitating, he said, “I’d be a bra. I’d sneak around and hold your breasts up for you.” As soon as he said it, everything he’d thought about moments of drunken clarity faded. Whenever he drank too much or got stoned, stupid shit buzzed around in his head and slipped out of his mouth. Buzzed. Buzzed like drunk. Buzzed like bees. Like bees in a hive, his words flying out. The image made him laugh. Like bees in a hive, except the bees were his words and they bit him as well as the people around him. Why couldn’t he have thoughts like this all the time? He laughed again. Ines was staring at him. How much time had passed since he’d made that comment? Had he said it, or only thought it? What were they talking about anyway?
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