Hold It 'Til It Hurts

by T. Geronimo Johnson

  “You finally laughed. Bzzz. Bzzz.” She made antennae with her fingers. “Shh!” She cupped her ear. “Bzzzz! Bzzzz!”

  He laughed again, and she laughed with him, and she buzzed and he laughed harder for that and he could tell that somehow she liked this comment about her tits, even if he had only said it to himself. It occurred to him that maybe Ines was like his friends who got political when they were stoned. Because she was political all the time, this was her chance to be silly.

  She sprawled out in a lawn chair, her legs splayed out, the toga hiked to midthigh. She fingered the hem on the sheet, running it between two fingers as if checking for defects before waving it, softly slapping it against her leg. “Huh!” she said, smoothing it out, looking surprised to find herself wearing a sheet. “You know who hosted my first toga party?”

  Achilles shrugged, not wanting to hear a story about frat boys and keg parties.

  “My mom. She suggested it instead of a bikini beach theme. She said togas were classy because they were classical.” Ines stared at Achilles. “Didn’t she think about how much easier it is to fuck when people are only wearing sheets? Fuuuuck! Or did she?”

  Achilles didn’t know what she was thinking, but picturing Mrs. Delesseppes killed his buzz faster than falling from the roof would have.

  What did Ines’s mother think? Janice’s mom had been welcoming, but her brothers less so, once smashing in his windshield, slashing the tires, and writing, on the side of his car, I’LL CUT YOUR ZIGGER DICK OFF. Achilles had been pissed. He’d spent a lot of time and money on that car. Stop whining, said his father, Men eat anger and save it for later. They use it on the field. Achilles did precisely that, taking Janice’s older brother’s spot on the varsity team. That was an unusual situation. Race had never really mattered when he was growing up, but this was the South, and before meeting her, he’d been worried that Ines’s mom might not like him because he was black. Now that he had met her, he still wasn’t so sure. One drill sergeant had always made him repeat himself. Merriweather sometimes teased him until he cursed, them mimicked his curses. Janice had once claimed to have better rhythm. She did. So did Ines.

  Shaniqua, Tyrene, Laquisha, Amina, Diamond, Jazzmyne, Aunt Jemima. Black women. Like that plump bird at Kikkin Chikkin. Tough, determined, hard to crack. Attitude and flak. Loud. He flirted with them in gas stations and supermarkets. He’d smile at them, even ones with tattoos. They’d smile back, eventually. Black women. More bark than bite. Necks popping, gum chomping. They heard his suburban accent and thought Achilles smart or brainy or trying to act white. Black girls. Enigmas. He hadn’t met a single one throughout all twelve years of school. He’d slept with Wexler’s sister Naomi that time in Atlanta, but he was drunk and on leave, and she lived there. He’d never really known one, not really. Sure, he knew Aunt Esther on Sanford and Son, the mother on Good Times, Florence on The Jeffersons, and that lesbian in the Color Purple. But only from Naomi did he discover that BAP was as disparaging as chickenhead. Black women. Mysterious and powerful. The only one he had even eaten with, outside the military, had been Ines’s friend Margaret, and now, apparently, Ines, who was so smart and classy.

  Apparently? Yes, apparently, because only now did it occur to him to wonder why Mrs. Delesseppes had said varied relations, and not black relations? What did that mean?

  “What?” asked Ines as she stood to shake the sleep from her limbs, which usually reminded him of a sprinter approaching the starting line, but this evening brought to mind a charismatic about to catch the Spirit.

  In fact, thought Achilles, in the South, was there even a difference between being black and having black in you?

  Another huge cheer erupted from the street. Apartment windows slid up, car doors flung open, people yelled into the air. Horns. Noisemakers. Aerosol horns. People poured out of the sports bar screaming, a tangled mass of faces painted purple and gold, their pounding feet audible, a rapturous hoard barking themselves hoarse. The Saints had won. The game was over.

  They were ecstatic, as he had felt about the buzzing, the bees, and the breasts. He remembered that when they were little, Troy was afraid of bees, always running to Achilles to shoo them away, always relying on his big brother to protect him. Yes, always relying on Achilles, older, bigger, darker. Ines sashayed over. Whistling, she said, “The flak jacket, babe, the flak jacket.”

  What did she mean?

  CHAPTER 12

  THEY WERE IN A WADI IN LAI’PUR WHEN A SOLDIER THREE PACES BEHIND, shoulders swaying like he was on a boat as he listened to his MP3 player, tripped and fell, his shadow shrinking so naturally, so casually, that had it not been for the rifle reports—and they heard reports all the time—Achilles would have thought him clumsy, or another victim of heat exhaustion, or that he had merely stopped to adjust his laces. Dust flew as the new recruits scrambled for cover, firing to the four winds, some aiming, some on their backs shooting wildly over their heads, throwing bullets like salt after birds, and Achilles saw that fallen soldier nearby, one of his buddies lying over him, shielding him, the tiny white headphones still in his ears. As Achilles watched those fluttering brown eyes—the same color as his—close for what was certainly the last time, he called for Troy, who yelled that he was O.K., and thought, Why are they shooting at us? Even as he steadied his rifle and aimed at the far ridge, his limbs were alternately tingling then numb, his ass clenched so tight it hurt, and he was struck by the fear that he’d never, ever, ever, shit again, a sensation he felt when Morse called, nearly dropping the phone as the detective asked to speak to Troy.

  “Mr. Conroy, your brother is looking for you,” said Morse, his usually stentorian voice light, somewhat like the saccharine tone intended to lure a dog one was tired of chasing, a dog who thought it all a game.

  “Are you still in New Orleans, Mr. Conroy? Your brother Achilles is here too. Mr. Conroy? Troy Conroy?” Morse confirmed the number. He had dialed correctly. Moved by Achilles’s determination, Morse had done a little legwork, put a man on the case who found out that there was an inheritance, and that Troy had called about his.

  True, Achilles had occasionally felt an envy that turned his stomach and left a sour taste in his mouth, like the film that remained after tossing a grenade. On rotation he had often wished he was still big enough to kick his younger brother’s ass, especially when Troy sauntered out to the murder pool to mount up like he was riding a bull. In high school, he had rarely delivered messages from all the girls that called after Troy. But wanted to harm him? Never. Or had he?

  The thought roused him, frisked him, and he felt exposed, as he had when Wages cinched his wrist in a vise-like grip and barked, “Why the fuck is this watch on Kabul time?” He had the physical sensation again of being shot at as Morse repeated himself.

  Simple, old-time police work, Morse called it. And there was Achilles stuttering into the phone that he hadn’t known about any inheritance when he filed the MP report, and he hadn’t claimed to be his brother. The attorney made that mistake, and no, he still hadn’t seen his brother since the day after the funeral. And no, he wasn’t angry about Troy inheriting more money. And yes, the bruises Morse had seen really were from a fight with a stranger. And Morse hmm-hmm-ing and uh-uh-ing, finally saying, “I understand. I believe you, Achilles, but you need to come down so we can talk and update the report.”

  Surely Morse was wrong, Achilles protested. He had a text message with eight exclamation points. Achilles had spoken to his mother. She was buying a pool table and planned to build a kennel. She tried to contain herself, but she was happier than he’d ever heard her. “My mother talked to Troy.”

  Morse cleared his throat, taking on the avuncular tone he had used when they went to lunch. “Achilles, I spoke with your mother. She didn’t talk to Troy herself. She bumped into the attorney’s receptionist in the parking lot at the dentist’s office.”

  Achilles fought the urge to vomit.

  “I’m very sorry, Achilles.”

  Wa
ges would have tried to fit it all into the new theory of life he’d picked up from the VA nutcrackers he had seen since the Bethany incident. His new vision concerned the Zulus and some kind of warrior purification ritual. Supposedly, until a warrior completed the ritual, he couldn’t reenter society without soiling everything he touched. Achilles had agreed with him at first, desperate to find an order to things, an unfamiliar wistfulness overtaking him as Wages started his story. “Listen up good, Connie, this is like the Bible, but it’s better because it’s true, and it explains the dreams.”

  Achilles had listened as attentively as at a briefing but understood nothing, even as he studied the wooden African mask now dominating Wages’s mantel for clues. The ovular brown face with slit eyes and pointy teeth stood over the room like a sullen guard. The hair was brown fur, but the beard was red, made from spent shotgun shell casings. Achilles couldn’t make heads or tales of Wages’s new theory. First, Achilles didn’t dream. Well, he knew he dreamed, but fortunately he remembered nothing, so why did it matter? Second, what did an old African tribe have to do with modern warfare? Third, when he thought about Ines, he considered himself lucky. If he was soiling things, if he hadn’t really reentered society and Ines was punishment, Achilles would die if things got any better. He’d just fucking pop-lock, like the otherwise healthy soldiers who died unexpectedly in combat, usually of sudden heart attacks. He had blown Wages off, but as he dialed his mother’s number, he suddenly wasn’t so sure.

  Like that old song said, “Getting shot at wasn’t too bad, it was getting shot that shook you up.” If talking to Morse was being shot at, talking to his mother was being shot. In the few days since announcing Troy’s imminent return, she had accepted it and the joy was apparent in her voice, turning his belly cold and his tongue stony. His heart beat in his chest like a dying fish as he hastened to speak, to assure her he was there, he could hear her. He pictured her at her desk before remembering that she forwarded the house phone to her cell and could be anywhere.

  “Are you at the house?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you? Are you on the way back yet?” she asked.

  “Almost.”

  “Almost here? Or almost on the way? Keelies? He’ll be here any minute.”

  “Did you actually talk to him?”

  The connection was poor. Or was it his hearing? “No, but … You see … Perfect isn’t it … That’s how I know he got your message. Achilles are you there?” He assures her he is still there, that it’s great, it’s wonderful, it’s stupendous, it’s terrific to hear that Troy called Chuck Riley over in Mercersburg about his inheritance. Yes, he agrees, it’s miraculous, there is a God, but … “Mom! Did you actually talk to him?”

  “No.”

  “Oh Mom.”

  “I saw Lisa, Chuck’s receptionist.”

  “Why didn’t you … Why did …”

  “I was excited, and I didn’t want you to think he only cared about the money.”

  This was a point that, embarrassingly enough, he had considered. He explained how the attorney had mistaken him for Troy, but she argued. “It’s not like Chuck doesn’t know Troy’s voice,” she said. “It’s not like you wouldn’t clear that up. Right? So you better get oscar on the mike or whatever you call it over there, because he’ll be here any minute now.”

  It was one of the first times he understood how some guys could take off running across the desert, gulp a grip of Tylenol, bite a barrel. Maybe Wexler had known it was a minefield.

  He liked to think of himself as an honest guy, but he was starting to think he’d never really told the truth when it mattered. When Lamont Jackson caught shrapnel that sheared off the back of his helmet and head cleanlike, easy as scooping ice cream, and his brains looked like, well, a pickled walnut, he asked Achilles if he was going to make it, and Achilles was so transfixed by the sight of the open skull, so certain he was cursed to see this side of a friend, he couldn’t answer. He tried nodding. Everyone was talking and yelling and screaming, but they couldn’t hear shit, and neither could Achilles. Jackson was mouthing the words. All Achilles had to do was mouth the words Yes, you’ll make it. He couldn’t. He half-nodded. But Jackson had that look in his eye like he knew Achilles was lying, and, worse yet, he forgave him for it. That was the real burn, that a dying man held forth grace for Achilles, the living, who hadn’t the courage to be forthright and tell him, “Yes, say your prayers or meditate, or think of your mom, or conjure the memory you want to take home with you, because you sure don’t want it to be Sergeant Achilles Holden Conroy fly-eyed and crying and sweating on you, about to shit his own pants, you sure don’t want it to be the crumbled remains of the bombed nursery we crossed yesterday, each brick a tiny headstone, you sure don’t want it to be the sound of men crying and running scattershot in the dark, screaming for their mommas—and not like babies, but like only men can scream—and you sure don’t want it to be the decapitated Muslims killed by other Muslims and left on the side of the road, because the townspeople who move to bury the dead are judged coconspirators and dispatched to join them, because to attend to them is to sympathize, to confer dignity is to abet, because compassion is outlawed, and you don’t want it to be Lionel Dinkins, who took the brunt of the blast—acrid, pungent, something you should never smell—and you don’t want it to be the way the sand under your back is hot, so hot it’s like it’s baking you through the flak jacket, or the corn that suddenly aches like a scorpion stung your toe because of how your boots pinch at the end of the day because your feet have swollen to what seems like twice their normal size, and it can’t be the swishing of your pants as your legs twitch because that’s too much like running, which you’ll never do again, and you don’t want it to be the sound of your feet flopping in the sand, it’s too much like the sound of sifting, and you’ll wonder what’s being left behind, and you don’t want it to be the sound of your own tears, with your heart beating too loudly in your ears and your sobs echoing in your chest, because you never rest well when you cry yourself to sleep.”

  But he didn’t say any of that. He stared blindly and swallowed often, even though his mouth was so dry each contraction was like forcing a sharp chunk of burning granite down his throat. But he had to say something, so he said to Lamont, “Remember how you told me that your mom used to put jelly between your pancakes and still let you put syrup on top?” And he held Lamont Jackson’s hand, and the tighter Jackson squeezed, the tighter Achilles squeezed. And he said, “You know how you told me that your lady’s dog used to get upset when you spent the night, and would piss in the hallway, and you won’t be mad about it when you go home?” Jackson grinned widely. “Jealous devil. My Jody’s a dog.” The grin faded and he said, “Don’t leave me.” He tried to speak again, but no more came out, and an Afghan kid in the background was laughing and Jackson squeezed Achilles’s hand tighter and Achilles squeezed back and felt the sun biting his neck, the sand in his mouth, in his socks, his ears, it was like there was sand every-fucking-where, even in his goggles, there was even sand in his ass, and it was so fucking hot he was gonna shit glass, and the kneepad straps pinching his knees, and helmet strap slicing his Adam’s apple, and his belt cutting his waist, and his pistol butt digging into his ribs, and it felt like everything that was supposed to be protecting him was choking him to death, and he said to Jackson, “Know how you say, ‘When we get back to the barracks and drop this shit off, it feels like we can fly’?” And Lamont nodded and went still, but his grip grew so tight Achilles was a long time freeing himself.

  And after the perimeter was secure, when they reassembled in the silence of the aftershock—Wages calmly directing with his hands; the laughing Afghan kid defiant to the end, smiling even as he dropped to the ground clutching his neck, knees to the dirt in a soft puff of dust; Merriweather with blood on his fingers and a glazed look in his eyes, putting the blade away wet, as casually as zipping up; Wexler leaning against the burned-out hulk, sobbing, spitting on Merriweather—A
chilles looked at Troy, who had switched seats with Jackson, and was just so glad that they were alive, and the sun was dead behind Troy’s head like a halo, so Achilles couldn’t see his face, and he was so happy Jackson had switched seats with Troy, and that whole fucking thing drove him fucking crazy, the whole thing, the idea that somehow by Troy being there it was impossible for Achilles to really give a fuck about anybody else in the squad, because it was like there was a tax and someone always had to pay it, and as long as it wasn’t Achilles or Troy it was okay, and he knew he shouldn’t feel that way, he knew he should want them all to make it out, but he knew they couldn’t, he knew, somehow, in a way he couldn’t explain, because he’d never believed in ESP or clairvoyance, but he knew that of the eight that started, only four would survive, and no matter what happened at each formation of prayer group, he could never muster the words Let’s do it or We got this or We put the fun in funeral. He could only say, “That’s right.” And that was the look he must have worn as a mask while Jackson died, a tense smile that said, It’s as bad as it looks, and it probably feels even worse, but at least it’s you and not us. And in the soup kitchens it was the same, and he realized that as a kid it had been the same, that if he’d asked his teachers or his friends or his neighbors, “Am I going to make it?” They would have said, “You’ll be fine as long as you never, ever, ever leave home, because here we all know you and treat you like one of us.” Maybe that was the look the neighbors had had at his eighth birthday party. Had they already known about Troy that day? That thought burned him like no other. He could never show his face in Maryland again. Pity was fatal.