It didn’t take long for the saying to catch on throughout the office (in Keller’s words, Hitting the corners faster than a paralegal afraid of being fired). After a fruitful deposition, once the deposed was out of earshot and the recording equipment powered down: Fuck your couch, Zigga! After hanging up with the DA’s office: Fuck your couch, Zigga! After a successful court appearance, the young turks charged into the building like linebackers into the locker room, ties loose instead of helmets off, doing everything except patting each other on the ass, yelling, in harmony: Fuck your couch, Zigga!
He imagined them trying that at Kikkin Chikkin, but he never mentioned any of it to Ines. Where would he begin without appearing accusatory and ungrateful? How could he explain the problem without inviting Keller or someone else to ask, “Why can’t we use zigga if you can?” Never mind that Achilles had only used it once; he was indicted by every black person who used it routinely, and he had no logical answer for why his white coworkers and bosses shouldn’t use it except that it made him uncomfortable. But how could he explain that without sounding like he was whining? How could he explain it without Ines thinking he wasn’t man enough to handle himself? Then there was always the chance that she might go off the chain about it, fly down there for an emotional drive-by and leave Achilles feeling like a child, when he was no one’s victim, no crybaby, no snitch.
Besides, it’s not like they knew he heard them making those jokes behind closed doors. And he liked some aspects of the job. He enjoyed going to the courthouse to look up deeds and delivering documents. It was easy work, and he liked the uniform. Maybe Wexler was smart to work alone, but in the army no one did anything alone; they operated as a team, a group, a collective, a brotherhood, and there was security in knowing your team had your back, that even if they wouldn’t die for you, they wanted to live badly enough to return fire. So you forgave them every other deficiency, because man knows no trait more valuable than loyalty. He knew Wexler was loyal, but his rant about drug dealers having no other options was ridiculous. Even Ines didn’t think that. They should be lined up and shot! she always said. “That’s the dumbest fucking thing I ever heard you say. Poor drug dealers can’t get a job. What the fuck?” barked Achilles.
Sighing, Wexler moved along the ceiling two inches, removed a nail, pried the moulding out a bit, moved down two more inches, removed a nail, and pried the moulding out a little bit more. He stuck his finger in one of the many holes in the wall and ripped off a strip of wallpaper. “I know you’re thinking, ‘Why not just tear it down? Why not tear it all down?’” Wexler tapped his temple with his finger and said, “But people like old houses. When it’s put back together, this will be better than anything new you can buy, because they don’t make this stuff anymore.” Wexler set down his hammer and crowbar and glanced around the room with a smile. “This is history. Do you know how many people it took to put this together? And it was hard work back then. Manually operated drills. No such thing as nail guns. If you knock it all down, you’ll lose the good with the bad. And there’s a lot of good that went into this house, too. Can’t just come in and say you’re going to knock out a busted wall. Whole thing might cave in on you.”
Wexler really had changed. Standing there with his friend, Achilles felt very lonely, lonely for Ines. He understood Ines. He didn’t understand Wexler and being born again. He didn’t understand the new Wexler. Achilles didn’t even understand himself when he was with Wexler. He wanted to shout. He wanted to shake Wexler, shock him out of his calm. They needed necessary fun, to go to the strip club, or pick up some hookers, or shoot at somebody. It felt unearned, unjust, unfair that Wexler, always the most excitable of them, should have the gravity, tranquility, and certainty that had for so long eluded Achilles. Wexler was at home in his skin, as was Ines, but Ines centered Achilles while Wexler’s right-steady rudder confused him, made him feel abandoned, as if Wexler had set sail on a ship now vanishing over the horizon. Wages had a baby. Janice was married. She still called every couple of months, and he still ignored her calls. He spoke to his mom, at least briefly, every two to three weeks. She was still planning that trip. And his brother was living his own life, and his father was gone. Maybe everyone had moved on except him.
The clerk took one look at Achilles’s license, praised his foresight, and promised him a nice room, one with the ice and vending machines nearby but not close enough to be a disturbance. The small room had a kitchenette, a shower with a tub, and two double beds. Western was the theme: orange cowboy hats woven into the brown carpet, paintings of horses gracing the walls, the curtain-rod metal molded to resemble knotted rope, and beyond the drapes, the balcony offered a clear view of the parking lot and highway. After sunset, the soda machine glow suffused the room like red illume, the lights they used on night missions, not that he planned to sleep in the room. Satisfied that he had made adequate preparations for Ines’s arrival, he returned to Wexler’s house, where he had the use of a bedroom but usually dozed off on the couch, undisturbed by Wexler on the loveseat, curled up like a cat and snoring like a dog.
“Connie, Connie, Did you hear that?” Wexler whispered every morning around zero-ass-thirty back when they were on rotation. Achilles scrambled for his gear the first few times it happened, holding his breath, his ears out for things going bump in the night, but eventually he suspected that Wexler heard nothing, that he was only recruiting a partner for late-night conversations, and Achilles’s cot, unfortunately, was closest. Achilles imagined him tiptoeing through the tent, whispering in everyone’s ears until someone awoke, so he started ignoring him, and soon enough it was Troy and Wexler up talking through the night, sometimes getting silly and switching peoples’ boots or uniforms or underwear, though never in the field, of course.
So when Wexler woke him at zero-dark-thirty the night he’d gone to the Bricks, Achilles mumbled, “Go back to sleep, maybe Troy’s up,” reminding himself not to be alarmed in the morning when he couldn’t find his mess kit, or lucky charm, or boots.
“Connie, Connie,” Wexler insisted, whispering that he needed to talk, explaining that he hadn’t actually seen Troy, nor had Troy run from him. He’d received a call from the morgue after some poor guy showed up with Troy’s ID in his pocket. “It wasn’t him, but it got me worried.”
Wexler sat on the arm of the sofa, his silhouette barely visible. In Goddamnistan, people routinely disappeared. When Wexler went into the minefield, Achilles’s first impulse was to drive on, to claim he had no idea what happened. He’d felt weighted by resentment, but now felt somewhat justified. “I was wondering how he outran you.”
Wexler gestured at his leg and neck.
“I guess I meant why,” said Achilles. “Is that why all the drug talk when I got here? What else do I need to know?”
Wexler shrugged. “I was scared, man. I didn’t want you to feel that same sick feeling, Connie. It was like we were back there again. The whole drive to the morgue I was losing my shit. That same fucking night I started having crazy dreams again. Men were shooting dead fish. Into their veins.”
Achilles patted Wexler’s trembling shoulders, a gesture that said I understand, which he couldn’t bring himself to say, but nonetheless was true.
CHAPTER 15
ACHILLES WAS AT THE GRADY HOSPITAL MORGUE WHEN IT OPENED, SHOWING a photo to the attendant, a kid who looked to be barely out of high school. Marcus, according to the nametag, carried a cigarette behind one ear and a pencil behind the other. Marcus vaguely remembered Wexler, or rather a slim guy who resembled Prince. He showed Achilles a picture of the body Wexler had viewed. Found beside the Bricks, the man was much older than Troy.
Marcus studied Troy’s photo again, thoughtfully, his eyes moving between Achilles and the picture.
“How long have you been a diener?”
“They don’t say that anymore.” Marcus looked at Achilles. “You say this is your brother?”
Achilles nodded. “Yes.”
Marcus held the photo up so
Achilles could see it. “By blood?”
“Adopted.”
Marcus appeared to weigh the probability of that being true. His tone apologetic, he said, “We have two more from that area. No, four. Two more just came down. You done this before?”
“Two tours in Afghanistan.”
Marcus jerked his head toward the door, motioning for Achilles to follow.
Some morgues had gurneys parked in large walk-in coolers. Others, like New Orleans, had the silver wall of drawers. Grady had both: on the right were the drawers, and on the left were two large walk-in coolers, the kind usually found in restaurant kitchens. A long metal grate ran down the middle of the tile floor. The tiles were the reddish-brown terra cotta that hid dirt and blood. For all the fluorescent lights overhead and absence of shadow, it still felt too dark. It was remarkably clean and shiny, all the steel reminding him of his middle school cafeteria. He’d been in eighth when Troy was in sixth, and so hadn’t let Troy sit with him.
Referring to the clipboard, Marcus led him to the drawers. Well-oiled, the action was fluid and silent, and the drawers slid out smoothly as if designed for comfort. Achilles scanned quickly, looking first for skin tone—not too dark to account for the sun or too light to account for an addict’s nocturnia—then glancing at the face and moving on.
Two men were too old, one too young. They were all fresh. None had an autopsy suture. Marcus was considerate. He lifted the sheet enough to reveal the face and then looked down or at the body, anywhere but at Achilles. After each body that wasn’t Troy, Achilles tried his usual ploy to buoy his mood, telling himself that he was lucky, that they’d won again. But each one left him breathless, fatigued. He felt lethargic, as if he was breathing underwater, as if oxygen was a salty viscous fluid he had to work to keep down, heavy in his lungs, and the more he inhaled, the lower he sank. Achilles was thankful that Marcus didn’t offer him water or a chair, or acknowledge the chemicals.
In the walk-in, eight gurneys were lined up, dusky feet sticking out, and in the corner, one gurney with a smaller body. Marcus showed him one, a handsome teenager with auburn skin, deep-set eyes, broad lips, and one neat hole in the chest. He said, “The rest are all identified. Shoot-out. Family’s on the way down. These three here are brothers, sixteen, seventeen, and twelve.
Achilles pointed to the smaller body in the corner.
“He’s not related. That’s a kid who’s been unclaimed for a while. Smoke inhalation in an abandoned house. He goes to Potter’s Field next week.” His breath hung in the chilled air.
“How does someone claim him?”
“ID and paperwork. Sometimes a church will sponsor a funeral for an unidentified kid. Sad thing is no one reported him missing.”
The dead wanted nothing more than to be left alone, or at least that’s what they used to say. He and Marcus regarded the small form cloaked in white, barely bigger than Troy had been when he came to live with them, maybe as tall as Sammy the Stargazer. Achilles studied Marcus, just a kid himself. Downy sideburns stopped at the meat of the jaw, bald chin, faint mustache; he wasn’t even shaving yet. “An unmarked grave?”
“We still say Potter’s Field, but the indigent and unclaimed are cremated these days. We hold the ashes and bury them all together once a year,” said Marcus. He shivered and suggested they leave the walk-in. Out in the hallway, Marcus briskly rubbed his arms. “It’s cold in there. It’s cold in there,” he repeated, his voice hollow, his dark skin ashen. He appeared on the verge of tears. “He’s dead, you know, but still, it seems like someone should get him.” Marcus laughed. “I hoped you were here for him. Not that I wanted your brother to be here. I just wanted someone to come for him. Your brother’s lucky. I work here, and I couldn’t do it.”
“How long have you worked here?” asked Achilles.
“About three months. It pays better than dishwashing and I get a lot of time to study. I’m used to it. You know what I mean.”
“I know,” said Achilles, knowing Marcus didn’t mean a word he said.
Looking embarrassed, Marcus stepped closer to Achilles and, dropping his voice, said, “I know this is unusual, but I could copy the picture.”
“O.K.,” Achilles nodded.
Marcus copied the photo, and Achilles wrote his cell number on the bottom of the copy. Marcus pointed to the area code. “Shame if it hits y’all.”
“What?” asked Achilles.
“That hurricane. Haven’t you heard? It’s headed straight for y’all.”
Achilles had thought Ines was overreacting. It was nothing, according to Wages. Happens all the time. It’s hurricane season. It was probably nothing to worry about. Feeling a mere thank-you insufficient, he shook Marcus’s hand, closing it in both of his.
“Hopefully, I never see you again.” Marcus grinned awkwardly.
Achilles mustered a smile and another thanks.
His tone measured, Marcus asked, “Does your brother have the crush? I ask because if he does and he’s around the Bricks, you need to watch Pepper and his crew. Everything leads back there. But it’s crazy. If you go in, keep your tens on the inside.” Marcus balled his hands into fists for emphasis.
Achilles wanted to tell Marcus to quit while he could, before it changed him, to let the dead bury the dead—only they had the strength for it—and that he needn’t blame his tears on the cold, that it wasn’t too late for him, but Achilles just nodded and thanked him again and slipped out, exhausted.
Was it the antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital, all white walls and gleaming metal? Was it that the morgue was in the basement, tucked away like a secret, so far underground that the exposed pipes dripped condensation, the air so cool and dense he could feel the weight of the earth overhead? Was it the sense of inevitability that accompanied death in a war zone? How could he have squatted to eat a pork chop out of a pouch, smoke a cigarette, and swig an entire canteen of water in the same room as three dead insurgents while rocket impacts sprinkled them all in mortar, then, after the thunder came, after the Apaches shat a steaming pile of missiles in the faces of the hajis and their artillery, walk out of that same building, water sloshing in his belly, gnawing at a chocolate bar and laughing—until he cried—at Merriweather’s knock-knock jokes about the real money shots, yet the little boy Marcus said was destined for Potter’s Field remained seared in his mind, as did the body he had viewed at the first morgue? He remembered thinking that D-794, the burn victim in New Orleans, must have done it to himself, but now he couldn’t forget him. The one clean patch of skin on the chest, the fingertips worn to the bone.
In New Orleans, the gurney had been wheeled in by a kid in a lab coat and headphones. He’d been wearing orange skateboarding sneakers with thick soles and had put a lot of effort into looking bored, not unlike Marcus. Was that how Achilles had appeared to the locals? Had they thought of him as a kid in funny clothes but with a gun? What had they thought about him when he was overseeing the cleanups after bombings, safe behind his Oakleys while wives and mothers examined limp fingers for wedding bands and looked for matching shoes they hoped not to find? His own hands shook at the thought, his mind racing wildly as he tried to imagine how others had seen him, something he hadn’t dared consider while active. Too weak to walk, he sat on a parking barricade. The concrete felt good. It was cold, cooling first his butt, then his thighs. He unclenched his fists and placed his hands on the barricade as well, taking a few deep breaths.
Every Achilles, all of them, missed his friends. Achilles the Stubborn. Achilles the Suited. Achilles the Cynical. Achilles the Goofy. Ines had nicknames for his every mood, more than he could remember; hence, he was also Achilles the Absentminded. Achilles thought of himself as versions one, two, and three: the dutiful son, the reliable brother, and the soldier, all of which were reconcilable. But the new Achilles, the Ines Achilles, who was that? And what about the other Achilles, from the minefield, from the fight? Where did he fit? The only thing they all had in common was that every Achilles missed his
friends, all of them, and being able to talk to them without saying anything.
What’s going on? Will the ball club win it? Do you think they have a chance? What’s the deal? What’s new, man? What you know good? What’s happening? He tried it with Wexler, tried explaining that he needed to talk, that the morgue had freaked him out, that corpses again gave him crazy legs. Where’s the nearest bar? Isn’t Atlanta the strip club capital? What about Magic City? Ptah. Women! Isn’t there a shooting range nearby? Let’s head to Columbus and hit the Benning Brew Pub. Is a game on? And, finally, “Fuck, man.”
Wexler said nothing.
They were in the living room, where Wexler, always moving, always busy like a small dog, was folding laundry as patiently as he worked at that crap house. He had to lay the clothes out on the ironing board because he couldn’t bend his chin to his chest.
In the yard next door, three kids dressed like superheroes played hide-and-seek, their high-pitched voices drawing Achilles to the window again and again. Two of them were about seven or eight years old, the third about five. The small backyard in which they played offered little cover: a rose bush, a pine tree, a stump, and a rusted-out Lincoln Continental Mark V riding cinderblocks. The five-year-old was most often It. While he counted, the tallest of the three, Spiderman, having figured out that the little one never looked up, would climb the tree, carefully keeping his face away from the sap and the sharp needles. The other older kid, Batman, would carefully tuck his cape into his belt and crawl under the car, leaving Achilles holding his breath. The youngest one, Wolverine, would count—one, two, three, four, four, four, seven, eight, nine, twenty—then wander the yard for barely ten seconds before he started crying, poking himself in the face with his plastic claws as he tried to wipe the tears away.
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