Hold It 'Til It Hurts

by T. Geronimo Johnson

  When they let him hide, Wolverine always stood at the edge of the rosebush and closed his eyes, as if that made him disappear. Achilles had often seen that, under fire, had always thought it a natural reaction to fear, never realizing that maybe the person just wanted to disappear. Troy had done it when Wexler ran into the minefield. Wexler had done it when Wages shot the sniper. Achilles had done it when Troy followed Wexler, swore to never look away again, but did it again when Merriweather was shot.

  The two older boys started jumping on the roof of the car, yelling, “Where’s Tony? Where’s Tony?” Tony, aka Wolverine, was on his back under the rusted-out car, and as it began to rock and wobble on the cinderblocks, he bit his lips to suppress a laugh.

  “Are you fucking stupid?” yelled Achilles.

  The kids froze, looking around for the source of the yelling. Achilles lifted the window higher and stuck his head out. “Get off the car, idiots.”

  The kids shot him the finger and starting jumping again. Achilles started for the door, but Wexler stopped him, placing both hands on his chest and saying, “Breathe.”

  “I’ll stick those fingers up their asses,” said Achilles.

  “They’re kids. And I have to live here.”

  After Wexler talked to the kids, he got a couple of beers. Achilles was breathing heavily, almost crying.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked Wexler.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The kids, the flowers. What the fuck?” asked Wexler.

  “Flowers?”

  “What flowers?” said Wexler in a mocking tone. He removed a bouquet from the trash and handed Achilles a card. “Who’s Ines Delesseppes?”

  The card was printed on heavy paper with a seashell embossed on the cover. It read, To Naomi Wexler and Family, Our Deepest Sympathies for Your Loss. From Achilles Conroy and Ines Delesseppes.

  “You can’t understand second chances. And what if Naomi was here? Are you trying to hurt her again?” Wexler pointed to the flowers.

  “When I came up here, I mentioned a funeral.”

  “Mine!” Wexler thumped his chest. “You can’t be serious. Don’t we know enough dead people? That’s some fucking high school shit.” Wexler stomped across the room, the pictures on the mantel rattling with each step. He slumped into the La-Z-Boy, holding his head in his hands. With his small frame and frown he looked like a child in time-out. All three of the kids next door were now jumping up and down on the roof of the car, yelling, “That’s some high school shit!”

  “I had to come, but I couldn’t tell her why. What else could I do?” In hindsight, there was a lot he could have done. He could have said his friend was sick, or in rehab. He could have just said that he had to go because he was a man, and he had shit to do.

  Wexler jumped back up. “There are things you don’t lie about. On second thought, I guess you wouldn’t know. It all makes sense.”

  For someone reborn, Wexler was overreacting. Achilles wanted to say, Doesn’t Jesus have your back? Merri said it too, later adding, “And now he’s got my foot.” But Jackson used to say stuff like that too, and look where he ended up. Sometimes Achilles repeated these sayings to Ines, all these nifty little aphorisms his friends spouted at the most unexpected times. “No need to order Chinese,” she’d say. “Achilles the Fortune Cookie.” All the fortune, half the calories.

  Wexler kicked the sofa. A bird cawed; the dogs across the street answered. Then it was silent except for the shuffling of Achilles’s feet. The kids next door yelled, “That’s some fly school shit!”

  “How’d I die?” asked Wexler.

  “That never came up.”

  “How did you describe me?” asked Wexler.

  “I said you were a good guy.”

  “That’s all?” asked Wexler.

  “You are,” said Achilles.

  “Did you tell her I look like Prince?”

  “No.”

  “Buttcake.”

  Achilles tried to explain that it wasn’t about Wexler. He hadn’t told Ines everything. As Wexler ranted, Achilles looked around the room, as tidy as if two women lived there. Unlike Wages’s place, there was no clutter. He wondered, not for the first time, if Wexler was gay, which would explain why he was so dramatic and sensitive. Wexler was still his friend, but he wondered.

  “So what if she doesn’t get it, she could still forgive you,” said Wexler. “You’re not giving her the chance.”

  “She wouldn’t understand. She has a fancy house, and family paintings, and butterflies mounted in the hallway, and waiters and cooks. She pretended to be white. Her family had slaves. It’s survivor guilt. They’re part of the talented tenth.”

  “Like Special Forces?”

  “No.” Achilles explained that the talented tenth were the blacks who were supposed to go out, make money, and come back to save their community.

  “Whatever! You’re lying to her,” said Wexler.

  “Her family had slaves. They were rich. She helps people because it’s easy. She can afford to volunteer. She says she doesn’t want to be like white people, but she is. That’s why she says it. That’s how she tricked me.”

  “Tricked you?” asked Wexler. “She helps people. Who cares about motivation? And if it’s so bad, why are you with her?”

  “She’s only with me because I’m dark enough to upset her mom.” Even as he said it, Achilles knew he was wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying to save face. They had owned slaves. So what? Her wealth did frustrate him, though, because she didn’t care about money in that way that only rich people could. She never looked at prices. She didn’t even check the total before handing the cashier a credit card. Achilles sometimes found himself envying her family history, and her skin, lighter even than Troy’s, the passport that let her be what she wanted when she wanted. He thought then of how Ines complained about being mistaken for white and being teased by the darker-skinned kids growing up, and he felt guilt and confusion not only because what he’d said was not then true, but because of how often in his life he had suspected that it was true but hadn’t had the words to express it.

  “I’m not surprised.” Something shifted in Wexler. “The way you grew up.”

  “The way I grew up?”

  “Troy told us that you didn’t go to church, that you were adopted by white people.”

  “Us who? When?”

  “After you shot Chief, he explained that you were reckless and angry. He mentioned it again toward the end, to explain why you volunteered so much and why he had to follow you. That’s why Wages looked after you. Well, he would anyway, he’s stand-up. That’s why Merriweather always gave you advice.”

  “I was following Troy,” Achilles protested.

  Wexler continued as if he hadn’t heard Achilles. “Troy mounted up like he wanted to, but he makes everything look easy and sound like your idea. I swore I’d never tell you. I’m only saying this because I want you to know I understand that it’s strange for you, but you need to find Jesus. Only he can help you.”

  A loud crash shook their feet, followed by a scream as the car in the yard next door fell off the blocks. The kids circled it like it was a bonfire, skipping and cheering, the youngest one yelling, “Fly school shit!” Achilles counted the heads, holding his breath until he saw Spiderman and Wolverine clamber up the hood, and Batman, his cape trailing behind him, leap onto the back bumper, holding a stick to the sky like a sword, proud as a knight who had just slain a dragon.

  It simply couldn’t be true. Had he missed the signs, like Ines’s race, and the doubts he felt about his own envy when Morse called? No. It wasn’t true. Troy was always first in line, and giving Wexler that bullshit excuse was his way of making it appear necessary, and therefore easy.

  “You gotta tell her,” Wexler said. “You won’t get away with this, Keelies.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Don’t make that face. You know I got to tell you if you’re wrong. I don’t think you�
�re going to get away with this.”

  “Are you cursing me like you cursed Merriweather? You know that’s the last thing you said to him.”

  The blood drained from Wexler’s face.

  “You know it is,” said Achilles, feeling betrayed by both Troy and Wexler. And Wages. And Merriweather. And Jackson. Next Wexler would tell that story about footprints in the sand. They were all in it, which explained why Wages lied about Merriweather’s kid. They were all having a good laugh about Achilles. Troy assuming his avuncular tone when they all met up at zero-dark-thirty for a final gear check, Troy’s grin a silent signal saying, Here we go again, Achilles out to prove himself, like a parent overseeing a child’s first attempt to climb a slide. That casual shrug he always offered as a last word now an indictment. He saw it again: Jackson strapped to the roof, Wexler groaning like the time he had dysentery in Gardiz and hiding his face under Troy’s protective wing, Troy with his arm around Wexler like they’re at a horror movie. Is that why Wexler and Wages were so eager to help him find his brother? Did they feel sorry for him? Was that why Wages offered his couch for as long as needed? What they thought was shame was merely prudence. Troy couldn’t understand; his name was at least normal. Did they think they could understand what it’s like to have the teachers treat him better only after meeting his parents but the basic training cohort eye him curiously for that same reason? Well they were wrong, all of them. Achilles didn’t need anyone’s pity. In fact, he needed no one.

  Achilles stood in the window studying the night sky, the river of dancing light flowing down Peachtree Avenue and the waxing moon so low he could hang his coat on it. He was in a hotel room with a beautiful woman—for whom he hadn’t paid—who said she loved him. He beckoned Ines to the window, put one calloused finger to her cheek, as Sammy had earlier that day at the planetarium, and said, “Your freckles do look like stars.”

  She laughed. “Don’t make fun. He’s just a child expressing his feelings. You know that’s not easy to do.” She winked and turned away.

  The quarter moon resembled a smug, cockeyed grin. Arrested by the traffic signal, the river of dancing lights was only the usual drunken gridlock that appeared every Saturday night in a big city. He jerked the drapes together, pulling so hard that one end of the curtain rod popped off the mount. She said nothing as he rehung it. After Ines fell asleep, he studied her face, her cheeks flushed with Cabernet. Was that a dipper in her right cheek, and Orion in the left? Or was it the other way around? In Goddamnistan, he always watched the stars to make sure they weren’t moving.

  The museum lecturer had said the stars were lights from the past, sometimes dead before you saw them because of the time it took light to travel through space. Incomprehensible distances. That thought seized him, and he was gripped by the same panic that strangled him awake his first nights at the FOB, when screaming mortars, stars very much alive, pounded the earth. Pushed by the same terror he felt at the edge of that minefield when he stepped outside himself—which he surely did, he saw it happen as clearly as if he were watching his own shadow step off on its own accord—he started for the window to check the sky for some sign, some reassurance. Still unsettled, he wanted to wake Ines and rock her back to sleep, run his finger from her brow to the tip of her nose, give the constellations new names, but he knew the one thing you never tell a woman is that you need her, and that you’re scared to lose her, especially if it’s true. So he’d just quietly slipped under the bedspread and pulled the sheet over both of their heads, locking her into his pillow fort, inhaling the scent of her shampoo.

  Still, he told himself that he wasn’t afraid to lose her. He had lost more and lived through worse. But whenever he imagined life without her, his joints hurt as if grating against shrapnel, as if ground against glass, as he felt now, alone in Atlanta.

  After Wexler’s hissy fit, Achilles decided to spend the night at the hotel. When he returned, the line at the check-in counter extended out the door. Almost everyone waiting in line was from the Gulf Coast, and complaining loudly about price gouging and the trip. The drive, usually seven hours, had taken them fifteen, even with contraflow. His mom called to ensure he wasn’t trapped in New Orleans. The call was brief, and no one mentioned Troy. They’d long stopped using his name. Would it be the same with Ines, or even easier because no one knew her? Sitting alone now in that hotel in Atlanta, thinking back to the last time they’d been in a hotel, he thought maybe it was cowardly not to admit one’s feelings. In the room, he dragged his feet on the carpet, opened and shut a few drawers. Dust rose when he slapped the pillows. He jumped up and down on the bed and rolled around in the covers. It was his first time being alone since moving in with Ines. His first time alone, ever.

  New Orleans was on every channel. “Tropical Storm” had been dropped. The cyclone tearing across the Caribbean was known by one name: Katrina. The governor of Louisiana declared a state of emergency, and Mississippi was planning a massive evacuation. A couple days before, he’d sent Ines a text message with the hotel’s address, but that was the last time he was able to get through, or receive a response. He tried calling Ines every few minutes. All circuits busy.

  An argument erupted in the parking lot. The motel must have filled up. Every parking space was taken. People streamed from their cars to their rooms, some setting up for car camping while others appeared to be negotiating side deals. From the window, Achilles watched the panicked travelers with a smirk. They could easily pitch a tent in the strip of grass and trees that ran between the motel and the highway. If he hadn’t been waiting for Ines, he would. He’d travel light. Curl up in a branch. Tuck away in the attic of one of those abandoned buildings down where Wexler worked. If it wasn’t for Ines, he’d do a lot of things differently, starting with laying five fingers across Keller’s face the next time he said, Fuck yo couch, zigga.

  But there was Ines, and if he had told her the truth, she’d be in Atlanta, safe. If he didn’t hear from her by morning, he would go to New Orleans, contraflow or not, walking if needed. He would tell her he loved her, introduce her to his mother, give up drinking. Catch the garter at every wedding.

  In his bag he found a bottle of rum he’d bought earlier and one of Ines’s elastic ponytail scrunchies. A few long hairs were tangled in it, and when he held it up, they caught the light, turning a mix of purple and peach. He held it to his nose, and his thoughts slowed and his breathing grew deep and steady. All circuits busy.

  It was the last Friday of the month, upside-down day, the night they would have had breakfast for dinner, turned the AC as low as possible, and snuggled under the comforter, pretending it was winter. He longed for Ines’s soft snore, her purr his metronome, lulling him asleep with a rhythm steady enough to set his heart by. Deeper in his rucksack, he found his original map of New Orleans, complete with Wages’s legend. There was the X where the church was located, and a circle representing a one-mile radius. Outside the circle sat the Garden District, Uptown, and Esplanade Ridge. Like distant planets, he had known them in name only until he met Ines. He ran his finger across the city until he found their street and, in case anyone should ever see it, drew an asterisk instead of a heart. And to think, when she had first called and mentioned the possibility of leaving the city, he’d felt as if she was crowding him. All circuits busy.

  CHAPTER 16

  HE WASN’T SUPERSTITIOUS, BUT HE WANTED TO BELIEVE THAT HIS CHILDISH wagers paid off. If he made the traffic light without accelerating, if he had correct change, if he reached the automatic door before it closed, Ines was okay, and soon enough, she was at the door, chewing gum, which she did only on road trips, and wearing her driving outfit: a sundress and no underwear.

  He lifted her skirt, but Ines had other ideas, like putting flowers on Wexler’s grave or taking Naomi out to dinner. She remade the bed, wiped down the bathroom counter, filled the ice trays. She tested the taps, ruffled the drapes, stopping only when she saw the empty rum bottle in the trashcan. Appearing satisfied, she plopp
ed into the chair beside the bed. “I had a tree planted in his name. It must be terrible to bury your child. It must feel like the world’s upside down. Did the flowers arrive?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Did they like them?”

  “Oh yes.”

  She jumped up again. Turned on the television, flitted about, making minor adjustments while the news played. She moved the table six inches to the left, centered the chairs on it, opened the drapes and closed them, all the while with her eyes on her hands, but her head cocked in a way that let him know she was listening to the news. The anchor, a middle-aged white man, was reporting from the foyer of an office building on downtown Canal Street, deserted save for the wind pushing a lone shopping cart across the bus lane. Palm trees bowed unnaturally, rain swept horizontally across the street. After the lamps, chairs, and pillows had been moved the half-inch Ines felt they required, she stopped in the middle of the room and surveyed her work. The room looked the same to Achilles. Ines pointed the remote at the TV. “Bang bang. That’s better. Let’s get Sammy.”

  By agreeing to drive there in Achilles’s truck and let him sit in the middle of the bench seat—an aptly named space, Achilles thought—they persuaded Sammy to spend an hour at a small traveling carnival on Buford Highway. Sammy had resisted because Fairs are for kids. Achilles concurred, wanting to check the little bastard back into the library he came from. But Ines was insistent, whispering, “He doesn’t have a father, and therefore feels compelled to act like an adult.” So, Achilles found himself wandering between food trailers, barkers, and flashing lights, none of which interested Sammy, who didn’t want to take a spin on any of the rides, rickety erector sets so shaky they scared even Achilles, especially the Kamikaze, shimmying like a lame Huey raining pain. Sammy wanted no fried candy bars, cotton candy, or funnel cake because Candy’s for kids. But when he saw the big blue bull’s-eye flashing over the shooting gallery, he tugged Achilles’s hand, referring to himself as a marksman.

  The shooting gallery barker, stumbling as if drunk, motioned Sammy over, flashing crooked teeth. “Easiest game on the boardwalk.”