Hold It 'Til It Hurts

by T. Geronimo Johnson

  “If she were a horse, you’d put her down,” said Vodka.

  Everyone muttered their amens. Before they left the triage platform, Achilles and Daddy Mention were hosed down, given a change of clothing. Their old clothes were tossed in a burn bag.

  Not thirty minutes later, they came across a heavyset woman seated on the edge of her porch roof, holding a shoebox on her lap and kicking her toes in the water, which was almost up to the roofline of her house. Sweat dripped from her housedress. As they drifted up beside her, Achilles grabbed the roof to steady the boat, burning his hand on the shingles.

  She stared at them, narrowing her eyes but not bothering to raise her hands against the sun, as if she had long become used to it. She said, “I tell you like I told the others: I ain’t going nowhere until my baby gets back home.” She went back to kicking her toes in the water. “I ain’t leaving without my son.”

  Wilson offered water. She opened her shoebox. It was filled with photos and bottled water.

  “Ma’am, where is your baby?” asked Vodka. “We can take you there.”

  She recoiled. “He’ll be right back. He went for candy. He likes Tootsie Rolls, and we was all out.”

  The street was empty. Rooftops peeked through stale water, some with HELP painted in large, uneven letters. One sign rose above the water: CIRCLE MARKET.

  “Did your son go the Circle Market ma’am?” asked Achilles.

  “Just down the street. He’ll be right back.” She started rocking back and forth and humming.

  Bryant tied off on a porch post and held the boat steady. Something thumped against the side window of the house, startling Achilles and Bryant. The body of a child turned in the murky water and disappeared behind the floating drapes.

  Vodka climbed up to the porch roof and the woman shrieked and scurried backwards toward a hole in the roof, where she must have hidden every time the rescuers came through. Achilles pointed to the hole, and Daddy Mention ran over to block her way. The body thumped the window again. The bloated facial features were indistinct, but it was clearly the corpse of a child wearing the remains of a parochial school uniform, and now momentarily entangled in the tattered, flowered curtains.

  “What’s your name ma’am?” asked Vodka.

  “Mrs. Dennis Robicheaux.”

  “How about we take you to where you can find your son? O.K.?”

  Bryant couldn’t stop staring at the boy’s body and was shaking ever so slightly, tremors in his hands, which hung at his waist as if he was an outmatched gunman waiting to draw. She started singing. Daddy Mention joined in, calming her. “Soon now, very soon, we are going to see the King.” Once Mrs. Robicheaux was in the boat, Bryant cradled her head so she couldn’t look back. Daddy Mention patted one of her arms, Wilson the other.

  She said, “He’s a good boy and he likes school, which is good, because I paid a lot for it. Almost all the money his daddy left.”

  She refused water and food, telling them, “Save it for my son.” Her feet were raw and blistered from walking on the roof shingles. She and Daddy Mention starting singing again, their voices as one, loud and melodic—“Soon now, very soon, we are going to see the King”—and Achilles hummed along, wishing he knew the words.

  At the Red Cross station, she refused to get on the gurney; she was a strong woman. The Red Cross nurses called two soldiers who were stationed there, and still it was a challenge to move her without capsizing the boat. She stiffened, and they lifted her like pallbearers, dropping her on a soldier, who collapsed under the weight. Mrs. Robicheaux resumed struggling, thinking she was still on the boat, clutching Vodka’s wrist. “My son, my son. Baby, you promised me. Don’t leave him here to die. He can’t swim. He’s afraid of the water. Even when he was baptized he cried all night.”

  She collapsed, her soaked body quivering with each sob. Curling into a fetal position, she kicked her shoebox into the water. Achilles managed to grab it before it sank, but several of the photos were wet. Daddy Mention was studying the sky, biting his lips. Vodka’s mouth was pursed, like he had bitten something sour. Wilson kept wiping his eyes. Bryant was blinking like he had salt in his. The soldiers on the platform were breathing heavy, one with his hands on his knees. The other one pointed his weapon at Achilles. “What about him?”

  “What the fuck about me?” yelled Achilles. “You couldn’t even handle her.”

  “He’s with us,” explained Vodka.

  “He better watch his attitude.”

  “You need to watch talking about me like I’m not here.” Achilles thrust his chest out. The soldiers fingered their rifles.

  “He’s a two-timer, and he’s helping us out here.”

  The soldiers lowered their rifles.

  It was decided that they’d get Achilles a badge, a nametag, something, anything. As Vodka said, “Otherwise, it’s like someone finds your pit bull walking the street and they just want to put it to sleep.”

  “I know that’s right,” said Daddy Mention. “A zigga can take one look at you and see you’re nothing but trouble.”

  And it wasn’t even noon.

  Nola had lost the extra pounds she’d gained over the years and fit back into her prom dress: the high ground of the French Quarter, the original borders, where Charlie 1 spent their nights crawling up her skirt to hang out at Jock-Os on Bourbon Street.

  Up and down the strip, the few people who were out moved in clusters and bumped into each other, though the street was nearly vacant. A street preacher, who had often stood outside St. Jude, warned them all: “Repent, repent. Fold yourself into the wings of the Lord.” He had a new sandwich board. The front read, The Lord Has Spoken, And You Have Not Listened. Don’t Make Him Tell You Again. On the back were Bible verses, mostly from Genesis and Revelations. Inside the bar, the whole company gathered and played pool and shot the shit in the back room. When gunfire went off, everyone scrambled to write their name on a dollar and toss it in a hat. The money was divided between those who correctly guessed the caliber of the weapon. Vodka played one dollar, to save face it seemed, Bryant played none, and Daddy Mention always played five and usually won. As he explained, “I’m from West Oakland.” They were just like his old crew. Bryant was Wexler, Vodka was Wages, and Daddy Mention was Merriweather; he even slapped his hands on the table every time he stood, like he’d had enough.

  And passing through the bar to the bathroom, the snippets of conversation were just what Achilles remembered. Sometimes you have to backhand these heifers on the ass. Ugly girls give better head. This dude running around like he was on fire, well, he was on fire, but … His ass could be his mouth and you wouldn’t know the difference. Jesus loves NASCAR. The obsessions were the same as well. Charlie 3 was upset because they hadn’t seen anyone except two Israeli commandos doing private security in Uptown. Charlie 2 bragged about seeing some Darkwater guys shoot a cat, though they couldn’t agree on whether it was alive before that moment. Darkwater was a private security firm that employed ex-special forces. Decked out in all black, they weren’t dressed to blend but to intimidate.

  “Cat, zero. Darkwater, one,” said Daddy Mention.

  “Those guys are assholes,” said Bryant. It was the first time he’d raised his voice, which was unusually deep for such a small, wiry man.

  Vodka said Jesus was his commander in chief and he wouldn’t soldier-of-fortune for Darkwater or any other crooked mercenary outfit that lured away good soldiers trained on the U.S. dime. Wilson said he’d work for Darkwater, or any other private security firm, because they paid more per week than he earned in a month.

  “That’s right, working for those dead presidents. Fuck the live one,” said Daddy Mention.

  “That’s our commander in chief,” said Wilson.

  “He’ll be my commander in chief when he’s on a twenty-dollar bill,” said Daddy Mention. “Until then, he can’t do shit for me, though I’d let Laura rub lotion on my ass.”

  “That’s sick,” said Wilson. “She’s like forty
.”

  “Exactly. Think about it. When was the top last down on that convertible? It would be like a virgin.”

  “I don’t know about the face,” said Wilson.

  “Lying like you care about faces, after that skank you pissed back in Columbus,” said Vodka. “Put a sheet on her head and pretend you’re ripping up some magic carpet. Tell him something, Achilles. You know.”

  Achilles said, “After your first month, any T&A is going to look good because you’re never going to see them together unless you pay one to raise her shirt while you’re paying another to raise her skirt. You’ll fire a rocket if you see two oranges bouncing in a sack. Vodka’s right. Put a paper bag on her head and call it a burka.”

  Vodka laughed. “Like the Ain’ts, ain’t it?”

  “You’re all right,” said Daddy Mention.

  They were all “all right.” They fit like keys. They were down like four flat tires. But Achilles couldn’t help but wonder what Ines would say if she heard him talking like this, if she heard his soldier’s humor. And the more he thought about it, it wasn’t funny. The Darkwater guys they’d seen that day had offered to take Achilles off of Vodka’s hands. “We’re headed to the kennel,” one said.

  It took a moment for Charlie 1 to realize the Darkwater guys were pointing at Achilles. Vodka explained, “He’s not a looter, he’s with us.”

  He’s with us, not he’s one of us, Achilles thought. Then, Stop reading into everything, like Ines!

  The Darkwater guys had drifted off with long faces. When they were out of sight, everyone spoke at once, except Achilles. He patted his pockets. He didn’t have his military ID with him. He wore old jeans and Hi-Teks, and wondered what would have happened if he’d been alone.

  But he wasn’t. Achilles felt at ease, as Ines suggested he would. Soldiers are your tribe. It would have been a perfect life were Ines there to greet him when he climbed the seven stories up to their condo, and lay in their bed with only the stars as company. But she refused to talk to him, so every night he slept three hours, rising at midnight, which was when Ines shut down the phone bank.

  While they eventually let him go, it was always a hassle, not to mention demeaning, to be treated as a criminal by the patrolling guardsmen. He was unaccustomed to being greeted with Let’s put those goddamn hands where we can see them! So he cut through alleys and backstreets. Moving from shadow to shadow, it was easy to stay hidden in a city lit only by stars, yet he was edgy, hoping to remain unseen, knowing it would be impossible to explain that he was acting like a criminal to avoid being treated like one.

  Once at Mrs. D’s, he ducked into her neighbor’s stripped azaleas and spent the night keeping an eye on Ines. It was tiring, but being drunk with exhaustion only made everything easier to bear. People came and went, passing within inches of him. Ines would sit at her window and look outside, sometimes writing by candlelight. Once he thought she stared right at him, and he waved. He wasn’t surprised when she didn’t wave back. Of course she couldn’t see him; as he’d said on their first date, invisibility wasn’t a superpower. It really wasn’t hard at all—people didn’t look around very much.

  Watching Ines hugging strangers, he thought that maybe women were brave in ways men couldn’t understand. But they still needed protection, and as one who never prayed, he believed protectors were earthbound.

  Mrs. Deleseppes’s neighborhood didn’t even look like it was in the same city as Mrs. Robicheaux’s. No one was stranded, and appliances were the most common casualties. They lined the streets like fat kids awaiting the short bus, except many had been shot by angry owners.

  After a few days with Charlie 1, he and Bryant were assigned night patrol to look for looters. Days were miserable because, with most of the trees gone, there wasn’t any shade. But at night it was peaceful, and cool enough to enjoy the ride, if not for the stench. They each carried a flashlight, and the boat was equipped with two searchlights, but by unspoken agreement they kept the light to a minimum. After thirty minutes of silence, Bryant shared his concern about deployment, about how much he didn’t want to go. “I know I’m not supposed to go.”

  You’re right to be worried, thought Achilles. Anything could happen. Ines once explained what she had thought before she went to Afghanistan: “You hear it all about war. Bravery, depravity, insanity, terror, heroism. Lazy days followed by nights bright with artillery. Guys who charge bullets and break through doors without a scratch. Child snipers. Local police who turn on you without warning. Friendly fire. Frisbee golf on the edge of minefields. Men who run from their shadows, and men who jump on grenades. And the crazy thing was that it was all true, every last bit of it, at the same time. I was in a minefield. Three men were there. Two walked away, one saved my life.”

  Bryant was right to be worried. How could Achilles explain that? How could he explain why it changed you? That sometimes you looked at people you loved and pictured them dead and bleeding because you’d seen it happen so many times before. How could he explain that even if you enlisted because you thought, foolishly, that your country needed you, after arriving you realized that friends were what mattered, that man could not live by God and country alone? Achilles never wanted to go back, but if Wages and Troy and Merriweather and Wexler could all go back, he’d be there in a heartbeat, riding in an APC, blasting “Prison Sex” and “Welcome to the Jungle,” wearing his battle rattle and a smile, this time sounding the drum in his chest. Bryant would feel the same way after a few weeks, especially if someone got hurt. Vodka and Wilson were focused. Daddy Mention talked a lot, like Merriweather; surely he was as reliable. He’d been through it once already. “You’ve got a good team,” said Achilles.

  Bryant grunted. “It’s all wrong. It’s just not the time for me. My girlfriend and I just got engaged two months ago. I know she’s been with her ex. That’s why I proposed, to make it real, to let her know I only want to be with her, and this hurricane fucked my shit up. I’m not even supposed to be gone for another two weeks. We were going to Vegas to get married, and now this shit. She probably only said yes because she doesn’t expect me to make it back.”

  “Don’t think about all that Jody shit. A lot of women wait. Mine did.”

  Someone shot off a couple of bottle rockets. Bryant ducked, dropping his weapon. He laughed when he saw the dim burst. “There is no God but M16, and I am his messenger.”

  Achilles recognized the look of thin confidence. It would become real. The act would become the actor. Within weeks, Bryant would be a sheep in wolf’s clothing. There was no other choice; like the saying went: Don’t bring a stick to a knife fight.

  More fireworks. Bryant said, “Now we’re on the Pirates of the Caribbean.”

  Achilles considered that a fair description. He’d been trying to find something to compare the experience to but nothing came close. He’d seen photos of Venice with its proud statues and marble domes, an armada of floating castles. New Orleans looked as if it were floating—the porches were impromptu docks, the sidewalks sandbars, the roads rivers—but it wasn’t. No. Nola lay facedown, suffocating under a blanket of water over which they now traveled as if it were a highway.

  They drifted for blocks, sometimes brushing against cars. Residential streets felt like flood zones, but the business district was postapocalyptic. To travel by water between soaring office buildings with gaping windows—buildings so tall that even the boat’s high-powered beams couldn’t reach the roofs—frightened Achilles. The taller buildings all seemed to be leaning in, as if they would fall on the boat, if they weren’t already touching at the top.

  Passing between One Shell Square and Poydras Center, the scale of man’s reach was now apparent, and they fell silent. Something plucked the water near them, then again. Another splash. They looked up but couldn’t see anything. Bryant killed the engine, cutting all the lights, even the dim glow from the control panel. Achilles was tempted to tell him to turn it back on. In the last seconds as the light receded, it seemed the darkne
ss was collapsing on them, bringing the buildings with it, crushing them. The rocking of the boat now felt exaggerated, and Achilles was aware of his knees swinging up and down as he struggled to maintain his balance. He heard the waters smacking against the boat, the cars, the skyscrapers, the entire earth in motion, nothing solid in sight. He tentatively stuck his hand out, feeling for the edge of the boat, and sat. Off his feet, rocking in the seat, he felt even less in control and reached for the rail to push himself up, but missed it and his hand grazed the water. He yanked it back to his chest, anxiously wiping it off. The boat bumped into a stationary object, nearly throwing Achilles over the side.

  The darkness, his body rocking, his wet hand. The sound of the water, his heart, Bryant breathing. The moon moved out of the clouds and his eyes adjusted just enough to make out the water, the flat edges of the buildings, the cars hunched like turtles, buses like whales, and the water—a moving mirror, liquid glass that revealed only death, a great oily eye, black, inky, like a river of paint gently unrolling over itself, eating everything, one moment small crests reflecting the stars, the next moment small waves standing up and swallowing them. Brackish water slapped against a car and splashed back, and a thousand small drops arced like a bristling black cat. In the boat’s wake water rose, scaling the side of a capsized bus, snaking along the windows, sketching a wet web over the door. A cloud passed above and drew a curtain across what little light there was, and it all became one: the water, the stench in the angry air, the rocking, the whole night fashioned after a noose. Tightening. He had never felt this anxious in Goddamnistan. Bryant flipped the light back on, pushing back the darkness just in time. Achilles had felt the waters would never recede, would never concede. The river would give nothing back; it would eat them all, inch by inch, winding around the city like a boa constrictor and pushing and pushing until everywhere it met only itself. Several minutes passed before he was breathing normally again.