Hold It 'Til It Hurts

by T. Geronimo Johnson

  “The reality,” said Sergeant William Bose, “is that most of these parts won’t be identified.” Bose had just returned from a tour in Iraq. He had been off only a month when they assigned him to the mobile morgue. He was a bear of a man with a friendly smile, and when Achilles told him what he was doing, and that he was military, Bose led him to the back room so he could take a look at a few of the recently delivered corpses. Achilles was astounded at the number of loose limbs. Apparently drowning hadn’t accounted for a majority of the deaths. People had died when weakened buildings collapsed on them, from falls, and many of exposure.

  “No one to sue,” said Bose.

  That was true. The death toll on the Gulf Coast since Katrina was higher than the U.S. casualty rate during the first two years in Afghanistan.

  “What’s the difference between killing people and letting them die, except one’s cheaper?” Bose said, looking pissed, “Man, it’s the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever fucking seen, and I’ve seen shit. And I’m not saying this just because you’re here, but you know damn well if this were Malibu or Key West or Galveston, they would have evacuated these people in a heartbeat. It’s some dark shit when your country lets you sit out on a highway in hundred-degree weather and die just because you’re black and poor. It’s some fucked-up shit, man. It ain’t a natural disaster when a manmade object fails.” Bose was red in the face, stuttering, trying to explain the feeling of witnessing destruction on a scale usually reserved for wartime. “Sorry. I have to vent twice a day.”

  Achilles understood what he meant, and wished Ines were there to hear. “No problem.” They were alone in a smaller room where bodies and limbs were held until transferred to the main room.

  “So today’s your lucky day. Savor it, brother,” said Bose.

  “Tomorrow it only gets worse,” they said in unison.

  Achilles stopped at the sight of a gnarled hand across the palm of which ran a scar similar enough to the one he had given Troy on that birthday.

  “Oh shit, man,” whispered Bose. “I’m sorry. Sit down.” He picked up his phone. “I need some paperwork back here.”

  Achilles was finished within fifteen minutes. The call was the hard part. Holding the flyer in his hand, he dialed his mom using Bose’s phone, wondering if she was at her green desk, her glasses on. But she was in town, at the market buying portabello mushrooms, treating herself to her favorite meal. She liked that market because the farmers who came in from over the hill were real farmers, she said, “Straw in their teeth and cow patties on their boots.” His mother shopped at the farmer’s market less frequently now that the beltway bimbos had discovered it, driving the prices up.

  He heard her occasionally offer a cheery hello to one person or another, sometimes followed by sucking her teeth. “That was Geraldine, the one who dropped that dog off in a cornfield in Shippensburg and told her kid it ran away. That was Maxine, the one who thinks she’s special because her car parks itself. She has a basket full of carrots, lettuce, and tomatoes. She shops here for salad. Isn’t that cute?” He couldn’t tell her now, alone in public, surrounded by people she despised. Yet he knew that if he didn’t tell her now, he never would. “Mom, I have bad news.”

  Hearing “Mom,” she fell silent. “I knew. I felt it for a long time.”

  When the call ended, Achilles was sickened by the sense of relief he felt. They had last spoken a month ago, the day before Achilles lost his cell phone pulling the wheelchair-bound man out of the water. He’d made a promise to call her at least once a week. It seemed to be enough. Over the past few months, her mood had been resigned, and somber. It was as if she was at last mourning. She had apologized. I shouldn’t have given you those papers. It was your father’s idea, and I went along with too many of his ideas when he was alive. I didn’t need to do it when he was dead. Last wishes aren’t always best wishes.

  From the morgue straight to the condo. When Ines found him packing, he said, “A guy from my unit, a funeral.”

  CHAPTER 23

  WAGES HAD WANTED HIS POSSESSIONS RETURNED TO BETHANY, especially his cross. He’d said, “If I get fucked, take it to my wife when it’s all over. I don’t want some sergeant in a lizard suit wheeling up to the door in a blue LTD, followed by a box a week later. Promise me, Conroy.”

  Achilles was Connie, Troy was Conner. At times like that, they were Conroy, and Wages had spoken to them as if they were one person, as if he assumed they would both survive. Achilles had always expected that both he and Troy would make the trip to New Orleans if anything happened to Wages, but he knew it would be Troy who actually placed the cross in Bethany’s hands, Troy who comforted her, wrapping her in his long arms, resting his cheek against her hair and murmuring consolations in a voice so deep she felt it more than heard it. Later, when Achilles found himself on that white couch because it was Wages delivering Troy to him, Achilles had repaid that kindness by wondering more than once if delivering the cross would have been his ticket out of the living room. He had not wanted it, or wished it, only wondered. Still, the thought nagged him. How he wished he had stayed home. Wages, Merriweather, Wexler—how he loved them, but how he wished he had stayed home. It would have been better had he not gone at all.

  He would be supervisor by now, or at least night shift manager of the ripping room, spending his nights among buzzing saws and idle chatter, the sweet smell of sawdust underfoot. He and Janice would have come back to town, with little Keelies in the backseat, and helped his mom decorate the house for Troy’s return. Otherwise they’d only come home for the holidays, like Turkey Day. It had been almost a year since he left home, and again Thanksgiving was right around the bend. He could have been driving these same roads but with Janice in the passenger seat instead of Ines, who’d insisted on accompanying him this time.

  Achilles assented, suspecting he’d be dropping her off as near as Mississippi and no farther than North Carolina, the exact location depending on when he worked up the nerve to tell her the truth. He had to tell her now, she who insisted on being there for him because he had been there for her, there for Troy, there for Grandpa Paul, there for Wages’s mother.

  He couldn’t tell her in Louisiana, amid the wreckage. By traveling north and avoiding the Gulf Coast, Achilles hoped to avoid much of the destruction, but the damage was as extensive far inland, as upsetting as it had been when he was driving down from Atlanta, when he had wished someone was with him. Now he wished he was alone. Ines sat in silence, sometimes pressing her hand to the glass, shaking her head dreamily, other times looking straight ahead. She kept her sunglasses on at all times. Eden Isle, Slidell, Picayune, Hattiesburg—all wrecked, traces of damage vanishing only when they reached Meridian, almost two hundred miles away.

  He couldn’t tell her in Mississippi, she slept through it. He wanted to tell her at the rest station north of Atlanta, but she looked so peaceful feeding the ducks. He couldn’t tell her in South Carolina; she was upset by the sudden ubiquity of the Confederate flag.

  They’d hit snow north of Charlottesville, and he had to concentrate on driving. Meanwhile, Ines was enthralled by the scenery, the snowbanks, white fields, and bejeweled trees, cooing at a setting that took her back to her college years. It was the first time she’d smiled during the entire trip. He couldn’t tell her then. The weather reduced their pace to a crawl at times, putting them behind schedule so that it was sunrise by the time they reached Maryland, where she noticed the plates and, having never been to the DC region, called it a real metropolitan area, as she could tell by the variety of license plates.

  As they neared his house, Ines looked out over the carpet of subdivisions and remarked that she’d never taken him for a literal suburbanite. He assured her he wasn’t, even as they passed the Kmart and Wal-Mart and Target, the outlet malls and strip malls. He disowned it all, explaining how it spread around them like fungus. But she oohed at a couple of the houses, couldn’t get over how clean it all looked, imagined it to be the safest place on earth.
They reached the zenith of the highway overlooking his town, and he could see the streets, black ribbons in the white snow. He admitted once taking that as evidence of a grand design.

  “It does look kind of like a section of a brain.”

  “I thought so too. Once.”

  “Once?”

  “A long time ago. When I was a kid.”

  “That wasn’t so long ago.”

  It wasn’t, but as they approached the house, it felt like part of another lifetime. “Here we are. It’s not much,” he said, pulling up the drive.

  Trees, seclusion, red shutters; she loved it all. “It’s like Santa’s workshop.”

  Unlike Santa’s workshop, the house was quiet. He hoped his aunts would be around to act as a buffer. But when he knocked and let himself in, it was clear they weren’t there. The first thing he noticed was the smell of Pine-Sol, bleach, and ammonia. Ines used only natural cleaning products; by comparison, his house smelled strongly of chemicals. The odor that once signified clean was as alien as the scent that assaulted him in the back of taxicabs. His mother was in the recliner, where she’d been sleeping for quite some time judging by the cushion lines imprinted on her cheek. At least she wasn’t wearing her backpack.

  “Ines, this is my mother, Anna Conroy.”

  His mother smiled sleepily. “She’s so beautiful.”

  Ines would see that he was poor, but that was the least of it. Whenever Ines described people spending their entire life wrapped up in their own little world, never leaving home, never getting an education, Achilles thought of his mother. He imagined every possible reaction except what he received. At last we meet. I’ve been waiting for this moment. Finally. I’ve heard so much about you. They exchanged lines as if they’d rehearsed for weeks, and it was at last opening night. His mother put on the kettle. Achilles wanted to tell her that Ines bought her teas from a special shop run by some Asians—Chinese people—but Ines graciously accepted the bagged tea, and the Ritz crackers with squares of American cheese melted over them.

  Under the pretext of showing him Troy’s uniform, his mother marched him off to the back bedroom, stepping over the flowers lining the hallway. The uniform was in good order, all the medals properly aligned. The recruiter had helped with that.

  Achilles was ready to get chewed out. His mother closed the door and counted on her fingers as she rattled off a list of questions: What’s her last name? Where’s she from? Where’s her family from? What kind of work does she do?

  Then back to the living room, where his mother excused herself, giving him a wink and a thumbs-up over Ines’s shoulder, leaving him with Ines, who glared at him, and asked Is she retired? Where did she work before? Where is she from? Is her family still around here?

  His mom returned with fruit and fishsticks. “I don’t eat much meat either,” she said, settling into the couch. “Achilles told me about your charity, but you know how vague men are, tell me more.” And Ines did, at one point relating it to accounting. Meanwhile, Achilles pondered the significance of his mother referring to him, for the first time, as a man in that way, as if he was now in his father’s camp.

  Achilles watched in amazement as, over the course of the next hour, they each maintained their front, privately asking Achilles questions on the sly: Does Ines sew? Does Anna garden? Does Ines go to church? What’s Anna’s favorite flower? Gospel played on the radio.

  “Do you mind gospel, Ines?”

  “No ma’am. I enjoy spiritual music.”

  “Ines is a beautiful name. Does it mean anything?”

  “It’s short for Esmeralda.”

  His mother gasped. “That’s gorgeous, regal.”

  She was right. Ines sat there, quietly scanning photo albums, chatting pleasantly with his mother, taking it on the chin without complaint. She was regal. A real lady.

  “You should see the programs, Achilles. They’re on the counter,” his mother said. “The paper too.”

  Thankful for an excuse to leave, Achilles went to the kitchen. The counter, tables, and top of the refrigerator were covered with flowers, even more than there had been for his father, who’d lived in the area his entire life. The refrigerator was again stuffed with food. The programs were piled on the table. The photo on the cover was from the third week of basic training. Wearing PT outfits, they’d lined up outside a white Quonset hut. Inside, they passed through an assembly line: one station fitted them with a jacket, the next with a shirt and clip-on tie, the next with a hat. The last station snapped the photo that everyone sent home as evidence of transformation.

  Their sergeant said, “Don’t slurp your own shit. This photo’s what you could be, not what you are.” But Troy looked like he halfway believed it, the mouth is set in firm determination, but his eyes give it away. That day Troy was happy, joking, amused by the fact that in every one of these photos they’d seen over the years, every last recruit was dressed up in a fancy jacket with only jogging shorts on underneath. All those photos and no one was wearing pants. The edge of a newspaper was barely visible under the box of programs. It was a copy of the Washington County Reporter, with Troy’s picture on the front cover, two pictures to be exact: one from the high school soccer team and one from the military. The byline was Janice Keel Williams; she had taken Dale’s name.

  Troy Henry Conroy,

  Our First Fallen Hero Buried Today

  Washington County, Janice Keel Williams

  There was a new hero among us, and many us of missed the chance to thank him the last time he was in town. The first hometown hero to die since this war began, Troy always answered the call of duty. He had a smile for everyone, flashing that great soldier’s jaw. A sports sensation, Troy lettered in football, soccer, and lacrosse by the tenth grade. That was the kind of young man who entered 11-Bravo and came out with a Bronze Star—with a V for valor, one of the highest honors a solder can receive. He earned it carrying a wounded comrade across a minefield, risking his life and limb. He joined the army shortly after September 11 to fight the War on Terror, and after he was done there, he helped on the home front, traveling to New Orleans in the wake of Katrina. Troy was always ready to help the less fortunate. Says his brother, Achilles, “Troy was the bravest man I knew. He was always there for me, and for anyone who needed him. Selfless, brave, always extending a helping hand. He will be deeply missed.” His mother, Anna, described him as “Just a good person. The kind of son you always want to have, but never believe you’ll actually get.” Everyone here in Washington County will miss Troy, but no one more so than his family. Troy is survived by his mother, Anna Holt Conroy, and his brother, Achilles Holden Conroy. His father, William Conroy, died last fall in a car accident.

  It was hard to believe it had only been a year. Achilles heard a chuckle, but when he returned to the living room, the mood had changed. Ines sat in rapt attention while his mother told the story in bits and pieces. It’s the same story Achilles had told Ines, down to the part about referring to Troy as his brother. The photos give away the end. Ines stood and paced along the mantel while his mother pointed out who was who, stopping at the photo of Achilles and Troy and their parents at Hershey Park.

  They spent the night in his old bedroom. Achilles had refused his mother’s offer to make room elsewhere. It reminded him too much of how little space they had. On the drive in, he wanted to impress Ines with the view from the main road, not considering that she would assume he lived in one of those McMansions. Now, back in the old bedroom, he wished he had taken the other highway in, the one that cut through the woods and small towns, the four-way intersections policed only by stop signs.

  He and Ines sat on Achilles’s bed. Troy’s uniform lay on the bed across from them. Ines glanced around the room at the posters, their dressers, the single closet. She stretched her legs, banging her shins on Troy’s bed.

  He reached for her legs and she jerked away.

  “Like I said, it ain’t much,” offered Achilles.

  “Really? Achilles?” />
  “Do you want me to take you to the airport?”

  Ines glared. “Is that going to be your answer to everything today?”

  “It’s the first time I’ve said it.”

  “It sounds like something you would repeat. You should have told me.”

  “Would you have come?”

  “That’s not your choice. I would have brought her something.” She said this matter-of-factly.

  “I’m sorry. Do you want me to take you to the airport?” asked Achilles. “Damn!”

  “I knew it.”

  “I guess I could have said, ‘Come and meet my mom, she’ll take you for a ride on her bus.’”

  “That’s all the more reason. If you felt like I really hated white people, you should have told me.”

  Her breath was slow and steady, her eyes cool, but she seemed more hurt than angry. He reached for her hand, and she drew away.

  “I wanted to, but at first it didn’t matter. Then it was too late.”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head as if she didn’t believe him. “It’s just not fair, Achilles. It’s not fair. There isn’t enough time to tell you how much of an asshole you are. Yesterday, when you told me the news, a small part of me felt relieved that it wasn’t anyone new. And I felt so guilty about that, so ashamed. And now, I feel even worse. I’ll stay for the funeral, but I want to go to the airport after.” The wind rattled the glass. “Regardless of the weather.” She scooted a few feet over on the bed.