Hold It 'Til It Hurts Read online

  “Girlfriend dragged you out tonight?”

  “No.”

  “On your own. That’s unusual. Since you’re trying to do the right thing, could you monitor the line? We’re shorthanded. Just remind them not to push or fight. If they do, yell. There’s always one off-duty cop, but he’s inside because it’s air-conditioned. What can I say? It’s volunteer work.”

  “Sure.”

  Ines pulled a pen out of her hair and wrote something on her forearm. “We’ll owe you one. Thanks.”

  At first, Achilles didn’t see any problem with agreeing to help. He’d planned on watching the line anyway. The St. Jude line was no different from the St. Augustine line. They stomped and stammered loudly at the end of the line, but shuffled and whispered as they approached the door, avoiding eye contact. Within ten minutes of pacing, his eyes drawn to the intersections whenever anyone approached, he regretted his decision. His shirt was plastered to his back, the bandages on his arm damp, and his boxers bunched up in a damp wad. As the men filed inside, they straightened up and focused on Ines like BBs to a magnet, and she looked them in the eye and called them brother, all of them, black, white, brown, and the two yellows.

  In Kabul, he’d known white people like her in the charities. Nicknamed NGOs because No Government Organization gave shit away, they were staffed by glassy-eyed Americans. “Brother! Brother!” an Afghan would shout, but they knew it was solidarity by circumstance. The white Americans were different, saying “brother” like they believed it, earnestly claiming kinship with all humanity. Most volunteers were idealists or opportunists running a side scam. Both camps scorned the soldiers, though the opportunists admitted that they profited from destruction because no matter how much food, medicine, and clothing they gave away someone else paid for it, and paid them to deliver it. Charity was big business. The desk pilots understood that, as did the smugglers—who were more fun to drink with—but most volunteers were naïve optimists, though they didn’t think of themselves as naïve; how else could they be optimistic?

  After a week in country, the volunteers would tell a sad tale about the day they realized Afghan kids imitated gunfire and artillery while playing with their toy trucks and planes. Isn’t that why we’re here? Wasn’t that what most trucks and planes were doing in Goddamnistan? Achilles would ask. But he’d never push it. If he did, they’d start moaning about the army’s deplorable recruiting tactics, their tendency to target neighborhoods like the one Achilles must have grown up in. They’d sigh for him, curse the government, saying what they assumed he couldn’t, steadfast in their belief that Achilles was a victim, a sacrificial lamb on the altar of Democracy, not understanding that he hadn’t volunteered to die for anything. He’d been indirectly drafted. But he let them talk. Liberal guilt was always good for a few beers.

  After the shelter closed, Ines stopped to talk to him on the way to her car. They stood in the street while the off-duty cop extinguished the lights one by one until the building was dark. Achilles had thought people stayed there overnight, that maybe there was yet a chance that Troy might arrive. But of course he hadn’t seen Troy. He hadn’t really expected to. Ines was what he needed, a distraction from all the possibilities he couldn’t admit to himself that he was even considering.

  She thanked him for helping out, adding, “The students thought you were here for community service. It’s rare we get a real live hero here.”

  Hero. Achilles smiled weakly.

  “Volunteer often?” asked Ines.

  “I just finished two paid vacations,” said Achilles.

  “That’s right. Twenty months of shawarma,” she said.

  “And bitter beer,” he said.

  She made a lemon-sucking face. “Yuck! You were there.” In a serious tone, she added, “When did you get back?”

  “About a month ago.”

  She nodded knowingly. “Ah-ha! That explains the scars. What did you do?”

  “Airborne Infantry.”

  “An airborne soldier saved my life outside of Jalabad. He carried me right out of a minefield. I wandered into it and froze. We were bringing medical supplies to a remote village, and I had to go to the bathroom. It was my first week in country and I wanted privacy, the ubiquitous American amenity. There I was squatting down and I look over and see the sign. He walked right in after me and carried me out. You believe that? Of course you do.”

  He had heard her say Goddamnistan. “Sounds like a murder-suicide pact.”

  Ines frowned. “He had a metal detector.”

  Her savior wasn’t as crazy as Troy, but she’d think Troy brave. “There are units specially equipped for that.”

  “He had a metal detector,” repeated Ines.

  He smelled something burning and looked in the direction of the green camelback. She turned to follow his gaze. He stole a glance at her profile, the outline of her white tee pressing against the night.

  “Are you here often?” asked Achilles.

  “Tomorrow I’ll be at the new St. Jude.”

  The next two nights, he went to the new St. Jude, a converted high school significantly larger than the old location. An immense brick building with a white stone foundation, its four turrets and tiny windows gave the shelter the appearance of a fortified structure. The classrooms were dormitories and the cafeteria had annexed the gymnasium. Troy wasn’t there, but Ines was, because her work involved several shelters, and Achilles took the opportunity to learn about the other organizations, each night dutifully plotting them on his map.

  As she explained it, “I coordinate the efforts between different shelters, churches, and NGOs, if they’re willing to cooperate and their charters allow it. If their calendars and interests intersect, I team them up for lower pricing and better services. For example, if St. Jude wants to feed a neighborhood on the same day that St. Mark’s plans a health clinic, I get them to overlap.”

  “So you know all the churches and shelters?” asked Achilles.

  “Every single one.”

  “And you came up with this on your own?”

  “Sure did.”

  “That’s admirable,” said Achilles.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.

  “It just is.”

  “So you’re the measure of what’s admirable?”

  “I do know what I admire.”

  “We’ll see if you’re still around in two weeks, when your guilt wears off.”

  “I’m not guilty of anything,” said Achilles, crossing his arms.

  “Of course not.”

  “You?”

  “Never. It’s what we do. My friends, family, all of us. I attended a small school in the Northeast. You know how it is. You’re young with a heart as big as the Hindenburg, and just as volatile. We joined the Peace Corps, went to grad school, to teach, or to New York. Every single person. Volunteering is best, a paid internship in an exotic locale. You help out without feeling any discomfort except the recognition of just how wealthy this country is. Then one day I asked myself why I was a thousand miles away when these black kids right here needed my help. I was just like all those white girls who do mindless shit to assuage guilt they claim not to have. You know how most white people are.”

  “Most white people,” she said without a trace of irony or jest. There would be no oblique references, no mentioning that Tammy Wynette was his mother’s favorite singer and Waylon Jennings his father’s. There’d be no dropping a photo of his parents. Peace Corps, grad school, New York. Most white people. He could be most black people. I can play this game, Praise Jesus, thought Achilles.

  After the fight, he had continued to sleep on the floor. But when Bethany came home, she would wake him, the little flashlight used to avoid disturbing him wielded with the opposite intention, the beam fanning his eyes. “The couch,” she’d say. And he’d adjust his bandages and lie on it until she went to bed. He’d wised up in the last few days and started sleeping on the couch until she got home. If only
it were covered in plastic, like Janice’s mom’s couch.

  He wondered what Janice was doing, then pictured Ines. Was she an innie or an outie? Slipping his hand into his shorts, tremors rippled across his stomach. His hands moved faster, making short yanking motions until he added spit for longer strokes. He wrapped his thumb and forefinger around his cock, making the okay sign, and tugged, breathing faster, imagining Ines above him. Feeling lightheaded, almost like he was floating, he rolled over and entered the cushions, thrusting spasmodically.

  “Achilles! The couch!” said Bethany.

  He hadn’t heard her come in, but should have smelled the antiseptics and alcohol trailing her like a ghost. She was taking her careful fencer’s steps and using the little flashlight to find her way. He appreciated her trying, so he never let on that he usually heard each step because, however soft, it always became a slide. He imagined her scowling face behind the beam that hovered on his dick like a spotlight on a fugitive. He covered himself. She switched off the light.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeated several times.

  Hearing her bump into the wall and mutter a curse, he turned on the lamp, knocking over the starfish card. She was at the door and when she bent over to arrange her clogs, her scrubs pulled tight across her thighs, highlighting panty lines. He adjusted the tent in his blanket, searching for something to say.

  She stood there a minute before finally saying, “At least you’re not sleeping on the floor anymore.” She nodded twice, that comment meeting her approval.

  “Yeah,” said Achilles after searching for a response. He sat up and gave a half wave.

  “It must be more comfortable,” she said. She stretched out comfortable like it was a cross between comfort and affordable.

  “I like the couch,” said Achilles. “But I guess that’s obvious.”

  “Don’t like it too much. We don’t want any little cushions running around. Though that would be more comfortable, and better for your back.”

  “Always the nurse.”

  Her smile was tight.

  “I meant looking out for people,” Achilles said. “Nurses are good.”

  “I understand,” she said. She put one hand on her hip, standing as if there was something on her mind, and she intended to share it. “He missed you guys. All the male bonding stuff. Growl.” She scowled, obviously her impression of a man’s face. “I thought it was an excuse to get away. Always seeing to this friend or that. But he’s happier when you’re here. Even though he drinks more. But seeing you here for your brother, seeing you together, I understand. You have something in common, but it’s not anything you would have wanted. They say you can choose your friends but not your family, but that’s not really true for you guys. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Good night Achilles,” she said, pronouncing his name correctly.

  Her scent lingered. He understood what she meant. He felt the same way about Troy. He loved him, but sometimes he was angry, and other times jealous that there might be someone somewhere who knew Troy better, someone he trusted more, maybe even Wexler. Maybe Bethany felt out of the circle; it was a men’s circle. It was a man’s, man’s, man’s world. Only men could understand what they had chosen, and why they would gladly return. It was a family too, a family who stood by you even when it meant risking a limb they couldn’t grow back.

  “The couch,” called Bethany from the bedroom.

  “Yes ma’am,” he called back. Women made you think. What was it like to have one always around and within easy reach? Did you stop masturbating? Was it like having an endless supply of beer in the refrigerator? If you wanted some sex, did you just go to the bedroom and get it?

  “The couch,” she called again.

  “Yes ma’am.” If only it were covered in plastic.

  He retraced his steps, looking for any clues he might have missed when he was there. The baby-doll heads: smudged and disfigured, the limbs mangled, the eyes locked on his. He kept seeing the head rolling off the edge of the landing and into the space where the stairs should have been. Those tiny limbs forever tumbling, as if drowning. This image brought him to a halt as he was driving to the new St. Jude for the third day in a row. He yanked the wheel, jerked the car over to the side of the street, and called the morgue.

  A man with a clipped voice answered the phone. Yet again Achilles described his brother: five eleven, 185 pounds, light-brown skin, green eyes. The man with the clipped voice read the description back to him: average height, average build, average complexion—he pronounced it “complected.” He also said “ABM,” which Achilles thought he remembered Morse saying.

  “Hold on.” The man sighed deeply. Achilles heard the phone drop, a chair creak, and the raspy groan of reluctant metal file cabinets.

  On the sidewalk, the crowd swam by. How did so many people manage to avoid touching? A welcome shadow fell over his car as the St. Charles streetcar came to a halt beside where he had parked. An elderly couple with a small boy squeezed their heads through one of the narrow streetcar windows, their tanned faces glowing in the sunlight. The man took photos, the camera glued to his face as if he were a Cyclops. The woman directed the boy’s gaze toward nearby landmarks: the listless flag atop Jax Brewery, the Aquarium, and the Customs House. The child waved at passersby, who mostly pretended not to see him, as did Achilles when the child waved in his direction. The child persisted, his waving becoming frantic. Achilles cupped his cell phone tighter to his ear, looking straight ahead to avoid the child’s insistence and the pedestrians’ charades. The light changed, the streetcar lurched forward, the trolley pole sparking as it dragged along the overhead wires. The electricity in the air smelled like boiling artichokes. He watched the streetcar travel three blocks and turn up St. Charles toward the Garden District, an area of town he’d never seen.

  When the phone was picked up again, a different voice said, “When you come down use the Rampart Street entrance, not the Tulane Avenue entrance. It’s the one nearest the Superdome. There’s a great big sign says Charity Hospital of New Orleans.”

  He remembered Troy on the side of the road a few hours after they’d driven over the IED, glowing, with the sun behind him like a sombrero. Troy, his smile big enough to swallow the sky. Achilles had let them all down. He should have driven more, canvassed, called the morgue sooner, or the hospitals, put up posters, put out a radio ad … Before he could reply, there was a muffled exchange and he heard the phone being dropped and picked up again. The clipped voice returned and muttered an apology. “He thought you were someone else.”

  Relief. His heart was still racing. The clipped voice continued. “Anyway, I’m sorry, but you’ll need to come down here. There’s too many guys fitting that description. Do you know where we are?”

  Achilles hung up. He’d already heard the directions once and besides, he had his map. He gripped the wheel with both hands in an effort to steady himself. How could he have ever been mad at Troy? How could he have even been angry about things that were out of his control? He was only six, he couldn’t have known. It wasn’t like Troy had planned his arrival.

  CHAPTER 7

  ACHILLES STARTED HUMMING A FOUR-COUNT THE MOMENT HE ENTERED the cool, dim marble lobby of Charity Hospital. While waiting for the elevator, he thrummed his fingers against his thighs and tapped his foot, keeping cadence until he reached the subbasement and was in the morgue office showing a photo to the attendant, a white man with thick black hair, a dingy lab coat, and the kind of belly developed by years of eating at a desk. Between the smell of Grecian Formula and the antiseptic hospital odor, the room smelled like a barbershop. The man thoughtfully studied the photo. It was taken two years before at the Baltimore water park, before basic and infantry training, before their tour of duty. Troy smiles, the gap in his front teeth prominent, his green eyes razors in the sunlight. He wears flip-flops and shorts, no shirt. It was hot that day, or so they’d thought at the time. Against Troy’s broa
d shoulders, the swim towel around his neck is a mere cravat. He has hair. There were more recent photos, but they were all from Goddamnistan. In them Troy is wearing his uniform, and Achilles doesn’t want to open up the questions that would raise, such as why Troy couldn’t simply be identified by his prints.

  The man glanced at Achilles, then at the photo again, squinting as if noting the differences: Achilles was darker than Troy, almost six inches shorter, and had smaller eyes and a wider nose. True, he and Troy looked nothing alike, but most white people didn’t notice. The man glanced at Achilles, and again at the photo.

  “How long have you been a diener?” It was a term Achilles had learned from the German soldiers.

  “They don’t call us that anymore.” The man worked his jaw like he was chewing on the words. “We got two you should look at. One’s pretty rough. Sure your brother doesn’t have prints on file? It would be much easier on you.”

  Achilles: “None.”

  “Follow me.”

  The viewing area was a narrow room barely large enough for the three chairs that sat facing the dull, mirrored glass in the opposite wall. The left wall was blank. On the right wall hung a bulletin board with posters for crisis hotlines and HIV prevention, and beneath that, an intercom with red, black, and green buttons. The attendant pressed the black button and requested D-782. Achilles pressed his nose to the glass but couldn’t see anything. He pressed his fingernail against it and tried to recall the test for two-way mirrors. Was a space between the reflections a positive indication, or was it the reverse? Either way, he knew this one had two sides, and either way, from his side of the mirror, it didn’t matter. It mattered even less from the other side. He counted the tiles on the floor and ceiling—sixty-five and twenty-two respectively. After a moment he heard the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum, the distinctive rattle of old gurney wheels, and the rustling of a sheet. The noise died down. The attendant asked if he was ready. Achilles nodded and fingered his dented locket, remembering that Troy had one just like it. The attendant rapped his knuckles against the mirror, then stepped back behind Achilles. His hands clammy, Achilles ordered himself to relax, unracking his shoulders and tightening his stomach as if preparing for an unavoidable punch.