Hold It 'Til It Hurts Page 12

  Light spat and flickered in the room behind the mirrored glass. He could barely see the outline of a body, then it was overlit, then it was again dark. Finally, the sputtering buzz settled into a hum, and the room was blanched in fluorescent light.

  D-782 was too short, too dark, and too thin. He looked nothing like Troy. Achilles shook his head, no. He exhaled in a rush—he had dodged the first bullet. Breathe. Always remember to breathe. No less than three military instructors had reminded Achilles of that, catching him with his shoulders hunched and lips pursed when out on the range. The attendant called for D-794 and the light blinked off. Achilles heard one gurney being wheeled out, another wheeled in. He watched the diener’s reflection. His breathing was labored, the nametag on his chest rising and falling as if at sea, as if Troy were his brother. The faster that nametag moved, the more Achilles relaxed, like O’Ree had told him: “We’re the opposite of most people, son. We must learn to be like a ship that grows steadier the more the sea storms.” Was he ready? Achilles nodded. Another knock on the window, the light flashed on. This time a kid in a lab coat and headphones, the one who must have transported the body, remained in the viewing chamber standing behind the gurney.

  The white plastic sheet used for burn victims was folded back to the waist, revealing second- and third-degree burns over much of D-794’s torso. The skin was mottled black and pink, except his raw, gnarled fingertips and ragged throat, which Achilles recognized as a sign the man had burned to death in an enclosed space while trying to claw his way out. One unburned patch of skin on the chest was the same shade as Troy. The scorched cheekbones were high, like Troy’s. But the eyes were too close together, Aren’t they? Troy had wide-set eyes. The eye sockets are too close, right? He inched closer to the glass, remembering Troy’s uniform folded neatly on the bed with his helmet on top.

  He knew it was physically impossible, but for a moment he thought he smelled the body. Breathe. Always remember to breathe—through the mouth. The eyes were definitely too close. The upper lip cracked like pumice as the kid in the lab coat nudged the mouth open, revealing gold teeth coated in ash. Achilles grinned with relief, ignoring the attendant’s reaction to his smile. The attendant pressed the red button, and the kid in the lab coat gently pulled up the sheet, letting it float down and settle on the blunt contours of the scorched face. The light snapped off. Achilles put his finger to the glass again, studied the gap between his fingernail and the reflection and remembered—if there was no gap between your fingernail and the reflection, it was a genuine mirror.

  Back in the office, the attendant searched for the visitor’s log. Able to focus now, Achilles looked around the narrow room, which was furnished only with an old gunmetal desk and a rigid plastic chair. No file cabinets. This wasn’t the man who’d answered the phone, the man who’d listened to Achilles describe his brother, then muttered “Light-complected ABM. We got one, but he’s burned real bad.” ABM—average black male. Achilles scowled, muttering “complected” to himself. It made skin tone sound like a psychological burden. It must be a New Orleans thing, like cold drink meant soda, and reach me meant hand me. On the wall was the same Dilbert cartoon he’d seen hanging up in the Forward Operating Base morgue. The characters were in a board meeting and the caption underneath read, The Only Place Lower than Hell. The idea that an office could be anything like hell always made him chuckle. Some people had it too easy. He laughed again, louder.

  “Tough job there, boy,” said the attendant as he rifled through the papers on his desk.

  “Yeah.” Though Achilles didn’t know what was so tough about sitting around in an air-conditioned office all day. “How do you do it?”

  “No, son. I meant yours.”

  Achilles winced. “You do what you got to do, right?”

  “My captain used to say that in Korea. I believed it too, back then. But you’ll tell yourself anything to stay afloat on a river of flaming shit.” He found the log and waved it triumphantly. “I’ll tell you what’s a shame. It’s a shame what these kids are doing to each other out there nowadays. Animals. Those dealers are animals. Someone should line them all up and shoot them, and their dogs. Civilians shouldn’t be allowed to carry guns. That guy was burned up by his dealer. They even poured alcohol down his throat so he couldn’t scream.” His toned changed and he hunched his shoulders like it was campfire story time, like he was on Scared Straight, that old TV show that tried steering bad kids in the right direction by taking them to prisons and morgues, the eternal message always the same—This could be you!

  “Imagine that! Alcohol in his throat so the minute he yells, the flames are in his mouth and neck, and he’s ripping his own skin off trying to make it stop.” The attendant beat at his chest, openhanded, pantomiming fruitless efforts to douse a flame. “Ever seen anything so gruesome? They call it baptism. Baptism!” He crossed himself twice. “Can you imagine hating someone that much?” He was still clutching the log, awaiting an answer in exchange.

  Achilles shrugged again and shook his head. For all he knew, they did it to themselves. D-794 could have been one of those crunchers Wages had talked about, someone who burned himself up trying to light a pipe, like that old comedian Richard Pryor. “Yeah, it’s terrible,” he said as he reached for the clipboard. He listed Wages’s address as his own, noted himself as next of kin, and marked their parents as deceased.

  “Good luck.” The attendant stared hard.

  “What?” asked Achilles.

  “I’m just wondering, do I want to see the other guy? Or have I already?”

  “I don’t know.” He’d forgotten about his bruises and sore muscles, as he’d been trained to. The implications of that answer dawned on him. “I mean, of course not.”

  “Never mind.” He clapped Achilles on the back, as if he understood his plight, as if something had passed between them. “Good luck.”

  There was no use saying he didn’t believe in luck. There was no use explaining that Achilles’s reserve wasn’t luck. He’d often attended the sifting of the dead. Not even the first ones had been shocking: a cluster of civilians, a wedding party charred beyond recognition, only vaguely human in shape, and most importantly, absent familiarity—he couldn’t have possibly known any of them. They were, as someone said, the only Gannies it was safe to turn your back on.

  He reminded himself of why he was doing this. Troy had prints on file, and when they were run, their mom would be called. She would have to answer when the phone rang in the middle of the night because it could be Achilles with news of Troy, if not Troy himself. Too old-fashioned to have a phone in the bedroom, she would feel her way to the living room, her left hand grazing the wood-paneled wall and her right holding her reading glasses. Once seated in the green chair at the roll-top desk where she writes out the bills and reads the Bible—which she never even looked at when their father was alive—she’ll turn on the lamp, pick up a pen, and put on her glasses, behind which her eyes float in the air like two blue globes. Then she’ll answer the phone. After hearing the news, she’ll call Achilles and apologize.

  That was why he must be the first to know. But if he found Troy on a gurney, what could he really do? Apologize for letting her down? Again? When Troy first talked about signing up, his mother pulled Achilles aside and said, “Only you can talk him out of it. He’ll listen to you.” He’d expected Troy—who hated authority, listened to no one, followed no directions but his own—would be phased out within weeks. A drill sergeant would give him an order and he would walk off, like he did on every job. There was no way that Achilles, who thought his own cautious but easygoing nature perfectly suited for the military, was going to talk him out of it. How could he have expected that Troy, the free spirit, the wild card, the deck with three jokers, would fit in like he’d been born into chaos? “Every deck needs a joker,” Troy always said, though he was anything but a joker, throwing himself into his duty as if all he’d ever wanted all his fucking life was for someone to be man enough to tell him
what to do and have the balls to back it up.

  “His heart is set on it,” Achilles had told his mom. “You know how he gets.” She’d nodded knowingly, sighed, as though she’d wished for anything except that answer, but expected it. He couldn’t forget what she said when they shipped out: “The loneliest person in the world is a mother who outlives her children.”

  He sat in his car, on the top floor of the parking garage, watching two pigeons fight over a hamburger patty. He could just barely see the tip of the church steeple at the center of the French Quarter and a flashing red light that might have been Jax Brewery. The lot was at least two blocks away from the hospital, but he swore he still smelled D-794, and along with him gunpowder, rifle oil, garbage, diesel fuel, body odor, roasting lamb. He shoved three pieces of gum into his mouth. The rush of peppermint burned his tongue, and he started breathing through his nose again.

  Later that day he was at Seaton’s Diner, across from St. Augustine, when his mother called. She sounded hesitant when he answered, as if she thought she had the wrong number. After some small talk, he took a breath and asked, “Do you know any of these people he might be looking for?”

  “No,” said his mother.

  “Isn’t it in the envelope?” he asked.

  “I never opened the envelope,” she said. “Your father sealed them.”

  “Really?”

  “We talked about this already. Yes, you’re both Conroys. Troy Magnus Conroy and Achilles Holden Conroy. You’re your father’s sons and mine. Always.”

  “Geez.” Achilles exhaled sharply. “That again.” Hadn’t she signed court orders or birth certificates? He wanted to scream, Don’t you even know their names? How could you possibly not know their names? His sandwich arrived, a chicken club held together by toothpicks. The waitress regarded him strangely every time he ordered it, rushing it to the table like she didn’t want to be seen with it. He’d forgotten why he called his mother in the first place, or if he was even the one who had called. “I gotta go.”

  “Wait. Your father left you some money, a lot of money. Seventy-five thousand dollars.” She was gleeful, sounding like she had after discovering petroleum jelly was the antidote for the dry skin that afflicted him every winter. “I meant to tell you before, but I didn’t know how much, and everything went so loosey-goosey with Troy leaving and all.”

  Where did his father get that kind of money? That was almost two years of net pay from a man who’d wanted to move for the last ten years but said he couldn’t afford it. How he wanted to retreat farther up the mountain, complaining constantly about the city roping him in, the noose of new developments driving up property taxes. “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand from his life insurance and another twenty-five from his pension. But if you need more, let me know. You’ll get the rest when I go.”

  “Why are you talking like that? Where are you going?”

  “I’m still going on my trip. But anything could happen, even here. Look at your father. You need to know how these things work. The papers are in the roll-top. Everything goes to the surviving heir. The lawyer can give you the details. Chuck over in Mercersburg. You remember him? He handled Troy’s accident.”

  “I remember him.” Accident? Chuck was the attorney who persuaded a jury to acquit Troy after he was arrested for driving drunk and running over Mrs. Dyson’s two goats. His father bought the damned things too. They ate goat for months.

  “Call him at his office. When you see your brother, tell him too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Come home anytime. You could start that hot dog stand now.”

  “Right,” he said with a laugh. A hot dog stand had been his dream business in middle school, more for his love of hot dogs and fascination with the word frankfurter than for any true interest in business. There was a pause as if his mother expected a more detailed answer. Did she think he was still serious about that, or ever had been? “I have to go.”

  “Wait.” After she gave him the attorney’s number, she said, “Achilles, you know you were always my favorite, don’t you? I always wanted you. You know that, don’t you?”

  She sounded like everything depended on his answer, so he murmured, “Yes.”

  “I just wanted to make sure you knew that. I’ll let you go now.”

  Achilles picked at his food, constantly glancing out the window at St. Augustine, hoping Troy would walk by. He could tell him, I’m the favorite, find your own way home. I’m the favorite. If that was really true, how come Achilles always had to do everything Troy wanted to do, and not the other way around? He wondered about that as he dialed Chuck’s number, identifying himself as Mr. Conroy to the receptionist. While holding, he practiced what to say: I’m calling about the will … My father passed … My mom told me to call. He settled on, It’s Achilles Conroy. Even that sounded presumptive to him. How could he start the conversation without sounding money-grubbing? Chuck did it for him, saying, “Troy, I’m sorry for your loss. How are you?” In his low voice, Chuck stretched out you as if talking to a child. “Are you okay? Troy, are you there?”

  Achilles shivered the way he did after biting ice, or, as the old folks said, as if someone was walking on his grave. “I’m here. I’m just … I’m here. I’m good.” The younger waitress refilled his coffee. Her snug polyester uniform reminded him of a nurse’s outfit. She winked every time she passed, like they were in this together.

  “You sound good, but you were always a tough kid. I guess your mom told you about the will. So what are you going to do with all the money? You don’t need to decide now, but I know your father would have wanted you to be wise and thrifty. It’s quite a large sum, enough that with the right financial advice you could do well for yourself. I have a client who retired on half that amount. He lives on a Greek island, a little one, and he does some freelance consulting, but the point is he retired with only one hundred twenty-five thousand in stocks. I’ll give you the broker’s number.”

  “One hundred thousand?” Achilles heard paper shuffling.

  “Legal fees aren’t that high.” Chuck laughed.

  “Can you mail me a check?”

  “You and your jokes. You have to sign for it. Achilles too, so just let him know. When can you come by? I just need your John Hancock. This is a lot of money.”

  Achilles slid the saltshaker from hand to hand. “How much after legal fees?”

  “Two-hundred and fifty-three thousand seven hundred and twelve dollars and nineteen cents, give or take. When should I expect you?”

  “Soon.” said Achilles

  “Where are you?”

  “New Orleans,” said Achilles, looking around him then hanging up.

  Seventy-five Gs for the oldest brother and three or four times that amount for the younger. He knew who his father’s favorite was. But he’d known that all along. He’d known that ever since Troy came through the door.

  When Achilles turned eight, he expected a golden Lab. For years, his mother said, When you’re ten, but he didn’t expect to wait until he was two-whole-hands old. He knew the puppy was coming because his parents described his gift as Warm, friendly, and tireless. His friends were going to be so jealous. His parents left early that Saturday morning, leaving Achilles with Mrs. Bear, the babysitter who let him take showers. They were due back well before 6:30 p.m., when the party was set to begin. At 5:30, as instructed, Achilles took his cake out of the refrigerator and placed it on the coffee table in the living room, where the paneled walls were festooned with streamers, balloons, and his name in winking, glittering gold letters. He sat on Mrs. Bear’s welcoming lap and watched Romper Room until 6:15, when the first guest arrived. The last guest was there by 6:30. He knew the precise time because Ren and Stimpy was starting. While making Jiffy Pop for the hungry kids, Mrs. Bear chatted with the parents who waited with their children. At 7:30 they had hot dogs, then ice cream, but not cake, the adults insisting that his parents should be present when he cut the cake. At 8:30, when the par
ty was scheduled to end, the parents began packing up their kids.

  Wearing a pirate’s eye patch, the one gift he was allowed to open, Achilles fell asleep on Mrs. Bear’s lap. This was a first. Mrs. Bear usually insisted he was tucked in by 8:45. He was still on the couch at midnight when his mom woke him. Someone had put a pillow under his head and covered him with a blanket. “Hey honey.” Her smile was strained, toothy. She guided him to the kitchen with her hands over his eyes, his outstretched fingers grazing the paneled walls.

  “Surprise!” his parents yelled.

  The kitchen was a bright, bright room, thanks to the white walls and fluorescent lights. Achilles threw up his hands to shield his eyes, peeking through his fingers at his parents, who stood flanking a little boy in a birthday hat.

  “This is Troy,” said Achilles’s mother.

  “Happy birthday!” said Achilles’s father. He pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and motioned for Achilles to sit. Between the manic grin, the pompadour, and the exaggerated sweep of his arm, his father looked like a carnival barker.

  Achilles went back to the couch and curled up under the blanket, his usual antidote for strange and disturbing dreams. Sometime later his mom awakened him, led him to the kitchen, and said, “Troy’s having ice cream. You have some too.”

  Troy sat in Achilles’s old orangesicle-colored Scooby-Doo booster seat, eating a big bowl of butter pecan ice cream, Achilles’s favorite because of the salty-sweet and soft but crunchy confusion it caused in his mouth. Troy held his bowl close to his body like someone might snatch it, occasionally stealing a glance around the kitchen, immediately looking back down at his ice cream if he caught anyone’s eye. He was about half Achilles’s size, with wide-set eyes and a broad forehead, like an insect. His left cheek was bruised, and snot dripped from his red and runny nose right into the ice cream, which must have been his favorite flavor too, judging by the way he slurped it down. Troy had seconds, and Achilles had seconds. While they ate, his father leaned back against the wall, smoking and smiling, occasionally rubbing their heads. Troy had thirds, and Achilles had thirds, their bowls brimming with his father’s generous scoops.