Hold It 'Til It Hurts Page 4

  The clickity-clack of unsteady heels sounded below. A woman in a tight red dress staggered down the street, her hips pistoning up and down as if she was riding a bike uphill. Two teenage boys swimming in baggy jeans sniffed ten feet behind her, giggling and elbowing each other. The woman turned to face them. “I told you that’s all you gon’ get, unless you little fuckers pay. Everyone knows you pay me, don’t play me. So give it up or stop snorting after me, you little Vienna Sausage motherfuckers.”

  “I got your banana fucker right here, bee-yitch!” the taller one yelled. “We don’t need your prune ass anyway!”

  “Yeah, that’s right, bee-yatch,” said the other.

  Wages quietly chuckled, like he didn’t want to be heard. “Not much milk left in those bags, but Lorenzo would still like them. Remember how Merri called him Manual Dingo? Remember Merri and Jacki always arguing like a married couple?”

  Merri was Merriweather and Jacki was Jackson, and Achilles remembered. Twice the squad stopped at a brothel on the edge of Jalalabad, once on the way into town and once on the way out. At the first visit, Jackson was pissed to learn that none of the women would give him a blowjob. He had promised his girlfriend he would remain a virgin, and a BJ was only foreplay, as the former president had proven. During the second visit, Merriweather suggested anal, which Jackson found repulsive, even after Merriweather explained, “Like the dirty virgins say, anal ain’t really fucking. Think of it like a blowjob. Think of it sideways, like the ass is a little mouth with big lips.”

  Jackson thought otherwise and waited outside. Both times they’d arrived in the early morning hours, like this, right before sunrise when it was the darkest, when those winking mesmerists, the stars, dazzled like fires in the night, like looking at the sun through a coffee can with holes poked in the bottom. The sky was silver at the far rim, like someone was peeling back the top to take a peek inside this bowl of stew.

  A Hummer drove by, bumping a rap song he didn’t recognize. They’d fought to protect that driver’s right to buy that car and pump it full of big lizard. His right was his right. Another car rolled by, windows vibrating, the radio surprisingly loud given the hour; Wages’s neighbor stood on the porch and lit three matches before his cigarette flared; the paperboy cycled by, each delivery a flashing white arc; the woman in the red dress staggered around the corner; the two teens crossed the street in the opposite direction: all unaware of being watched. People in peaceful countries so infrequently looked up. Didn’t that mean he and his buddies had done a good job? Didn’t they deserve to be proud? Didn’t that make it okay that he missed it, that standing beside Wages made him yearn to be back in rotation with Troy, stacked up outside the door of some bad guy or providing cover fire in Korengal, where he knew what to expect, even if he didn’t know where it was coming from?

  But that was all foolishness, wasn’t it? The land was hungry, insatiably so, and if they went back, who was to say the return trip would be a round trip? He was here now, he’d see Troy today, and after that he could worry about tomorrow. But he couldn’t stop thinking that out of all the hours he and his brother had spent together, those last few days on the way home—from the morning they packed their duffels to boarding the C-130J at the Bagram Airfield to the night they set their bags down outside their mother’s bedroom—the only thing that made any sense was when that dump truck had cut them off and he braced himself for the impact.

  “If you wait, I’ll go with you this afternoon,” said Wages.

  “I got it,” said Achilles. Wages looked disappointed, as if Achilles had turned down his offer to take point. But Achilles needed to do this alone.

  He had often wondered if his parents would have asked him to look out for his brother if they’d known how reckless Troy would become. Troy believed his adoption was a mistake, that his own real family was wealthy, and he regarded everyone who had more money with suspicion, as if they had profited at his expense. In eighth grade, he vowed to get famous, then rich, then expose his birth parents, seeding them with shame and regret.

  During their last weeks in Goddamnistan, while everyone was afraid of catching the breakup baby, Troy volunteered for missions, declaring himself immune from harm until reunited with his real family, after which he would achieve his true destiny. Achilles volunteered as well, telling himself that fidelity could be worn like an amulet, but after the convoy to Baraki, when a bullet struck the window besides Achilles’s head and he thought it was his vision splintering and fracturing, he swore he would never volunteer again. What Troy took as proof of divine intervention, Achilles took as evidence of unnecessary risk. Yet two days after Baraki, Troy volunteered for Faizabad and Achilles followed, against his better judgment, his father’s voice echoing in his ears.

  Before they shipped out, his father had pulled them both aside. “Don’t come back without him,” he told Achilles, and then louder, “Don’t one of you come back alone.”

  His mother gasped.

  “They know what I mean,” said their father.

  Achilles knew. The first weeks, possessed by cavalier notions of bravery and sacrifice, transfixed by the image of a cinematic slow-motion dive as he caught a nonlethal bullet to protect Troy, Achilles believed it would be better to die than to go home without his younger brother. After seeing what it really looked like, he was afraid to die, but he still wanted to believe he could be the hero, the one to beat, the other Achilles.

  As soon as the sun was up, Achilles took Wages’s map and headed to the center of New Orleans, which to him wasn’t the Vieux Carré but the Tremé district, specifically St. Augustine Church at the intersection of Governor Nicholls Street and St. Claude Avenue, where Troy was last seen in the soup kitchen line. Even older than the church were the surrounding houses, duplexes so narrow they didn’t have hallways, each room opening directly into the next.

  Wages, whose house was built in the same style, called them shotgun houses, because a shotgun slug fired through the front door would strut straight out the back. “They’re historic.” Achilles called them hovels, “Historic my ass.” Homes with cardboard taped over broken windows. Homes with no front yards, warped screen doors scraping cracked concrete stoops spilling directly onto the sidewalk. Homes too close together to ride a bicycle between. Homes with second floors only half the size of the first, the upper levels covering the back half of the house like sodden humps, tacked on as if there hadn’t been enough money to finish building.

  What Achilles thought most pathetic were the coffee can planters, ashen window boxes with bright silk flowers, and herb gardens planted in old rubber tires. Above it all, water-rotted cornices splintered off and gables sunk into obtuse angles pulling apart at the ridges, pressing down on the walls, bowing them out like water balloons, as if the houses were bursting at the seams. Rent pavement, overgrown lots, gaping streetlights. Old ladies squatting on stoops. Men driving shopping carts crammed with clattering beer cans, teens posting up on the corners passing fire and spirits. DC was the same. Why didn’t they just move?

  In Afghanistan, O’Ree, a career soldier, told Achilles, “People aren’t none too different, but some is smarter, and you always assume the other guy is smarter. So when we come to the edge of a town, ask where you would hide if you were the other guy.” A dormer window, the occasional large attic vent, the church bell tower? Clearly the bell tower was best. Achilles could see where a sniper would hide, but not his brother. Troy didn’t fit in here. Achilles had once complained to his mom about being the only black kid in school. She’d said, “Don’t exaggerate, honey. What about your brother?” She was right. What had he wanted her to do? Drive him to a neighborhood like this and enroll him in school? The anger he hadn’t realized he felt toward his brother for running off collapsed as he imagined Troy meeting his biops.

  On foot and unarmed, he walked quickly, passing homes with fitted sheets for curtains, the elastic edges curled up at the corners. Others had no blinds at all. A mother and two sons sat on a black couch wa
tching TV, each eating from a to-go container. In the next house, a teenage girl and two young boys sat with their heads bowed in prayer, holding hands around a small dining table piled high with magazines. In another, a young boy with braided hair teased a Rottweiler puppy with a black baby doll. Meanwhile, the praying girl looked up and caught one of the boys putting on sunglasses and a wrestling match ensued. Overall, they appeared content despite the circumstances. Still, he couldn’t imagine Troy or himself eating in front of the TV, playing with the dog, or praying at the table. It’s not called an eating room; dogs don’t belong in the house no more than the truck do; and I got a good book right here, it’s called The Shining. Their parents had run an orderly, decent home. Three teens stood on the corner, or maybe they were men. He couldn’t tell because of the hoods and low caps, but he felt them watching his every move, so he jaywalked, hurriedly crossing the street to avoid them, entering the church grounds from the rear.

  St. Augustine was a white two-story church with a brick belfry capped in copper. The church capstone read 1834. The chancellery was behind the church, and in the courtyard between the two buildings sat a large anchor made of welded chains, dedicated, according to the plaque, to the Unknown Slave. Achilles stopped only briefly to examine it, anxious to get out of the heat and into the chancellery. The office was crowded with folding chairs and tables along one wall, and along the other sat a row of desks with handwritten name tents, according to which the desk closest to the door belonged to Levreau, a gaunt-faced man who, even when seated, appeared to be quite tall. He was on the phone but greeted Achilles with a smile, covering the mouthpiece with his hand and motioning for Achilles to sit while whispering, “Good afternoon, be right with you.”

  Achilles remained standing, reluctant to move because he was directly under the air-conditioner vent. Over the rush of air he heard gospel music. The office had two bookshelves, one lined with different books, the other stacked with identical copies of the same Bible; a sign on the office door read “Breaking the Twin Shackles of Sin and Oppression”; African prints lined the walls. Did Merriweather’s church look like this? Achilles struggled not to laugh at a life-sized painting of Jesus with an Afro and a Village People beard, a Harlem Globetrotter in a bathrobe. A woman at the far desk typed on a computer, nodding her head to the music. An older woman stuffed envelopes. Levreau placed the handset carefully in the cradle, like it was fragile when it was only an old plastic dumbbell-shaped receiver. He seemed to be a man who focused intently on everything he did. “Yes sir. How may I help you?”

  “I’m looking for my brother, Troy Conroy. He was here two days ago.” Achilles handed him the most recent photo of Troy, taken a few days before the funeral at the hospital with Merriweather.

  Levreau shook his head, then went around the room and showed the photo to everybody. Achilles held his breath at each exchange. Levreau returned to his desk looking disappointed. “Sorry. And I make a point to meet all the new parishioners. Is he new? How long has he been attending?”

  “I don’t think he’s attending. He was here on Wednesday.”

  “Oh,” Levreau gave him a knowing look. “We only feed people once a week, on Wednesdays. Have you tried the shelters?”

  “No.”

  While Levreau rattled off a few names, Achilles pictured parks with gazebos, until the meaning of shelters sunk in. “It’s not like that. He’s looking for someone else who might be around here.” Achilles stopped short. “He’s not homeless. He’s looking for somebody who might be homeless, but he’s not homeless.”

  “Yes sir. Okay. I’ll tell you what. I’ll copy this, and put it on our bulletin board in the vestibule. Right up front. Everyone will see it when they come in. If he’s been here, someone’s seen him.” Levreau vanished into a back room and returned a moment later with a hazy enlargement. Achilles wrote his number on the bottom of the copy.

  “Do you know his name?” asked Levreau.

  “Troy Conroy.”

  “I meant the person Troy’s looking for.”

  “No.” It felt funny to hear Levreau say Troy in that baritone.

  “Well, try looking at St. Jude.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Where is St. Jude again?” Levreau asked over his shoulder. No one knew. “It’s brand new and might not be open yet. But it’s supposed to be the biggest shelter in the city. Have you filed a missing person report?”

  “No.” Achilles was put off by the suggestion. Even trying a shelter seemed a waste of time. If St. Augustine didn’t serve food every day, he’d just come back the following Wednesday. Troy wouldn’t be staying at a shelter.

  “Try filing a missing person report.”

  “I don’t know the name of the people, or person, he’s looking for.” He’d have to ask his mom about that, again.

  “I meant for your brother. That way, if he gets a traffic ticket, for example, praise Jesus, you found him. Car accident, praise Jesus, you found him. There’s a substation nearby. I’ll draw you a map.”

  Levreau sketched out a map and wished him luck. Achilles thought he could go to the police station and file that report, just in case. But it would be more helpful if he knew who Troy was looking for before he did. It was the time she’d usually be taking a nap, but he called his mother anyway, halfway hoping she wouldn’t answer. To his surprise, she did, and hearing his voice asked, “Already?”

  “Maybe not for a week,” said Achilles.

  “Where is he?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then how do you know he’s gone for a week?” she asked.

  Her question ticked the hairs on the back of his neck. It had been her idea to hand out envelopes. “It looks like the people he’s looking for might be gone for a week.”

  She exhaled sharply. “At least we know he’s okay. That’s good enough. If you want to come back you can, or go somewhere else. I just mean you don’t have to stay down in New Orleans all week waiting for Troy.”

  He could tell she was straining to sound upbeat. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. It’s a chance to see Wages.”

  She was always more talkative on the phone, and for a few minutes droned on about seeing Janice at the store, and what the neighbors were doing (those she did talk to), and why Maryland had better highways than Pennsylvania. He heard her shifting and moving between breaths. Even after they’d been on the phone a few minutes, she was still breathing heavily, which worried him until he remembered the backpack. In the middle of telling him about a new pothole in town, she paused and said, “You’re a good son, and a better brother.”

  She’d never said anything like that before, and Achilles didn’t know how to respond. He mumbled his thanks and ended the call before he remembered to ask her the name of Troy’s family. He was so taken aback by the compliment that he didn’t want to call her back.

  The police station was a converted gas station wedged between the Bluebird Diner and a liquor store. The offices were where the auto bays used to be, the front desk where the cashier would have sat. The remodelers had saved the night-service window, a little Plexiglas revolving door in the wall behind the front counter, and now a small TV was wedged into it, holding the attention of a heavyset officer. Achilles stood at the counter, his hands behind his back in parade rest, and waited to be acknowledged. The cop held up a finger until a laugh track died down, then finally looked up at him. “Help you?”

  “Yes sir. Where do I file a missing person’s report?” asked Achilles.

  “Here. You got a name and address?” asked the officer, pushing a form at him.

  “Yes sir. But, he doesn’t live here.”

  “Does he have a local address?”

  “No sir. All I know is he was last seen here.”

  “You could try posting flyers, unless he’s the type that doesn’t want to be found.” Hearing a laugh track, the cop glanced back at the television. “Where was he last seen?”

  “St. Augustine.”

  “In the Tremé
? The Tremé. Huh!” His tone became weary and officious, as if he had explained this to Achilles one thousand times. “You file the report in the city where the person lives.” He turned the TV up.

  Achilles had known it was a stupid idea, one of those plans desperately followed just to keep busy, even though it was clearly pointless. What if he has a car accident, praise Jesus, or gets a speeding ticket, praise Jesus! Achilles wanted to yell as he left the station.

  “Hey,” said the desk sergeant. He wrote a number on the back of a card, tapping it twice. Leaning forward, he whispered sympathetically, as if sharing a secret, “Try the coroner.” He motioned to the phone at the end of the counter. “You can use this one here. Go on. Guy sounds like he could be half the poor saps in there. It’s worth a shot. In the cooler no one can lie about his name.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “THAT SUPPOSED TO BE SOME CLEVER SHIT LIKE ‘DEAD MEN TELL NO tales?’ Wasn’t that in Peter Pan?” Wages was livid, redder than Achilles had ever seen him, pacing back and forth, breathing heavy. “‘The cooler’? What the fuck? They store people like six-packs now? Fucking cops. They get fifty-plus Gs to cruise around in their vests shooting unarmed people, and go home at night and talk about how fucking dangerous their jobs are. We got a few Gs a month to be target practice for a bunch of fucking unappreciative, sorry-assed Dirka-Dirkas.” He pounded the wall. “There’s no justice without a bullet.”

  This was Wages—always protecting his men, no matter what. He’d been equally angry when the chin-scratchers suggested a report might be required about the alleged civilian casualties after Jackson died. Wages had yelled, “What casualties? What casualties? Right now? Right now? Not now! Not now!” And when their leave was denied because of a paperwork fuck-up, a conjunction-junction, he walked it through, foaming at the mouth the whole way. His men could never be wrong. If one of them fucked up, he took them aside to ream them. But in front of anyone else, his soldiers were always golden.