Hold It 'Til It Hurts Read online

  They were in Wages’s living room. The furniture was what Janice would have called chocolate box, assorted like in her mother’s trailer: everything matched because nothing matched. Wages slumped into a sparkling strawberry settee, about which he’d said, “I know, dude. Somewhere a seventies van is missing a bench seat.” With a grin, he’d added, “Don’t come a-knockin’ …”

  Achilles sat on a leopard-print chair shaped like a giant high-heeled shoe. The only normal piece of furniture was a cream-colored sofa that Bethany forbade Wages to sit on for fear he’d spill beer on it, staining it like he’d stained the carpet and the shoe chair. Wages was twenty-five, only three years older than Achilles, yet the house felt very adult and smelled homey. Bethany was cooking lunch, but the aroma of food was ever present. And it was orderly, the way your parents’ house could be both clean and cluttered, bursting with collective memories.

  It was only a few hours since Achilles had been turned away at the police station. In the daylight, he could see all the details he’d missed the night before. Instead of sheetrock, the walls were plaster, of the same texture as the sides of the quarry, equally cool to the touch, cracked and chipped in several places—with Wages’s help no doubt—giving each room the appearance of having been hand hewn from chalky stone. The fixtures were ancient: the porcelain kitchen sink a long white slab with a built-in drain board; the bathroom sink a pedestal shaped like a thick-stemmed ivory flower gleaming under the vanity lights; the stove an old iron contraption that looked like it should be on train tracks; the refrigerator an antique icebox with a locking handle.

  Photos everywhere—the hallway, the bathroom wall, the mantel. One picture of the squad: Merriweather, Troy, Achilles, Wages, Jackson, Wexler, and Lorenzo all huddled around a recaptured M2, a .50-cal machine gun that spit over five hundred rounds per minute. Wages called it the Generous Machine. The rest of the pictures were of Bethany and Wages. Frames lined the deep windowsills, the refrigerator, and the top of the window air conditioner. And in each one they were smiling brightly, Bethany toothy, chin up, always leaning into Wages. Wages always grinning, almost daring the camera. Achilles recognized a few pictures he had seen before, though smaller, as creased wallet-sized photos. In the more recent photos, Bethany looked chunkier, but a lot of ladies blew up while their men were away, which was desirable because weight gain was taken as a sign of fidelity. Weight loss, exercise, and new haircuts were cause for alarm, like the whistle before the rocket hit.

  “Are y’all hungry?” Bethany called from the kitchen.

  “Maybe,” said Wages.

  “I’m making enough just in case. You can bring it for lunch tomorrow.”

  Wages whispered to Achilles, “She knows I don’t like bringing leftovers for lunch unless it’s pasta. I like to bring pasta. It’s okay cold. I don’t put my shit in the microwave. It fucks food up. Makes it mushy.” To Bethany he called, “What are you making?”

  After a pause, Bethany answered, “Chicken.”

  Wages shook his head. “That’s the problem with women. You tell them what you want and they nod and give you the rice-eye smile.” Wages pulled his eyes into slants and nodded vigorously. “‘Yeah, yeah, yeah’ and then do whatever the fuck they want anyway. Hard to get along with.”

  The photos and the parenting magazines piled on the coffee table said otherwise. Wages and Bethany had a real connection. A card with a dried starfish glued to it stood on the end table. He couldn’t see the handwriting inside, but the cover text was I’d give an arm and a leg for you. It didn’t matter that a starfish’s arms and legs were indistinguishable. Bethany was saying she’d give it all. She’d gained about fifteen pounds. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  Wages slapped the table. “Why didn’t you give the cops this address?”

  Wages always had a solution. Achilles hadn’t thought of that. He’d been rattled by the suggestion that he visit the morgue. Or maybe he was just tired from driving. “I’ll try that tomorrow.”

  “Then today we can go out.”

  All afternoon, Wages had wanted to take Achilles to the French Quarter for some daiquiris. He mentioned it again. “At least let me drive you through Uptown. You can see the streetcar and the river. Come on, man. It’ll be fun. It’s touristy. This whole town’s a tourist trap. Let’s get oscar-mike.”

  Achilles didn’t like the idea of partying before finding Troy. It was like being on a convoy where you couldn’t sleep until back at base. Sometimes you got so tired you horse-slept, but you never really rested until mission accomplished.

  “What are you going to do, put him on a milk carton? Moping ain’t gonna make him appear.”

  Achilles shot Wages the bird. He wasn’t fucking moping! Was he?

  “Whaddya all worried about? It’s only been a couple of weeks. Y’all were knotted at the nuts for three years. Maybe he just wanted some time, with your father and all.”

  Wanted some time? What kind of time did Troy need? His mom was worried, even though she wouldn’t admit it. Achilles, though, wasn’t really worried, at least not like Wages thought, it was just that when Achilles brought Troy home, he would be free. It would make it all worthwhile. When he got into trouble as a kid, he used to imagine that he would die suddenly or get hurt or kidnapped, and then his parents would be sorry they hadn’t treated him better. He imagined the doctor would be able to look at his brain and see how wrong they were about him, how much potential he had, how much fight and determination, how much he would have accomplished had he not died so young. But he lived, so he had to prove it.

  “It just doesn’t feel right,” said Achilles. Wages raised his eyebrows and nodded, accepting that answer. Achilles almost mentioned the adoption paperwork but caught himself. That wouldn’t change anything.

  “You went to St. Aug. You tried to file that MPR. Go back tomorrow and use this address. Not that anything’s going to happen anyway. Troy’s indestructible. He can walk through a fucking minefield. He’s fine. You should just wait and see if he comes back to the church next Wednesday. What else do you want to do? Tell me. We’ll do it. Whatever it is, we’ll do it right fucking now. Then we can go downtown for some drinks.”

  Achilles didn’t have an answer.

  Wages stood. “Let’s go. I’ll grab some beers for the road.”

  Bethany called them to the table. She pronounced Achilles “A-Sheel.”

  “That kills that.” Wages yelled back, “Okay Nee-Nee, we’re coming! And it’s Ah-kill-ease.” To Achilles he said, “She’s heard me say it a thousand-and-one times.”

  While Wages walked into the kitchen, Achilles hung back and peeked inside the card, drawn again by the embossed gold lettering: I’d give an arm and a leg for you. The starfish was rough and smelled salty, and the tan parchment, thick and fibrous, closer to cloth than paper. Inside Wages had written a personal EKG in the same pointy handwriting that signed orders and described kill zones: Even if I couldn’t grow them back. Happy Anniversary. You’re my biggest and best adventure! Love, Kyle.

  An adventure? Like his parents, trying new foods?

  In the kitchen, Bethany had already set the table and was dishing out ravioli. Wages kissed Bethany on the top of the head.

  Achilles admired Wages for sticking it out with Bethany. Before shipping out, Achilles had asked Janice not to write. He didn’t think he’d want to be reminded of her, or home, or anything that he couldn’t shoot. Those memories had pained him even in basic—the heat of Janice’s skin, the broken gnome in the garden, his father’s chipped tooth that he refused to have repaired until all the workers had dental insurance. The first week was okay. He’d be jogging in formation, pass a fir tree, and think of the hammock behind the house, or he’d be doing sit-ups and the jet passing overhead would carry him back to how his mom took him, and sometimes only him, to sit at the end of the runway to watch the planes land and take off. But none of that was a big deal. Those memories made sense, and besides, Troy was there with him.

  The Arm
y called it OSUT, One Station One Unit training, because they would work with the same squad and same instructors in the same location for fourteen weeks, first in basic training and then in infantry training. During the second week, Troy fractured his ankle, and was held back. Achilles was secretly glad to be ahead of him at something, but he was miserably lonely. Jerry without Tom, they’d called him. He tried not to think about home, but while Troy was being recycled, more random memories came unbidden. He’d pitch a tent and see his father at a T-ball game, polish his boots and remember his mom making a Predator costume out of leftover fabric and used inner tubes, fire his rifle and see the tiny scar on Janice’s ear where her stepmother had pulled her earring out in a wrestling match. All those thoughts coming for no reason he could fathom, like a string of commercials on a television he couldn’t turn off. So when he was shipped overseas, Janice promised to write him, and he made her promise not to.

  But she did.

  A week in-country, he regretted his decision but couldn’t bring himself to tell her. He didn’t have to. At the end of the month, a very apologetic letter arrived. She swore this was the only promise she’d ever break, but she couldn’t stand the thought of him being over there without knowing that a woman other than his mom carried him close to her heart. She said that even if he had another girl, that was okay, and he didn’t need to tell her. Of course he didn’t have anyone else, but still he never wrote her back. He ignored that first letter for a few weeks, using it—unopened—as a bookmark, proud of his self-control. Every time he looked up a Persian word, he felt an additional measure of power over her, and thereby, the world. But after almost a month of active duty, he broke down, carefully peeling back the flap like it was a flower petal to reveal five sheets of pink paper covered front and back with blue ink. Her letters were more organized then he would have expected, a cross between the dictionary and a diary. She listed everyone they knew and told him what they were all doing, but instead of noun, verb, article, after each name she wrote one word summing up their behavior that week: angel, asshole, prick, confused, stubborn, alien (his favorite). Every name reminded him of her. Running his dry fingers over her round, heavy, and heaving cursive, he caught a whiff of her perfume, her lotion, her smooth neck; he masturbated with the letter pressed against his nose.

  Achilles couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the week. At home, he never thought seriously about Janice. She was easy to be with and listened without judging, but her family was crazy. Her brothers made all their money fighting pit bulls. In high school they went to jail for six months, came out muscled and tattooed, and suddenly hated Achilles. He never understood why. Fortunately her mother didn’t share the sentiment. Janice had never known her father but lived with both her mother and stepmother, who became friends after her dad died. Seeing the mother and stepmother twittering like teenagers, walking down Main Street in daisy dukes and flip-flops, tank tops and movie-star shades, slivers of bleached white pockets bouncing against tanned legs, their shorts cutting hot pink creases high into the backs of their thighs, their breasts gliding side to side like they were on a boat, Achilles’s father would point and say white trash. But they were always nice to Achilles, welcoming him into their trailer to drink beer while he waited for Janice, traipsing back and forth in jeans cut so high bikinis had more cloth in the crotch, and by the time Janice was ready, Achilles’s engine would be so warmed up he’d drive straight to the quarry.

  The letter brought those days back. (Cunt she had written for her mom. Hippo for her stepmother. Fags for her brothers.) With her language, she would have fit right into the army. He started composing letters to her in his head, assigning nicknames to people he didn’t like. He thought about Janice at all hours. What was she doing? Who was she with? Was she cooking for that bastard husband of hers? Were the rumors that he beat her true? Was that why she often wore long sleeves in the summer? Achilles would kill Dale when he got back. If she wanted Achilles so much, why had she married Dale in the first place? For the first time, he wondered if he was better in bed than the others. Did she put their condoms on too? Should he have claimed her? Made her pregnant? Left his mark behind? He didn’t open any more letters. His heart was a locked kennel. Had he a real girlfriend, he would have broken up with her long before shipping out so that he wouldn’t have to worry and she wouldn’t have to lie.

  Achilles returned to the substation the next morning. The TV was gone, replaced by a small fan. An older, heavyset officer was working the desk. His gut rested on the counter, his blue shirt puckered between the buttons. Without waiting to be acknowledged, Achilles said, “I need to file a missing person’s report.”

  The officer pointed to the auto bay, that part of the building where they would have fixed cars when the police station was still a service station. “First door on the left. Look for the sign that says Community Affairs.”

  The auto bay was one open room with desks clustered in twos and threes. The glass garage doors were obscured by a row of cubical partitions, the equivalent of window offices, but the only view they offered was of the parking lot. With the neon fixtures suspended over each cluster of desks, the office looked like a bar, except instead of advertising beer, signs like Vice, Homicide, and Property floated in the air, the glowing letters casting a cool blue light. Under Community Affairs, a gray-haired suit in bifocals—Morse, according to his nametag—sat hunched over a crossword. Everything was scattered about his desk—stacks of paper, folders, candy bars—except for several miniature grandfather clocks all arranged in a neat line. Achilles waited to be acknowledged. He shouldn’t have been so assertive at the front desk. Bucking authority ran counter to his military training.

  Morse acknowledged him with a sigh. “Do you know a five-letter word for a pagan endeavor?”

  “No sir.”

  “That’s too bad.” Morse pushed the crossword aside. “Me neither. How can I help you?”

  “I need to file a missing person report for a resident.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said in the same tone he had used for the crossword. Morse pushed his bifocals farther up his nose. He breathed through his mouth, but had a round, friendly face. “A resident, you say?”

  “Yes sir,” said Achilles.

  “Of what? A resident of what? A hospital? A nursing home?”

  “New Orleans, sir.”

  “Right, but that’s not necessary to file the report. Neither a New Orleans address nor residency status is necessary to file the report. Technically, aren’t you here because he’s not at home?”

  “Right sir.”

  Except for the night Troy had been arrested over the goats, Achilles had never spent much time in police stations, but he felt at ease. Under Morse’s supervision, Achilles filled out a form full of checks and boxes, describing Troy: 6′–1″, 185 pounds, light brown skin, brown hair, green eyes. It was an accurate description, but he couldn’t quite see Troy in it. Those stats didn’t catch his devious grin, or his saunter, or how he laughed at any joke, funny or not. Achilles was handed an Identifying Marks sheet with the outlines of a full face as well as right and left profiles, and on the reverse, the outline of a body. He made an X on the chin where Troy had accidentally shot himself by firing a pellet gun at a rock. Of course, Achilles was blamed. He put another X where that bullet had nicked his right shoulder in the Khyber Pass, taking his Airborne patch right off. He drew a line where his palm was cut on his birthday. He sketched hatch marks where Troy had burned himself pulling Jackson out of that fire, and two dots to represent the two moles under Troy’s left eye, but the more he tried to correct the alignment, the larger the moles became until they looked like tears, and Achilles had to ask for a new sheet. He was more careful the second time.

  Finished, the two sheets sat before him like an odd blueprint. Achilles had tried to include everything he remembered, even the long scar on his left side that Troy never explained, the one that was stitched up like a ladder to his chest, but it wasn’t enough. Those nu
mbers and dots and dashes weren’t his brother. Were he to show this sheet to someone who knew Troy, they’d have no idea who this was, this vacant-eyed cartoon. Morse, he wanted to say, you don’t need this, you’ll know him if you see him. You’ll feel his intensity, like a dog that fights to the death. You’ll know my brother by his heart, fearless and light, like a rock that floats.

  Morse read the completed forms to himself, mumbling as he went, and ending with “ABM.”

  Achilles felt a sense of relief—he’d filed the report, even though it probably wouldn’t do any good. As Morse sorted through the paper on his desk, Achilles asked about the miniature clocks on his desk.

  “Big Ben,” he said. “You know London, England.”

  “Right,” said Achilles.

  “Apparently there’s some old British show with a detective named Morse who also likes crosswords.”

  “Apparently? Haven’t you seen it?”

  “Have you?”

  “I never heard of it,” said Achilles.

  “So why should I? Do doctors watch General Hospital? Does the President watch West Wing?” he snapped. Before Achilles could answer, he asked, “Do you mind if I record this interview?”

  “Interview?” asked Achilles. “No sir.”

  “Sign here.” He handed Achilles another form, saying, to no one in particular, “Mr. Conroy has given his written and oral permission for the interview to be recorded. Mr. Conroy, is your brother mentally ill?”

  “Where’s the camera?” asked Achilles.

  “Everywhere.” Morse turned his palms up, exasperated. “Are you ready?”