Hold It 'Til It Hurts Read online

  Achilles nodded, noticing for the first time the smoky glass globes mounted on the ceiling.

  “Is he mentally ill?” he repeated.

  “No sir.”

  “Emotionally unstable?”

  “No sir.”

  “Given to unpredictable behavior?”

  “No sir.”

  “In dire need of medication?”

  “No sir.”

  “Using any mood-altering prescription drugs?”

  “No sir.”

  “Does he have a history of illegal drug use?”

  “No sir.”

  “Do you have any reason to suspect he has been a victim of foul play?”

  “No sir.”

  “Has he ever run away or vanished before?”

  “No sir.” Those three times when Troy was a teenager didn’t count.

  “Why’d he come to New Orleans?”

  “To see friends, sir.”

  “Did he see them?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Where do they live?”

  Exasperated by the unending questions and the fact that the officers who walked by all nodded at Morse as if Achilles didn’t even exist, he shrugged.

  “Verbal please.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Achilles,

  Morse leaned back in his chair. “Under what circumstances did you last see him?”

  “The night of my father’s funeral, sir.”

  “How’d your father die?”

  “Car accident.”

  “Sudden and unexpected?” asked Morse.

  Achilles nodded.

  “Verbal please.”

  “Yes. It was a sudden and unexpected death,” said Achilles. Most of what he had seen in the last two years had been. “Yes. Very sudden. Completely unexpected.”

  Morse leaned forward and scribbled on a notepad. “Did you argue at the funeral?”

  “No sir.”

  “Was there an argument about the will?”

  “No sir. No will was discussed.”

  “Was there any discussion of an inheritance?”

  “No sir.”

  “Is there an inheritance?”

  “No sir, not that I know of. My mother still lives in the house.”

  Morse wrote something else on the notepad. “Is he a habitual drug user?”

  “No sir. We just spent two tours in Afghanistan. We were barely able to drink, sir.”

  “Afghanistan. Understood.” He stopped writing and his demeanor shifted. “Anything else you remember?”

  “No sir.”

  “Any known aliases or nicknames?”

  “No sir.” In fifth grade, a lot of people thought Troy was Hispanic. When they found out he was black, a few kids accused him of changing his name from Tyrone. In high school, his girlfriend called him T, and the varsity squad called him TC. When they were little, Achilles called him Tick, in recognition of his tenacious grip and because he followed Achilles everywhere. The squad called Troy “the Duke,” because he was cocky and gun for anything. But Achilles didn’t think any of that information was helpful. And to explain why the platoon called him the Duke would make him sound foolish, when he was only reckless.

  “That’s it. Interview number 786X2 with Achilles Conroy completed,” Morse said, and pressed the return key with a dramatic flourish. “Got a photo to go with the file? You can keep the original. We just scan it in.”

  After scanning the photo, Morse said, “Sorry about the verbal thing—it’s policy. And those questions. Half the time the person filing the report is the one who did them in. But don’t worry. If anything comes up—hospital, moving violation, anything—you’ll be the third to know. So you were in Afghanistan?”

  Achilles nodded, then said, “Yes sir.”

  Morse looked sheepish for a moment, then said, “My son is in the 130th.”

  “They were right up the road from us, at the ANA,” said Achilles.

  Morse fiddled with his pencil. “His letters say everything is okay over there. But that’s what they’re supposed to say, isn’t it?”

  “It’s relatively stable,” said Achilles.

  “Relatively?” asked Morse.

  “It’s stable. It’s nothing like being outside the Green Zone in Baghdad.”

  “Are you just saying that?”

  He was, but he said, “No sir.”

  “You want to know what I think?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you. I bet you don’t hear that too often. I got a son over there, just like you were, and I have too much pride—in my country, in my son, in all soldiers—to trash talk.” Sergeant Morse nodded vigorously as if immensely satisfied with himself. “Do you know why your brother came to New Orleans to see these friends?”

  “No sir.”

  “You don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ You know, sometimes people inherit money and take off to start a new life. How long has he been missing?”

  “A couple of weeks. About as long as we’ve been back.”

  “And your father on top of that. That’s too bad.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “This must be awful hard on your mom. Her boys get back safely, then her husband dies, and a son goes missing.” He shook his head.

  “Yes sir.” He hadn’t really thought about that.

  “Been to the bus stations and shelters?”

  “Not yet.”

  “There’s a big new one you should try out, St. Jude.” Morse looked at the Identifying Marks sheet and frowned. He waved the paper in the air and pointed at the moles. “What’s this? Is this what I think it is?”

  “Two moles, sir.”

  “Oh! Well, we better make it clear these are moles and not tattoos.” He nodded and printed MOLES! next to the moles. His handwriting was squarish and sharp, and he pressed down so hard he tore through the paper. “Does he have diabetes or hypoglycemia or any other condition that might cause him to act in a manner that could be misconstrued as intoxicated or violent?”

  “No sir.”

  “You look like a good kid. You know what I mean. I’ve been at this for thirty years. Everyone’s a kid to me, even the captain there.” He pointed across the room to a younger man in a suit.

  Achilles wasn’t offended. He understood that at twenty-two, he was a kid compared to this man.

  “You’re not from around here. You seem like you’re from a good home. And it’s noble and all, trying to find your brother and all. But missing two weeks and with no history of running away or drug use, frankly, if I can be honest, and I know a soldier wouldn’t want anything less, that’s a bad sign. Ominous, you might say. Around here, it’s too easy for someone to walk into the shit. This city has teeth.” He slowly shook his head. “The Crescent City isn’t all smiles. I hate to be the crotchety old asshole to say it, but have you tried the morgue?”

  Achilles left the police station huffed by hearing the same suggestion twice, the Wanted! photos and FBI lists catching his eye, the explicit detail of the police sketches a contrast to the Identifying Marks sheet, which he realized with a shudder was only for identifying corpses. What had Wages said? Not now. Not now!

  When Achilles talked to his mom a couple of days later, she was upbeat, and insisted that Achilles didn’t need to stay in New Orleans, that Troy would return home on his own time. Her chipper tone made it hard for Achilles to believe her. He tried sounding optimistic in response, but it felt like an unspeakable gulf was growing between them and he didn’t know how to stop it. It was one thing to be quiet, but when had they agreed to pretend? Or was he only now recognizing a chasm that was always there?

  He called Janice and asked her, “Does she think I’m choosing him over her? Could that be it? It’s not that kind of a choice, or a choice at all. What was she choosing when she gave us those fucking envelopes? It was like throwing gas on us and handing us a cigarette. What did she think we’d do? I put mine in Wages’s attic, in his trunk. I don’t
want any fucking thing to do with it. It’s almost like saying here’s your ticket, you’re free to go, have fun. So weird at the funeral. You saw her. And why a preacher? I don’t get it, but I can do this and be done, I can do this and be done, I can do this …” at that point the voice mail beeped, offering him the option of pressing one to send the message with urgent delivery, two to send it with regular delivery, or three to erase and rerecord. He pressed three and hung up.

  CHAPTER 4

  ACHILLES FELT HOPEFUL WHEN WEDNESDAY FINALLY ARRIVED. WAGES HAD convinced him to relax, sit tight, and enjoy himself. “Treat it like a furlough,” he’d said. “The war will always be waiting.” They’d mainlined, played cards, and shot pool, but it felt strange without Troy there to gloat when Achilles scratched and say “Go fuck a pumpkin” when he dropped the eight. Wages tried, pushing Achilles like a drill sergeant, insisting “Sleep is for fags!” and “The liver is a muscle and you’ve got to use it!” Wages was filling in for everyone else—slapping the table like Merriweather after drawing an ace; screwing up his face, pursing his lips, and pinching his eyes like Wexler after downing a shot; running his fingers through his hair like Lorenzo did when bluffing; muttering threats like Jackson, who’d almost hummed them as if he didn’t really want to be heard; and, sometimes, his favorite impression: Wages himself, gargling his tequila because he loved the taste so much, just like the sick fuck he referred to as Wages, the Sick Fuck, the Generous Machine, the White Chocolate Grenade.

  It was fun, but Wages was hard to keep up with. He had stamina. Achilles was relieved whenever Wages went to work and he could finally steal a few hours of sleep. He didn’t bother setting an alarm, knowing Wages would wake him upon returning. On top of this, Achilles jogged daily. The poster in camp said, “Today your enemy trained to kill you. What did you do?” Everyone knew most of those goat fuckers didn’t actually train. They got by because they knew the environment and they blended. But the point was well taken. So each morning, he put in five miles; a short trip, but better than nothing. His route was always the same, a run to St. Augustine to see if anyone had taken his number from the poster Levreau had placed on the bulletin board in the vestibule. That Wednesday morning he ran hard, racing like he had wagered. When he arrived at St. Augustine, in the late afternoon a few hours before the kitchen opened, the flyer was gone. He heard someone clear his throat and turned to see Levreau, dressed as a priest.

  “I took that down,” said Levreau. With the black band and the bright-red chasuble flowing like a cape, he looked like a superhero towering over Achilles. But while Achilles was solid muscle, the pastor was lean, his face thin and drawn as if from worry, so much so that Achilles wasn’t surprised to discover that he was a pastor. He draped his chasuble over one arm like a matador, offering, “Vespers.”

  Levreau sat on a nearby bench, and motioned for Achilles to sit beside him. Achilles’s shoulders knotted up. He told himself to relax. Levreau again patted the bench.

  “I’ve been praying for you and Troy,” said Levreau, his voice even.

  It angered him to hear Troy’s name spoken with such intimacy, like Levreau and Troy were friends, like Troy had a secret life in which Achilles wasn’t included, which would have to be the case for Troy to befriend a black preacher.

  Levreau withdrew a flyer from a box under the bench and handed it to Achilles. It was the size of a regular sheet of paper folded in half. The front had a picture of the church. The inside listed church activities. In no mood for a sermon, Achilles stood. Levreau turned it over in his hand. Troy’s photo was on the back, staring right at Achilles.

  “I had that picture added to our program for tomorrow’s service, so everyone will see it tomorrow. After the sermon, I’m going to tell—excuse me—ask the congregation to keep their hearts, eyes, and ears opened. We’re going to pray, to implore the Lord to grant you and your brother a speedy journey home. Let us pray.”

  The pastor took Achilles’s hand in his own and bowed his head. His hands were warm and dry, scratchy. His voice dropped, becoming barely audible, “Lord, aid this young man in his quest. Guide him on his journey to find his brother. Shower them both in your divine grace. Restore their faith in your name, as you restored Noah’s. Send them their dove, Lord, the white light of hope to drive out this darkest night. Return his brother, as you returned Joseph. Bless him as you did Jacob. Protect him as you protected Job …”

  Achilles listened. Before some missions, Jackson had gathered them into a circle and recited passages from the Bible. While everyone else hung their heads low, Achilles looked at his buddies, heard the sand crawl under their shifting feet, and wondered if they would be holding hands again in twenty-four hours. Wages furrowed his brow like he was really praying. Wexler, always sleepy, hung his head lowest of all. Merriweather, quiet only during those moments, assumed a look of concentration and shook his blockhead gently from side to side, as if listening to music. Sometimes Achilles and Troy made eye contact and struggled to contain their laughter.

  Achilles certainly didn’t feel like smiling now. As the pastor spoke, Achilles noticed a mole under his right eye, the shiny pate, that there was no ring on his finger. Save for a small cross, the pastor wore no jewelry at all, which Achilles found surprising. He had expected the flamboyance and dramatic sermonizing so popular on television.

  Achilles felt he should say something, that he owed it to Troy to generate positive energy. What emotion should he summon? Was prayer love, submission, or begging? He felt only frustration. He tried again to focus on his brother, and he kept seeing Troy, instead of Jackson, on the side of the road, or Troy, instead of Merriweather, in the hospital bed, the sheet flat where his foot should be and a shoe with a bolt screwed into the heel sitting atop his nightstand. Opening his eyes made no improvement.

  The chapel doors were ajar, and he found the color of sunlight through stained glass garish and lurid. The emaciated black Jesus looked gut-shot and glassy-eyed, closer to a corpse than a god. Levreau’s voice had risen not one decibel but now seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, flooding the vestibule in a river of sound. With every mention of an unknown prophet, Achilles grew more uncomfortable, fighting the urge to fidget, certain that the pastor felt in his hands the lack of faith, or would soon look up and see Achilles’s empty eyes.

  He pressed his lids together tightly but saw only afterimages of the church. St. Augustine resembled nothing so little as the ostentatious megachurches he’d seen on TV. The vestibule was humble, the exterior wall merely painted cinder block. The wooden bench upon which they sat was worn and weathered, as if it had only recently been brought inside, and the battered and chipped holy water font was made of formed concrete. It too appeared to have been only recently rescued from the elements, the top tarnished with a greenish ring and the base the same dingy gray as the concrete playground pad at his elementary school. The school had had a blue rocking hippopotamus screwed deep into the concrete. He and Troy would take turns sitting on the hippo while the other pulled it back as far as possible, hoping to launch the rider into the sandbox a few feet away. When they weren’t doing that, they were trying to toss each other from the merry-go-round or bounce one another off the seesaw. Back then, when he was eight and Troy only six, he could win at everything and made a point of letting Troy occasionally win. Troy’s handicap steadily decreased, until by ninth grade, he was nearly as tall as some seniors. Troy was tall like their father, but Achilles was short like … who?

  A tap on his shoulder brought him back.

  The pastor smiled. “Nothing refreshes like prayer.” The kitchen would soon be open, and Levreau offered to let Achilles wait inside, but Achilles declined, preferring to wait across the street at Seaton’s Diner, which was air-conditioned. Levreau again took Achilles’s hands in his own and said, “The Lord protects all who come to him. Remember, sometimes the Lord works behind the scenes.” Achilles murmured his thanks as he inched toward the door. He couldn’t wait to get out of St. Augu
stine, back under the sun, into the buzz and babble of the street, and away from that hall, where even the acoustics spooked him; away from those high ceilings that he would have expected to swallow even a rifle report but instead made every whisper a cry.

  Outside he stood on the corner, on his X, his center of the city. Across the street, two young boys in frayed cut-offs belly-crawled under the houses from one property to the next, pointing their sticks at each other and making shooting sounds. They disappeared into the yawning crawl spaces, reemerged in the narrow strip of dirt between houses, then pressed their backs to the clapboard walls and made a show of dramatically peeking around corners. One of the kids pointed his stick at Achilles. “Bang!” Achilles made a fist and extended his index finger, but he found himself unable to shoot back, his hand hanging listlessly at his side. The kid raised the stick again, this time cocking the would-be rifle butt into his shoulder, taking careful aim, and even recoiling as he said, “Bang!” Achilles raised his hand to his heart. “You got me.” The kid laughed gleefully, catching a mouthful of sunlight, and ran off, bare feet slapping sizzling pavement.

  Seaton’s was an old diner with a greasy laminated counter overlooking the grill. Most of the crowd seemed to be regulars. They talked to each other, ignoring Achilles, except for one old man seated at the counter gumming a snow cone. From his perch he had a clear view of Achilles’s window booth, and continually snuck glances at the church program. After twenty minutes of peek-a-boo, the old man slid into the booth across from Achilles. He looked to be nearly sixty. His polished walnut skin hung loosely at his neck, which was partially obscured by a long lower jaw that jutted out like a shelf. Around his eyes, his burnished skin was much darker, a dusky coal the same color as his flat pupils and sparse hair. Deep fissures branched up and across his cheeks, like the roots of an upturned tree. His leather medallion cut in the shape of Africa bounced as he moved. “Where you from?”

  Achilles recoiled from the smell of sour beer, leaning as far back as possible.

  The man said, “Say ‘New Orleans’ and I’ll tell you.”