Hold It 'Til It Hurts Page 7

  “Say New Orleans?”

  “It’s Nawlins, son, Nawlins. You ain’t from ’round here. You want to fit in here, say Nawlins. This is the Tremé district—famous.” He pointed across the street at St. Augustine. “That church over there, famous. This diner, famous. Me? Almost famous.” He extended his hand. “I’m Bud.”

  Achilles winced inwardly as they shook. “Achilles.”

  “I knew an Achilles, pronounced ‘A-sheel,’” he said, gnawing at his snow cone. Red syrup dripped onto the table, cherry from the smell of it.

  Achilles pushed his newspaper and the church programs to the side, placing his pencil on top of them.

  “You’re the young fellow looking for the young fellow on the wall over there?”

  Achilles nodded. “Yes sir. My brother. You’ve seen him?”

  “No. I just do a bit of volunteer work at some shelters and get around a bit, so I might. There a reward?”

  Achilles hadn’t thought about it. Did it matter what he said? A few people were already milling around on the church lawn. Troy would arrive soon. “Sure.”

  “How much?”

  Achilles didn’t have much money on him, maybe two hundred dollars. He took in Bud’s torn and faded T-shirt, the dingy towel bunched around his neck like an ascot, the shoestring holding the African medallion around his neck. He recalled the barefoot kids in the cut-off jeans and the families he’d seen. “A hundred?”

  Bud smiled. “What’s his name?”

  “Troy.”

  “Nice pen,” said Bud.

  “Pencil. It’s a mechanical pencil.” His father had given it to him as a high school graduation gift. “It was my father’s.”

  “A mechanical pencil. How about that. A pencil that is mechanical.” Bud rubbed his long jaw. “How old are you, son?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  Nodding as if it all made sense now, his gaze focused on the pencil, Bud asked, “Can I keep that flyer with the picture?”

  “Sure.” Achilles slid him the program.

  Bud pointed to the number on the bottom. “This number good?”

  Achilles tapped his cell phone, “I’m always here.”

  “I’m Bud. I’ll get back with you.”

  He gave Achilles one last look and limped off. He didn’t bend his left leg at all, and he bobbed to the side with each step as if the right leg was significantly longer. Merriweather had had a similar walk in the hospital. Even though his prosthetic was customized so that his legs were even, he stepped gingerly on his left leg, as if he didn’t trust it to hold his weight, as if steel weren’t so much terribly stronger than bone. Bud was about the right age for a Vietnam or Korea vet. Watching him hobble off, Achilles decided that maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

  Wages had promised to stop by St. Augustine to keep Achilles company during the wait. The bus he took home every day passed right by the church, which was how he’d seen Troy in the first place. When Wages got off the bus that evening, everyone looked at the white guy in the black suit like he was lost. A couple of young guys Achilles hadn’t noticed before immediately materialized, emerging from the cubbies between cars and trees, and spoke to Wages using a series of brief head gestures and hand signs that flashed too fast for Achilles to understand. Wages answered in kind. One kid in an oversized white T-shirt and denim shorts that came down to his ankles was particularly insistent. He gestured violently toward Wages, waving his hand like he’d burned his fingers, stepping closer with each wave of the hand, backing off only when it became clear Wages wouldn’t. Achilles realized he was gripping the table and went outside to meet Wages.

  “What was that about?” Achilles asked.

  “You know. Ain’t no window-shopping here.” Wages laughed. “Dude just wants to know what I’m doing in the store if I ain’t buying. The usual, you know.”

  “Yeah,” said Achilles. With the fancy suit and nice shoes, Achilles would have assumed Wages was there to help the church. The only thing missing from that nice, clean jacket was a crucifix pinned to the lapel. He would never have thought Wages was interested in anything they sold here. Just look at them and look at him.

  Of the hundred or so people who were now lined up around the block an hour before the kitchen even opened, only a dozen or so were white. White or black, they all wore scruffy, ill-fitting clothes, but the groups were distinctly different. One white man wore a funny suit that upon closer inspection proved to be a jumpsuit cut into two separate pieces, the top cropped so short he resembled a crazed mariachi player. That was the difference: the blacks looked poor, but the whites looked poor and crazy. Some of the icy aggravation Achilles felt about his brother’s selfish decision melted into a sympathy that tingled, the way his fingers did while thawing out from a deep cold. His throat constricted at the thought of Troy in this line learning that one of these men was his real father. He tried to imagine a resemblance between Troy and some of the men but couldn’t see it. For the first time it occurred to him that his brother might need him.

  Achilles and Wages walked up and down the line to kill time. Some men wore authentic GI, but most pieces looked to have come from flea markets or army surplus stores, as they were too old or too new for the people wearing them. Wages counted the number of men dressed in fake camouflage, pointing out camo T-shirts, camo head wraps, camo sneakers, and even camo baseball caps. Though he understood and appreciated Wages’s attempts to distract him, it wasn’t too long before Achilles lost count as he silently, involuntarily, compared every face to Troy’s.

  Two older men wearing ragged army coats that could have been their own straightened when Wages and Achilles approached, their tones hushed and heads straight ahead, as if for inspection. He couldn’t understand how so many of them wore jackets and coats in the heat. As they passed an old man in a jungle jacket, Achilles wondered, Where are his friends? How did someone become so separated from his tribe? If he had any friends, surely he wouldn’t be in those worn boots and frayed jacket, in that line, in this neighborhood. The older men in the ragged army coats laughed, a few others chimed in. They had nothing to worry about, just show up and eat.

  The block transformed during the twilight hours. The guard changed at the corners as the old surrendered their spots to the young, who were armed with more than beer cans and branches. Mothers called their children, who ducked conspicuously behind their friends. Volleys of catcalls were met with coos and curled fingers. Sullen figures darted into alleys, sauntering out minutes later with blazing smiles. Foreign cars big as boats docked long enough to exchange currency with skulking teens swimming in oversized black hoodies. Wages mumbled, “Who says you can’t buy happiness?”

  The sun had set by the time the last person was fed. The copper dome on the church’s bell tower, verdigris by day, had turned crimson, then magenta, and finally black. The neon sign at the café across the street popped on. SEATON’S flashed a red-letter warning. One of the few working streetlights buzzed overhead, spotlighting Achilles, who didn’t know what to do next. He’d stared at people as if looking at them hard enough could transform them into someone they weren’t. He had hoped, even believed, that Troy would show up. He had believed. He had. It was only a week since Wages had seen Troy, so it was natural for him to be hopeful, right? It was only fair; it wasn’t weak or naïve, Was it? A silhouette turned the corner at the far end of the block, running toward them at a rapid pace. Achilles recalled the buoyant mood that had possessed him earlier on his own jog to the church, and felt foolish to have let hope get the best of him. As he watched the jogger approach, his loping stride not unlike Troy’s, Achilles refused to believe it might be his brother, and turned away. He heard the footsteps slow to a walk as the man neared, holding his breath as he monitored Wages’s eyes for a spark of recognition.

  Wages looked down and said, “There’s a fight on tonight.”

  Achilles sucked air.

  The latecomer yanked at the church door. “Hope it’s not too late.”

 
Wages snapped his fingers in the air in front of Achilles. “Quarter? Better yet, I have all the southern comforts at home. I have Jim.”

  Drinking the night down would only depress him. Achilles wanted to be alone, to be anywhere except on that couch with a hundred pictures of Wages and Bethany smiling down on him, witnessing his private grief. Prayer hadn’t helped. What was he doing wrong?

  The latecomer charged out, his stride victorious, holding a foam container aloft. “God is good.” He sat on the thin lawn at the edge of the circle of light, his back resting against the church, feet splayed out, sockless. Opening the container, he sniffed the mound of spaghetti and slice of white bread and smiled, nodding happily. The smile faded as he patted his pockets and poked at the food. He shrugged, and with two fingers began hurriedly scooping the pasta into his mouth, hunched over, holding the container close to his gut, one arm defensively curled around the food.

  Wages poked Achilles in the arm and said, “I have Jack. Think about that.” He spun on his heels and went into the church.

  Achilles thought about asking the man if he knew Troy, but changed his mind as he watched him dig his chin into his chest to slurp at a spot of sauce on his shirt. He was looking in the wrong place. What was he going to tell his mother? He’d said today was the day. For a moment he was transfixed by the image of her eyes, the thought of her alone in the house, most of the neighbors she once knew gone, all having sold out to the young DC commuters who thought Mrs. Conroy quaint with her slight Southern accent and vegetable garden.

  Wages returned with a plastic fork. Before accepting it, the man regarded the utensil with suspicion, then surprise, then gratefulness, holding Wages’s eyes with his own, which were as deep with gratitude as if Wages had pulled him out of a raging river. He licked the fingers he had been eating with and wiped them on his pants. He shifted nearer to them, into the light. Scooting back so his butt was against the wall, he sat up straight with his arms at his sides and chest up, then crossed himself, brushed at his lap and, fork in hand, began to eat again, this time slowly savoring each bite. Humming, the man looked up and noticed Achilles watching. Licking his fork like a lollipop, he extended the container, making a motion to share. Achilles shook his head and turned to Wages. This was Wages the starfish. Achilles almost felt as if his friend had performed a miracle, but he didn’t understand why he felt that way. He was confused, but as proud and as full of admiration as he had been when Wages scurried out to the middle of Bi’hah Road to drag Merriweather back to safety, ignoring the sharp, hot whistles in the air and the small craters trailing him. He was equally afraid that, once again, he could not have seen fit to do the same thing, that if it had been up to him, Merriweather would have lost more than a foot. Achilles was not valiant.

  But Wages wasn’t perfect either, he reminded himself. It was always Wages nipping at the bottle and keeping Achilles up, and complaining about Bethany but never confronting her.

  Wages grinned and said, “I have Mark tucked away in the attic, in the trunk with your shit. You know I can’t let Nee-Nee see the pricey shit.”

  Achilles’s mouth watered at the thought of the soothing burn of the murky, caramel liquor. He could feel the searing that started in his gut and worked its way out through his body until he felt light as a balloon. He was on the verge of agreeing to swallow the night when someone in a yellow do-rag and orange safety vest started yelling and waving at them from across the street. Achilles recognized the bouncing Africa medallion as Bud flung himself into the street, hobbling and hopping through the traffic, ignoring the horns. The rims of his eyes were red, the whites yellow.

  Sweating, panting, heaving as though the mere act of crossing the street had exhausted him, he spoke in sharp bursts, “You said … you … was always there! Waited … for you … three hours! You said … always there!”

  “I meant here,” Achilles tapped his cell phone.

  Bud frowned. “Man it’s … too hot for games. Too hot for games.” He motioned for Achilles to step a few feet away, and, eyeing Wages suspiciously, whispered, “Who’s he?”

  “What’s up with the vest?” asked Wages.

  “Safety first at my age,” said Bud, then to Achilles again, “Who’s he?”

  Achilles made a noncommittal gesture with his hand. “You’ve seen Troy?”

  “You think I’m Stevie Wonder? I just called to say I love you?” When Achilles didn’t return the smile, Bud said, “I wouldn’t come if I didn’t know some-some. One hundred fifty bucks. Can you do it or not?”

  “That’s not what I said,” said Achilles.

  “Yes or no?” asked Bud.

  “Of course. But, you’ve seen him?” Achilles voice was shaking. “How long ago?”

  “Yes or no?” asked Bud.

  “Yes,” Achilles said, almost yelling.

  Wages stepped closer.

  “Just a few hours ago.” Bud looked down, but cut his eyes in Wages’s direction. “He can’t come where we’re going.”

  Achilles nodded. “Okay.”

  “And I can’t go in with you. They’ll think I’m telling on people. So you go in alone. Alone, you hear? We drive by. I point it out. You drop me off ’round the corner. You go back and handle your business. And don’t mention my name. Roger?”

  “Okay,” said Achilles.

  “Okay then. Ten-four, like those truckers say. I used to be one.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Wages.

  Bud shook his head. “No way. Can’t do that. He’ll be snow in August. I’ll just come back.” Bud backed away.

  “Wait!” said Achilles. He turned to Wages. “It’s cool. I know this guy from the church. This’ll be just a few minutes, then we’ll all meet back at your place.”

  Wages studied Bud. The Africa medallion bounced off his chest as Bud hopped from foot to foot. “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “I don’t like it,” said Bud.

  They each spoke as if the other wasn’t there.

  “He’s from the church. It’ll be cool,” said Achilles, adding under his breath, “I can handle this. Look at him.”

  Wages relented.

  “We’ll be there in no time. I know this city like a pair of titties,” said Bud as soon as he was in Achilles’s car. If it was possible, Bud’s breath was even worse than it had been in the diner. A humid mixture of onion and tooth decay flooded the car with every word. Achilles, who thought himself immune to smells, rolled down all the windows, which meant no AC. He floored it from corner to corner, red lights becoming stop signs, to force fresh air through the car, but he couldn’t expel the odor of stale beer and sweat, like an old bar, an odor that intensified with every wave of Bud’s arm. His funk was a larger body, a suit that pressed against Achilles, but what angered him was that it was unnecessary. This was America, land of running water and toothbrushes. Oblivious, Bud talked constantly, either giving directions or playing the part of the tour guide. He talked about Tremé and Storyville, the old red-light district, and Algiers, carnivals and krewes, ending each story with, “That’s right. I know this city like a pair of titties.”

  Achilles nodded, not really listening.

  “And I knows titties; snake charmers I call them. You better believe my snake’s done a lot of charming, too. I been here since the Mississippi was born, know that? I seen it all. Lived through the big one, Betsy. That was a hell of a hurricane, old Betsy, biggest we ever had. Pray they’ll never be another, but that was water off a duck’s back. Now, I knew a woman named Betsy—three in fact—but this one in particular damned near killed me. Damn sure nearly did.” His head drifted up in thought. “She was a looker, she was. Crazy, though, straight crazy. I wrote a song about her. You know John Lee Hooker? Took it. Sure did. “Whiskey and Wimmen.” That was it. I was singing that damn song—turn left here—in a truck stop in Florida. His thieving ass heard me. Took my idea. When he come out with ‘Serves Me Right to Suffer,’ I said, ‘Hell yeah it do!’ But, I don’t hold a grudge. Nope. Don’
t hold no grudges. That’s one thing I like about me. Oh yeah, you know how it goes don’t ya?” Bud hummed a few bars, then broke into song. “Whiskey and women, almost wrecked my life, almost wrecked my life. Wasn’t for whiskey and women, I’d have money today. Nightlife, nightlife ain’t no good, ain’t no good for me. I made a good start, but women and whiskey tore it down.”

  By that point they had traveled beyond the neighborhood Achilles knew. “How much farther?”

  Bud pointed straight ahead. “You ain’t got long now.”

  Achilles focused on breathing. He imagined what he would say to Troy. First they would eat, then go to Wages’s and hang out with Mark, Jack, and Jim. Wages said he’d have a third mug in the freezer. They’d call their mom. Maybe they’d go home for a few weeks. He imagines it clearly.

  When he sees his brother, he is shocked. Troy is thin, thinner than the end of infantry school, during which, some days, it seemed they lived off naps and gnats. But he’s still strong, and his embrace, as always, is suffocating and before tears can rise to Achilles’s eyes, Troy does what Troy always does, takes advantage of his height by digging his chin into Achilles’s shoulder. In retaliation, Achilles digs his fingers into Troy’s biceps, and for a moment they grapple as they have since childhood. He wasn’t too late. He feels the rush that comes from being shot at—and missed. Nervous energy animates his limbs, his fingers twitch, but he is conscious of being lucky to be alive, appreciative the way he couldn’t be the day he first met Troy. They promised to look out for each other, and he was doing it.

  He couldn’t wait, nodding absentmindedly as Bud broke into song again. “Oh yeah, that was mine.” He hit an air guitar. “That was it,” said Bud. “The sweet spot.”

  “Nice song.” It was. Bud’s voice was rough, but perfect for the blues. He had a timbre similar to Father Levreau. They inspired trust. They couldn’t be more different from each other or anyone else Achilles knew. Who would have thought that two strangers like these men would have such a major role in his life? Until this week, Achilles had never been close to a homeless person. There were the Afghan refugees, some by his own doing, of course, but they didn’t count. Refugees had been removed from homes or displaced. Refugees would prefer to have homes. He shot a glance at Bud, his long chin wobbling and knobby fingers playing an invisible piano. Grinning, he had sung all the way. Bud turned and their eyes met, and he blinked once, slowly, like he understood the connection too.