T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“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.

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.