T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“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.

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.