T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

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.

“No.” Bud threw his thumb over his shoulder. “That was it. We just passed the sweet spot. You give me the money. I tell you which house it is.”

Achilles scanned the block. He had been distracted and lost track of where he was. Bud tapped his palm as Achilles counted out eight twenties. Achilles put two of the bills in Bud’s palm and held the others, as if weighing them. Bud tapped his palm again. “Don’t stop now.”

Achilles shifted to look behind him. He had that feeling like water was in his ear. His breath came in short, shallow puffs, his heart thumped, his limbs throbbed with each flood of blood, his entire body expanding and contracting with every inhalation. Focus . “How do I know it’s the right house?”

“I don’t know you either,” said Bud.

“Half now, half later.”

Bud handed the money back to Achilles. “You come get me when you’re ready to do business.”

“I want to, but … He better be here.” He removed the keys from the ignition in case Bud tried to run, balling his hands into fists, only somewhat reassured by Bud’s steady, confident demeanor. Bud was now staring directly at him, as if this was the most important conversation he’d ever had.

“He here, hand to God.” Bud touched the roof of the cab. “But, that’s not the question. The question is, is you a man of your word or not?”

“Of course. My father always said a man’s word is his only honor.”

“You keep your promises?” asked Bud.

The question wasn’t, What if he’s lying ? It was, What if he’s not? Achilles handed him the money.

“Your father would be proud,” said Bud. “Who is it anyway? Owe you money? Stole something?”

“My brother.”

Bud folded the money into his pocket and opened the door. “Brother, huh? Ain’t we all?”

“No!”

Bud shrank back like Achilles was spitting venom. “You must want to find him bad. Turn around, go back two blocks, look at the green camelback on the left.”

“Camelback?”

“A house with a half top floor, like a hump in the back, like a camel. Don’t you know a camel, son?” With that he shut the door and gimped across the street, saying over his shoulder, “Another few years that truck will be a classic.”

As Achilles made a u-turn, Bud gave him a thumbs-up and mouthed, “Good luck.” Achilles considered giving the old man a love tap with the bumper and taking the money back.

ACHILLES CIRCLED THE BLOCK A FEW TIMES BEFORE HE SAW A CAMELBACK that looked nearly green. He parked two streets away, flipped off the overhead light so it wouldn’t come on when he opened the door, and walked to the house. The homes on either side of it were boarded up. Like Wages’s home it was a duplex, so he knocked on both doors. No one answered. He knocked again. Still no response. Cursing his naiveté, he walked through the narrow passage between the houses, his shoulders nearly grazing the walls, glass crackling underfoot. The backyard was a concrete pad littered with fifty-gallon barrels. Achilles picked his way around the barrels, knocked on the back door, and, out of habit, stepped aside. A voice called, “What?”

Achilles identified himself.

A sleepy-eyed teen with a squat neck and a boxhead opened the door a crack. He wore a fake camouflage shirt under a black hoodie, and the edge of his cigarette was blackened as if lit by an unsteady hand. “Who you?”

“I’m here for my brother, Troy,” Achilles held up a church program.

“St. Augustine?”

Achilles flipped the brochure over so the kid could see Troy’s face.

The teen said, “Hold on.”

Achilles put his foot against the door.

“Hey man, move your foot.” Another voice asked who it was. The teen’s face vanished inside the door as he said, “Some guy looking for his brother.”

The other voice said, “Let him in.”

“Lex say okay.” The teen opened the door, regarding Achilles’s foot like an uninvited animal.

A stratus of smoke floated between the bare bulb in the ceiling and the kitchen table, which was cluttered with forty-ounce bottles and half-full take-out containers. Lex, seated at the table, looked to be about thirty. His wide-set eyes were perfectly round, like egg whites in a cast-iron skillet, and he had stars cut into the side of his fade. His most prominent feature was his nose, almost as broad as his lips, larger even than Merri’s nose, about which Merri himself always said, “I can smell what they’re cooking for dinner tomorrow.” Lex had cleared an area of the table upon which his bare feet were propped. He looked at Achilles just long enough to assure himself Achilles wasn’t a threat, then returned his attention to a callous on his big toe.

Achilles nodded to him, relieved. For a moment he thought he’d been suckered. “Thanks.”

The clipper clicked. Lex carefully folded it up and placed it on the table. Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Gimme that paper cut.”

“What?” asked Achilles.

“Pay me, zigga.” Lex wiped his finger across the table, then inspected it, like he was checking for dust.

“What?” Achilles bristled. He’d never been called zigga before except by Merriweather, and he seldom used it, sensing that Achilles didn’t wear it well.

“The mint,” said Lex.

“The mint,” echoed the teen.

“The mint?” asked Achilles.

“Don’t give me that Schlitz. You from Nebraska? You know! Mint, seed, scratch, pocket pussy,” said Lex. “The ghetto passport. Monay! ”