T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“Alright! I got it,” Achilles had yelled.

“Leave him alone,” said Wages.

Merriweather continued, “It’s a beautiful word. It’s our word. That’s what connects us. You might think you’re different or lighter or darker or smarter or better-talking, but to a racist motherfucker, we’re all ziggas. That’s why we’re lucky. We only have one enemy. These poor ziggas got us here, the whole of Europe, plus they’re fighting each other. Know-whatta-mean?”

Achilles didn’t, but thought that one day he might, that he would feel a click, a switch flipping, and be able to speak this new language with new freedom. But after using the word at Kikkin Chikkin, all he felt was dirty, like he’d admitted to understanding something he didn’t want to, the same way he’d felt for clearing up the confusion when the chaplain said he was going to try the Donkey Punch on Friday night. He brought it on himself by saying things like “I’m God’s inbox,” or “The Bible is God’s Myspace,” but it was still disrespectful. Achilles didn’t know who was feeding the chaplain that misinformation, but the poor old man (who was Achilles’s father’s age and looked somewhat like him, except that both of his arms were covered in tattoos) thought that felching, the Rusty Trombone, and the Statue of Liberty were all New York cocktails. He imagined the chaplain inviting an infantry dog hot off a fireworks show back to the tent for a Rusty Trombone. To save him the embarrassment of actually hearing the acts described, Achilles informed Chaplain Weidman that they were slang for drugs and that someone was playing a joke on him. When the word got around that Achilles had said this, they started calling him Urkel and Carlton and every other black television character known as an oreo, but no one called him a zigga.

He removed his shoes and wrapped his damp shirt around his head before entering Wages’s house. He went straight to the bathroom to wash his face. His left cheek was raw from being dragged against the wall, his right eye rimmed with blood. Raw hairless patches dotted his scalp; the right side of his face was a rainbow of black and brown bruises. Then there was the limp. He didn’t know when or how he’d started limping. He shouldn’t have come back. Wages couldn’t see him like this. It wasn’t pride. He simply didn’t want Wages involved. If his friend saw Achilles like this, he’d get sawed off.

Blood dotted the porcelain sink, one spot then another, then another and another in greater concentration, until it was dappled like the ground under sudden rain. When he tried to clean up, the drops streaked across the bowl, long stripes trailing. He needed more water. Dots now stripes, stripes now streaks. Blood splattered on the toilet seat. On his arm, a gouge he hadn’t noticed before.

As he undressed to shower, the locket dropped to the floor, hinges twisted and glass cracked. The photo of his mother’s father, now badly scratched, popped out of the frame. Gliding through his slick fingers as he tried to reassemble it, the locket fell again, this time breaking open and revealing a small crucifix wrapped in cotton and hidden behind the photograph. The back of the cross was engraved AHC for AHC. He often forgot that he and his mother, Anna Holt Conroy, shared the same initials. He rubbed his finger across the tiny golden Jesus he had unknowingly carried around the world — and he’d thought his mother’s faith was a new thing.

After his shower, he quietly opened the bathroom door and slipped into the hall. Wages was mopping the living room. Achilles reached for the mop, but Wages insisted on continuing, which was unusual. People should clean up their own messes, he always said, especially when anyone mentioned the possibility of being transferred to Iraq.

“Bethany’s going into labor if I don’t get this up. She’s sensitive about blood being scattered around. Germs and all.” He laughed. “She thinks I’m paranoid about not sitting with my back to the door or going to the window twenty-nine times a night, complains I sleep like a baby, up every few hours, but let her see someone eat without washing their hands. Boom!” He waved his arms around to indicate an explosion.

While Wages mopped, Achilles sat, curling and uncurling his fingers, stretching his toes, checking in with his battered body. After a few minutes Wages asked, “So what the fuck, dude?”

Achilles told as much of the truth as he thought it prudent to share: No, Troy wasn’t at that house, though there was a guy named Tony who looked similar enough to confuse an old man with cataracts.

Wages wasn’t convinced. “Does this have anything to do with why Troy was in that line? Is he into some shit?”

“No, he’s not into anything,” said Achilles.

“And you?” asked Wages.

“Just a barroom brawl.”

“I knew that guy was a fucking cruncher,” said Wages.

“Cruncher?” asked Achilles.

“You know: crunch, candy cane, Cindy.” said Wages. When Achilles said nothing, he continued. “It’s what every addict wants for Christmas, the perfect drug. They say it’s not addictive. You can smoke it, eat it, snort it, or just hold it too long. It’s what everyone’s on. It gives them those cracks and crevices in the face. Fucks up your skin.”

“This didn’t have anything to do with that.” Achilles had never even heard of crunch before. Sure, Blow had shallow fissures in his cheeks, but they’d looked like acne scars. If they were into crunch, how’d they lure Troy into a drug house? Probably the same way they’d lured Achilles in: Troy asked after his parents, and Bud took him to the green camelback.

“Come on, man. This is the first time you’ve showered in three days. You’re living like you’re on active. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re sleeping in your boots. You’ve gone Renzo.” Lorenzo hadn’t showered or shaved for days at a time and ate raw garlic, claiming he wanted to smell like the Taliban, not like Ivory Soap. “What the fuck is up?”

“Nothing. I told you everything. I need to sleep.” Wages left. It was obvious he hadn’t bought the story.

Achilles felt riven, anxious, as if he had lost something, broken a bone that couldn’t be set. Shame menaced him that night, shadowing him as if it had a life of its own. He had never lied to Wages about anything before, not even minor shit like farting. Sure, he’d never told Wages he was adopted, but that was different, private. He told himself that lying about the fight with Blow was an act of kindness, of consideration for Wages’s new life. Wages would have demanded involvement — the starfish handed out more than plastic forks.

Before drifting off, he listened to his message from Janice, to see if maybe she’d changed her mind about Dale. “I’m just calling to see how you’re doing,” she said. “Wish you were here so we could go to the quarry. I went once without you and it wasn’t the same. If I go, it’s not the same as when you and I go. I know why us is you and me, not I . I’ve finally figured all that out: I and me, who and whom . I’m in a night class at Shippensburg taking English. I want my baby to be smart …” He hung up at the first mention of the baby, whom, until then, he’d managed to forget.

A heated conversation woke him in the middle of the night. He heard Wages grumbling and Bethany say “infection.” A moment later the light came on, and Bethany tiptoed into the room wearing the 49ers cap she wore whenever it rained. Had it been raining? Was that why his face was so wet? This was the worst hangover he’d ever had. She pushed an ottoman close to the pallet Achilles had made on the floor and sat down. Her voice apologetic, she said, “Sorry to wake you, but we’ve got to take care of this. Kyle told me you refused to go to the hospital. You know, those cuts could become infected. We need to clean them properly and bandage you up. Is that okay?”