T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“Most white people,” she said without a trace of irony or jest. There would be no oblique references, no mentioning that Tammy Wynette was his mother’s favorite singer and Waylon Jennings his father’s. There’d be no dropping a photo of his parents. Peace Corps, grad school, New York. Most white people. He could be most black people. I can play this game, Praise Jesus, thought Achilles.

After the fight, he had continued to sleep on the floor. But when Bethany came home, she would wake him, the little flashlight used to avoid disturbing him wielded with the opposite intention, the beam fanning his eyes. “The couch,” she’d say. And he’d adjust his bandages and lie on it until she went to bed. He’d wised up in the last few days and started sleeping on the couch until she got home. If only it were covered in plastic, like Janice’s mom’s couch.

He wondered what Janice was doing, then pictured Ines. Was she an innie or an outie? Slipping his hand into his shorts, tremors rippled across his stomach. His hands moved faster, making short yanking motions until he added spit for longer strokes. He wrapped his thumb and forefinger around his cock, making the okay sign, and tugged, breathing faster, imagining Ines above him. Feeling lightheaded, almost like he was floating, he rolled over and entered the cushions, thrusting spasmodically.

“Achilles! The couch!” said Bethany.

He hadn’t heard her come in, but should have smelled the antiseptics and alcohol trailing her like a ghost. She was taking her careful fencer’s steps and using the little flashlight to find her way. He appreciated her trying, so he never let on that he usually heard each step because, however soft, it always became a slide. He imagined her scowling face behind the beam that hovered on his dick like a spotlight on a fugitive. He covered himself. She switched off the light.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeated several times.

Hearing her bump into the wall and mutter a curse, he turned on the lamp, knocking over the starfish card. She was at the door and when she bent over to arrange her clogs, her scrubs pulled tight across her thighs, highlighting panty lines. He adjusted the tent in his blanket, searching for something to say.

She stood there a minute before finally saying, “At least you’re not sleeping on the floor anymore.” She nodded twice, that comment meeting her approval.

“Yeah,” said Achilles after searching for a response. He sat up and gave a half wave.

“It must be more comfortable,” she said. She stretched out comfortable like it was a cross between comfort and affordable .

“I like the couch,” said Achilles. “But I guess that’s obvious.”

“Don’t like it too much. We don’t want any little cushions running around. Though that would be more comfortable, and better for your back.”

“Always the nurse.”

Her smile was tight.

“I meant looking out for people,” Achilles said. “Nurses are good.”

“I understand,” she said. She put one hand on her hip, standing as if there was something on her mind, and she intended to share it. “He missed you guys. All the male bonding stuff. Growl.” She scowled, obviously her impression of a man’s face. “I thought it was an excuse to get away. Always seeing to this friend or that. But he’s happier when you’re here. Even though he drinks more. But seeing you here for your brother, seeing you together, I understand. You have something in common, but it’s not anything you would have wanted. They say you can choose your friends but not your family, but that’s not really true for you guys. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I think I do.”

“Good night Achilles,” she said, pronouncing his name correctly.

Her scent lingered. He understood what she meant. He felt the same way about Troy. He loved him, but sometimes he was angry, and other times jealous that there might be someone somewhere who knew Troy better, someone he trusted more, maybe even Wexler. Maybe Bethany felt out of the circle; it was a men’s circle. It was a man’s, man’s, man’s world. Only men could understand what they had chosen, and why they would gladly return. It was a family too, a family who stood by you even when it meant risking a limb they couldn’t grow back.

“The couch,” called Bethany from the bedroom.

“Yes ma’am,” he called back. Women made you think. What was it like to have one always around and within easy reach? Did you stop masturbating? Was it like having an endless supply of beer in the refrigerator? If you wanted some sex, did you just go to the bedroom and get it?

“The couch,” she called again.

“Yes ma’am.” If only it were covered in plastic.

He retraced his steps, looking for any clues he might have missed when he was there. The baby-doll heads: smudged and disfigured, the limbs mangled, the eyes locked on his. He kept seeing the head rolling off the edge of the landing and into the space where the stairs should have been. Those tiny limbs forever tumbling, as if drowning. This image brought him to a halt as he was driving to the new St. Jude for the third day in a row. He yanked the wheel, jerked the car over to the side of the street, and called the morgue.

A man with a clipped voice answered the phone. Yet again Achilles described his brother: five eleven, 185 pounds, light-brown skin, green eyes. The man with the clipped voice read the description back to him: average height, average build, average complexion — he pronounced it “complected.” He also said “ABM,” which Achilles thought he remembered Morse saying.

“Hold on.” The man sighed deeply. Achilles heard the phone drop, a chair creak, and the raspy groan of reluctant metal file cabinets.

On the sidewalk, the crowd swam by. How did so many people manage to avoid touching? A welcome shadow fell over his car as the St. Charles streetcar came to a halt beside where he had parked. An elderly couple with a small boy squeezed their heads through one of the narrow streetcar windows, their tanned faces glowing in the sunlight. The man took photos, the camera glued to his face as if he were a Cyclops. The woman directed the boy’s gaze toward nearby landmarks: the listless flag atop Jax Brewery, the Aquarium, and the Customs House. The child waved at passersby, who mostly pretended not to see him, as did Achilles when the child waved in his direction. The child persisted, his waving becoming frantic. Achilles cupped his cell phone tighter to his ear, looking straight ahead to avoid the child’s insistence and the pedestrians’ charades. The light changed, the streetcar lurched forward, the trolley pole sparking as it dragged along the overhead wires. The electricity in the air smelled like boiling artichokes. He watched the streetcar travel three blocks and turn up St. Charles toward the Garden District, an area of town he’d never seen.

When the phone was picked up again, a different voice said, “When you come down use the Rampart Street entrance, not the Tulane Avenue entrance. It’s the one nearest the Superdome. There’s a great big sign says Charity Hospital of New Orleans.”

He remembered Troy on the side of the road a few hours after they’d driven over the IED, glowing, with the sun behind him like a sombrero. Troy, his smile big enough to swallow the sky. Achilles had let them all down. He should have driven more, canvassed, called the morgue sooner, or the hospitals, put up posters, put out a radio ad … Before he could reply, there was a muffled exchange and he heard the phone being dropped and picked up again. The clipped voice returned and muttered an apology. “He thought you were someone else.”

Relief. His heart was still racing. The clipped voice continued. “Anyway, I’m sorry, but you’ll need to come down here. There’s too many guys fitting that description. Do you know where we are?”