T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“I remember him.” Accident? Chuck was the attorney who persuaded a jury to acquit Troy after he was arrested for driving drunk and running over Mrs. Dyson’s two goats. His father bought the damned things too. They ate goat for months.

“Call him at his office. When you see your brother, tell him too.”

“Okay.”

“Come home anytime. You could start that hot dog stand now.”

“Right,” he said with a laugh. A hot dog stand had been his dream business in middle school, more for his love of hot dogs and fascination with the word frankfurter than for any true interest in business. There was a pause as if his mother expected a more detailed answer. Did she think he was still serious about that, or ever had been? “I have to go.”

“Wait.” After she gave him the attorney’s number, she said, “Achilles, you know you were always my favorite, don’t you? I always wanted you. You know that, don’t you?”

She sounded like everything depended on his answer, so he murmured, “Yes.”

“I just wanted to make sure you knew that. I’ll let you go now.”

Achilles picked at his food, constantly glancing out the window at St. Augustine, hoping Troy would walk by. He could tell him, I’m the favorite, find your own way home. I’m the favorite. If that was really true, how come Achilles always had to do everything Troy wanted to do, and not the other way around? He wondered about that as he dialed Chuck’s number, identifying himself as Mr. Conroy to the receptionist. While holding, he practiced what to say: I’m calling about the will … My father passed … My mom told me to call. He settled on, It’s Achilles Conroy. Even that sounded presumptive to him. How could he start the conversation without sounding money-grubbing? Chuck did it for him, saying, “Troy, I’m sorry for your loss. How are you?” In his low voice, Chuck stretched out you as if talking to a child. “Are you okay? Troy, are you there?”

Achilles shivered the way he did after biting ice, or, as the old folks said, as if someone was walking on his grave. “I’m here. I’m just … I’m here. I’m good.” The younger waitress refilled his coffee. Her snug polyester uniform reminded him of a nurse’s outfit. She winked every time she passed, like they were in this together.

“You sound good, but you were always a tough kid. I guess your mom told you about the will. So what are you going to do with all the money? You don’t need to decide now, but I know your father would have wanted you to be wise and thrifty. It’s quite a large sum, enough that with the right financial advice you could do well for yourself. I have a client who retired on half that amount. He lives on a Greek island, a little one, and he does some freelance consulting, but the point is he retired with only one hundred twenty-five thousand in stocks. I’ll give you the broker’s number.”

“One hundred thousand?” Achilles heard paper shuffling.

“Legal fees aren’t that high.” Chuck laughed.

“Can you mail me a check?”

“You and your jokes. You have to sign for it. Achilles too, so just let him know. When can you come by? I just need your John Hancock. This is a lot of money.”

Achilles slid the saltshaker from hand to hand. “How much after legal fees?”

“Two-hundred and fifty-three thousand seven hundred and twelve dollars and nineteen cents, give or take. When should I expect you?”

“Soon.” said Achilles

“Where are you?”

“New Orleans,” said Achilles, looking around him then hanging up.

Seventy-five Gs for the oldest brother and three or four times that amount for the younger. He knew who his father’s favorite was. But he’d known that all along. He’d known that ever since Troy came through the door.

When Achilles turned eight, he expected a golden Lab. For years, his mother said, When you’re ten, but he didn’t expect to wait until he was two-whole-hands old. He knew the puppy was coming because his parents described his gift as Warm, friendly, and tireless. His friends were going to be so jealous. His parents left early that Saturday morning, leaving Achilles with Mrs. Bear, the babysitter who let him take showers. They were due back well before 6:30 p.m., when the party was set to begin. At 5:30, as instructed, Achilles took his cake out of the refrigerator and placed it on the coffee table in the living room, where the paneled walls were festooned with streamers, balloons, and his name in winking, glittering gold letters. He sat on Mrs. Bear’s welcoming lap and watched Romper Room until 6:15, when the first guest arrived. The last guest was there by 6:30. He knew the precise time because Ren and Stimpy was starting. While making Jiffy Pop for the hungry kids, Mrs. Bear chatted with the parents who waited with their children. At 7:30 they had hot dogs, then ice cream, but not cake, the adults insisting that his parents should be present when he cut the cake. At 8:30, when the party was scheduled to end, the parents began packing up their kids.

Wearing a pirate’s eye patch, the one gift he was allowed to open, Achilles fell asleep on Mrs. Bear’s lap. This was a first. Mrs. Bear usually insisted he was tucked in by 8:45. He was still on the couch at midnight when his mom woke him. Someone had put a pillow under his head and covered him with a blanket. “Hey honey.” Her smile was strained, toothy. She guided him to the kitchen with her hands over his eyes, his outstretched fingers grazing the paneled walls.

“Surprise!” his parents yelled.

The kitchen was a bright, bright room, thanks to the white walls and fluorescent lights. Achilles threw up his hands to shield his eyes, peeking through his fingers at his parents, who stood flanking a little boy in a birthday hat.

“This is Troy,” said Achilles’s mother.

“Happy birthday!” said Achilles’s father. He pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and motioned for Achilles to sit. Between the manic grin, the pompadour, and the exaggerated sweep of his arm, his father looked like a carnival barker.

Achilles went back to the couch and curled up under the blanket, his usual antidote for strange and disturbing dreams. Sometime later his mom awakened him, led him to the kitchen, and said, “Troy’s having ice cream. You have some too.”

Troy sat in Achilles’s old orangesicle-colored Scooby-Doo booster seat, eating a big bowl of butter pecan ice cream, Achilles’s favorite because of the salty-sweet and soft but crunchy confusion it caused in his mouth. Troy held his bowl close to his body like someone might snatch it, occasionally stealing a glance around the kitchen, immediately looking back down at his ice cream if he caught anyone’s eye. He was about half Achilles’s size, with wide-set eyes and a broad forehead, like an insect. His left cheek was bruised, and snot dripped from his red and runny nose right into the ice cream, which must have been his favorite flavor too, judging by the way he slurped it down. Troy had seconds, and Achilles had seconds. While they ate, his father leaned back against the wall, smoking and smiling, occasionally rubbing their heads. Troy had thirds, and Achilles had thirds, their bowls brimming with his father’s generous scoops.

After his mother dropped a glass in the sink and stomped out of the kitchen and his father scampered after her, Troy spoke for the first time, in a hushed voice as if to avoid being overheard by the adults in the next room, barely moving his lips, squeezing the words out of one side of his mouth, so that if you stood on his other side, you wouldn’t even know he was asking, “How long they going to let us stay here?”

Achilles shrugged. He was tired and overfull. “Not long, I hope,” he said, not yet understanding that months would pass before Troy would accept that they weren’t in a foster home. At that moment, confused, exhausted, queasy, Achilles wanted only sleep. He slipped down from the chair and made his way to his bedroom, where he climbed into bed, careful not to bounce or burp for fear he would barf. Behind him, he heard Troy’s yessirs and yes ma’ams. What a suck-up.