T. Johnson: Hold It 'Til It Hurts

One night, Achilles made a promise to himself. He would write his return address on his blue envelope and stick it in the mailbox without any postage. If it came back to the house, he could open it. He had only one question: Were he and Troy brothers? They’d asked this several times over the years, and the answer was always no. They looked nothing alike. Troy looked more like Wexler, one of their squadmates, who was light-skinned and resembled Prince. Still, what if they were? What if their parents didn’t know? He tossed the envelope on Troy’s bed before falling into a fitful rest, struggling to drown out the damned thrumming and the faint pulsations emanating from the closet, disturbances that faded only when he moved Troy’s equipment to the storage shed farthest from the house.

At dawn he tiptoed down the hall, skulking like a thief returning to the scene of the crime as he put the envelope back on the table. His mother was already up having coffee and cinnamon toast, the pack on the floor next to her chair like a faithful dog awaiting a treat. At her insistence, You’re too thin, he joined her. The warm bread was sweet and crunchy, the hot and gooey raisins nearly liquid. Pointing to the butter, she said, “Don’t eat your bread dry.” He took another bite. She pushed the butter at him until he accepted. She added, “You need to get out.”

Her travel ensemble now included a tawny hunting vest with white piping around the armholes and flannel edges on the pockets, which were plentiful. It had more pouches and compartments than a photographer’s vest. It resembled the overpriced travel gear virgin reporters wore to Afghanistan, equipment they ditched when the leather piping snagged on a door or a fancy buckle wouldn’t close. It was a special breed of merchandise designed for people whose lives didn’t depend on their equipment but who wanted to believe that it did. The more they paid, the safer they felt. She looked exactly like one of those women she called beltway bimbos when they dressed for a weekend camping trip, but he wouldn’t be the one to tell her.

“I know you aren’t ready, but I’m here whenever you want to talk,” she said between bites of toast.

The truth was that he was and he did. He had a lot to say, starting with that day in Goddamnistan when Troy said, “I should have come alone,” but how to begin? He attributed his cloudy head to the funeral but the truth was he’d felt the same way for quite some time. In fact, he couldn’t remember feeling otherwise. He had the constant feeling that he had forgotten to do something important, and it kept him up at night when what he most wanted, and what he’d obsessed over for months, was to come home and sleep and fuck and fuck and sleep and sleep.

Janice was the only person he’d ever talked to about these feelings. Achilles had never told anyone in his unit, or anyone he didn’t grow up with, that he and Troy were adopted. He wasn’t ashamed, not at all. No. But after being told he talked white, it was unthinkable to provide the firing squad yet another clip.

One afternoon, a week after his brother left, Achilles went out to the Rockville quarry with Janice. They’d been sleeping together off and on since tenth grade, even during her married spells, which she was presently between. Janice was an average girl, the kind Merriweather would’ve said was a keeper because she wasn’t so hot that everyone was after her, but she wasn’t ugly, and best of all, she knew exactly where she fit into the scheme of things, so she appreciated any positive attention and didn’t expect to be wined and dined. As Merriweather put it, a busted ride knew not to expect high octane. Before meeting Merriweather, Achilles had never thought of her like that, but in retrospect, maybe Merri was right. He’d heard of other guys slapping Janice around, but she’d never mentioned anything to Achilles and he never saw any bruises. Considering that she was full of vitriol for all three ex-husbands, it was a minor miracle that he’d managed to stay friendly with her. He attributed it to honesty — he’d always been clear about not wanting a relationship, so they’d developed one. Though he didn’t ask her to, she’d written while he was away. And though he’d never thanked her, he appreciated it very much.

The quarry was their safe place. Awe-inspiring. The sheer, staggered walls a giant’s coliseum and, at the same time, evidence of what man could do. As teenagers, they’d watched the rock being toted out; now they watched the procession of trucks bringing dirt in, filling the quarry so it could be built on. A billboard at the entrance advertised more of the expensive subdivisions that had been built over the last several years, hemming them in.

“You know they were going to have a parade for you? The marching band, fire trucks, everything. A real hero’s welcome.”

A parade for Troy was what it would have been, another award for stupidity. Achilles sighed, but nothing could dampen his excitement about seeing Janice again.

High school was four years past, but she looked better than ever. Her brown hair, once stringy, was cut into a bouncy bob with gold highlights. Her lips were fuller, and her face permanently flushed, like she’d just finished running or fucking. They sat at the edge of the quarry, opposite the truck entrance, Achilles stealing glances at her profile and taking in all the details: the thick eyelashes and red nails, the hearts and dolphins, the straight teeth and slender toes. When had he last studied a woman at such leisure? Occasionally she leaned forward to toss a pebble or a crab apple over the edge, and her hair would slip down, revealing her ear, or he’d catch a whiff of her perfume. She moved freely, her tattoos iridescent in the sunlight, like she was trying to draw attention to herself. Meanwhile, Achilles sat still for long stretches; being shot at taught self-control.

“So it’s on you again,” said Janice. She was talking about Troy.

Achilles nodded. Janice was also the only person he’d told about Troy’s reckless behavior in Afghanistan, the only one who knew that some nights he had to stop himself from looking at Troy’s bed to make sure his uniform and helmet weren’t neatly stacked on top. “It’s doubly fucked up because now that he’s gone, I can’t leave.”

“She can take care of herself.”

“It wouldn’t be right for her to be alone. She’s never been alone.”

Janice frowned briefly, as if she knew something he didn’t, while she rubbed his forearm with the back of her hand, eventually moving up to his bicep. She’d always liked his arms. He buttoned his sweater up to the neck. Seventy-eight degrees was now chilly.

They sat listening to the quarry trucks: the gasping brakes, the hissing pneumatics, the growl of the engines and gnashing of transmissions alternating as if engaged in conversation. Dump trucks streaming in and out like ants, each bearing a perfect mountain of dirt. Beeping echoed across the quarry as they backed up to the ledge and tilted their beds, offering their cargo to the sky. A stone or two would trickle off the dirt mound, next a minor cascade, then a slice would slip right off and rain down, and then, for a long moment, nothing happened. The mountain of dirt was suspended there in the tilted bed, defying gravity, like it was waiting for the Road Runner to pass and the Coyote to show up and without warning, the whole hogpile would give way, the dirt fanning out like a waterfall returning home. When the bed was loaded high enough, for a split second, one long lick of earth stretched all the way from the truck to the ground some three stories below.

It was a moment that made him yearn for childhood, for a time when he thought he had a choice between being the Road Runner or the Coyote, a time when he believed life was chock full of opportunities to start over. Not for his father, who swam in this same quarry as a child, who later came to this same quarry with the girlfriend who would become Achilles’s mother. Had they sat under this tree, on the rocky ground, occasionally shifting their weight to brush away pebbles? At twenty-two, Achilles’s age, his father had proposed to his mother. She had been the same age when she accepted.