T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“He’s gone.”

A knot pulled tight in Achilles’s stomach.

“Just old age. He was up there, you know.” Wexler winked and pointed up, his voice light. “Hey, you brought the rain.”

“Eee-yeah, baby. Here comes the thunder!” said Achilles, mimicking the battle cry that announced air support. They hunched their shoulders and peered up at the sky and listened attentively, nostrils flared, Wexler bent back at the waist as if leaning against an invisible wall. They saw the three flickering red lights on the belly of a jumbo jet, a squadron itself, and heard the engine, a low, distant rumble scraping the sky. Antennae atop skyscrapers blinked their secret, stuttering code through the clouds. A swarm of gnats snapped around their necks. The smell of jasmine mixed with the scent of fresh-cut grass mixed with lingering exhaust. Though a few feet from the car, the warmth radiating from the engine pressed against their thighs. A dog barked, another answered. In the house across the street, a light blinked on, yellow behind the faded curtain, followed by whimpering, the rattle of a chain, the clattering of a glass pane in a slamming door. Soon the jet had passed, that sound funneling into a distant point. They strained, but all that remained to be heard was the rain and humming gnats and breath. And though it was a bright night, the raindrops materialized only inches from their face, always too late and too close and too fast to blink in defense, but blink they did, catching the rain in their eyes until lightning sliced the night, illuminating Wexler’s eyes, round and burning, as when Troy had carried him out of that minefield. Achilles plucked Wexler on the back of the head where the cross on his Trojan would have been and said, as they’d always said after a touchdown, “They shoulda punted.”

Wexler shrugged, his eyebrows knitted. Achilles pressed his tongue behind his lower lip, poking it out, doing Troy’s impression of a drunken camel, coaxing his friend into thin laughter, and promising himself to never again utter, “Here comes the thunder.” As he searched for something reassuring to say, something Ines would say when she caught him intently watching the lines at the shelters, the burden of the unmentionable set in, and he remained silent as Wexler stepped aside to usher him up the porch stairs.

The living room, painted sage, was as orderly as a footlocker. The magazines were stacked in neat pyramids: Essence on the bottom, Jet and TV Guide on top. At Achilles’s house, that pile would have contained People, TV Guide, and Readers’ Digest. His mom had ordered a subscription to Jet when they were in middle school. Smaller than a comic book, it seemed appropriate for children. After she discovered that each issue included a weekly swimsuit centerfold, each little glossy mag appeared on their desk sans pinup. “Jet” became their code for “porn.” They later found the missing centerfolds in their father’s winter chest. It was funny to see that magazine here, nestled innocently between the other publications. Beside the magazines, the remote controls on the black lacquer entertainment center were arranged in squad formation, the bottom of each one flush with the front of the television. Wexler had remained fastidious, as they had all been once, believing that to have an item out of place was to be out of place was to invite disaster; they would sooner stand downwind during target practice. But Achilles knew it wasn’t Wexler’s home by the row of potted sunflowers lining the porch, the embroidered placemats, the burnt-orange bathroom walls, the smell of sage, and most importantly, the open blinds in every room. He recognized Naomi’s touch, earthy and open.

He could smell her — nutmeg, which was also the color of her skin, and his. A first for him. She’d thought him freaky because he couldn’t stop staring down when they had sex, his eyes drawn to the immeasurable symmetrical shadow pulsing between them. Then, doing the William Tell trick, he’d shot Chief in the leg, grazed him really. He was reckless during the few days the squad spent in Atlanta on the break between earning their silver wings and Goddamnistan. He had learned to live without food or sleep or water or fear and felt a certain power, as if he had fingers of fire. He’d expected the feeling of invincibility — the other Achilles — to last until he reached the FOB, but it began to fade in that kitchen as Naomi pushed the placemats aside to tend to Chief, his breathing worried, his black eyes spinning wildly, as if looking for a reason. When she’d poured peroxide on his leg, his claws on the healthy front paw had tapped the kitchen table, click, click, click.

That same sound he heard now, sitting at the same table as Wexler fiddled with the matching glass salt and pepper shakers, sliding them from hand to hand, clacking them on the table as he explained to Achilles how he had seen Troy near the lunch bucket across from his jobsite, and how he had called Troy and chased Troy and lost Troy in an overgrown alley that cut between a row of abandoned homes and a large housing project called the Bricks. But surely it would be different when Troy saw Achilles. It would be different when he saw his brother. “When he sees you, it’ll all be over,” said Wexler.

“Yeah,” said Achilles. It would all be over, whatever that meant. He pressed for details. How did his brother look? What was he wearing? Had he lost weight? Or teeth? Wexler had only seen him from a distance, and remembered little. There were no more details, other than the map Wexler had made.

That Troy had run from Wexler forced Achilles to face a possibility that had been bugging him. What if Troy was avoiding Achilles? Vowing to be smarter this time, he cautiously unfolded the map, as if afraid of what might pour out, as if to damage it would spill the truth, or ruin his luck, when he was so close. Across the top of the page, block letters spelled out OLD 4th WARD. There was a T circled where Troy had been spotted, and an S where Wexler worked and, near the middle of the map, an area highlighted and labeled THE BRICKS.

Wexler said, “I made up the spare bedroom, but you can only stay until Sunday night, when she gets back.” He said it quickly. Though his face was visibly relaxed, he started clacking the shakers again. Click, click, click.

Achilles nodded. He couldn’t be in Atlanta any longer than Sunday. He had work Monday morning. Today was only Wednesday. That gave him long enough, he hoped. Boudreaux probably wouldn’t mind if Achilles took another day off, but he didn’t want to ask for any more favors, not after the DUI, which had roused Boudreaux’s ire because he’d repeatedly warned Achilles off that stretch of road.

“I think she’s still mad,” offered Wexler.

“I apologized,” said Achilles with the same air of exasperated finality as his original apology. He seldom openly expressed regret, so when he did, he felt that it was beyond mere atonement; his shouldering the blame and burden should be accepted as the final word, the final fistful of dirt on a grave to which no one should ever return, and of which no one should ever speak. Besides, he’d been assured that Chief was well trained, and could remain still for long periods. There would be nothing between them now anyway. In recent photos, Naomi wore an Afro. Wexler said she’d gone granola, but that was too much. She’d never get a job with that hair.

“There’s something else you should know.” Wexler paused.

When Wexler still hadn’t said anything a minute later, Achilles said, “I know you’re gay. And Naomi is your cross-dressing boyfriend.”

Wexler laughed weakly. “Yeah, I turned faggity after you sucked me off.”