T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

ACHILLES WAS AT THE GRADY HOSPITAL MORGUE WHEN IT OPENED, SHOWING a photo to the attendant, a kid who looked to be barely out of high school. Marcus, according to the nametag, carried a cigarette behind one ear and a pencil behind the other. Marcus vaguely remembered Wexler, or rather a slim guy who resembled Prince. He showed Achilles a picture of the body Wexler had viewed. Found beside the Bricks, the man was much older than Troy.

Marcus studied Troy’s photo again, thoughtfully, his eyes moving between Achilles and the picture.

“How long have you been a diener?”

“They don’t say that anymore.” Marcus looked at Achilles. “You say this is your brother?”

Achilles nodded. “Yes.”

Marcus held the photo up so Achilles could see it. “By blood?”

“Adopted.”

Marcus appeared to weigh the probability of that being true. His tone apologetic, he said, “We have two more from that area. No, four. Two more just came down. You done this before?”

“Two tours in Afghanistan.”

Marcus jerked his head toward the door, motioning for Achilles to follow.

Some morgues had gurneys parked in large walk-in coolers. Others, like New Orleans, had the silver wall of drawers. Grady had both: on the right were the drawers, and on the left were two large walk-in coolers, the kind usually found in restaurant kitchens. A long metal grate ran down the middle of the tile floor. The tiles were the reddish-brown terra cotta that hid dirt and blood. For all the fluorescent lights overhead and absence of shadow, it still felt too dark. It was remarkably clean and shiny, all the steel reminding him of his middle school cafeteria. He’d been in eighth when Troy was in sixth, and so hadn’t let Troy sit with him.

Referring to the clipboard, Marcus led him to the drawers. Well-oiled, the action was fluid and silent, and the drawers slid out smoothly as if designed for comfort. Achilles scanned quickly, looking first for skin tone — not too dark to account for the sun or too light to account for an addict’s nocturnia — then glancing at the face and moving on.

Two men were too old, one too young. They were all fresh. None had an autopsy suture. Marcus was considerate. He lifted the sheet enough to reveal the face and then looked down or at the body, anywhere but at Achilles. After each body that wasn’t Troy, Achilles tried his usual ploy to buoy his mood, telling himself that he was lucky, that they’d won again. But each one left him breathless, fatigued. He felt lethargic, as if he was breathing underwater, as if oxygen was a salty viscous fluid he had to work to keep down, heavy in his lungs, and the more he inhaled, the lower he sank. Achilles was thankful that Marcus didn’t offer him water or a chair, or acknowledge the chemicals.

In the walk-in, eight gurneys were lined up, dusky feet sticking out, and in the corner, one gurney with a smaller body. Marcus showed him one, a handsome teenager with auburn skin, deep-set eyes, broad lips, and one neat hole in the chest. He said, “The rest are all identified. Shoot-out. Family’s on the way down. These three here are brothers, sixteen, seventeen, and twelve.

Achilles pointed to the smaller body in the corner.

“He’s not related. That’s a kid who’s been unclaimed for a while. Smoke inhalation in an abandoned house. He goes to Potter’s Field next week.” His breath hung in the chilled air.

“How does someone claim him?”

“ID and paperwork. Sometimes a church will sponsor a funeral for an unidentified kid. Sad thing is no one reported him missing.”

The dead wanted nothing more than to be left alone, or at least that’s what they used to say. He and Marcus regarded the small form cloaked in white, barely bigger than Troy had been when he came to live with them, maybe as tall as Sammy the Stargazer. Achilles studied Marcus, just a kid himself. Downy sideburns stopped at the meat of the jaw, bald chin, faint mustache; he wasn’t even shaving yet. “An unmarked grave?”

“We still say Potter’s Field, but the indigent and unclaimed are cremated these days. We hold the ashes and bury them all together once a year,” said Marcus. He shivered and suggested they leave the walk-in. Out in the hallway, Marcus briskly rubbed his arms. “It’s cold in there. It’s cold in there,” he repeated, his voice hollow, his dark skin ashen. He appeared on the verge of tears. “He’s dead, you know, but still, it seems like someone should get him.” Marcus laughed. “I hoped you were here for him. Not that I wanted your brother to be here. I just wanted someone to come for him. Your brother’s lucky. I work here, and I couldn’t do it.”

“How long have you worked here?” asked Achilles.

“About three months. It pays better than dishwashing and I get a lot of time to study. I’m used to it. You know what I mean.”

“I know,” said Achilles, knowing Marcus didn’t mean a word he said.

Looking embarrassed, Marcus stepped closer to Achilles and, dropping his voice, said, “I know this is unusual, but I could copy the picture.”

“O.K.,” Achilles nodded.

Marcus copied the photo, and Achilles wrote his cell number on the bottom of the copy. Marcus pointed to the area code. “Shame if it hits y’all.”

“What?” asked Achilles.

“That hurricane. Haven’t you heard? It’s headed straight for y’all.”

Achilles had thought Ines was overreacting. It was nothing, according to Wages. Happens all the time. It’s hurricane season. It was probably nothing to worry about. Feeling a mere thank-you insufficient, he shook Marcus’s hand, closing it in both of his.

“Hopefully, I never see you again.” Marcus grinned awkwardly.

Achilles mustered a smile and another thanks.

His tone measured, Marcus asked, “Does your brother have the crush? I ask because if he does and he’s around the Bricks, you need to watch Pepper and his crew. Everything leads back there. But it’s crazy. If you go in, keep your tens on the inside.” Marcus balled his hands into fists for emphasis.

Achilles wanted to tell Marcus to quit while he could, before it changed him, to let the dead bury the dead — only they had the strength for it — and that he needn’t blame his tears on the cold, that it wasn’t too late for him, but Achilles just nodded and thanked him again and slipped out, exhausted.

Was it the antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital, all white walls and gleaming metal? Was it that the morgue was in the basement, tucked away like a secret, so far underground that the exposed pipes dripped condensation, the air so cool and dense he could feel the weight of the earth overhead? Was it the sense of inevitability that accompanied death in a war zone? How could he have squatted to eat a pork chop out of a pouch, smoke a cigarette, and swig an entire canteen of water in the same room as three dead insurgents while rocket impacts sprinkled them all in mortar, then, after the thunder came, after the Apaches shat a steaming pile of missiles in the faces of the hajis and their artillery, walk out of that same building, water sloshing in his belly, gnawing at a chocolate bar and laughing — until he cried — at Merriweather’s knock-knock jokes about the real money shots, yet the little boy Marcus said was destined for Potter’s Field remained seared in his mind, as did the body he had viewed at the first morgue? He remembered thinking that D-794, the burn victim in New Orleans, must have done it to himself, but now he couldn’t forget him. The one clean patch of skin on the chest, the fingertips worn to the bone.

In New Orleans, the gurney had been wheeled in by a kid in a lab coat and headphones. He’d been wearing orange skateboarding sneakers with thick soles and had put a lot of effort into looking bored, not unlike Marcus. Was that how Achilles had appeared to the locals? Had they thought of him as a kid in funny clothes but with a gun? What had they thought about him when he was overseeing the cleanups after bombings, safe behind his Oakleys while wives and mothers examined limp fingers for wedding bands and looked for matching shoes they hoped not to find? His own hands shook at the thought, his mind racing wildly as he tried to imagine how others had seen him, something he hadn’t dared consider while active. Too weak to walk, he sat on a parking barricade. The concrete felt good. It was cold, cooling first his butt, then his thighs. He unclenched his fists and placed his hands on the barricade as well, taking a few deep breaths.