T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

Every Achilles, all of them, missed his friends. Achilles the Stubborn. Achilles the Suited. Achilles the Cynical. Achilles the Goofy. Ines had nicknames for his every mood, more than he could remember; hence, he was also Achilles the Absentminded. Achilles thought of himself as versions one, two, and three: the dutiful son, the reliable brother, and the soldier, all of which were reconcilable. But the new Achilles, the Ines Achilles, who was that? And what about the other Achilles, from the minefield, from the fight? Where did he fit? The only thing they all had in common was that every Achilles missed his friends, all of them, and being able to talk to them without saying anything.

What’s going on? Will the ball club win it? Do you think they have a chance? What’s the deal? What’s new, man? What you know good? What’s happening? He tried it with Wexler, tried explaining that he needed to talk, that the morgue had freaked him out, that corpses again gave him crazy legs. Where’s the nearest bar? Isn’t Atlanta the strip club capital? What about Magic City? Ptah. Women! Isn’t there a shooting range nearby? Let’s head to Columbus and hit the Benning Brew Pub. Is a game on? And, finally, “Fuck, man.”

Wexler said nothing.

They were in the living room, where Wexler, always moving, always busy like a small dog, was folding laundry as patiently as he worked at that crap house. He had to lay the clothes out on the ironing board because he couldn’t bend his chin to his chest.

In the yard next door, three kids dressed like superheroes played hide-and-seek, their high-pitched voices drawing Achilles to the window again and again. Two of them were about seven or eight years old, the third about five. The small backyard in which they played offered little cover: a rose bush, a pine tree, a stump, and a rusted-out Lincoln Continental Mark V riding cinderblocks. The five-year-old was most often It. While he counted, the tallest of the three, Spiderman, having figured out that the little one never looked up, would climb the tree, carefully keeping his face away from the sap and the sharp needles. The other older kid, Batman, would carefully tuck his cape into his belt and crawl under the car, leaving Achilles holding his breath. The youngest one, Wolverine, would count — one, two, three, four, four, four, seven, eight, nine, twenty — then wander the yard for barely ten seconds before he started crying, poking himself in the face with his plastic claws as he tried to wipe the tears away.

When they let him hide, Wolverine always stood at the edge of the rosebush and closed his eyes, as if that made him disappear. Achilles had often seen that, under fire, had always thought it a natural reaction to fear, never realizing that maybe the person just wanted to disappear. Troy had done it when Wexler ran into the minefield. Wexler had done it when Wages shot the sniper. Achilles had done it when Troy followed Wexler, swore to never look away again, but did it again when Merriweather was shot.

The two older boys started jumping on the roof of the car, yelling, “Where’s Tony? Where’s Tony?” Tony, aka Wolverine, was on his back under the rusted-out car, and as it began to rock and wobble on the cinderblocks, he bit his lips to suppress a laugh.

“Are you fucking stupid?” yelled Achilles.

The kids froze, looking around for the source of the yelling. Achilles lifted the window higher and stuck his head out. “Get off the car, idiots.”

The kids shot him the finger and starting jumping again. Achilles started for the door, but Wexler stopped him, placing both hands on his chest and saying, “Breathe.”

“I’ll stick those fingers up their asses,” said Achilles.

“They’re kids. And I have to live here.”

After Wexler talked to the kids, he got a couple of beers. Achilles was breathing heavily, almost crying.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Wexler.

“What do you mean?”

“The kids, the flowers. What the fuck?” asked Wexler.

“Flowers?”

“ What flowers? ” said Wexler in a mocking tone. He removed a bouquet from the trash and handed Achilles a card. “Who’s Ines Delesseppes?”

The card was printed on heavy paper with a seashell embossed on the cover. It read, To Naomi Wexler and Family, Our Deepest Sympathies for Your Loss. From Achilles Conroy and Ines Delesseppes.

“You can’t understand second chances. And what if Naomi was here? Are you trying to hurt her again?” Wexler pointed to the flowers.

“When I came up here, I mentioned a funeral.”

“Mine!” Wexler thumped his chest. “You can’t be serious. Don’t we know enough dead people? That’s some fucking high school shit.” Wexler stomped across the room, the pictures on the mantel rattling with each step. He slumped into the La-Z-Boy, holding his head in his hands. With his small frame and frown he looked like a child in time-out. All three of the kids next door were now jumping up and down on the roof of the car, yelling, “That’s some high school shit!”

“I had to come, but I couldn’t tell her why. What else could I do?” In hindsight, there was a lot he could have done. He could have said his friend was sick, or in rehab. He could have just said that he had to go because he was a man, and he had shit to do.

Wexler jumped back up. “There are things you don’t lie about. On second thought, I guess you wouldn’t know. It all makes sense.”

For someone reborn, Wexler was overreacting. Achilles wanted to say, Doesn’t Jesus have your back? Merri said it too, later adding, “And now he’s got my foot.” But Jackson used to say stuff like that too, and look where he ended up. Sometimes Achilles repeated these sayings to Ines, all these nifty little aphorisms his friends spouted at the most unexpected times. “No need to order Chinese,” she’d say. “Achilles the Fortune Cookie.” All the fortune, half the calories.

Wexler kicked the sofa. A bird cawed; the dogs across the street answered. Then it was silent except for the shuffling of Achilles’s feet. The kids next door yelled, “That’s some fly school shit!”

“How’d I die?” asked Wexler.

“That never came up.”

“How did you describe me?” asked Wexler.

“I said you were a good guy.”

“That’s all?” asked Wexler.

“You are,” said Achilles.

“Did you tell her I look like Prince?”

“No.”

“Buttcake.”

Achilles tried to explain that it wasn’t about Wexler. He hadn’t told Ines everything. As Wexler ranted, Achilles looked around the room, as tidy as if two women lived there. Unlike Wages’s place, there was no clutter. He wondered, not for the first time, if Wexler was gay, which would explain why he was so dramatic and sensitive. Wexler was still his friend, but he wondered.

“So what if she doesn’t get it, she could still forgive you,” said Wexler. “You’re not giving her the chance.”

“She wouldn’t understand. She has a fancy house, and family paintings, and butterflies mounted in the hallway, and waiters and cooks. She pretended to be white. Her family had slaves. It’s survivor guilt. They’re part of the talented tenth.”

“Like Special Forces?”

“No.” Achilles explained that the talented tenth were the blacks who were supposed to go out, make money, and come back to save their community.

“Whatever! You’re lying to her,” said Wexler.

“Her family had slaves. They were rich. She helps people because it’s easy. She can afford to volunteer. She says she doesn’t want to be like white people, but she is. That’s why she says it. That’s how she tricked me.”

“Tricked you?” asked Wexler. “She helps people. Who cares about motivation? And if it’s so bad, why are you with her?”