T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

New Orleans was on every channel. “Tropical Storm” had been dropped. The cyclone tearing across the Caribbean was known by one name: Katrina. The governor of Louisiana declared a state of emergency, and Mississippi was planning a massive evacuation. A couple days before, he’d sent Ines a text message with the hotel’s address, but that was the last time he was able to get through, or receive a response. He tried calling Ines every few minutes. All circuits busy.

An argument erupted in the parking lot. The motel must have filled up. Every parking space was taken. People streamed from their cars to their rooms, some setting up for car camping while others appeared to be negotiating side deals. From the window, Achilles watched the panicked travelers with a smirk. They could easily pitch a tent in the strip of grass and trees that ran between the motel and the highway. If he hadn’t been waiting for Ines, he would. He’d travel light. Curl up in a branch. Tuck away in the attic of one of those abandoned buildings down where Wexler worked. If it wasn’t for Ines, he’d do a lot of things differently, starting with laying five fingers across Keller’s face the next time he said, Fuck yo couch, zigga.

But there was Ines, and if he had told her the truth, she’d be in Atlanta, safe. If he didn’t hear from her by morning, he would go to New Orleans, contraflow or not, walking if needed. He would tell her he loved her, introduce her to his mother, give up drinking. Catch the garter at every wedding.

In his bag he found a bottle of rum he’d bought earlier and one of Ines’s elastic ponytail scrunchies. A few long hairs were tangled in it, and when he held it up, they caught the light, turning a mix of purple and peach. He held it to his nose, and his thoughts slowed and his breathing grew deep and steady. All circuits busy.

It was the last Friday of the month, upside-down day, the night they would have had breakfast for dinner, turned the AC as low as possible, and snuggled under the comforter, pretending it was winter. He longed for Ines’s soft snore, her purr his metronome, lulling him asleep with a rhythm steady enough to set his heart by. Deeper in his rucksack, he found his original map of New Orleans, complete with Wages’s legend. There was the X where the church was located, and a circle representing a one-mile radius. Outside the circle sat the Garden District, Uptown, and Esplanade Ridge. Like distant planets, he had known them in name only until he met Ines. He ran his finger across the city until he found their street and, in case anyone should ever see it, drew an asterisk instead of a heart. And to think, when she had first called and mentioned the possibility of leaving the city, he’d felt as if she was crowding him. All circuits busy.

HE WASN’T SUPERSTITIOUS, BUT HE WANTED TO BELIEVE THAT HIS CHILDISH wagers paid off. If he made the traffic light without accelerating, if he had correct change, if he reached the automatic door before it closed, Ines was okay, and soon enough, she was at the door, chewing gum, which she did only on road trips, and wearing her driving outfit: a sundress and no underwear.

He lifted her skirt, but Ines had other ideas, like putting flowers on Wexler’s grave or taking Naomi out to dinner. She remade the bed, wiped down the bathroom counter, filled the ice trays. She tested the taps, ruffled the drapes, stopping only when she saw the empty rum bottle in the trashcan. Appearing satisfied, she plopped into the chair beside the bed. “I had a tree planted in his name. It must be terrible to bury your child. It must feel like the world’s upside down. Did the flowers arrive?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did they like them?”

“Oh yes.”

She jumped up again. Turned on the television, flitted about, making minor adjustments while the news played. She moved the table six inches to the left, centered the chairs on it, opened the drapes and closed them, all the while with her eyes on her hands, but her head cocked in a way that let him know she was listening to the news. The anchor, a middle-aged white man, was reporting from the foyer of an office building on downtown Canal Street, deserted save for the wind pushing a lone shopping cart across the bus lane. Palm trees bowed unnaturally, rain swept horizontally across the street. After the lamps, chairs, and pillows had been moved the half-inch Ines felt they required, she stopped in the middle of the room and surveyed her work. The room looked the same to Achilles. Ines pointed the remote at the TV. “Bang bang. That’s better. Let’s get Sammy.”

By agreeing to drive there in Achilles’s truck and let him sit in the middle of the bench seat— an aptly named space, Achilles thought —they persuaded Sammy to spend an hour at a small traveling carnival on Buford Highway. Sammy had resisted because Fairs are for kids. Achilles concurred, wanting to check the little bastard back into the library he came from. But Ines was insistent, whispering, “He doesn’t have a father, and therefore feels compelled to act like an adult.” So, Achilles found himself wandering between food trailers, barkers, and flashing lights, none of which interested Sammy, who didn’t want to take a spin on any of the rides, rickety erector sets so shaky they scared even Achilles, especially the Kamikaze, shimmying like a lame Huey raining pain. Sammy wanted no fried candy bars, cotton candy, or funnel cake because Candy’s for kids. But when he saw the big blue bull’s-eye flashing over the shooting gallery, he tugged Achilles’s hand, referring to himself as a marksman.

The shooting gallery barker, stumbling as if drunk, motioned Sammy over, flashing crooked teeth. “Easiest game on the boardwalk.”

Surpisingly, Ines handed the pompadoured barker a clutch of tickets, more than one game’s worth. Sammy made a show of picking up each rifle, weighing it, sighting it, and replacing it before he settled on one. He tucked the butt under his armpit, pressed his cheek against the stock, pinched one eye nearly shut, closed the other, and missed ten shots in a row. He tried another rifle and went through the same routine, this time waggling his tongue, still hitting nothing, hearing nothing but the trigger and the soft thunk of pellets striking the sandbag behind the target. The barker said Sammy only needed to warm up. Ines handed over more tickets and rushed off to replenish her supply. Sammy tried again, and missed again. Ines returned and nudged Achilles.

“I thought you didn’t like guns,” said Achilles.

Ines whispered, “Yada, yada, yada, I know, Mr. They’re-fun-as-long-as-they’re-not-pointed-at-you. This is a game. You can teach him the proper technique, to be responsible. He needs the distraction. He’s upset about the storm.”

“No he’s not.”

Ines raised her eyebrows, the Groucho Marx impression that was her nice way of saying, Obey . Achilles taught Troy how to shoot, then got into trouble when Troy shot a rock and the pellet ricocheted into his face. Praying Sammy didn’t hurt himself, Achilles nested the rifle butt against his shoulder. “Hold your breath for two counts before firing.”

Sammy looked up at Achilles, losing his grip as he did so. Achilles readjusted Sammy’s posture. “Stay focused. Eyes on target, always, in all things in life.”

“Thanks. I’m going to win now.” Sammy’s smile was big and bright, and so was Ines’s, her face lit up like Christmas. Was this what it felt like to have a family?

Sammy missed again. “Is this loaded?”

“Of course, son,” snapped the barker.

“He’s not your son,” said Ines.

The barker started to say something, looked at Achilles, thought better of it, and said, “Sorry ma’am.”