T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

As they walked back toward the spinning lights, Marcus called. Achilles ignored it, turning his phone off for the rest of the time they were at the carnival. On the way out of the parking lot, they saw the barker taking a smoke break. Achilles waved some money at him. When he came over, Achilles slammed the door into him and punched him three times in the nose, stopping only because he heard it crack.

Getting back into the truck, he said, “He won’t be driving any more buses.”

Except for Sammy saying “Cool!” and Ines shushing him, they rode back to the hotel in silence.

Over the next couple of days, Ines was glued to the tube. “Flak jacket, babe,” he would say, hoping to get her away from the television. His comment was not well received. Ray Nagin, the mayor of New Orleans, had issued a mandatory evacuation. While Ines cursed at the TV, Sammy was unaffected by the news coverage, moping around and asking to go outside. Broken levees and stranded citizens meant nothing to him. At one point, he saw a floating car and yelled, “Cool!” That was the extent of his interest.

The three of them were piled on the bed, picking at the pizza they’d ordered for breakfast, when Marcus called again, prompting Achilles to claim he had to run a quick errand, and to see a few of the fellows before they left town.

“Take Sammy,” she said.

On the way to Grady, Achilles dropped Sammy off with Wexler. At the morgue, Achilles followed Marcus back into the cooler. The unclaimed child was still in the walk-in, next to another gurney. “Still no kin. He’ll be cremated soon.” Marcus pulled back the sheet on the other gurney. “I’ll leave you alone.”

Achilles stepped closer to the body. Multiple blunt force traumas, abrasions on the upper-right forehead, abrasions on the lower-right forehead above the eyebrow, multiple contusions on the right cheek and lower nose, back of head. Abrasions on his chest, lower coastal margin. Contusions on the left arm, elbow, forearm, wrist, upper inner arm. Contusions and abrasions on the right elbow, foot, toes; hemorrhage on the rib area and leg. The left temple was concave, skull flattened, as if he had been struck with a brick or another heavy, blunt object. Eyes swollen, lips cracked. Teeth knocked out. Finger pads filed down. Deep fissures ran up the cheeks.

A sheet attached to the gurney detailed the injuries. “Bone fractures, rib fractures, contusions on midabdomen, back, and buttocks extending to the left flank, abrasions, lateral cuts on buttocks. Contusions on back of legs and knees, abrasions on knees, left fingers, and encircling to left wrist. Lacerations, right forth and fifth fingers. Blunt force injuries, predominately recent contusions on torso and lower extremities.”

Achilles looked again. The mole on his right cheek was lost in the bruises. The shoulders were broad enough, reaching almost to the edges of the gurney. There were faint lines across his cheeks. He was thin, almost as thin as Wexler. Almost as thin as he had been after jump school. He was rawboned in the face and shoulders, the skin stretched tight over the large jaw and cheekbones and oddly protruded shoulder, the skin appearing borrowed and two sizes too small for his frame.

Through all the bruises, Achilles couldn’t make out the cut under his eye sustained when they wrestled Josh; the scar on his neck that their mother’s cat gave him one of the many times they teased it and forced it into the house, where it would get in trouble; the V-shaped scar from the minefield, his only war injury. Achilles lifted the hand — the birthday scar on the palm was there, as was the scar above his eye where the pellet caught him after he shot the rock. There was the cut on his bicep from the water tower ladder. Achilles touched his face, cold and firm. The skin didn’t spring back, remaining depressed as if still bearing the weight of Achilles’s touch. One tear landed on Troy’s chin. Not now! Achilles held his breath; that tear was all he would allow himself. His brother was a hero. He went into a minefield after Wexler. Troy wasn’t reckless. He was brave. He was here, and must be avenged before being mourned. As Merriweather would say, “We don’t get down, we get even.”

He took Troy’s hand, running his finger along the long scar on the palm, and he switched the tags, putting the child’s tag on Troy. He closed the door silently behind him, as if to avoid waking anybody. Marcus leaned against the wall staring at his shoes and twirling a cigarette.

“What happened to him?” asked Achilles.

“Abrasions consistent with the use of restraints. Manner of death is homicide.” Marcus flipped through his clipboard. “Found outside of Banneker Homes two days ago.”

“Banneker Homes?”

“Benjamin Banneker.”

“Benjamin Banneker?” asked Achilles.

“The Bricks. He was dead before the ambulance arrived. Broken neck, crushed vertebrae, probably from a fall. One set of bruises is postnecrotic. It’s like he fell from a building, twice. Seen a couple like this before, caught up with Pepper and them.”

“Poor kid.”

“Hmm?” said Marcus.

“That’s not my brother.”

“Are you sure?” Marcus grunted.

“I’d know my brother. That’s not him. But thanks for calling.” On the way to the elevator, he passed a group of old women shuffling down the hall, a young boy enfolded in one of their arms; a father and mother and two daughters huddled together as if seeking protection from the elements; another family in their Sunday best, another in capris, a group of men in sweats and bandanas, a kid with a red lollipop ring around his mouth: all the men stood with narrow eyes, their mouths tight, like dams.

Achilles hurried past them and to his car, his arms limp, numb from the wrist down as if the nerves had been cut. He beat them against the steering wheel until he could feel again. He took out the photo he carried in his wallet, the photo of him and Troy at the amusement park. His favorite photo he didn’t have with him. It was from Pennsylvania. They had crossed the County Line Highway, which they were forbidden to do, and snuck out to the old water tower. It was the first time Achilles had figured out the auto-timer on the camera, before which self-portraits were assholes and elbows.

That day, Achilles climbed to the top of the water tower. Troy cut his hand on the rusty ladder and chickened out halfway. Achilles had escorted him down and cleaned the wound with spit, to prevent lockjaw. On that day, like so many others, he was brave when it mattered least. Helping Troy down from the tower had been easy, but Achilles was elated to have saved the day. He’d wanted to mark it with a photograph. In the photo, both of their faces are blurry from fidgeting; only they know who they are. Achilles, ten, is still taller and stronger. Troy, eight, hasn’t had his first growth spurt yet. They stand side by side in their secondhand Tuffskins. It’s a sunny day, and they squint against the light, so bright that it washed out the flash. The candy bars melted in their pockets. How sweet they were, the chocolate sticking to their hands. He licked his right off, but Troy rubbed some on his cheek and held his sticky palm next to Achilles. “Now we look like brothers.”

Troy, ever present. When Achilles, his baseball bat in the trunk of his defaced Ford LTD, high-wheeled it to Gary’s Cycle Shop to confront Janice’s burly brothers only to discover they weren’t working that day, Troy was there. When Achilles buried Buster, the rabbit he kept hidden behind the house in a makeshift kennel of cardboard and milk crates, Troy was there. When Achilles’s father lost his temper on that birthday, Troy was there, his quavering voice, scored with fear, pleading for their father to stop.