T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“Exactly.”

“Or like when Auntie I says if you think of the whole world as a prison, there’s no such thing as a cage-free egg?”

Achilles took a second to sort that out. “That’s what your auntie I believes, that everything is connected.”

“Then why don’t we help them if they’re not bad?” asked Sammy.

“Who?”

“The people in New Orleans,” said Sammy.

“I don’t know, Sammy. I don’t always know what your auntie I means.”

“So, we’re all part of the same particle, except them?” asked Sammy.

“Them too. We’re all like family. Family looks out for each other, right?”

“Cain killed Abel,” said Sammy.

“What’s that?”

“When I ask for a brother, my mom says Cain killed Abel.”

Achilles wasn’t ready for kids. He’d pictured Ines pregnant, but he wasn’t ready for kids. He always imagined them as receptacles. He never imagined them asking so many damned pointed questions. “I’m pretty sure that was an accident.”

“No it wasn’t,” said Sammy. He looked like that kid in the video, the one stuck at the edge of the cliff. It was the expression, as if he wanted to believe but needed a little help.

“Okay, so it was on purpose, but he didn’t know any better. They were the first brothers, like a dry run.”

“Was he angry? My teacher says anger is one letter away from danger!”

“Is that Mrs. Babcock?”

Sammy nodded.

“What happened that last time you quoted her?”

“I said the flood cleaned the city up, then Auntie I went into a rage and started squeezing and slapping, and I was running and kicking and getting away, and she pulled the drapes down for everyone watching to see her pulling my hair, and—”

Achilles put his hand up. “Enough, Sammy. I was there.”

“I also quoted you. Some people are in the wrong place—”

Achilles put his hand up again. “Sammy, don’t repeat everything you hear, and don’t share everything you think.”

The waiter brought the pizza to the table next to them but the little girl wouldn’t eat. “You said you called them and they were going to come get him, and he’s still there, and he might be dead now, or runned over by a car.” She started crying again.

Her parents maintained their poise, but the way the father cut his eyes made it clear he blamed his wife for allowing a scene he wouldn’t tolerate at home. The little girl wailed again, this time waking her brother, who joined her.

“I called them, Ingrid. You hear me?” The father sounded exasperated. Achilles and the father briefly made eye contact. The father offered an embarrassed grin, but scowled with his eyes. “The ambulance will be here any minute.”

“It might be too late. A car might have run him over.”

Achilles realized they were talking about the homeless man sleeping on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Achilles couldn’t eat because he couldn’t avoid wondering how long she would care so deeply and what would eventually cool that heart of fire. Would the frustration and the fear and the impotence of this afternoon be the first step to saying, Fuck it ? That was the way of the world. You bought cigarettes from a kid; the kid bought more. It was like you were always placing a losing bet, but kept gambling pieces of yourself away in the hope the house would eventually slip up. Maybe it was easier to care about things you couldn’t fix, like world peace, than to care about people who were present and needed you.

The waitress came over wearing her best smile and asked if she could get someone another soda. That didn’t work. Achilles leaned toward their table and said, “Ingrid, he’s only sleeping. I talked to him when I came in. He’s just very tired.”

Ingrid looked up for the first time. She sniffed twice, so quick and hard that her nostrils clapped. “Really?”

“Yes, really. He’s only resting.”

She sat up, clapped once, and grabbed a big slice of pizza. The mother whispered her thanks. The father smiled, genuinely this time, and gave him a thumbs-up. Achilles felt guilty about covering the father’s lie, but the little girl was so happy. Besides, it was no worse than lying about Santa Claus. As they left, Sammy looked up at Achilles and asked, “That’s what Auntie I means, right?”

“What’s that, Sammy?”

“What you told the girl,” said Sammy.

“Thanks.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“You just ate.”

“I like to plan ahead.”

“How about upside-down day?” asked Achilles.

“Like pancakes for dinner? Really?”

“Really,” said Achilles.

“Can I put jelly between them and roll them up?”

“You can do anything you want, Sammy, but isn’t that for kids?”

“I am a kid.”

After Sammy buckled himself in, Achilles yanked his seat belt to ensure that it was properly latched. Sammy tapped him on the hand. “Do you have a brother?”

“What’s up, Sammy?” asked Achilles.

“I don’t have a brother. I’d like you to be my brother,” said Sammy.

“Oh yeah. I said that the other day,” said Achilles.

“I mean for real, not a bribe for keeping a secret,” said Sammy.

Achilles snapped his fingers. “Okay. Bang! It’s official.”

“You don’t sound like you mean it.”

“I do, Sam my man. I really do.”

They found Ines checking the drawers, slamming each hard enough to shake the TV. The television blared, voices distorted. Her eyes red and puffy, she pointed at the TV. “They’re killing us. They’re saying shit like the flood is cleaning up the city. They won’t let the survivors cross the bridge to Gretna.”

“Flak jacket, babe,” he said.

“The Gretna police have set up a roadblock, a fucking barricade — Sammy cover your ears — and are threatening to shoot anyone who tries to cross the bridge. They’re saying — Sammy! — fuck you. Die! They survived a natural disaster to die now. Do you know how long it takes someone to dehydrate?”

He knew exactly how long it took someone to dehydrate or drown or asphyxiate, as well as bleed to death from a stomach wound or severed carotid.

“Not now.” Ines continued, “We know some of these people Achilles. We know they’re not all criminals. And the few who are, can you completely blame them? For five centuries told they don’t deserve to be alive.” She felt that was the crux of being black in America: it was a crime to assert your humanity, to speak your mind. According to her, it had been like this since slaves demanded their freedom, and even now a black person couldn’t speak their heart and mind without white people feeling threatened. “And it culminates at this moment, when it’s a criminal act to cross a bridge that leads from certain death to safety.” She pointed to the TV as if to say, Behold!

The city was waist-high in water, but he could see enough landmarks to guesstimate the location of St. Jude, the house where he’d been ambushed, Wages’s home, the school across from Wages. He wondered where Wages was, but knew he was okay wherever he was. Wages certainly wouldn’t be among the people stranded on the overpasses. He wanted to look away, but they cut to a wide shot and the Superdome appeared, like a capsized ship, and behind it a sodden city center. Jesuit High School sat midscreen, and though he couldn’t see it, he knew that meant that Wages’s little duplex was underwater. Of course Wages would have gotten out. As the camera panned across the city, across the water coffin, he saw the burned-out camelback, Jax Brewery, the new St. Jude, Charity Hospital, where the morgue was located. Surprisingly, he felt angry.

Ines crouched on the bed, butt to haunches, looking like a statue of a lion, regal, or one of those weird winged tigers, the pose reminding him of the difference between the two of them. He wasn’t sure about the image, but if he asked, she would know. Looking at the evacuees, he remembered that day at St. Augustine when he wondered why so many of them wore jackets and coats in the heat, not realizing they simply had no safe place to leave them.