T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

This time he sat outside for almost two hours before going in. Stepping through the door he remembered his first night — the view from the rooftop across the street, the way he had been overwhelmed by the photos on the wall. Now, the walls were as bare as the ceiling, and both were scarred by a brown watermark. The plaster had fallen off in chunks larger than dinner plates. The stuffing was bursting out of the high-heeled shoe chair, and the sparkling strawberry settee was overturned. I know, dude. Somewhere a seventies van is missing a bench seat. Don’t come a-knockin’.

When he finally worked up the nerve — he had promised, Mrs. Wages was depending on him — he dragged the dresser to the wall under the scuttle hole and climbed up to the attic. George, Wages’s neighbor, had set up camp in the attic. He had a propane stove, flashlight, candles, sheets, a water bucket set up in the corner, and a row of empty two-liter bottles. He sat cross-legged with all his possessions arranged in a semicircle around him like acolytes. “What are you doing up here?”

“The ceiling’s out in my half,” said George.

“I mean why?”

“I couldn’t stay in Houston. This here’s my home. I mean the city. I mean Nola.”

“I know what you mean,” said Achilles. Indeed, New Orleans natives loved their city like nothing he had ever before seen.

“You going to put me out?”

No, Achilles shook his head. He’d never spoken at length to George, but knew he was in his fifties, had three adult daughters that each had at least one kid, and they all lived with him. Achilles took a seat on the overturned bucket, brushing aside the ants on his pants. A trail of them ran across the trusses at chest height.

“Where are your daughters?”

George looked down. “I don’t know. You gonna put me out?”

“Stop asking that. No!”

Piled in the corner: winter clothes, photo albums, Bethany’s jewelry box, and Wages’s guns, all of which Bethany must have had the foresight to carry up to the attic.

“I didn’t touch Mr. Kyle’s stuff.”

“I’m sure he appreciates that.”

George was as good as his word. Wages’s trunk was unopened, though it easily could have been. A few tools were scattered about: a small hammer, a few pipes, a pair of pliers, but no axe. He could see where Bethany had dug at the walls, pulled down the insulation, and clawed at the boards to get out. The vent was knocked out, the hole open to the sky, barely eight inches in diameter. No one could have fit through there. What did it take for Bethany to do that, to believe that the only chance to save little Wages was to send him up the air vent? She couldn’t have known it would turn, he would get stuck, he would hear her drown, and he would soon after drown himself.

He beat the lock off Wages’s footlocker. The cedar lining had separated from the tops and sides, and wood chips were mixed in with Wages’s BDUs.

Achilles pocketed the Bronze Star for Wages’s mom. The photos looked like watercolors. There was Wages’s laminated birth certificate. With a wife, child, and real job, Wages had always seemed so much older than twenty-six. The label had soaked off a bottle of Maker’s Mark. Achilles’s blue envelope was a cake of damp paper. He picked it up and it lay limp in his hand, unsalvageable. He didn’t see anything Wages would want him to save, so he shut the locker back up. He sat on the floor, dropping his legs down the scuttle hole.

“Leaving already?”

He tossed the Maker’s to George. George tossed it back. “Don’t drink.”

“Me neither, these days.” Achilles tucked it in his belt anyway.

“I’ll watch this stuff,” said George.

He considered inviting George to stay in one of the empty condos, but that was probably a bad idea. Achilles nodded his thanks. As he lowered himself to the first floor, he saw a fingernail stuck in the wood between a rafter and the sheathing, and choked. The ant trail ended at the fleshy tip.

On the ground floor, he nudged one of the little cushions — though it was already dirty, he couldn’t bring himself to kick it — revealing one of Bethany’s épées. He decided to take that too. When he reached for it, he saw the starfish, with three legs missing. Soon his arms were full: the starfish, the épée, a pair of her Crocs, a somewhat salvageable photo of them at Disney, a cushion from the white couch, Wages’s hunting hat, and the Maker’s Mark. Though it smelled terribly, he put the hat on. If he had had a crazy straw, he would have downed the entire bottle of whiskey.

Achilles and Ines were at Harrah’s Casino trying their luck at the quarter slots when Achilles felt someone watching him and looked up to see Wages tromping over. Without thinking, he scratched his right ear and looked skyward, meaning stay away. In Goddamnistan, it meant keep a safe distance and keep your eyes open, but it started in a bar outside of Fort Benning, where it meant stay the fuck away, I’m on the prowl. Wages didn’t change his stride. He kept on walking without saying a word, passing close enough that Achilles felt the air move. That was the last he saw of his friend.

The last time they spoke at any length was the afternoon Wages tried to explain the Zulu warrior ritual to him. Achilles hadn’t understood it at the time, but he thought he did now, after watching all the people wander through the streets of New Orleans like zombies, forever changed by what they had seen: the man in the checkout line sniffling as if he had a cold; the guy at the corner of Canal and Camp Street, whose eyes watered when he was mistaken for someone else; the vet in the bar with Charlie 1 who suddenly teared up and didn’t hide it, as if he didn’t really know he was crying, sobbing, shoulders shuddering as if he were being electrocuted. How had Achilles become those men, not even realizing what was happening unless Ines was there to wipe his cheeks?

That was Wages’s point. Even if you don’t remember, you never forget. They were in the attic for that final conversation, Achilles standing and Wages stooping, putting his last bottle of liquor into his trunk, Achilles denying it when Wages said he understood that the Bethany incident made Achilles uncomfortable.

“No way,” said Achilles. Who am I to judge? he wanted to say. I impersonated my brother, and spent time stalking ass when I should have shown Ines Troy’s photos and asked for help. “I don’t ever think about it.”

“I do every day. That’s the only time that shit ever happened. Ask Bethany.”

Achilles shrugged off the suggestion.

“I’m seeing somebody to make sure it doesn’t happen again. The guy’s pretty good. He’s a real old cat, a vet himself. Korea at fifteen, then Vietnam. He’s seen it all.” Wages closed the trunk and sat on the lid, patting the space beside him.

“I’m fine, dude.”

“Whatever.”

“That shit ends up on your record. What if you get the chance to go back? You’ll be flagged as …” Achilles hesitated, trying to find the right word.

“I don’t say I drink,” said Wages. “If I did that, they’d blame the booze.”

“You’re still flagged.”

“I’ve thought about that,” said Wages. “I don’t want to go back.”

At the time, Achilles still wanted to go back, to be with his friends and brother. “We were kings.”

“Don’t look at me like I’m making bitch eyes.” That hung in the air a moment before Wages continued. “I have so many fucking dreams it’s a wonder I sleep. It’s because we don’t have any rituals. That’s how the doctor explains it. That’s why I have the dreams. I never had them over there. Know anything about the Zulus?”

“No.”

“After a battle, the witch doctor takes you through the ritual so you can reenter society. The doctor says that because I didn’t go through any ritual, my addiction to risk keeps me at the casino where my job is the perfect cover for my propensity to gamble.” He said this last part through his nose.