T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

Margaret sat at the expansive dining room table, working on her archive binders, which she referred to sometimes as the Book of the Dead and other times as the Betrayed. Headphones on, bobbing her head, she hunched over the book, printing in long, fancy letters and attaching photographs. The lined journals were indexes, the binders memorials. Blank scrapbooks were stacked up like toast at one end of the table and completed scrapbooks lined up at the other end, their spines heavily creased, the covers bulging. She appeared to be on volume twelve. Each victim was allotted a two-page spread, with a bio, a photo, if available, and a memorial object. The table around her was piled with letters from relatives, obituaries, photographs, and trinkets: scraps of cloth, bandless watches, single earrings, lucky pencils, each one attached to a tiny tag upon which she had written the owner’s name. He decided to bring the starfish. It was a hard job, and Achilles was glad to see her smile when Ines hugged her. They hovered in that room for a minute, and Achilles thought maybe it was just a routine trip.

“What are you listening to?” asked Ines.

“Juvenile.”

Ines put on the headphones, tapping her foot for a few seconds, but not smiling. She gently replaced the headphones, smoothing Margaret’s hair into place.

“It’s one of those songs makes you glad your booty’s hella big,” said Margaret.

Ines put her hand on her knees and shook her butt, shimmying side to side, chanting a cheer. Margaret joined in the chanting.

“You look more like a sixties surfer chick than a stripper,” laughed Margaret. “Doesn’t she, Achilles? Doesn’t she dance like a white girl? Doesn’t she?”

Caught off guard by the unexpected laughter, Achilles smiled reluctantly, an expression that felt out of place with the gray in Margaret’s hair, the lines around Ines’s eyes, the table piled high with photos. Their sudden joy reminded Achilles that humans could adapt to anything. Morgue workers, the guys who moved the port-o-lets, spotters, soldiers, people could get used to anything, and if you couldn’t adjust to it, you laughed about it, around it, or in it.

The change in mood was most palpable in the living room— parlor, dear —where Mrs. Delesseppes sat, the shelves bare, the lace doilies removed from the side tables, the genealogies no longer on the wall. Heavy curtains lined the windows and the light from the hallway sconces barely lit the room. As Ines had explained it, her mother suffered from a sudden morbid acuity of the senses, a ghastly sensitivity to sound, touch, and light that made it impossible for her to leave the house, except on nights hushed and solemn. She sat now with the latest edition of The Delesseppes in the New World open on the round antique table, which she had arranged before her chair, in easy reach, like a TV dinner table. It was the same armchair from which she had taken so many gleeful potshots at Ines in the past. Her hair was perfect, and she was dressed impeccably, her black skirt and red crepe jacket set off by wine-colored pumps and a matching scarf knotted around her neck in a big butterfly bow, all topped off with bright red nail polish and lively lipstick, none of which could camouflage her cheeks so gaunt and eyes so hollow. When had she last eaten? For the first time, Mrs. Delesseppes looked like a mother, an old and frail woman left with a house she no longer needed, no male heir to assume the mantle, and none in sight.

She merely nodded as Ines explained to Achilles why they needed to see him. It was a month after the flood, and Grandfather Paul still hadn’t returned. Ines and Boudreaux had looked around, to no avail.

“In fact, Boudreaux is at this very minute returning from Shreveport, where he went to view unidentified elderly patients at LSU hospital,” said Ines. “St. Bernard Parish was washed away. In some areas it looks like it never existed.”

Ines sat on the love seat next to Achilles. It was the closest they had been in weeks, and he swore he felt static electricity arc between their legs, hers tinged orange and purple by the light filtering through the heavy curtains.

Ines said, “His house was completely gone. We’ve been to all the shelters and called every Red Cross tent, and now … we need to … we have to … go to the morgues.”

“Go to the morgues,” said Mrs. Delesseppes, hacking as if to clear her throat.

“Drink your water, Mama,” Ines said gently before turning back to Achilles. “I know you’re busy with Charlie 1, but could you take a few days off to come with me?”

“Of course,” said Achilles. He wanted to add that it was no problem, but Ines cut him off, which was probably for the best. It shouldn’t sound easy.

“And I’m asking you here at the house because it’s a family concern, and we all had to agree before I asked you. Boudreaux isn’t up for any more trips.”

“That doesn’t say anything about him. He’s busy,” said Mrs. Delesseppes. “I didn’t mean to cut you off, dear.”

Ines nodded and waited until certain that her mother was finished. “Harriet is in Atlanta and may never come back. That leaves me, and I don’t want to go alone. Everyone — Mother, Boudreaux, and Harriet — agrees that it’s okay for you to come with me, if you promise to never tell anyone we meet that we are related to Paul. Mother insists that no matter what, Paul be allowed his dignity and privacy.”

Achilles nodded, adding, “That’s easy enough.”

“That’s the difficulty. We can’t go in and ask for him by name. We can’t even claim the body.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Mother has to know. She has to. So we have to go and look at everyone individually and …” At that point Ines choked up.

Achilles hugged her close, assuring her it was okay, that he understood better than she knew, and he would be glad to go as far and as often as she needed to.

“Achilles,” said Mrs. Delesseppes.

“Yes ma’am?”

She had pronounced his name correctly for the first time, and now she stared as if seeing him anew. It was hard to believe he had once fantasized about her. Seeing Mrs. D now, gazing so intently, scrutinizing, he knew even given the opportunity, he could never have realized those visions. It would have been merely lust. He was ashamed that he’d thought of her as a MILF. He was no match for Ines, let alone someone of her mother’s caliber. She’d opened her house to strangers in need after the flood, feeding and clothing them. Now she sought the truth, even if it was unbearable. Was this what his mother was thinking? Again it occurred to him that women were braver than men in ways he’d never considered.

Ines ran her thumbs under his eyes and hugged him close.

“Achilles,” Mrs. Delesseppes said again. “I thank you for your time. I trust you will never betray the confidence this family reposes in you.”

Once they were in the car, Ines took his hand and said, “Thank you. I know how much the time with Charlie 1 means to you.”

That much she was right about. Charlie 1 had meant a lot to him.

As Troy put it, “Whiskey is for sissies, unless you drink it straight.” As Merriweather always said, “The liver is a muscle, and you’ve got to exercise it.” As Wexler said, “They have wine in church.” As Dixon put it, “Agave is the nectar of the gods.”

Charlie 1 was no different. As Vodka put it, “I’m aptly named.” As Bryant put it, “Ain’t nothing wrong a beer can’t put right.” As Wilson said, “If it weren’t for rum, I’d have no fun.” Daddy Mention’s pride: a liver the size of Texas and a heart the size of Delaware, wink wink. With Charlie 1, Achilles’s liver got plenty of exercise, and he was out of practice.