T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

He had heard none of it, not a word.

The dreams, though, were alive, like a switch from black and white to straight in your face 3D, from the peep show to the harem. He remembered the IED, holding Jackson’s hand. But in his dreams he sees every wound and gash on Jackson’s face — the abrasion under his eye, the cut on his chin, the missing right ear — and that his left hand has only two fingers on it, like the little girl with the burned arm. He sees Merriweather on the gurney, his foot attached by a thin white tendon. He sees Merri’s kid, looking back to make sure he isn’t being chased, running almost fifty yards before bleeding out, mouthing “Papa.” And that look of confusion. He probably hadn’t even understood why he was suddenly so tired. He remembers Troy saying, more than once, “I could have come alone.”

Achilles, arms sore as if he’d been doing pull-ups all night, made his usual breakfast times two: protein powder and bottled water, three energy bars, and a spotted apple he scored from Charlie 1. He arranged the disaster zone special on a tray, fanning the energy bars out like an asterisk, and tiptoed back to the bedroom, but Ines was not in the bed, nor the bathroom, nor any place in the apartment. He found her on the roof, wearing a pair of blue fuzzy slippers with horns.

“My old favorites. The rest were in my mom’s basement. All ruined. That little skirt you liked, my spiked heels.” She listed a few other items, such as her velour tracksuit, his personal favorite. Under it, her tits felt so soft and furry.

“The list keeps adding up.”

“Speaking of that, you’re counting at night. Slow and deliberate. You go to the forties and start over. Repeatedly. You went to 112 once, but only once.”

He asked her to write the numbers down.

“Who says I’ll be sleeping with you again?”

“No one. I expect you to be awake. If not, your findings will be unreliable,” he said in his best military voice.

She laughed. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“I understand. I mean, I can go alone.”

“I don’t want to make you go through this.”

“Ines, I’m used to it. I saw it every day for two years.” And I’ve done it for the last year.

“This isn’t your battle.” She stared as if considering for the first time the full depth of his experiences. “Listen to me.”

He hoped she would allow him to go alone, to be useful, to do what she couldn’t do for herself. He also wanted to use an overnight trip to a distant morgue as an excuse to be gone long enough to make one last trip to Atlanta to take care of Pepper. But Ines insisted on accompanying Achilles to the morgues, even if she didn’t go in. Achilles argued this point, claiming she would be more useful at the phone bank.

“So you’re saying that because I can’t go all the way, I shouldn’t go at all?” asked Ines, her face red. “This is man’s work, is that what it is?”

They finally agreed they would put up flyers with her grandfather’s picture and return to the morgues the following day. The city was dotted with community bulletin boards where people had posted photos and notes. Their first stop, on Canal, was near the substation where Achilles had filed the MPR. Wanting to check on Morse, he felt imprisoned by his lies. For the first time he thought of them not as lies, but omissions, which were somehow worse. Lies filled space, creating a livable history, while omissions left him feeling incomplete, like phantom limbs.

That was certainly how everyone who posted these flyers must have felt, incomplete without these dogs, cats, a ferret, relatives. Ines touched each face, reading the names. Yearbook pictures, six mug shots, vacation photos, two boudoir shots, photo booth strips, prom pictures, wedding pictures, Xeroxes, color copies, group photos with one head circled, a mother with two children in her lap and both kids’ heads circled, a Santa photo, a Halloween scene, a bar mitzvah. The lettering was typed, printed, block print, cursive, English, Spanish, French, German, Russian, and, at the very bottom, labeled in crayon, an old man in a wheelchair holding a teddy bear, each wearing a birthday hat. Like most in this morbid collage, they are smiling. Written in crayon underneath: Lester Newman. Last seen at St. Louis Cathedral. Answers to Papi.

“You told me they have a funny sense of humor, but this is cruel. I’m telling them what I think.” She had her phone out before Achilles saw the flyer: a picture of him and Troy taken three years before at the Baltimore water park, before basic and infantry training, before jump school, before their tour of duty. Troy smiles, the gap in his front teeth prominent, his green eyes razors in the sunlight. He wears flip-flops and shorts, no shirt. It was hot that day, or so they’d thought. Against Troy’s broad shoulders, the swim towel around his neck is a mere cravat. He has hair. Achilles wears a DC United soccer jersey. His hair is shorn close to his head, but it’s clear he has a widow’s peak. His right hand is on Troy’s shoulder. His flip-flops are in his left hand because as soon as his father says, “Got it,” Achilles and Troy will hit the water slide. Achilles’s eyes are hidden behind Ray-Ban aviators, the glasses they thought all military men wore, and they smile as if they’ve won the lottery. At the bottom of the flyer there is a website, a toll-free number, and a local number.

“It’s okay,” he croaked, the paper trembling in his hand. “That’s what they want, for you to call.”

But there was no consoling Ines. “I don’t get this soldier’s humor! I just don’t! Who is this anyway?” she asked, jabbing Troy’s face. “It’s got to be his idea. He’d be the only one with the photo, wouldn’t he?”

Achilles nodded.

They put up a few more flyers, the mood growing heavier at each stop. The Circle Food Store, Jackson Square, the French Market; every bulletin board held at least one flyer with Achilles and Troy. Each time, Ines jabbed Troy’s face, complaining. “Who is he? The one who tells the jokes? I know there’s always a so-called joker. Who is he?”

“Troy.”

“Oh baby. I’m sorry. I thought he looked familiar. That’s poor taste.” She cradled his face. “Doesn’t Charlie 1 know?” She sighed heavily. “Didn’t you tell them?”

Achilles shook his head.

“Okay, baby, I understand. I would be polite, of course. I wouldn’t even tell them you saw it. But Troy is dead, and to keep bringing it up is painful. Okay?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Achilles dropped Ines off at home and spent the afternoon removing all the flyers he could find. He counted forty-three at the end of the day, forty-three copies of the photo he originally brought to New Orleans, enlarged so that Troy’s face was about the exact same size it had been on Levreau’s flyer, not life-sized, but close enough. He went to the website and saw the same picture there, and a few more. The website was hosted by a company that charged a fee to create and post these flyers. Must have been a good business, but never one he’d want to own.

The next morning while dressing, he asked Ines, “Did your grandfather, I mean Paul, have any distinguishing marks?”

“I’m going with you.”

“I’m only asking.”

Ines looked doubtful. “I’m going with you. But no. And you can call him my grandfather now. I guess you forgive people, or get closer to them, when they die. Did you feel that way about Wages and Troy?”

Achilles nodded.

Ines said, “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

She was right. He was closer to them all in death, recalling things he had forgotten. When Ines went to the bathroom, Achilles left. It would be easier to move through the morgues without her.