T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

He couldn’t tell her in Louisiana, amid the wreckage. By traveling north and avoiding the Gulf Coast, Achilles hoped to avoid much of the destruction, but the damage was as extensive far inland, as upsetting as it had been when he was driving down from Atlanta, when he had wished someone was with him. Now he wished he was alone. Ines sat in silence, sometimes pressing her hand to the glass, shaking her head dreamily, other times looking straight ahead. She kept her sunglasses on at all times. Eden Isle, Slidell, Picayune, Hattiesburg — all wrecked, traces of damage vanishing only when they reached Meridian, almost two hundred miles away.

He couldn’t tell her in Mississippi, she slept through it. He wanted to tell her at the rest station north of Atlanta, but she looked so peaceful feeding the ducks. He couldn’t tell her in South Carolina; she was upset by the sudden ubiquity of the Confederate flag.

They’d hit snow north of Charlottesville, and he had to concentrate on driving. Meanwhile, Ines was enthralled by the scenery, the snowbanks, white fields, and bejeweled trees, cooing at a setting that took her back to her college years. It was the first time she’d smiled during the entire trip. He couldn’t tell her then. The weather reduced their pace to a crawl at times, putting them behind schedule so that it was sunrise by the time they reached Maryland, where she noticed the plates and, having never been to the DC region, called it a real metropolitan area, as she could tell by the variety of license plates.

As they neared his house, Ines looked out over the carpet of subdivisions and remarked that she’d never taken him for a literal suburbanite. He assured her he wasn’t, even as they passed the Kmart and Wal-Mart and Target, the outlet malls and strip malls. He disowned it all, explaining how it spread around them like fungus. But she oohed at a couple of the houses, couldn’t get over how clean it all looked, imagined it to be the safest place on earth. They reached the zenith of the highway overlooking his town, and he could see the streets, black ribbons in the white snow. He admitted once taking that as evidence of a grand design.

“It does look kind of like a section of a brain.”

“I thought so too. Once.”

“Once?”

“A long time ago. When I was a kid.”

“That wasn’t so long ago.”

It wasn’t, but as they approached the house, it felt like part of another lifetime. “Here we are. It’s not much,” he said, pulling up the drive.

Trees, seclusion, red shutters; she loved it all. “It’s like Santa’s workshop.”

Unlike Santa’s workshop, the house was quiet. He hoped his aunts would be around to act as a buffer. But when he knocked and let himself in, it was clear they weren’t there. The first thing he noticed was the smell of Pine-Sol, bleach, and ammonia. Ines used only natural cleaning products; by comparison, his house smelled strongly of chemicals. The odor that once signified clean was as alien as the scent that assaulted him in the back of taxicabs. His mother was in the recliner, where she’d been sleeping for quite some time judging by the cushion lines imprinted on her cheek. At least she wasn’t wearing her backpack.

“Ines, this is my mother, Anna Conroy.”

His mother smiled sleepily. “She’s so beautiful.”

Ines would see that he was poor, but that was the least of it. Whenever Ines described people spending their entire life wrapped up in their own little world, never leaving home, never getting an education, Achilles thought of his mother. He imagined every possible reaction except what he received. At last we meet. I’ve been waiting for this moment. Finally. I’ve heard so much about you. They exchanged lines as if they’d rehearsed for weeks, and it was at last opening night. His mother put on the kettle. Achilles wanted to tell her that Ines bought her teas from a special shop run by some Asians— Chinese people —but Ines graciously accepted the bagged tea, and the Ritz crackers with squares of American cheese melted over them.

Under the pretext of showing him Troy’s uniform, his mother marched him off to the back bedroom, stepping over the flowers lining the hallway. The uniform was in good order, all the medals properly aligned. The recruiter had helped with that.

Achilles was ready to get chewed out. His mother closed the door and counted on her fingers as she rattled off a list of questions: What’s her last name? Where’s she from? Where’s her family from? What kind of work does she do?

Then back to the living room, where his mother excused herself, giving him a wink and a thumbs-up over Ines’s shoulder, leaving him with Ines, who glared at him, and asked Is she retired? Where did she work before? Where is she from? Is her family still around here?

His mom returned with fruit and fishsticks. “I don’t eat much meat either,” she said, settling into the couch. “Achilles told me about your charity, but you know how vague men are, tell me more.” And Ines did, at one point relating it to accounting. Meanwhile, Achilles pondered the significance of his mother referring to him, for the first time, as a man in that way, as if he was now in his father’s camp.

Achilles watched in amazement as, over the course of the next hour, they each maintained their front, privately asking Achilles questions on the sly: Does Ines sew? Does Anna garden? Does Ines go to church? What’s Anna’s favorite flower? Gospel played on the radio.

“Do you mind gospel, Ines?”

“No ma’am. I enjoy spiritual music.”

“Ines is a beautiful name. Does it mean anything?”

“It’s short for Esmeralda.”

His mother gasped. “That’s gorgeous, regal.”

She was right. Ines sat there, quietly scanning photo albums, chatting pleasantly with his mother, taking it on the chin without complaint. She was regal. A real lady.

“You should see the programs, Achilles. They’re on the counter,” his mother said. “The paper too.”

Thankful for an excuse to leave, Achilles went to the kitchen. The counter, tables, and top of the refrigerator were covered with flowers, even more than there had been for his father, who’d lived in the area his entire life. The refrigerator was again stuffed with food. The programs were piled on the table. The photo on the cover was from the third week of basic training. Wearing PT outfits, they’d lined up outside a white Quonset hut. Inside, they passed through an assembly line: one station fitted them with a jacket, the next with a shirt and clip-on tie, the next with a hat. The last station snapped the photo that everyone sent home as evidence of transformation.

Their sergeant said, “Don’t slurp your own shit. This photo’s what you could be, not what you are.” But Troy looked like he halfway believed it, the mouth is set in firm determination, but his eyes give it away. That day Troy was happy, joking, amused by the fact that in every one of these photos they’d seen over the years, every last recruit was dressed up in a fancy jacket with only jogging shorts on underneath. All those photos and no one was wearing pants. The edge of a newspaper was barely visible under the box of programs. It was a copy of the Washington County Reporter, with Troy’s picture on the front cover, two pictures to be exact: one from the high school soccer team and one from the military. The byline was Janice Keel Williams; she had taken Dale’s name.

Troy Henry Conroy,

Our First Fallen Hero Buried Today

Washington County, Janice Keel Williams

There was a new hero among us, and many us of missed the chance to thank him the last time he was in town. The first hometown hero to die since this war began, Troy always answered the call of duty. He had a smile for everyone, flashing that great soldier’s jaw. A sports sensation, Troy lettered in football, soccer, and lacrosse by the tenth grade. That was the kind of young man who entered 11-Bravo and came out with a Bronze Star — with a V for valor, one of the highest honors a solder can receive. He earned it carrying a wounded comrade across a minefield, risking his life and limb. He joined the army shortly after September 11 to fight the War on Terror, and after he was done there, he helped on the home front, traveling to New Orleans in the wake of Katrina. Troy was always ready to help the less fortunate. Says his brother, Achilles, “Troy was the bravest man I knew. He was always there for me, and for anyone who needed him. Selfless, brave, always extending a helping hand. He will be deeply missed.” His mother, Anna, described him as “Just a good person. The kind of son you always want to have, but never believe you’ll actually get.” Everyone here in Washington County will miss Troy, but no one more so than his family. Troy is survived by his mother, Anna Holt Conroy, and his brother, Achilles Holden Conroy. His father, William Conroy, died last fall in a car accident.