T. Johnson: Hold It 'Til It Hurts

It was hard to believe it had only been a year. Achilles heard a chuckle, but when he returned to the living room, the mood had changed. Ines sat in rapt attention while his mother told the story in bits and pieces. It’s the same story Achilles had told Ines, down to the part about referring to Troy as his brother. The photos give away the end. Ines stood and paced along the mantel while his mother pointed out who was who, stopping at the photo of Achilles and Troy and their parents at Hershey Park.

They spent the night in his old bedroom. Achilles had refused his mother’s offer to make room elsewhere. It reminded him too much of how little space they had. On the drive in, he wanted to impress Ines with the view from the main road, not considering that she would assume he lived in one of those McMansions. Now, back in the old bedroom, he wished he had taken the other highway in, the one that cut through the woods and small towns, the four-way intersections policed only by stop signs.

He and Ines sat on Achilles’s bed. Troy’s uniform lay on the bed across from them. Ines glanced around the room at the posters, their dressers, the single closet. She stretched her legs, banging her shins on Troy’s bed.

He reached for her legs and she jerked away.

“Like I said, it ain’t much,” offered Achilles.

“Really? Achilles?”

“Do you want me to take you to the airport?”

Ines glared. “Is that going to be your answer to everything today?”

“It’s the first time I’ve said it.”

“It sounds like something you would repeat. You should have told me.”

“Would you have come?”

“That’s not your choice. I would have brought her something.” She said this matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to take you to the airport?” asked Achilles. “Damn!”

“I knew it.”

“I guess I could have said, ‘Come and meet my mom, she’ll take you for a ride on her bus.’”

“That’s all the more reason. If you felt like I really hated white people, you should have told me.”

Her breath was slow and steady, her eyes cool, but she seemed more hurt than angry. He reached for her hand, and she drew away.

“I wanted to, but at first it didn’t matter. Then it was too late.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head as if she didn’t believe him. “It’s just not fair, Achilles. It’s not fair. There isn’t enough time to tell you how much of an asshole you are. Yesterday, when you told me the news, a small part of me felt relieved that it wasn’t anyone new. And I felt so guilty about that, so ashamed. And now, I feel even worse. I’ll stay for the funeral, but I want to go to the airport after.” The wind rattled the glass. “Regardless of the weather.” She scooted a few feet over on the bed.

When he moved near, she moved farther away. This implosion was worse than the explosion he’d expected. He’d counted on anger and accusations, yelling and screaming, hoped for an argument, some of her self-righteous indignation. A fight. Instead, as Achilles made a pallet on the floor, Ines lay on Achilles’s bed, clutching her suitcase, crying as if she had lost her own brother.

UNABLE TO SLEEP, ACHILLES WANTED TO CRUISE THROUGH TOWN BUT halfway expected to be stopped at each intersection, so he sat on the cinderblock stoop all night. The Reserves were full of sheriffs and deputies, troopers and constables, and on the drive to New Orleans he’d nodded at them all. On the drive home though, he found himself gripping the wheel and hovering over the brakes whenever Smokey passed. He was still on the stoop when the morning fog burned off, the trees wavering like the shadows of people who weren’t there. He was on the stoop when, unexpectedly, a donated limousine arrived at seven a.m.

Ines, Achilles, his mom, and his two aunts rode to the funeral home in the limousine. They traveled through the center of town — past the people lining the streets waving American flags as if it was a parade, past the school and courthouse with their flags at half-mast, past the signs that read, We miss you, Troy —picking up cars en route, until a procession of vehicles trailed behind them, all of which had to park on the street because the funeral home lot was full.

His father’s funeral had started fifteen minutes late, but today Mr. Eckhart, the funeral director, was outside scowling at his pocket watch when the limousine pulled up. There was an hour before the actual service, but he hustled Achilles into a side room where five privates in dress blues sat around a folding table sipping coffee.

“It’s going to be a real hero’s service, Achilles. You better believe it. These gentleman from Shippensburg CC ROTC volunteered to serve as pallbearers.” To the five soldiers, Eckhart said, “Gentlemen, this is Achilles Conroy, Troy Conroy’s brother.”

They jumped to their feet and snapped to attention, introducing themselves and offering condolences. It’s an honor, they all said. When the funeral director excused himself, they remained standing. With a wave of his hand he directed them back to their coffee. “Thank you sir.”

“I earned my rank,” Achilles said softly. He vaguely recognized the tallest one, Hausman. Achilles knew a Dennis Hausman, a lanky geek with a deadly jump shot who wore glasses so thick he could start fires with them on a cloudy day. He’d soon be armed, so hopefully the younger one had better eyes than his brother. Same thin frame and too-long arms, same prominent Adam’s apple. Achilles imagined this younger Hausman squirreled into the shadow of a shredded Humvee, momentarily deafened by the explosion, squinting as it rained dirt, trying to make out a target. Or maybe nothing would happen at all. He would play Xbox when he wasn’t on patrol, throw lollipops at kids when he was, and return in nine months with a tan. If they did ROTC, then college, then entered with a commission, at least they wouldn’t be cannon fodder.

The funeral director returned to explain the protocol. After the viewing, which he insisted on calling it even though the casket was closed, they would carry the casket to the hearse, which would take one tour through town before returning to the cemetery for the burial. “Remember,” he told them twice, carefully including Achilles in his roaming gaze as he looked at each of them in turn, “the casket is light, very light. Lift it slowly, don’t jerk it, and don’t look surprised at the weight.” He closed his fist around his pocket watch, lifting it slowly, almost as if it weighed too much for him to hold in one hand. “No one watching you should know it’s empty.”

Eckhart ran the event with military precision. They had loaded the casket, driven through town, and returned by nine thirty. Five minutes later, they were gathered at the same gravesite where everything began a year ago. Achilles sat between his mom and Ines. Janice, Dale, and their new baby were seated nearby and, behind them, throngs of people stretching back nearly to the street. Kids too young to have ever known Troy fidgeted and whined while their parents jerked their arms and hushed them. Four large-breasted blondes in their late teens stood shoulder to shoulder, sniffing and wiping their eyes. Their football coach stood next to a line of beefy kids who must have been the current varsity squad.

The preacher spoke about hope, rebirth, faith, and the sacrifice each required. Eternal life was promised to all who believed in the Lord, and Troy, We all know, was a believer, for rarely did a man make better use of his talents. Rarely did a man make so selfless a sacrifice with heart and head. With a grand gesture, the minister pointed to the military photo mounted on an easel next to the coffin, describing Troy as a veteran who selflessly served abroad and at home, who fought to bring freedom to Afghanistan and safety to Louisiana, who exemplified Christian ideals in life and in death. When it was Achilles’s turn, he said a few words about his bother’s love and courage.