T. Johnson: Hold It 'Til It Hurts

If Achilles hadn’t enlisted, would it have been easier to deliver that eulogy? But if he hadn’t gone, Achilles would have forever followed behind his younger brother, maybe even driven the float that carried him through town for his hero’s welcome, making an extra loop around the roundabout in the center of downtown. Troy with his picture up at the VFW. Troy with his Bronze Star, his secrets, his memories, his stories, and no matter how often Achilles said, I know, I understand, I get you, I see it, he would have really been wondering, Did you get to kill anybody? Troy would have worn that look he always had, the smug grin that said, Achilles, you don’t get it at all. Troy would have been a man, and Achilles forever a child. Troy would have had a hero’s welcome, and Achilles would have been among the groupies, the hero worshippers, bearing his younger brother on a litter. It would have driven him mad, yet strangely enough, it was exactly what happened, and seemed somehow fair.

Ines coughed softly and it echoed in the small room. Had she ever slept in such a tiny house, in such a tiny bedroom, on such a tiny bed? In such a tiny town? Even her mother’s maid’s quarters were larger than this room. Even that damned cave he had been stuck in had been bigger. It had the same view, a low valley dotted with houses and shrouded in fog. He had thought that Earl referring to the VFW as the Batcave struck the flint of that memory. Instead it was the last thing Earl yelled as Achilles’s father steered him out of the bar that night before he shipped off to basic training: “You’re one of us now.”

Was he really, he wondered, rereading the obit and then the news article where he was mentioned as a survivor. Was he? He felt more like a ghost.

Ines was already snoring, her feet tangled in a sweater, her bag overturned, and her socks and underwear scattered on the bed. Achilles pushed the beds together. She was hot under the blanket — he loved that sensation, like mornings, when she was so warm. Survivor . But what else? And who else, he wondered as he slipped in next to her, into Troy’s bed, one arm around Ines, the other around Teddy Ruxpin, feeling the pounding in her chest, a drum that beat so much faster and stronger than his, and willed and prayed for his own heart to catch up. God, to be alive.

Though it often felt like it, this novel was by no means written alone.

HiTiH would not exist without the support and sangha provided by the Hurston-Wright Foundation, Arizona State University, Stanford’s Stegner Fellowship, the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, the Michener-Copernicus Society of America, and Western Michigan University.

As important were the many individuals who provided time, advice, and encouragement. Many thanks to: Lan Samantha Chang, who saw a novel where I saw a novella; my agent Jon Sternfeld, who advocated tirelessly; and Anitra Budd, who is truly a dream of an editor. Without you three, I might not be writing these acknowledgments. Thanks also to Erika Stevens. Anthony Swofford, Jabari Mahiri, Jane Stanley, Caroline Cole, and Terry Crisp, you have been more help than you know.

I have been fortunate to have exceptional teachers: Elizabeth Tallent, Tobias Wolff, and John L’Heurieux at Stanford; Lan Samantha Chang, Elizabeth McCracken, James Alan MacPherson, Ethan Canin, Robin Hemley, and Chris Offut at Iowa; T. M. McNally and Jewell Parker Rhodes at ASU; and, at Wilde Lake High, Mrs. Chertok, my ninth-grade English teacher, who never, ever, ever awarded me a grade higher than 99 percent with a smile. Thank you.

Never have I known kinder souls than my mentors and guides: Connie Brothers, Stuart Dybek, Richard Katrovas, and Jaimy Gordon — who reintroduced me to my own novel.

A big thanks to my early readers: Russ Franklin, Krista Landers, Jeff O’Keefe, Nora Pierce, Rusty Dolleman, Rita Mae Reese, Shimon Tanaka, Roman Skaskiw, Chris Leslie Hynan, Marjorie Celona, Kate Klein, Stuart Nadler, Marion Bright, Vivian Shotwell, Jason England, Nancy Carlynne Houghton, and Elinathon Ohiomobo.

A special thanks to Benjamin Hale, James Mattson, Kate Sachs, Will Smith (for all that extra reading), Abdel Shakur, and Shane Book.

I’m especially grateful for those whom I now so seldom see: Byron, Dave, Dave, Dave, Hari, KCA, Kevin, Lisa, Lita, the Manager, Mia, Michael, Paul, Scott, Sugar; the years have taken me far from home, but I couldn’t write better friends. You have been here since the beginning. If you see yourselves in this book — the good parts: your verve, your duende, your soul — it’s because you are always with me.

About my family there is too much to say here. My parents, Irene English-Johnson and Tyrone Geronimo Johnson, my sister Ingrid, and my brother-in-law Pierre all believe in me so much it’s just plain silly. And special thanks to Elizabeth Cowan, who may know Achilles better than I do.

That should sufficiently spread the blame.

That we authors should thank the writing communities that sustain us is obvious. But, in truth, HiTiH would not exist were we not living in the wake of Hurricane Katrina and the constant shadow of war, and my heart goes out to all who have been displaced, literally and figuratively, directly and indirectly, by the upheaval that marks our last decade. Acknowledgments are generally reserved for those we know, but there are many people I have only read about, people whose families and friends have been deeply affected by recent events, people whom I thought of daily while writing this novel. My only wish is that I have done you justice, and that where talent has failed, empathy has bridged the gap, and where empathy has failed, passion has stepped in, and if that has failed, hope sparked enough to see you through.