T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

THAT EVENING AFTER HIS FATHERS FUNERAL, ONCE THE LAST MOURNER BID solemn farewell and vanished into the foggy grove separating his childhood home from the nearest neighbor, Achilless mother summoned him into the kitchen, the only room free of streamers and balloons, and handed him a big blue envelope that bore no return address or postmark, only his name spelled out in his fathers heavy-footed block print. They sat opposite each other at the small oak table, bare save for the mail stacked in the shadow of an empty chair, far beyond reach of the days last rays sneaking through the vertical blinds and fanning across the tabletop in fat sandy bands the color of his fathers coffin. He handed it back. She pursed her lips and drew her shoulders out as she often did before a big announcement, but said nothing, for which he was grateful because he didnt want to have this conversation again. Hed always insisted that he had no use for his adoption paperwork. Shed always insisted that he would regret never meeting his black blood relatives.

None of us is here forever, she said, as if that statement alone explained everything. Her tone had been equally matter-of-fact when relating the circumstances surrounding his fathers death: killed instantly in a head-on collision while giving an employee a ride home. Even in moments such as these, his mother was steely as a sergeant, beyond surprise, never even commenting on why his father had been halfway across the state, driving an employee home at midnight on a Saturday. Shed scowled during the eulogy, and now looked again on the verge of anger. When Achilles didnt respond, she continued, I dont want you to regret leaving this undone.

He didnt like the idea of being undone, but didnt see how crawling back to someone would make him done. Regret? He didnt think so. Having been to DC and seen how they lived, he couldnt care less about his birth parents. Even if tracking them down wasnt treasonous, what good could come of crisscrossing the country to confirm that his biological mother was a junkie whore and his sperm-donor dad an ex-con? And other than the occasional elementary school joke because hed been short, black, and chubby while his parents were tall, white, and thin, race had never been an issue in his neighborhood or his school. Burn it.

Hed hoped she would finally accept his decision, feel cheered by his fidelity, but instead she cringed. Her lips pulled tight, her head dropped a notch, and her expression passed from reserved and proud to stricken and mournful, and then, for the first time since hed arrived home, to pained. Achilles moved his seat closer and clasped her hands in apology, though he didnt know what for. Why should he track down people who obviously didnt want him? Achilles didnt grovel.

I just dont want it, or need it, he said. Accepting that paperwork was like pulling the pin out of a grenade.

Think about it

Achilles excused himself, turning on the light as he left. He passed his brother in the hall and warned him away from the kitchen. Troy shrugged, offering his usual response to the topic: Fuck it!

Yet barely fifteen minutes later, Troy strode into their bedroom holding a blue envelope. Their parents house was a two-bedroom ranch, so the brothers had shared the same room since Achilless eighth birthday, when his parents first brought Troy then six years old home. Refusing to budge, Achilles sat on the edge of his bed as Troy stepped over him and ducked into the closet, tucking the envelope away behind the loose baseboard where theyd secreted their prized Matchbox cars, the shiniest samples of mica and quartz, and the porn magazines traded for pilfered cigarettes.

Troy avoided Achilless eyes as he stepped over him to get back to his bed, which was so close to Achilless that they couldnt sit facing each other without their knees touching. Troy flopped down and the mattress sank to the floor with a thump. In that room, they were like Gulliver in their favorite bedtime story. After reading to them, their mom had coaxed them to sleep by promising that dreams were real and that in them they could do anything, even fly, and they could be anyone, princes or kings or warriors or magicians, or ghostbusters as Troy had demanded one night. They could make up imaginary villages, design spaceships and castles, construct entire cities tiny towns, she called them secret places they would always carry with them. With him and Troy and the blue envelope in the room, it felt literally like a tiny town.

Ass.

She wants us to have them, said Troy.

You believe that?

Troy busied himself shuffling the DD214s discharge papers and other forms scattered on his desk, which only came up to his knees. He was a giant in a funhouse, his arms thicker than the desk legs. Its like money. Just because you dont need it right now doesnt mean you shouldnt take it. Did you ever turn down your biscuit in Goddamnistan because you didnt need the money?

Achilles shook his head. That was typical Troy, defending bullshit decisions with bullshit excuses. Couldnt he wait another week, a day even? It was a breach, a leak, inviting a ghost into the family. And biscuit? Troy sounded stupid using slang. We have direct deposit.

What? You dont know everything, said Troy. Just because you take it doesnt mean youll spend it. You never know when you might need it. You wouldnt dump all your rations just because youre full. Besides, give her a break. Be responsible for your own shit. He was fidgeting now, picking at the calluses on his palm as he did whenever someone demanded to see his aces. Troy pointed around the room, his arm long enough to reach most of his possessions from where he sat: the childrens books, action figures, Black Sabbath and Public Enemy posters, roller skates; the rucksack, desert boots, flak jacket. This is my home. Biops? Fuck em eight ways!

But the next morning, only two days after they returned from active duty, and only one day after their fathers funeral, Troy was gone.

He should have stopped him. Achilles had heard his brother get up and thought he was going for a jog. Alone, they jogged. Together, they ran and usually ended racing, as had happened the first day back as they neared home, Achilless shorter strides almost doubled to keep pace with Troys long legs, kicking the air, their noses pushing into the wind, chest to chest and neck to neck until Troy stole a strong lead by nodding toward a leggy brunette and puffing, Janice, sending Achilles ducking behind a car until he could confirm there were no dolphins tattooed on the ankles or hearts behind the knees, by which time Troy was so far ahead that Achilles didnt catch up until he was already crunching up the gravel drive. Achilles wasnt trying to avoid Janice in particular, he just didnt want to see anyone else he knew until the funeral, where circumstances would demand brief condolences and he wouldnt be expected to endure stories about a father whom everyone suddenly seemed to know better than he, or to suffer such pity he would have thought himself the dead one.

All the while they were growing up, their fathers motto was be the ones to beat. So they had been competitive, especially with each other. But when Troy distracted him on that run, Achilles sensed something new was at stake, something he didnt want to win, but he couldnt run without trying to win. So as Troy dressed the morning after the funeral, Achilles remained motionless, holding his breath for the long moment when the room grew still and he felt Troy standing above him deciding whether to call Achilless bluff of slumber and kick the bed, the floor squeaking as he shifted his weight from leg to leg, grinding the grit underfoot, before at last creeping out.