Just as Achilles manages to grab Blow’s leg, Lex puts Achilles in a chokehold and jerks him up to a standing position. “Just relax.”
Achilles turns his head just slightly to the side, nuzzling his chin into the crook of Lex’s arm until he can breath, relaxing to save oxygen. Lex says, “That’s right. Don’t fight it.”
Frantically, spastically, like a scorned woman, Blow slaps and claws at Achilles’s neck until the locket breaks off, the loose chain snaking down to Achilles’s waistband, the cool metal locket skipping down his chest. Achilles kicks him away and Blow comes back jabbing and kicking, swinging in wild arcs like he’s swatting bees. The sound, like slapping a steak on cement, is more shocking then the actual impact of the punches landing on Achilles’s face and neck. Achilles kicks Blow in the groin and when Blow bows to the pain, Achilles boots him in the face.
“Hush now. Shhhhh,” croons Lex, digging his chin into Achilles’s neck, snug as a lover. “It’s just like going to sleep. It’s faster if you don’t fight it. It’s only a little nap.”
Knowing the occipital lobe is much harder than the nose, Achilles slams the back of his head into Lex’s face.
The choke holds.
Achilles rears his head back again and again, his own teeth rattling each time he connects with Lex’s chin. In his peripheral vision, Achilles sees blood sprinkle the flowered wallpaper as Lex swings his head from side to side to protect his face. It’s a pretty pattern, red roses and gold thorns. The paper is thick, like felt, and the blood sits on the top like little orbs, like Red Hots. Achilles keeps trying. Finally he hears a crunch as he catches Lex’s nose just right.
The choke holds, but Lex curses, his voice nasal, “Motherfucker!”
They fall onto the stairs, onto Blow, who bites Achilles’s thigh. All three of them now pile at the bottom of the stairway. Lex shakes Achilles, and the locket slips to the floor.
Blow slips the locket into his pocket, and staggers triumphantly to his feet, standing with hands on hips, panting, leaning forward with each exhalation like he’s breathing fire. He stomps on Achilles’s stomach. Achilles swallows hard against the vomit bubbling up his throat. Blow makes a cutting motion in the air, like he’s feeling his way through heavy curtains on a dark stage. Is that a knife in Blow’s hand? Sweat, or blood, stings Achilles’s eyes. Blow’s face hovers there, and before grabbing the hand with the knife, Achilles sees that Blow has near-perfect teeth, like his parents always got him to the dentist, a slightly oily forehead splotchy with acne, that faint teenage mustache, a left eye slightly larger than the right, a ring that says Washington High. Achilles grabs the hand with the knife, finds the pinkie, and bends it back until it snaps, then the ring finger. Snap. Then the middle. Snap. Blow drops the knife and cries, “Shit!” backing into the corner, clutching his injured hand to his chest, cradling it like a bird.
Lex pushes with his legs, pulling Achilles up the stairs as he twists Achilles’s head sharply to the side. Achilles claws weakly overhead at Lex’s face. He was never good at getting out of headlocks; Sgt. Click always teased him about that in basic training. He could see the drill sergeant now, pacing back and forth in his T-shirt and creased BDUs, taunting Achilles. “Don’t be a sissy, Connie. Don’t panic. It feels like forever, but it’s only been thirty seconds, and you can hold your breath for sixty. Don’t panic. Release a little air to let out carbon dioxide so your body doesn’t panic.”
There’s movement above him. He’s sure of it this time. Troy? At the top of the stairs the darkness unfolds as shadow ripples over shadow like an undercurrent. He pushes upstairs, toward that movement, even as Lex squeezes tighter.
The pinch in Achilles’s neck is sharp as a pin through the eardrum, hot enough to make him emit one high cry, “Troy!”
He sees his mom in her backpack, in his room, surrounded by boxes, stacks of paper, and those old Playboys he never threw away.
Pain gallops down his spine, running in spikes, leaving a trail of fire that’s doused by the sensation of cold oil rising up his back the way it climbs a wick, the dark tide fingering his limbs until they’re heavy, as if he’s wading through a marsh. His legs twitch, his arms jerk involuntarily, his fists and feet knocking holes in the sheetrock. A cloud of white dust settles on his face and his body convulses, wanting to sneeze. With each beat of his heart, he feels he’ll explode, his lungs grating, his skin straining like it’s two sizes too small, his entire body growing taut as if overinflated, his head heavy, filled with water. The tingling in his limbs passes to burning then blistering then warm. They are almost to the top of the stairs. His eyes adjust. On the landing, wearing a Saints cap, leaning casually in the corner like a referee, a coat rack watches over them. Relaxed, Achilles pisses himself.
“Shit!” Lex shifts. Achilles finds air.
Come on, Connie. God hates a coward. Achilles reaches overhead, grabs one of Lex’s ears with one hand, pulls out his mechanical pencil with the other, and stabs overhead three quick times. The first blow bucks off Lex’s forehead, the second glances off the side, hitting the carpet. The third finds the eye, soft and wet. Achilles feels a primordial cry — mournful and panicked — travel up the big man’s chest and clatter in his throat.
The chokehold breaks.
His voice dry and chiseled with fear, Lex whispers, “Arnold, help.”
Lex crab-walks up the stairs. Achilles struggles to his feet, holding the wall for support. Blow shrinks deeper into the corner, pressing his back tight against the wall, that squat neck all but disappearing as he drops to his haunches, tucks his bad hand under his arm, and waves his good arm like a white flag. Achilles kneels before Blow and calmly extends his hand, palm up, holding it there until Blow returns his necklace. When he does, Achilles first pockets his locket, then throws Blow to the floor, forcing him onto his back, kneeling on his chest, choking and punching, slamming Blow’s head against the floor until the dry thuds become wet. Blow’s face contorts with each blow, the web of red spit stretching across his lips and breaking just as panic passes into shock. He looks as if this is the first time he’s lost a fight, as if Achilles popped his cherry.
He is Bud, Lex, the shiftless kid in the Afro waving wildly at Wages. He is the teens hanging on the corners in southwest DC, drug dealers, death dealers. The man who mugged Achilles and his mom. Men who think that fucking makes fatherhood.
He is the other Achilles.
Face blank and black as a TV that has lost its signal, Blow writhes and coils, his limbs twitching as if electrified. And, and squeezing, and the other Achilles keeps squeezing, squeezing so tightly Blow’s skin presses through his fingers like dough; squeezing until Blow, in his panic, bites the tip off his tongue; until Blow’s movements are weak and dreamy; until his twitching is only an occasional jerk, like a lazy swimmer barely staying afloat; until his eyes bulge and his pupils zoom out and a shroud of calm seals his face and even his acne scars smooth out, and he stops crying, and even Achilles, finally satisfied, has stopped breathing.
He hears a shot. Lex stands at the top of the stairs, waving a pistol, his left eyelid curled around the mechanical pencil that pins it shut.
“Daddy, he’s killed me,” whispers Blow.
Lex fires again. Achilles scrambles out of the stairwell, down the hall, and through the back door. He runs down the alley, away from the car, and doesn’t stop until he’s sure he isn’t being followed, by which point he is lost, wandering one dark unnamed street after another.