“His heart is set on it,” Achilles had told his mom. “You know how he gets.” She’d nodded knowingly, sighed, as though she’d wished for anything except that answer, but expected it. He couldn’t forget what she said when they shipped out: “The loneliest person in the world is a mother who outlives her children.”
He sat in his car, on the top floor of the parking garage, watching two pigeons fight over a hamburger patty. He could just barely see the tip of the church steeple at the center of the French Quarter and a flashing red light that might have been Jax Brewery. The lot was at least two blocks away from the hospital, but he swore he still smelled D-794, and along with him gunpowder, rifle oil, garbage, diesel fuel, body odor, roasting lamb. He shoved three pieces of gum into his mouth. The rush of peppermint burned his tongue, and he started breathing through his nose again.
Later that day he was at Seaton’s Diner, across from St. Augustine, when his mother called. She sounded hesitant when he answered, as if she thought she had the wrong number. After some small talk, he took a breath and asked, “Do you know any of these people he might be looking for?”
“No,” said his mother.
“Isn’t it in the envelope?” he asked.
“I never opened the envelope,” she said. “Your father sealed them.”
“Really?”
“We talked about this already. Yes, you’re both Conroys. Troy Magnus Conroy and Achilles Holden Conroy. You’re your father’s sons and mine. Always.”
“Geez.” Achilles exhaled sharply. “That again.” Hadn’t she signed court orders or birth certificates? He wanted to scream, Don’t you even know their names? How could you possibly not know their names? His sandwich arrived, a chicken club held together by toothpicks. The waitress regarded him strangely every time he ordered it, rushing it to the table like she didn’t want to be seen with it. He’d forgotten why he called his mother in the first place, or if he was even the one who had called. “I gotta go.”
“Wait. Your father left you some money, a lot of money. Seventy-five thousand dollars.” She was gleeful, sounding like she had after discovering petroleum jelly was the antidote for the dry skin that afflicted him every winter. “I meant to tell you before, but I didn’t know how much, and everything went so loosey-goosey with Troy leaving and all.”
Where did his father get that kind of money? That was almost two years of net pay from a man who’d wanted to move for the last ten years but said he couldn’t afford it. How he wanted to retreat farther up the mountain, complaining constantly about the city roping him in, the noose of new developments driving up property taxes. “How much?”
“Fifty thousand from his life insurance and another twenty-five from his pension. But if you need more, let me know. You’ll get the rest when I go.”
“Why are you talking like that? Where are you going?”
“I’m still going on my trip. But anything could happen, even here. Look at your father. You need to know how these things work. The papers are in the roll-top. Everything goes to the surviving heir. The lawyer can give you the details. Chuck over in Mercersburg. You remember him? He handled Troy’s accident.”
“I remember him.” Accident? Chuck was the attorney who persuaded a jury to acquit Troy after he was arrested for driving drunk and running over Mrs. Dyson’s two goats. His father bought the damned things too. They ate goat for months.
“Call him at his office. When you see your brother, tell him too.”
“Okay.”
“Come home anytime. You could start that hot dog stand now.”
“Right,” he said with a laugh. A hot dog stand had been his dream business in middle school, more for his love of hot dogs and fascination with the word frankfurter than for any true interest in business. There was a pause as if his mother expected a more detailed answer. Did she think he was still serious about that, or ever had been? “I have to go.”
“Wait.” After she gave him the attorney’s number, she said, “Achilles, you know you were always my favorite, don’t you? I always wanted you. You know that, don’t you?”
She sounded like everything depended on his answer, so he murmured, “Yes.”
“I just wanted to make sure you knew that. I’ll let you go now.”
Achilles picked at his food, constantly glancing out the window at St. Augustine, hoping Troy would walk by. He could tell him, I’m the favorite, find your own way home. I’m the favorite. If that was really true, how come Achilles always had to do everything Troy wanted to do, and not the other way around? He wondered about that as he dialed Chuck’s number, identifying himself as Mr. Conroy to the receptionist. While holding, he practiced what to say: I’m calling about the will … My father passed … My mom told me to call. He settled on, It’s Achilles Conroy. Even that sounded presumptive to him. How could he start the conversation without sounding money-grubbing? Chuck did it for him, saying, “Troy, I’m sorry for your loss. How are you?” In his low voice, Chuck stretched out you as if talking to a child. “Are you okay? Troy, are you there?”
Achilles shivered the way he did after biting ice, or, as the old folks said, as if someone was walking on his grave. “I’m here. I’m just … I’m here. I’m good.” The younger waitress refilled his coffee. Her snug polyester uniform reminded him of a nurse’s outfit. She winked every time she passed, like they were in this together.
“You sound good, but you were always a tough kid. I guess your mom told you about the will. So what are you going to do with all the money? You don’t need to decide now, but I know your father would have wanted you to be wise and thrifty. It’s quite a large sum, enough that with the right financial advice you could do well for yourself. I have a client who retired on half that amount. He lives on a Greek island, a little one, and he does some freelance consulting, but the point is he retired with only one hundred twenty-five thousand in stocks. I’ll give you the broker’s number.”
“One hundred thousand?” Achilles heard paper shuffling.
“Legal fees aren’t that high.” Chuck laughed.
“Can you mail me a check?”
“You and your jokes. You have to sign for it. Achilles too, so just let him know. When can you come by? I just need your John Hancock. This is a lot of money.”
Achilles slid the saltshaker from hand to hand. “How much after legal fees?”
“Two-hundred and fifty-three thousand seven hundred and twelve dollars and nineteen cents, give or take. When should I expect you?”
“Soon.” said Achilles
“Where are you?”
“New Orleans,” said Achilles, looking around him then hanging up.
Seventy-five Gs for the oldest brother and three or four times that amount for the younger. He knew who his father’s favorite was. But he’d known that all along. He’d known that ever since Troy came through the door.
When Achilles turned eight, he expected a golden Lab. For years, his mother said, When you’re ten, but he didn’t expect to wait until he was two-whole-hands old. He knew the puppy was coming because his parents described his gift as Warm, friendly, and tireless. His friends were going to be so jealous. His parents left early that Saturday morning, leaving Achilles with Mrs. Bear, the babysitter who let him take showers. They were due back well before 6:30 p.m., when the party was set to begin. At 5:30, as instructed, Achilles took his cake out of the refrigerator and placed it on the coffee table in the living room, where the paneled walls were festooned with streamers, balloons, and his name in winking, glittering gold letters. He sat on Mrs. Bear’s welcoming lap and watched Romper Room until 6:15, when the first guest arrived. The last guest was there by 6:30. He knew the precise time because Ren and Stimpy was starting. While making Jiffy Pop for the hungry kids, Mrs. Bear chatted with the parents who waited with their children. At 7:30 they had hot dogs, then ice cream, but not cake, the adults insisting that his parents should be present when he cut the cake. At 8:30, when the party was scheduled to end, the parents began packing up their kids.