Wearing a pirate’s eye patch, the one gift he was allowed to open, Achilles fell asleep on Mrs. Bear’s lap. This was a first. Mrs. Bear usually insisted he was tucked in by 8:45. He was still on the couch at midnight when his mom woke him. Someone had put a pillow under his head and covered him with a blanket. “Hey honey.” Her smile was strained, toothy. She guided him to the kitchen with her hands over his eyes, his outstretched fingers grazing the paneled walls.
“Surprise!” his parents yelled.
The kitchen was a bright, bright room, thanks to the white walls and fluorescent lights. Achilles threw up his hands to shield his eyes, peeking through his fingers at his parents, who stood flanking a little boy in a birthday hat.
“This is Troy,” said Achilles’s mother.
“Happy birthday!” said Achilles’s father. He pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and motioned for Achilles to sit. Between the manic grin, the pompadour, and the exaggerated sweep of his arm, his father looked like a carnival barker.
Achilles went back to the couch and curled up under the blanket, his usual antidote for strange and disturbing dreams. Sometime later his mom awakened him, led him to the kitchen, and said, “Troy’s having ice cream. You have some too.”
Troy sat in Achilles’s old orangesicle-colored Scooby-Doo booster seat, eating a big bowl of butter pecan ice cream, Achilles’s favorite because of the salty-sweet and soft but crunchy confusion it caused in his mouth. Troy held his bowl close to his body like someone might snatch it, occasionally stealing a glance around the kitchen, immediately looking back down at his ice cream if he caught anyone’s eye. He was about half Achilles’s size, with wide-set eyes and a broad forehead, like an insect. His left cheek was bruised, and snot dripped from his red and runny nose right into the ice cream, which must have been his favorite flavor too, judging by the way he slurped it down. Troy had seconds, and Achilles had seconds. While they ate, his father leaned back against the wall, smoking and smiling, occasionally rubbing their heads. Troy had thirds, and Achilles had thirds, their bowls brimming with his father’s generous scoops.
After his mother dropped a glass in the sink and stomped out of the kitchen and his father scampered after her, Troy spoke for the first time, in a hushed voice as if to avoid being overheard by the adults in the next room, barely moving his lips, squeezing the words out of one side of his mouth, so that if you stood on his other side, you wouldn’t even know he was asking, “How long they going to let us stay here?”
Achilles shrugged. He was tired and overfull. “Not long, I hope,” he said, not yet understanding that months would pass before Troy would accept that they weren’t in a foster home. At that moment, confused, exhausted, queasy, Achilles wanted only sleep. He slipped down from the chair and made his way to his bedroom, where he climbed into bed, careful not to bounce or burp for fear he would barf. Behind him, he heard Troy’s yessirs and yes ma’ams. What a suck-up.
A while later — or was it? He couldn’t tell anymore — his mom woke him again. “Hey honey, Troy is having waffles,” she explained as she led him to the kitchen.
Whether Troy had been out of the booster seat since Achilles last saw him, he couldn’t tell. Troy sat before a plate of waffles, picking at them like a beaten boxer who refused to quit. Eyes fluttering, his chin would slump down to his chest and jerk aright whenever his fork clattered off the table. Achilles’s father would pick it up, wash it with soap and water, and press it gently back into Troy’s hand, like a gift. Achilles pushed the food around on his Justice League plate, sometimes revealing Aquaman, sometimes Batman, but never the Wonder Twins.
“You tired, Troy?” asked Achilles’s father.
Troy snapped awake. “No, I’m fine.” He stuck a piece of bacon in his mouth and slowly chewed.
His father looked happy and chipper, his mother serious. It was like they had exchanged bodies in the last hour. His father exclaimed, “Six and eats like a horse. He’s a real Conroy. Let’s have cake!”
Excited that the cake was to be again unveiled, Achilles said nothing about thinking that horses ate hay.
His mother flung open the refrigerator door with such force it banged against the counter and the glass jars rattled on their shelves. She slapped the cake on the table.
“Ann, please,” his father whispered.
“Yes sirree! A knife.” She yanked open the cutlery drawer, and after a moment’s searching upended the drawer into the sink, picked out a knife, and tossed it on the table.
His father, red-faced, stormed out of the kitchen. His mother followed a moment later, saying over her shoulder, “Have all the cake you want Achilles, sweetie. All the cake you want.”
Achilles opened the cake box. He’d snuck a peak earlier, but hadn’t seen the whole thing. His name was spelled out in red letters with Happy Birthday in gold. Orange and blue frosting balloons clustered in the corners and a comet trailed by yellow stars underscored his name. The brightly colored decorations stood out against the white frosting. He hoped it was angel food, the best flavor ever! Troy grabbed the knife, wrapping his fingers around the tapered end of the blade, and waved it about like a conductor. Achilles, feeling heroic, leapt up and snatched it from Troy. The blade glistened. Rivulets of blood welled between Troy’s fingers and dripped onto the cake. Troy squeezed both of his hands into tighter fists, but still the blood ran, like he was growing Wolverine claws. His parents rushed in when Troy wailed. Their eyes traveled from Troy’s hand, by then bleeding so much that the corner of cake nearest him looked like red velvet, to the knife in Achilles’s hand. He saw the shock on their faces, the misunderstanding, but he couldn’t move.
“It’s okay Keelies,” said his mother, inching around the table to Troy, going the long way and sidestepping the entire time, as if afraid to turn her back to Achilles. His father raised two hands in surrender, and calmly said, “Put the knife down, son.”
The short wooden riveted handle and long steel blade felt so dense, so heavy, his entire arm and the knife one leaden elbow pipe, a rigid burden affixed by a cruel fate.
“It’s okay son. We can talk about it. Put it down.”
The knife bounced off the table and onto the floor, clattering and streaking blood. His father kicked the knife away, backhanded Achilles. A thud. The first blow surprised him. His father had never struck him before, so he sat stock-still until the next blow knocked him to the floor. The base of his skull and jaw rattled, and he instinctively ran his tongue across his teeth to see if they were all there. Tucking his chin tightly into his chest, he tried to cover his ribs with his elbows, but the blows came from everywhere. Covering his head, he was kicked in the side, and covering his sides left his face exposed to his father’s kicks, precise and snappy, cracking like a whip. One foot found his temple, another his stomach, and his breath rushed out in a whistle. Heaving, he scurried under the table and curled up to fight the contractions in his stomach.