“How was the match?” asked Achilles.
“It was only practice, but fun.” She shared a few more details, her voice dropping as it became apparent Wages was ignoring her. “What have you guys been up to?”
There was a long spell of silence. Wages stared alternately at his hands and at Bethany with a forced smile. Finally, he said, “We’re going out for a while.”
“Kyle, I thought we were going to see Candy today. It’s my only day off this week.” She sighed, ruffling Wages’s hair. “Never mind. You and Achilles have fun.” She pronounced it “A-sheel.” It was obvious she’d been to practice. She seemed more aware of her body than usual, her movements were precise, her step light as she left the room.
“Excuse me!” Wages stood and stomped off to the back of the house.
Achilles heard Bethany laugh and ask, “Are you hungry, baby?” Hushed harsh words followed. Glass broke. A short scream sounded, and ended immediately, as if muffled. Achilles stood, “What’s up?”
“It’s cool,” Wages called.
Achilles sat back down, despite hearing what sounded like a quick tussle and the sound of smacking flesh. “Get up! Get up!” he heard Wages say as if through clenched teeth. Wages reentered the room first, waving one arm in front of himself like he was swimming, the other behind him dragging … Bethany by her hair. Achilles shot back to his feet so quickly he felt dizzy. Wages had a fistful of her hair; she held on to Wages’s arm to keep her full weight off her scalp. She was breathing heavy and steady, but not crying. Achilles had to give it to her: she was tough.
Achilles raised his hands slowly, palms out, stepping toward Wages.
Wages shook his head. “No. She’s the one who needs to do the talking. Tell him.”
Bethany inhaled sharply, coughing. Wages waggled her head back and forth.
“Wages!” yelled Achilles.
“She’s only making it harder for herself.” He shook her head back and forth again. “Don’t fuck with me. I’ll break your fucking neck and burn this house down. I don’t give a reindeer fuck.”
“Bethany, what’s happening?” asked Achilles.
Her gaze strayed across the ground, the wall, her feet, anywhere but Achilles.
“Say it,” demanded Wages.
Bethany cleared her throat, “I’m sorry.”
Wages jerked her head sharply. “Look him in the eye.”
Bethany looked Achilles in the eye. “I’m sorry for mispronouncing your name, Achilles. I won’t do it again.”
“It’s okay, Bethany. It’s not a problem. Please let her go.”
Wages nodded quietly like a man who was just asked if a large meal, the remnants of which remained on his table, had been satisfying. “Is that acceptable to you? Is it?”
Achilles nodded vigorously. “Yes. I mean, I didn’t care in the first place.”
The way Wages grimaced, Achilles understood that the more he protested, the angrier Wages would become. Bethany took quick, short breaths.
“It’s not acceptable,” said Wages.
“It’s acceptable,” said Achilles.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s cool. It’s not a problem. It’s acceptable. It’s very acceptable,” said Achilles. “Let her go, please.”
Bethany breathed deeply, her little belly creasing her shirt at the waist. It was the first time Achilles had thought of her as pregnant. When she had been tending his wounds, he thought of having a baby as more like a job to do and less a thing to carry.
Bethany was looking at him again. “Is my apology acceptable?”
Achilles looked away and mumbled his agreement. When soldiers were stuck together in cellars and caves and tents and shit went zulu-foxtrot and a squadmate went goofy, everyone acted like nothing had happened. But this was her house.
Wages lifted Bethany to her feet and sent her down the hall with a smack on the butt. When she pushed back against Wages, he held up one finger. “Don’t.”
“You want to go for a walk or something?” asked Achilles, gently shepherding Wages out the front door.
Wages shrugged. “I could use a beer.”
They walked in silence for several blocks. His parents barely argued. It was often apparent that his mother wasn’t listening, only nodding to keep the peace. His father usually grimaced and rolled his eyes so far back in his head he looked possessed. But he had rarely heard them raise their voices except for his eighth birthday. Wages, though, hadn’t raised his voice either, not once. His look and demeanor had been that of the Wages he knew on active duty: a big rock in a small river. Never a tremble in his hands, not even when packing Quikclot in that gaping hole in Ace’s leg or forcing Xavier’s mouth open for the medic to insert the breathing tube. Not a tremor in his voice when directing them to fall back and cover him while he ran for Merriweather. He was calm even in house-clearing runs. The Afghans would be trussed up and kneeling with hands over heads, sometimes with hoods over heads, sometimes bound like smoked hams and shitting themselves, and Wages remained cool as a cuke, chewing on a protein bar. The hotter it got, the cooler he got. He’d repeat his question over and over, and when he shot the detainee in Jalaya, all he said, with a mouthful of chocolate, was, “Mohammed pulled the trigger when he reached for me. He jumped on that bullet.”
Achilles respected that. He was always struggling to hold it together, thinking every day that he wished he’d never gone. Because he followed orders without complaint, he fit into the army, finally feeling a sense of belonging, but he didn’t want to be there. He was ducking in firefights and thinking that he wished he didn’t have a fucking brother, because if it weren’t for Troy’s ass, Achilles would be grilling a burger instead of eating beef stew out of a metallic envelope. He would have a job at the mill, the feedlot, or driving the mail truck. In Goddamnistan, marriage didn’t seem like such a bad idea. He could go home every night to a wife — which was always a blank face, but any soft, sweet-smelling lady would do — eat whatever she had cooked, down a few Silver Bullets, watch Cops or play Texas Hold-em, maybe fix the mailbox, or even hang a tennis ball from a string so she’d know when she’d pulled far enough into the garage, and have sex later that night. That would be nice, sex later that night. Sex every night. But instead, he was in towns he couldn’t pronounce, providing support for a team of engineers that were building bridges for the very sorry-ass fuckers that were taking potshots at them every day. If he had figured out a way home, if he’d had one chance to get back to the States, Goddamnistan would have never seen his black ass again.
But he survived it. Wages at the helm, steady-like, always calm, always good at keeping everyone on the level, even after a night at the business end of the tequila gun, even when getting flushed into the big shit. He was always like he had been with Bethany a few moments ago — a machine. Everyone who came up against the machine could make it work for or against them. Bethany didn’t deserve that, Achilles didn’t think. But he really didn’t know. She was always nice to him. She’d tended his wounds with steady, warm hands and a look of concentration in her brown eyes, the left one a little darker than the right, almost black. Fencing kept her light on her toes, even with the added weight, and her arms were well toned, especially the triceps. She had a swimmer’s shoulders and pronounced calves. Well proportioned she might be, there was the old saying: No matter how pretty she is, there is always someone, somewhere, sick of fucking her. Who knew how Bethany agitated Wages? Maybe she disrespected him in all those subtle ways women have of chiggering under the skin. When men gave in to that, Merriweather called it getting drunk on whine. But Bethany was pregnant. Maybe that made her forgetful. “Aren’t pregnant women forgetful or stressed or something?” asked Achilles.