Apparently? Yes, apparently, because only now did it occur to him to wonder why Mrs. Delesseppes had said varied relations, and not black relations? What did that mean?
“What?” asked Ines as she stood to shake the sleep from her limbs, which usually reminded him of a sprinter approaching the starting line, but this evening brought to mind a charismatic about to catch the Spirit.
In fact, thought Achilles, in the South, was there even a difference between being black and having black in you?
Another huge cheer erupted from the street. Apartment windows slid up, car doors flung open, people yelled into the air. Horns. Noisemakers. Aerosol horns. People poured out of the sports bar screaming, a tangled mass of faces painted purple and gold, their pounding feet audible, a rapturous hoard barking themselves hoarse. The Saints had won. The game was over.
They were ecstatic, as he had felt about the buzzing, the bees, and the breasts. He remembered that when they were little, Troy was afraid of bees, always running to Achilles to shoo them away, always relying on his big brother to protect him. Yes, always relying on Achilles, older, bigger, darker. Ines sashayed over. Whistling, she said, “The flak jacket, babe, the flak jacket.”
What did she mean?
CHAPTER 12
THEY WERE IN A WADI IN LAI’PUR WHEN A SOLDIER THREE PACES BEHIND, shoulders swaying like he was on a boat as he listened to his MP3 player, tripped and fell, his shadow shrinking so naturally, so casually, that had it not been for the rifle reports — and they heard reports all the time — Achilles would have thought him clumsy, or another victim of heat exhaustion, or that he had merely stopped to adjust his laces. Dust flew as the new recruits scrambled for cover, firing to the four winds, some aiming, some on their backs shooting wildly over their heads, throwing bullets like salt after birds, and Achilles saw that fallen soldier nearby, one of his buddies lying over him, shielding him, the tiny white headphones still in his ears. As Achilles watched those fluttering brown eyes — the same color as his — close for what was certainly the last time, he called for Troy, who yelled that he was O.K., and thought, Why are they shooting at us? Even as he steadied his rifle and aimed at the far ridge, his limbs were alternately tingling then numb, his ass clenched so tight it hurt, and he was struck by the fear that he’d never, ever, ever, shit again, a sensation he felt when Morse called, nearly dropping the phone as the detective asked to speak to Troy.
“Mr. Conroy, your brother is looking for you,” said Morse, his usually stentorian voice light, somewhat like the saccharine tone intended to lure a dog one was tired of chasing, a dog who thought it all a game.
“Are you still in New Orleans, Mr. Conroy? Your brother Achilles is here too. Mr. Conroy? Troy Conroy?” Morse confirmed the number. He had dialed correctly. Moved by Achilles’s determination, Morse had done a little legwork, put a man on the case who found out that there was an inheritance, and that Troy had called about his.
True, Achilles had occasionally felt an envy that turned his stomach and left a sour taste in his mouth, like the film that remained after tossing a grenade. On rotation he had often wished he was still big enough to kick his younger brother’s ass, especially when Troy sauntered out to the murder pool to mount up like he was riding a bull. In high school, he had rarely delivered messages from all the girls that called after Troy. But wanted to harm him? Never. Or had he?
The thought roused him, frisked him, and he felt exposed, as he had when Wages cinched his wrist in a vise-like grip and barked, “Why the fuck is this watch on Kabul time?” He had the physical sensation again of being shot at as Morse repeated himself.
Simple, old-time police work, Morse called it. And there was Achilles stuttering into the phone that he hadn’t known about any inheritance when he filed the MP report, and he hadn’t claimed to be his brother. The attorney made that mistake, and no, he still hadn’t seen his brother since the day after the funeral. And no, he wasn’t angry about Troy inheriting more money. And yes, the bruises Morse had seen really were from a fight with a stranger. And Morse hmm-hmm-ing and uh-uh-ing, finally saying, “I understand. I believe you, Achilles, but you need to come down so we can talk and update the report.”
Surely Morse was wrong, Achilles protested. He had a text message with eight exclamation points. Achilles had spoken to his mother. She was buying a pool table and planned to build a kennel. She tried to contain herself, but she was happier than he’d ever heard her. “My mother talked to Troy.”
Morse cleared his throat, taking on the avuncular tone he had used when they went to lunch. “Achilles, I spoke with your mother. She didn’t talk to Troy herself. She bumped into the attorney’s receptionist in the parking lot at the dentist’s office.”
Achilles fought the urge to vomit.
“I’m very sorry, Achilles.”
Wages would have tried to fit it all into the new theory of life he’d picked up from the VA nutcrackers he had seen since the Bethany incident. His new vision concerned the Zulus and some kind of warrior purification ritual. Supposedly, until a warrior completed the ritual, he couldn’t reenter society without soiling everything he touched. Achilles had agreed with him at first, desperate to find an order to things, an unfamiliar wistfulness overtaking him as Wages started his story. “Listen up good, Connie, this is like the Bible, but it’s better because it’s true, and it explains the dreams.”
Achilles had listened as attentively as at a briefing but understood nothing, even as he studied the wooden African mask now dominating Wages’s mantel for clues. The ovular brown face with slit eyes and pointy teeth stood over the room like a sullen guard. The hair was brown fur, but the beard was red, made from spent shotgun shell casings. Achilles couldn’t make heads or tales of Wages’s new theory. First, Achilles didn’t dream. Well, he knew he dreamed, but fortunately he remembered nothing, so why did it matter? Second, what did an old African tribe have to do with modern warfare? Third, when he thought about Ines, he considered himself lucky. If he was soiling things, if he hadn’t really reentered society and Ines was punishment, Achilles would die if things got any better. He’d just fucking pop-lock, like the otherwise healthy soldiers who died unexpectedly in combat, usually of sudden heart attacks. He had blown Wages off, but as he dialed his mother’s number, he suddenly wasn’t so sure.
Like that old song said, “Getting shot at wasn’t too bad, it was getting shot that shook you up.” If talking to Morse was being shot at, talking to his mother was being shot. In the few days since announcing Troy’s imminent return, she had accepted it and the joy was apparent in her voice, turning his belly cold and his tongue stony. His heart beat in his chest like a dying fish as he hastened to speak, to assure her he was there, he could hear her. He pictured her at her desk before remembering that she forwarded the house phone to her cell and could be anywhere.
“Are you at the house?”
“No.”
“Where are you? Are you on the way back yet?” she asked.
“Almost.”
“Almost here? Or almost on the way? Keelies? He’ll be here any minute.”
“Did you actually talk to him?”
The connection was poor. Or was it his hearing? “No, but … You see … Perfect isn’t it … That’s how I know he got your message. Achilles are you there?” He assures her he is still there, that it’s great, it’s wonderful, it’s stupendous, it’s terrific to hear that Troy called Chuck Riley over in Mercersburg about his inheritance. Yes, he agrees, it’s miraculous, there is a God, but … “Mom! Did you actually talk to him?”