He lifted her skirt, but Ines had other ideas, like putting flowers on Wexler’s grave or taking Naomi out to dinner. She remade the bed, wiped down the bathroom counter, filled the ice trays. She tested the taps, ruffled the drapes, stopping only when she saw the empty rum bottle in the trashcan. Appearing satisfied, she plopped into the chair beside the bed. “I had a tree planted in his name. It must be terrible to bury your child. It must feel like the world’s upside down. Did the flowers arrive?”
“Oh yes.”
“Did they like them?”
“Oh yes.”
She jumped up again. Turned on the television, flitted about, making minor adjustments while the news played. She moved the table six inches to the left, centered the chairs on it, opened the drapes and closed them, all the while with her eyes on her hands, but her head cocked in a way that let him know she was listening to the news. The anchor, a middle-aged white man, was reporting from the foyer of an office building on downtown Canal Street, deserted save for the wind pushing a lone shopping cart across the bus lane. Palm trees bowed unnaturally, rain swept horizontally across the street. After the lamps, chairs, and pillows had been moved the half-inch Ines felt they required, she stopped in the middle of the room and surveyed her work. The room looked the same to Achilles. Ines pointed the remote at the TV. “Bang bang. That’s better. Let’s get Sammy.”
By agreeing to drive there in Achilles’s truck and let him sit in the middle of the bench seat—an aptly named space, Achilles thought—they persuaded Sammy to spend an hour at a small traveling carnival on Buford Highway. Sammy had resisted because Fairs are for kids. Achilles concurred, wanting to check the little bastard back into the library he came from. But Ines was insistent, whispering, “He doesn’t have a father, and therefore feels compelled to act like an adult.” So, Achilles found himself wandering between food trailers, barkers, and flashing lights, none of which interested Sammy, who didn’t want to take a spin on any of the rides, rickety erector sets so shaky they scared even Achilles, especially the Kamikaze, shimmying like a lame Huey raining pain. Sammy wanted no fried candy bars, cotton candy, or funnel cake because Candy’s for kids. But when he saw the big blue bull’s-eye flashing over the shooting gallery, he tugged Achilles’s hand, referring to himself as a marksman.
The shooting gallery barker, stumbling as if drunk, motioned Sammy over, flashing crooked teeth. “Easiest game on the boardwalk.”
Surpisingly, Ines handed the pompadoured barker a clutch of tickets, more than one game’s worth. Sammy made a show of picking up each rifle, weighing it, sighting it, and replacing it before he settled on one. He tucked the butt under his armpit, pressed his cheek against the stock, pinched one eye nearly shut, closed the other, and missed ten shots in a row. He tried another rifle and went through the same routine, this time waggling his tongue, still hitting nothing, hearing nothing but the trigger and the soft thunk of pellets striking the sandbag behind the target. The barker said Sammy only needed to warm up. Ines handed over more tickets and rushed off to replenish her supply. Sammy tried again, and missed again. Ines returned and nudged Achilles.
“I thought you didn’t like guns,” said Achilles.
Ines whispered, “Yada, yada, yada, I know, Mr. They’re-fun-as-long-as-they’re-not-pointed-at-you. This is a game. You can teach him the proper technique, to be responsible. He needs the distraction. He’s upset about the storm.”
“No he’s not.”
Ines raised her eyebrows, the Groucho Marx impression that was her nice way of saying, Obey. Achilles taught Troy how to shoot, then got into trouble when Troy shot a rock and the pellet ricocheted into his face. Praying Sammy didn’t hurt himself, Achilles nested the rifle butt against his shoulder. “Hold your breath for two counts before firing.”
Sammy looked up at Achilles, losing his grip as he did so. Achilles readjusted Sammy’s posture. “Stay focused. Eyes on target, always, in all things in life.”
“Thanks. I’m going to win now.” Sammy’s smile was big and bright, and so was Ines’s, her face lit up like Christmas. Was this what it felt like to have a family?
Sammy missed again. “Is this loaded?”
“Of course, son,” snapped the barker.
“He’s not your son,” said Ines.
The barker started to say something, looked at Achilles, thought better of it, and said, “Sorry ma’am.”
Ines nudged Sammy, who, eyes down, said, “Apology accepted.”
“Well?” asked Ines. “Is it?”
“Yes ma’am,” said the barker.
“Answer him.” Ines glanced at Achilles as if to say, You can deal with him or me.
“It’s loaded.” The barker pursed his lips.
Sammy asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes sir,” muttered the barker.
Sammy pushed his shoulders back, held his neck straight, and tried again. Spurred by Ines’s intercession, Achilles hefted one of the rifles, a lightweight BB gun with misaligned sights. He handed it to Sammy. Sammy turned the gun around and stared down the barrel, just as Troy had when he first handled a rifle. Achilles placed his hand over the end of the barrel and snatched the gun away. Sammy froze.
“Never, ever, ever, ever,” Achilles paused, “ever look down the barrel of a loaded gun. Never ever, ever, ever point a gun at yourself or anyone else, even as a joke.”
Sammy nodded timidly.
“What’s the first rule?”
“Never, ever, ever, ever,” Sammy paused, “ever look down the barrel of a loaded gun. Never ever, ever, ever point a gun at yourself or anyone else, even as a joke.”
“Smart ass,” said Achilles before he caught himself, and when he glanced at Ines she was trying to stifle her laughter too. Dropping to one knee, Achilles guided the butt to Sammy’s shoulder. He smelled like baby powder. “First, Kentucky windage, because this isn’t zeroed.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Aim for a fixed point above the ducks.”
Sammy was a quick study. He hit the target three times. Ines handed the contrite barker more tickets. “Again!” Achilles remained on his knee at Sammy’s side, guiding his little hands and adjusting his posture, as his father had done for him, and as he had done for Troy. Soon Sammy had shot the six in a row needed to claim a prize. He chose a koala and, being too old for toys, awarded it to Ines to keep her other stuffed koala, Ricky, company. Sammy gave Achilles a hug, his short arms straining to wrap around Achilles’s waist. Ines gave him a kiss on the neck, her cheek wet. Whirling teacups, the spinning Ferris wheel, laughing parents, screaming children, dancing neon. A clown in one dunk tank, a blonde in another. Achilles breathed in the traces of Ines’s perfume, the smell of alcohol on the barker, the aroma of funnel cake, and the smell of Sammy’s jawbreaker and held it all in as they walked away.
After they had gone a few feet, Ines squatted so she was eye-level with Sammy. “You remember what I always tell you?”
“I’m a man. I’m no one’s son but my mother’s,” said Sammy.
“That’s right,” she said, looking up at Achilles. “Can you believe that? Son? Can you believe that?”
Achilles grunted.
“The barker’s nineteen? Twenty? Sammy’s nine. Every Southern white man thinks every black man is his son. But if you ask them, they’ll say that race doesn’t matter, son. They ignore the implications of that paternalistic attitude.”
If he said nothing, she would fade out. His mother used that trick with his father. Ines spoke loudly enough for passersby to hear, and they were within earshot of the barker, whose black pompadour and Doc Martins reminded Achilles of his goth friends in high school. He glanced over her shoulder to see if the barker was listening.