He took Troy’s hand, running his finger along the long scar on the palm, and he switched the tags, putting the child’s tag on Troy. He closed the door silently behind him, as if to avoid waking anybody. Marcus leaned against the wall staring at his shoes and twirling a cigarette.
“What happened to him?” asked Achilles.
“Abrasions consistent with the use of restraints. Manner of death is homicide.” Marcus flipped through his clipboard. “Found outside of Banneker Homes two days ago.”
“Banneker Homes?”
“Benjamin Banneker.”
“Benjamin Banneker?” asked Achilles.
“The Bricks. He was dead before the ambulance arrived. Broken neck, crushed vertebrae, probably from a fall. One set of bruises is postnecrotic. It’s like he fell from a building, twice. Seen a couple like this before, caught up with Pepper and them.”
“Poor kid.”
“Hmm?” said Marcus.
“That’s not my brother.”
“Are you sure?” Marcus grunted.
“I’d know my brother. That’s not him. But thanks for calling.” On the way to the elevator, he passed a group of old women shuffling down the hall, a young boy enfolded in one of their arms; a father and mother and two daughters huddled together as if seeking protection from the elements; another family in their Sunday best, another in capris, a group of men in sweats and bandanas, a kid with a red lollipop ring around his mouth: all the men stood with narrow eyes, their mouths tight, like dams.
Achilles hurried past them and to his car, his arms limp, numb from the wrist down as if the nerves had been cut. He beat them against the steering wheel until he could feel again. He took out the photo he carried in his wallet, the photo of him and Troy at the amusement park. His favorite photo he didn’t have with him. It was from Pennsylvania. They had crossed the County Line Highway, which they were forbidden to do, and snuck out to the old water tower. It was the first time Achilles had figured out the auto-timer on the camera, before which self-portraits were assholes and elbows.
That day, Achilles climbed to the top of the water tower. Troy cut his hand on the rusty ladder and chickened out halfway. Achilles had escorted him down and cleaned the wound with spit, to prevent lockjaw. On that day, like so many others, he was brave when it mattered least. Helping Troy down from the tower had been easy, but Achilles was elated to have saved the day. He’d wanted to mark it with a photograph. In the photo, both of their faces are blurry from fidgeting; only they know who they are. Achilles, ten, is still taller and stronger. Troy, eight, hasn’t had his first growth spurt yet. They stand side by side in their secondhand Tuffskins. It’s a sunny day, and they squint against the light, so bright that it washed out the flash. The candy bars melted in their pockets. How sweet they were, the chocolate sticking to their hands. He licked his right off, but Troy rubbed some on his cheek and held his sticky palm next to Achilles. “Now we look like brothers.”
Troy, ever present. When Achilles, his baseball bat in the trunk of his defaced Ford LTD, high-wheeled it to Gary’s Cycle Shop to confront Janice’s burly brothers only to discover they weren’t working that day, Troy was there. When Achilles buried Buster, the rabbit he kept hidden behind the house in a makeshift kennel of cardboard and milk crates, Troy was there. When Achilles’s father lost his temper on that birthday, Troy was there, his quavering voice, scored with fear, pleading for their father to stop.
Wexler and Sammy were playing cards on the front porch. A sheet of gray clouds hung low in the sky. Achilles honked from the street. Wexler waved. Achilles honked again.
They waved him up to the porch and returned their attention to the game. Achilles trotted up, marched Sammy to the car and buckled him in, then stomped back to the porch.
The floorboards creaked as Wexler shifted his weight. “He’s a natural card shark. Better than the Duke,” he said, flashing his grin, as if to say, All is forgotten.
Shot through with love, Achilles closed the distance and wrapped Wexler in a bear hug. When Achilles at last felt his friend hug him back, he said, “Thank you.”
Stepping back, he opened his mouth to say good-bye, but settled for raising his hand. As he walked back to his car and pulled away, he didn’t look back, careful to avoid seeing Wexler make those stiff turns and limp back into the house. He didn’t turn even to look in the rearview mirror when Wexler called, “Connie, wait.”
As they drove off, Achilles said, “Remember what I said earlier, right Sammy?”
Sammy nodded. “Brothers keep secrets.”
“That’s right. And where were we?” asked Achilles.
“We were talking to Merrywhen, Mary …”
“Merriweather,” said Achilles.
“Merriweather. Right!” He smiled with satisfaction, settling back into the seat.
“Because?” asked Achilles.
“Because of the funeral. Because Wexler is dead.”
As he drove, Achilles snuck sideways glances at Sammy. In the hotel lot, Sammy asked, “Why does your friend walk like a robot?”
“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And where were you?” asked Sammy.
Troy asked a lot of questions too. Why aren’t my palms the same color as my skin? Why isn’t my skin the same color as yours? Why is Achilles so much darker than the rest of us? Why did our parents give us away? Were we bad? Can they take us back? Why do we have a menorah if we’re not Jewish? Achilles was embarrassed by these dumb questions to which even he knew the answers. The skin in our palms has less melanin, is thicker, and has keratinocytes. We’re black, but our parents are white because their ancestors evolved in different climates. Melanin comes in two types, pheomelanin, which is red, and eumelanin, which is very dark brown. I have more eumelanin, which was determined by four to six genes that I inherited from each parent. We didn’t do anything wrong. No one can take us back or return us. We’re not on loan like library books or returnable like merchandise. And, that’s a kinara, not a menorah. Achilles had answered with disdain, realizing now that he knew the answers because he had asked the same questions.
There were also unasked questions. If he’d been Troy’s complexion, would girls have liked him more? If he hadn’t had a brother, would he have been his father’s favorite? He’d envied his brother, his ease, the way the air parted for him, the way Troy wasn’t followed in the store or pulled over when their mother sent him on an errand, or triple-checked at the bank, all things that Achilles never told his parents about because they never happened when he was with them, and they never happened to Troy. So it had to be Achilles’s fault. Yes, he’d envied his brother’s skin, his “light-complected” genes. Yes, he’d begged, entreated, pleaded with Troy to tell no one that they were adopted so that his brother’s skin could be his own.