The last time they spoke at any length was the afternoon Wages tried to explain the Zulu warrior ritual to him. Achilles hadn’t understood it at the time, but he thought he did now, after watching all the people wander through the streets of New Orleans like zombies, forever changed by what they had seen: the man in the checkout line sniffling as if he had a cold; the guy at the corner of Canal and Camp Street, whose eyes watered when he was mistaken for someone else; the vet in the bar with Charlie 1 who suddenly teared up and didn’t hide it, as if he didn’t really know he was crying, sobbing, shoulders shuddering as if he were being electrocuted. How had Achilles become those men, not even realizing what was happening unless Ines was there to wipe his cheeks?
That was Wages’s point. Even if you don’t remember, you never forget. They were in the attic for that final conversation, Achilles standing and Wages stooping, putting his last bottle of liquor into his trunk, Achilles denying it when Wages said he understood that the Bethany incident made Achilles uncomfortable.
“No way,” said Achilles. Who am I to judge? he wanted to say. I impersonated my brother, and spent time stalking ass when I should have shown Ines Troy’s photos and asked for help. “I don’t ever think about it.”
“I do every day. That’s the only time that shit ever happened. Ask Bethany.”
Achilles shrugged off the suggestion.
“I’m seeing somebody to make sure it doesn’t happen again. The guy’s pretty good. He’s a real old cat, a vet himself. Korea at fifteen, then Vietnam. He’s seen it all.” Wages closed the trunk and sat on the lid, patting the space beside him.
“I’m fine, dude.”
“Whatever.”
“That shit ends up on your record. What if you get the chance to go back? You’ll be flagged as …” Achilles hesitated, trying to find the right word.
“I don’t say I drink,” said Wages. “If I did that, they’d blame the booze.”
“You’re still flagged.”
“I’ve thought about that,” said Wages. “I don’t want to go back.”
At the time, Achilles still wanted to go back, to be with his friends and brother. “We were kings.”
“Don’t look at me like I’m making bitch eyes.” That hung in the air a moment before Wages continued. “I have so many fucking dreams it’s a wonder I sleep. It’s because we don’t have any rituals. That’s how the doctor explains it. That’s why I have the dreams. I never had them over there. Know anything about the Zulus?”
“No.”
“After a battle, the witch doctor takes you through the ritual so you can reenter society. The doctor says that because I didn’t go through any ritual, my addiction to risk keeps me at the casino where my job is the perfect cover for my propensity to gamble.” He said this last part through his nose.
“Are you going to quit?”
Wages lit a cigarette for emphasis, jabbing the evening air with the angry red eye. “I don’t quit shit. I’m just telling you what he said. It explains my dreams and shit.” As Wages explained it, the ritual involved a shaman helping warriors readjust to domestic life. “Even the Greeks had this problem. You have to get back into the community.”
“Like redemption?” asked Achilles.
“Impossible,” said Wages. “Redemption is out. Besides, it would mean we did something wrong.”
Chaplain Weidman was known for his practical penance. Merriweather had admitted to once helping some friends steal a truckload of computers destined for an elementary school. His penance: do something nice for some children. Ramirez had admitted to cheating on his girlfriend, just to stay “free.” His penance: If he loved her, tell her. If not, let her go. Jackson, a onetime cab driver, often claimed that his meter was broken on Friday nights. His penance: give the occasional free ride when he returned. “Is it like practical penance?”
“It’s not a religious thing. It’s more spiritual-like.”
“Like confession?” asked Achilles. “Or therapy?”
“No and no,” said Wages. “It’s none of that, nothing like that at all. It’s just a ritual, letting go.”
“Forgetting?” asked Achilles.
“No!”
“Being forgiven?” asked Achilles.
“We didn’t do anything to be forgiven for,” groaned Wages. “We were hired to do a job. If there’s a hell below, you know.”
You’re exasperated? Achilles wanted to grab Wages and shake him. “What the fuck is it then? Is it like Merriweather?”
“He just had bad luck.”
“The kid,” whispered Achilles. “The knife?”
“What are you talking about?” Wages stared at him. “You mean trying to dig that shrapnel out?”
Achilles listened quietly after that.
“Another person helps you let go of what you hold. Some tribes believe that the warrior is haunted by his knowledge. We call it memory, but really it’s knowledge. We know how motherfuckers really are. The things we know, the things we’ve seen, the things we carry are a burden but also a gift, our gift to everyone else. We carry the terror so they don’t have to. It’s about getting back on even footing.” Wages handed Achilles a sheet of paper. “It’s my combat exam. Everyone should get one.” He said this in an offhanded manner, as if he were referring to a platinum card with mileage rewards.
A single sheet of blue paper with two columns, it detailed his experiences on active duty. The left column listed questions: Number of times under fire? Number of times seen people hit? Number of times seen people killed? Number of times in direct danger of being killed? Number of times involved in ambushes or house-clearing missions? Number of times killed people? The right side held the answers. Under fire over 37 times. Seen people hit 40 times. Seen people killed at close range 76 times. In direct danger of being killed 32 times. Participated in 112 ambushes or house-clearing missions. Killed 12 people.
“I can’t believe you don’t dream about this shit.”
Achilles couldn’t believe it either, because he had been there for almost all of it.
CHAPTER 21
BEING HOME AFTER ACTIVE DUTY HAD BEEN A SUDDEN AND VIOLENT deceleration, like hitting the ground without a chute. He felt that way again now. Achilles had extensively researched suicide, looking for the clues he must have missed. Talking about death, changes in sleep and behavior, heavy drinking, anxiety about losing control, and recent loss are all warning signs. But that was how everyone he knew had lived for the past two years. Loss of freedom, moving, death of a friend are all possible causes. But that described how he’d felt that night in the church tower when he didn’t shoot Pepper, and again in the morgue in the closet of ashes, and holding Jackson’s hand. And he wasn’t suicidal. The symptoms described everyone he knew, it seemed, so it was hard to guess what he should have noticed about Wages on the rare occasions when they had talked.
He wanted to believe there had to be an answer, be it prayer or the oneness of the universe, as the patchouli-scented museum lecturer said, but that worried him because if his soul was a universe, it was probably full of black holes. He even considered reenlisting, but had to admit he was no longer sure he was built for it. His body was slowing down. Mornings, he woke sore and stiff, like he had fought all night.
Some evenings he and Ines ate outside, talking constantly to beat back the silence. There were no birds, no cats, and little traffic, so every gap in conversation was deathly still. She told him about the people who came into the phone room to check the bulletin board for pictures of friends and family, the joys and disappointments, the near misses and the occasional happy connection. He nodded. Then he told her about his day. He hadn’t been with Charlie 1 for a few weeks but kept in touch with them, and so knew that they were on house-clearing duty, going from door to door to alert the coroners. It wasn’t hard to make up the details. He took a story from Goddamnistan, changed the complexions and the locations, and it sounded as if it happened blocks away, not in another country, in another time. The days and nights were long and restless, with Achilles facing the real fact that for the first time he had no purpose in his life and saw little to look forward to.