“And I’m asking you here at the house because it’s a family concern, and we all had to agree before I asked you. Boudreaux isn’t up for any more trips.”
“That doesn’t say anything about him. He’s busy,” said Mrs. Delesseppes. “I didn’t mean to cut you off, dear.”
Ines nodded and waited until certain that her mother was finished. “Harriet is in Atlanta and may never come back. That leaves me, and I don’t want to go alone. Everyone — Mother, Boudreaux, and Harriet — agrees that it’s okay for you to come with me, if you promise to never tell anyone we meet that we are related to Paul. Mother insists that no matter what, Paul be allowed his dignity and privacy.”
Achilles nodded, adding, “That’s easy enough.”
“That’s the difficulty. We can’t go in and ask for him by name. We can’t even claim the body.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Mother has to know. She has to. So we have to go and look at everyone individually and …” At that point Ines choked up.
Achilles hugged her close, assuring her it was okay, that he understood better than she knew, and he would be glad to go as far and as often as she needed to.
“Achilles,” said Mrs. Delesseppes.
“Yes ma’am?”
She had pronounced his name correctly for the first time, and now she stared as if seeing him anew. It was hard to believe he had once fantasized about her. Seeing Mrs. D now, gazing so intently, scrutinizing, he knew even given the opportunity, he could never have realized those visions. It would have been merely lust. He was ashamed that he’d thought of her as a MILF. He was no match for Ines, let alone someone of her mother’s caliber. She’d opened her house to strangers in need after the flood, feeding and clothing them. Now she sought the truth, even if it was unbearable. Was this what his mother was thinking? Again it occurred to him that women were braver than men in ways he’d never considered.
Ines ran her thumbs under his eyes and hugged him close.
“Achilles,” Mrs. Delesseppes said again. “I thank you for your time. I trust you will never betray the confidence this family reposes in you.”
Once they were in the car, Ines took his hand and said, “Thank you. I know how much the time with Charlie 1 means to you.”
That much she was right about. Charlie 1 had meant a lot to him.
As Troy put it, “Whiskey is for sissies, unless you drink it straight.” As Merriweather always said, “The liver is a muscle, and you’ve got to exercise it.” As Wexler said, “They have wine in church.” As Dixon put it, “Agave is the nectar of the gods.”
Charlie 1 was no different. As Vodka put it, “I’m aptly named.” As Bryant put it, “Ain’t nothing wrong a beer can’t put right.” As Wilson said, “If it weren’t for rum, I’d have no fun.” Daddy Mention’s pride: a liver the size of Texas and a heart the size of Delaware, wink wink. With Charlie 1, Achilles’s liver got plenty of exercise, and he was out of practice.
Mornings felt as if he’d fallen asleep with a kiwi fruit in his mouth. On his last morning with Charlie 1, when he had a terrible headache, pulsing and throbbing like a dick in the ear, they were patrolling Uptown, which meant driving and talking shit and looking for looters, which meant stopping anyone who wasn’t white or accompanied by someone white, like the three black teens wading through the park across from Tulane. They had heavy New Orleans accents and wore mismatched clothing, everything two sizes too big. The kids claimed they were going to the aviary at the zoo to feed the birds, but no one believed them, even though they carried a large trash bag with a few cups of birdseed in the bottom. So they all went to the zoo and scaled the fence. Amazingly, there were three parrots in the aviary, singing as if they recognized the kids. One hundred yards upriver, volunteers hauled bodies out of the water. Gently looping adults to avoid losing limbs, carefully turning an infant like a log before scooping it up in an oversized fishing net.
Daddy Mention looked in the trash bag again and sniffed. “Crushed crackers, peanuts, breakfast cereal. Birds don’t eat party mix. Where’s the beer? You gonna watch the Saints’ game?”
Everyone laughed except the kids.
Jokingly, Daddy Mention accused the kids of fattening up the birds in order to eat them. Their ages ranged from fifteen to eighteen, and they looked like tough kids, but immediately upon being accused of planning to eat the birds, the youngest one started running. Daddy Mention caught him before he’d gone even fifteen yards and marched him back. It’s hard to run with your pants binding your legs like a geisha’s kimono.
“Why you run?” asked Daddy Mention.
The youngest one shrugged. The oldest one started crying.
“Don’t let ’em punk you. Come on now,” said the youngest one, cutting his eyes. His skin was copper, almost reddish, and heavily freckled. His insolent attitude reminded Achilles of Pepper.
The oldest one continued to cry, sobbing in earnest. When he wiped his eyes, his pants fell down. The squad members looked at each other and stepped back. If he’d pulled a grenade out, Vodka or Daddy Mention might have jumped on him and it, but when he started crying, they backpedaled like he had AIDS. Dark skinned, with large, round eyes like a bird and hunched, heavy boxer’s shoulders, he was too big to cry.
“Don’t go bitch-eyed on me,” said Daddy Mention.
His friends patted the older one on the back and hugged him, and told him to ignore it. The older one shook his friends off and said, “We’re not animals.” He picked up a rock and threw it, hitting Daddy Mention squarely on the forehead.
Wilson, Vodka, Bryant, and Daddy Mention raised their weapons and yelled at everyone to get on the ground. The kids dropped to their knees, hands up, except the crying one, who remained standing and threw another rock. Achilles had to hand it to him: he was brave. Stupid, but brave.
Daddy Mention said, “Put it down.”
“We’re not animals.”
“Put it down, son.” Daddy Mention stepped closer. His finger was outside the trigger guard, but Wilson and Bryant had their fingers on their triggers. Daddy Mention yelled, “Zigga, put it down.”
Wilson and Bryant glanced anxiously at each other as they stepped back. Vodka echoed Daddy Mention, his voice steady. “Put the rock down, man. It’s going to be okay. What’s your name, son?”
From where they now stood, Wilson and Bryant would shoot each other. Achilles, who stood between them, backed out of their line of fire.
Vodka echoed his question. “What’s your name?”
“Terius,” said the older one, snot dripping from his nose. He identified his younger friend, the one who had tried to run, as Dooley. The third kid was named Jonas. “We’re not animals.”
“You’re acting like it,” said Daddy Mention. “Look at you.”
“You need to get that gun out of my face,” said Terius.
“You don’t make the rules here, kid, this ain’t The Corner,” said Daddy Mention.
“You need to get that gun out of my face,” said Terius.
“What’s wrong?” asked Bryant. “You want lipstick on it?”
Terius threw the rock at Bryant and missed.
Daddy Mention struck Terius in the temple with the butt of his M16, dropping the kid like spilled water. When Dooley, the young one who resembled Pepper, tried to run again, Achilles hit him between the shoulder blades with the butt of his rifle, in the temple after he fell down, and once in the face to shut him up.
Achilles would have struck him again had he not seen movement on the other side of the park near St. Charles. It was a man pushing a stroller. Achilles scanned 360 degrees — the woods, the parking lot, the windows — catching them all in the rifle’s crosshairs, finger at the ready. At the riverside end of Audubon Park, known as the Fly, they were still fishing someone out of the water. Farther away, a woman on a second-floor porch beat a rug. On a side street, two men were stacking ruined furniture on the sidewalk. He scanned again, to be on the safe side, breathing steady. Kids were often a diversion to distract soldiers from the real threat, like a sniper. By the time he’d scanned the rooftops a third time, the kids were handcuffed with plastic ties.