Under the pretext of showing him Troy’s uniform, his mother marched him off to the back bedroom, stepping over the flowers lining the hallway. The uniform was in good order, all the medals properly aligned. The recruiter had helped with that.
Achilles was ready to get chewed out. His mother closed the door and counted on her fingers as she rattled off a list of questions: What’s her last name? Where’s she from? Where’s her family from? What kind of work does she do?
Then back to the living room, where his mother excused herself, giving him a wink and a thumbs-up over Ines’s shoulder, leaving him with Ines, who glared at him, and asked Is she retired? Where did she work before? Where is she from? Is her family still around here?
His mom returned with fruit and fishsticks. “I don’t eat much meat either,” she said, settling into the couch. “Achilles told me about your charity, but you know how vague men are, tell me more.” And Ines did, at one point relating it to accounting. Meanwhile, Achilles pondered the significance of his mother referring to him, for the first time, as a man in that way, as if he was now in his father’s camp.
Achilles watched in amazement as, over the course of the next hour, they each maintained their front, privately asking Achilles questions on the sly: Does Ines sew? Does Anna garden? Does Ines go to church? What’s Anna’s favorite flower? Gospel played on the radio.
“Do you mind gospel, Ines?”
“No ma’am. I enjoy spiritual music.”
“Ines is a beautiful name. Does it mean anything?”
“It’s short for Esmeralda.”
His mother gasped. “That’s gorgeous, regal.”
She was right. Ines sat there, quietly scanning photo albums, chatting pleasantly with his mother, taking it on the chin without complaint. She was regal. A real lady.
“You should see the programs, Achilles. They’re on the counter,” his mother said. “The paper too.”
Thankful for an excuse to leave, Achilles went to the kitchen. The counter, tables, and top of the refrigerator were covered with flowers, even more than there had been for his father, who’d lived in the area his entire life. The refrigerator was again stuffed with food. The programs were piled on the table. The photo on the cover was from the third week of basic training. Wearing PT outfits, they’d lined up outside a white Quonset hut. Inside, they passed through an assembly line: one station fitted them with a jacket, the next with a shirt and clip-on tie, the next with a hat. The last station snapped the photo that everyone sent home as evidence of transformation.
Their sergeant said, “Don’t slurp your own shit. This photo’s what you could be, not what you are.” But Troy looked like he halfway believed it, the mouth is set in firm determination, but his eyes give it away. That day Troy was happy, joking, amused by the fact that in every one of these photos they’d seen over the years, every last recruit was dressed up in a fancy jacket with only jogging shorts on underneath. All those photos and no one was wearing pants. The edge of a newspaper was barely visible under the box of programs. It was a copy of the Washington County Reporter, with Troy’s picture on the front cover, two pictures to be exact: one from the high school soccer team and one from the military. The byline was Janice Keel Williams; she had taken Dale’s name.
Troy Henry Conroy,
Our First Fallen Hero Buried Today
Washington County, Janice Keel Williams
There was a new hero among us, and many us of missed the chance to thank him the last time he was in town. The first hometown hero to die since this war began, Troy always answered the call of duty. He had a smile for everyone, flashing that great soldier’s jaw. A sports sensation, Troy lettered in football, soccer, and lacrosse by the tenth grade. That was the kind of young man who entered 11-Bravo and came out with a Bronze Star — with a V for valor, one of the highest honors a solder can receive. He earned it carrying a wounded comrade across a minefield, risking his life and limb. He joined the army shortly after September 11 to fight the War on Terror, and after he was done there, he helped on the home front, traveling to New Orleans in the wake of Katrina. Troy was always ready to help the less fortunate. Says his brother, Achilles, “Troy was the bravest man I knew. He was always there for me, and for anyone who needed him. Selfless, brave, always extending a helping hand. He will be deeply missed.” His mother, Anna, described him as “Just a good person. The kind of son you always want to have, but never believe you’ll actually get.” Everyone here in Washington County will miss Troy, but no one more so than his family. Troy is survived by his mother, Anna Holt Conroy, and his brother, Achilles Holden Conroy. His father, William Conroy, died last fall in a car accident.
It was hard to believe it had only been a year. Achilles heard a chuckle, but when he returned to the living room, the mood had changed. Ines sat in rapt attention while his mother told the story in bits and pieces. It’s the same story Achilles had told Ines, down to the part about referring to Troy as his brother. The photos give away the end. Ines stood and paced along the mantel while his mother pointed out who was who, stopping at the photo of Achilles and Troy and their parents at Hershey Park.
They spent the night in his old bedroom. Achilles had refused his mother’s offer to make room elsewhere. It reminded him too much of how little space they had. On the drive in, he wanted to impress Ines with the view from the main road, not considering that she would assume he lived in one of those McMansions. Now, back in the old bedroom, he wished he had taken the other highway in, the one that cut through the woods and small towns, the four-way intersections policed only by stop signs.
He and Ines sat on Achilles’s bed. Troy’s uniform lay on the bed across from them. Ines glanced around the room at the posters, their dressers, the single closet. She stretched her legs, banging her shins on Troy’s bed.
He reached for her legs and she jerked away.
“Like I said, it ain’t much,” offered Achilles.
“Really? Achilles?”
“Do you want me to take you to the airport?”
Ines glared. “Is that going to be your answer to everything today?”
“It’s the first time I’ve said it.”
“It sounds like something you would repeat. You should have told me.”
“Would you have come?”
“That’s not your choice. I would have brought her something.” She said this matter-of-factly.
“I’m sorry. Do you want me to take you to the airport?” asked Achilles. “Damn!”
“I knew it.”
“I guess I could have said, ‘Come and meet my mom, she’ll take you for a ride on her bus.’”
“That’s all the more reason. If you felt like I really hated white people, you should have told me.”
Her breath was slow and steady, her eyes cool, but she seemed more hurt than angry. He reached for her hand, and she drew away.
“I wanted to, but at first it didn’t matter. Then it was too late.”
She pursed her lips and shook her head as if she didn’t believe him. “It’s just not fair, Achilles. It’s not fair. There isn’t enough time to tell you how much of an asshole you are. Yesterday, when you told me the news, a small part of me felt relieved that it wasn’t anyone new. And I felt so guilty about that, so ashamed. And now, I feel even worse. I’ll stay for the funeral, but I want to go to the airport after.” The wind rattled the glass. “Regardless of the weather.” She scooted a few feet over on the bed.