When he moved near, she moved farther away. This implosion was worse than the explosion he’d expected. He’d counted on anger and accusations, yelling and screaming, hoped for an argument, some of her self-righteous indignation. A fight. Instead, as Achilles made a pallet on the floor, Ines lay on Achilles’s bed, clutching her suitcase, crying as if she had lost her own brother.
CHAPTER 24
UNABLE TO SLEEP, ACHILLES WANTED TO CRUISE THROUGH TOWN BUT halfway expected to be stopped at each intersection, so he sat on the cinderblock stoop all night. The Reserves were full of sheriffs and deputies, troopers and constables, and on the drive to New Orleans he’d nodded at them all. On the drive home though, he found himself gripping the wheel and hovering over the brakes whenever Smokey passed. He was still on the stoop when the morning fog burned off, the trees wavering like the shadows of people who weren’t there. He was on the stoop when, unexpectedly, a donated limousine arrived at seven a.m.
Ines, Achilles, his mom, and his two aunts rode to the funeral home in the limousine. They traveled through the center of town — past the people lining the streets waving American flags as if it was a parade, past the school and courthouse with their flags at half-mast, past the signs that read, We miss you, Troy—picking up cars en route, until a procession of vehicles trailed behind them, all of which had to park on the street because the funeral home lot was full.
His father’s funeral had started fifteen minutes late, but today Mr. Eckhart, the funeral director, was outside scowling at his pocket watch when the limousine pulled up. There was an hour before the actual service, but he hustled Achilles into a side room where five privates in dress blues sat around a folding table sipping coffee.
“It’s going to be a real hero’s service, Achilles. You better believe it. These gentleman from Shippensburg CC ROTC volunteered to serve as pallbearers.” To the five soldiers, Eckhart said, “Gentlemen, this is Achilles Conroy, Troy Conroy’s brother.”
They jumped to their feet and snapped to attention, introducing themselves and offering condolences. It’s an honor, they all said. When the funeral director excused himself, they remained standing. With a wave of his hand he directed them back to their coffee. “Thank you sir.”
“I earned my rank,” Achilles said softly. He vaguely recognized the tallest one, Hausman. Achilles knew a Dennis Hausman, a lanky geek with a deadly jump shot who wore glasses so thick he could start fires with them on a cloudy day. He’d soon be armed, so hopefully the younger one had better eyes than his brother. Same thin frame and too-long arms, same prominent Adam’s apple. Achilles imagined this younger Hausman squirreled into the shadow of a shredded Humvee, momentarily deafened by the explosion, squinting as it rained dirt, trying to make out a target. Or maybe nothing would happen at all. He would play Xbox when he wasn’t on patrol, throw lollipops at kids when he was, and return in nine months with a tan. If they did ROTC, then college, then entered with a commission, at least they wouldn’t be cannon fodder.
The funeral director returned to explain the protocol. After the viewing, which he insisted on calling it even though the casket was closed, they would carry the casket to the hearse, which would take one tour through town before returning to the cemetery for the burial. “Remember,” he told them twice, carefully including Achilles in his roaming gaze as he looked at each of them in turn, “the casket is light, very light. Lift it slowly, don’t jerk it, and don’t look surprised at the weight.” He closed his fist around his pocket watch, lifting it slowly, almost as if it weighed too much for him to hold in one hand. “No one watching you should know it’s empty.”
Eckhart ran the event with military precision. They had loaded the casket, driven through town, and returned by nine thirty. Five minutes later, they were gathered at the same gravesite where everything began a year ago. Achilles sat between his mom and Ines. Janice, Dale, and their new baby were seated nearby and, behind them, throngs of people stretching back nearly to the street. Kids too young to have ever known Troy fidgeted and whined while their parents jerked their arms and hushed them. Four large-breasted blondes in their late teens stood shoulder to shoulder, sniffing and wiping their eyes. Their football coach stood next to a line of beefy kids who must have been the current varsity squad.
The preacher spoke about hope, rebirth, faith, and the sacrifice each required. Eternal life was promised to all who believed in the Lord, and Troy, We all know, was a believer, for rarely did a man make better use of his talents. Rarely did a man make so selfless a sacrifice with heart and head. With a grand gesture, the minister pointed to the military photo mounted on an easel next to the coffin, describing Troy as a veteran who selflessly served abroad and at home, who fought to bring freedom to Afghanistan and safety to Louisiana, who exemplified Christian ideals in life and in death. When it was Achilles’s turn, he said a few words about his bother’s love and courage.
But what he was really thinking about was his brother the prankster. Troy had once mixed red Kool-Aid in the tub and lain there for hours waiting for someone to find him. Their mother flipped. The stain didn’t come out for weeks. Achilles had always wanted to be the hero, to be lauded, to be idolized, until now. The more everyone spoke about Troy as a hero, the less real he became.
The preacher talked about “the Word,” as had the preacher at Wages’s funeral, and just as suddenly as he had started, he stopped talking and nodded at the three soldiers standing at attention fifty yards away. There were too few buglers and too many funerals, even this close to Washington, so the soldier at the far end solemnly leaned over and turned on a boombox. “Taps” played. His mother and Ines hissed gently at him for squeezing their hands too tightly. When the song was over, the same soldier leaned over and turned off the boombox. Achilles braced himself for the coming twenty-one gun salute, the seven volleys that would echo across town. At his father’s funeral, he had flinched six times. This time he breathed purposefully, and his heart didn’t miss a beat, not when they folded the flag and presented it to his mother, not when they lowered the coffin.
But when his mother held his hand for support as she bent for her own handful of dirt, and she said, “Thank you for bringing your brother home,” he was seized by a momentary desire to take it back. His mother had asked one time, “Are you sure? How do you know? Are you absolutely sure?” He threw his handful of dirt on the coffin, and his aunts and Ines followed suit, each handful rattling less until soon you couldn’t even hear it fall, the line so long it seemed there wasn’t enough dirt in the world.
The entire town converged on the VFW after the service, including those who hadn’t been at the funeral, resulting in a crowd thicker than the Fourth of July cookouts. Even with every window as well as both doors open, the bar was hot and sticky. He saw friends from high school he scarcely recognized. It had only been three years since he enlisted, but it felt as if he’d aged a lifetime. They patted him on the back and expressed condolences, averting their eyes as they segued into the next question or an innocent congratulation: Man, you did it. You went and did it, and came back.
That could have been Achilles telling the same jokes and making the same faces, huddled up with the football players who positioned themselves fifty yards from the girls, while sneaking sidelong glances and talking loudly enough to be heard across the parking lot. The girls, in their own cluster, stood with their backs to the boys, taking turns glancing over their shoulders and blushing whenever they made eye contact. All they were missing was corsages. If he had stayed, he would be hiding out behind the dumpster smoking cigarettes and then sucking up to Troy, asking him, as a Randall, Jarrell, and Howie asked Achilles, “Did you get to kill anybody?”