He might have responded differently to “have to,” but as much as he appreciated the attention, he could only shrug in response to “get to.”
He saw Ken and Ken’s mom, who still looked sexy, wearing her hair like Farah Fawcett had on Charlie’s Angels, a look that was back in style. Sam, the Chinese kid he used to play with, was home for the holidays. They spoke briefly, and Achilles learned that Sam had spent a few years in Korea, which was where he was actually from. The recruiter was there, which surprised his mother because, Three of them killed themselves you know. The guilt. Achilles wanted to explain that the recruiters had only said what they’d wanted to hear.
“She’s like a hostess,” she said, pointing to Ines.
She was right. Ines moved through the crowd with ease, talking to all who listened, listening to all who talked, so comfortable you would have thought she had lived there her entire life. And when she wasn’t talking, she was tending to his mother. Achilles said, “She likes to tell people what to do.”
“That’s exactly what you need,” said his mother.
“How do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” she said.
When people offered their condolences, his mother managed to reassure them, to make them feel better, as if they were the grievers, except for the recruiter, whom she refused to directly acknowledge.
“I am deeply sorry, ma’am,” the recruiter said.
“I know.” Quoting the officer who had given her the flag, she said, “‘This flag was offered by a grateful nation in memory of faithful service performed by your loved one.’”
“I’m real sorry,” the recruiter repeated himself. “That was moving, what you said, Achilles.”
“I know. My son is smart. That’s why I wanted him to go to college.”
When the recruiter left, his mother said, “You know four of them killed themselves.”
“I thought you said three.”
“Did I? Wishful thinking.” She pointed. “Look, it’s that woman.”
Three teachers were clustered at the end of the bar, among them Troy’s tenth-grade math teacher, who looked devastated. As Mrs. Delesseppes once said, grief ages a person.
His mother cradled the flag like a child, her expression reminiscent of Mrs. Robicheaux, whom they’d found on that roof. He reached out and touched her face. “I love you, Mom.”
She turned to him. “I know you do. I love you too, sweetie.” She put the flag back on the table, arranging it so that it pointed away from her. “It fits there, with all the stains and burns, doesn’t it?
“Yes.”
“I never liked this bar. The last thing a bunch of old veterans need to do is get drunk. But I guess this is a celebration of his life? Is this like New Orleans?”
“Exactly,” said Achilles.
“I hoped it would be. They wanted to have a parade when you got back, but it just wasn’t the right time. I understand your reluctance to take that envelope now. You think you want to know, but you don’t. You don’t. You don’t want them to be in a better place, you want them to be with you.”
A better place. Everyone had said that, even at his father’s funeral. He hadn’t noticed as much, being only twenty-four hours out of combat. Besides it was easy enough to ignore because no one said it to his face, as if they knew Achilles wasn’t buying. Once you were shot at, there was no better place to be than alive. A bead of sweat dripped from his nose and he decided to go outside for air. He looked back as he passed through the doorway. Ines was already at his mother’s side, like all that time she had just been waiting for him to leave.
The kids behind the dumpster stopped laughing and tossed their cigarettes upon Achilles’s approach. Hausman, the tall ROTC pallbearer, was among them. “I hope those weren’t your last ones,” said Achilles.
The kids relaxed and picked up their cigarettes, offering one to Achilles. They smoked in silence, Hausman watching Achilles out of the corner of his eye.
“What’s up?” asked Achilles.
“Nothing, just telling a joke,” said the young one; Bridges, according to his nameplate. Achilles recalled the shock on his face when they lifted the coffin, so light it seemed to float on air.
“Let’s hear it,” said Achilles. He had to prompt him a few more times, but Bridges finally resumed his story, catching Achilles up first. “There were these two scientists, see, a Russian and a Czech, and they both wanted to study grizzly bears. They’d loved bears all their lives, but there weren’t any bears where they lived. So they got permission to go to Alaska. The park ranger in Alaska told them that they could go to the national park, but they’d be on their own.”
Hausman was staring at the ground, his face red. “There aren’t any grizzly bears in Alaska. They live primarily in the Pacific Northwest.”
Bridges shrugged. “It’s a joke. A horse never really walked into a bar and ordered a drink.”
“Yeah, but we know that’s not real. Get your facts straight.”
“Let him finish,” said Achilles.
Hausman huffed. Achilles nodded at Bridges. “Go ahead.”
“So anyway,” Bridges continued, “the scientists are in the park studying the bears, the Alaskan bears, and no one hears from them for a long time, so the park ranger goes looking and finds their campsite destroyed and bloody and a trail of bear prints, Alaskan bear prints, leading from the tents to the forest. He follows them and finds the female gnawing on a bloody boot. So he has to shoot the Alaskan bear and cut it open and see if it ate the scientists. When they look inside, they find the Russian scientist in her stomach. So the park ranger turns to the other ranger, and you know what he says?”
“When did another ranger show up?” asked Hausman.
“He was there all the time. They travel in pairs. Anyway, know what he says?”
Everyone shrugs.
“You know what this means. The Czech is in the male.”
When Achilles laughed, the other guys joined him, except Hausman.
“Go ahead, ask me,” said Achilles. Hausman was ROTC. He deserved to ask a question.
Hausman turned to face him, took a deep breath. “What’s it like?”
Achilles took him by the arm and led him away. “What have you heard?”
“All sorts of weird stuff. Like it’s the Wild Wild West, but it’s great. There’s no women. It’s like being God. It’s a dog’s life.”
“It’s all true.”
Hausman bit his lip, seeming to consider this an even greater dilemma. “All of it?”
“Every last bit.” He wanted to tell him that’s life, the fuck of it, the good, bad, and mixed in everywhere, you just choose a side when you can. “You hear about the big shit making heroes and cowards, selfish and selfless.” Katrina had been no different. There were the heroic and the craven. Those who nearly died helping others and those who looted. There were white vigilantes in Algiers shooting unarmed black survivors, and there was the river of volunteers. That was the hardest part to accept. You had to choose a side. The young white couple who opened a flower shop in the Seventh Ward did; so did the street preacher, even if no one wanted to hear it. He understood why the old-timers said, You have to live it to know it.