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The wind blew in hot from the desert, withering the few white chrysanthemums left over from the memorial service. Lyle woke up late one night, and went next door to check on Erik. Erik was awake too, sitting in a chair on his balcony.
He held up a hand and spread his fingers wide, staring at his palm. Lyle felt afraid. He wished that things could go back to the way they were before, when José and Kitty were still here, and that the damned wind would stop blowing.
“Erik, you should get some sleep.” Lyle spoke so softly he wasn't sure that Erik had heard him. “I should, but I can't sleep,” Erik said dully. “I'm afraid I'll see them again. I'm tired of seeing them. I just want them to go away and leave me alone.”
Lyle sat in the chair beside Erik and took his hand, resting his head on his shoulder. He smelled like cinnamon and shampoo. Lyle smiled and nudged Erik's side with his elbow. “We don't have to be afraid of them anymore. They're gone, Erik. They're never going to hurt you or me again.”
Erik sniffed and blinked his bright blue eyes. He had inherited José’s nose and bone structure, but his eyes and complexion came from Vikings, from their brutal Norwegian ancestors who had traveled in longboats to foreign lands to fight and steal and kill and rampage.
Lyle, while taking after Kitty in terms of facial features and bone structure, had gotten the bisque hued complexion of their Cuban and Spanish ancestors, brutes and warriors of another sort. They had been conquistadores who had claimed lands and subjugated entire tribes of people in the name of God, gold, glory, and Los Reyes Católicos, Isabel I and Fernando II.*
“Don't be afraid,” Lyle said. “I'm here.”
Erik lifted his head to look toward the full moon, his eyes taking in its magnificence. “It's a full moon tonight. A hunter's moon.”
Lyle stood up, pulling at Erik's hand. “Come back inside, Erik. I'll make a pallet on the floor and sleep beside your bed.”
As Autumn began to set in, the chill, crisp air could not match the cold that had seeped into Erik's bones. While Lyle wandered through farmers’ markets and the aisles of Whole Foods, Erik made meals out of cans of tuna on crackers, or grilled cheese sandwiches, or sandwiches with just peanut butter.
When he ate the last two slices of bread, Erik ate peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon. Some days, Erik couldn't recognize himself in the mirror. Sometimes José's dark brown eyes stared back at him, nearly black with hatred.
Lyle took Erik to the mall, to the movies, and to several football games at Anaheim Stadium. There, the brothers shared bags of popcorn and passed plastic Solo cups of beer back and forth. Lyle bought them both dark blue hats with yellow brims and the LA Rams logo.
One weekend, Lyle took Erik out to sea on an impromptu fishing trip, the first they'd gone on since before the incident. Erik didn't catch any fish, but spent the whole day lying down below deck, after moaning and clinging to the ship's railing as he violently threw up.
Lyle pressed a damp cloth to Erik's forehead and gave him peppermints and ice chips to suck on. Erik basked in the attention, loving the way Lyle's brow furrowed, how his brown eyes grew large, as if he'd never seen Erik get sick before.
Back at the condo, Lyle turned on the radio, the Top 40 playing as he took one of José's old Cuban cigars out of the box he kept in a drawer. Lyle carried the cigar next door and sat beside Erik on the balcony, lighting it with an old zippo lighter he had also found among José's belongings.
“We can't stay here, Erik,” he said, blowing out a ring of black smoke into the night. “I don't know why we've stayed as long as we have, to be honest.” Lyle's fingers twitched, the first time Erik saw any sign of anxiety. His tone was blunt and hard, like a wall, like the butt of a gun.
“We have to leave, Erik. We can go to Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic, and from there we can make our way into Cuba, somehow.”
Erik laughed softly, his ice-blue eyes bitter. “Yeah, Lyle, that's a great idea. I don't know why I didn't think of that myself. It's not like we won't get kidnapped and held for ransom on the first day, two little rich gringuitos like us. But there's no one left to pay the ransom, is there?”
“The estate - the estate would pay the ransom. We'd be fine, Erik. Really.”
“Really? Lyle, what do you think's going to happen to us then? The estate, as you call it, will want us to come back. Then we'd be in trouble just for traveling to that hostile, Communist hellhole. We don't speak Spanish - not enough to get by, anyway. Sure, we could hire a tutor and learn, but our accents would give us away. Cubans hate America, Lyle.” Erik took the cigar out of Lyle's hand and took a drag.
Usually, he was the one freaking out, while Lyle reasoned with and reassured him. It was nice to trade places, for once. Between the meclizine and the diazepam,** Erik felt like he was above it all, detached, relaxed, and untouchable. He felt like he imagined the Buddha had felt when he reached enlightenment, sitting under the Bodhi Tree.
“I'm here, Lyle,” Erik said simply, and passed the cigar back to him. “I'm here, and I will be here; ‘where you go I will go, and where you stay, I will stay.’*** Okay?”
“Okay.” Lyle's nostrils flared as he stifled a hysterical laugh. He took a final drag on the cigar, dropped it, and crushed it under his boot. “Then I suggest you take a nap before you pack your bags. We're going to London.”