Jackson wiped his face on his tan shirt, leaving a stain. He strolled into the small outside patio area of a restaurant and past empty tables to the bar. A vine-covered lattice shaded it. A girl, no older than ten, emerged from the restaurant with frizzy black hair. She made eye contact, went white as flour and turned away back into the restaurant’s interior. Jumbled Spanish leaked through the thin wooden walls.
“Una fantasma esta afuera de al resturante,” the child’s voice wobbled. A portly man with tanned skin emerged from the darkness and greeted Jackson without a smile.
“¿Qué necesita usted?” He spoke quickly, his eyes cold.
“Una cerveza y ayuda me.” Jackson produced a small square of paper with an address from his shirt pocket. He pointed around the square with his eyebrows raised. He wished his Spanish wasn’t so elementary, but he had brought a dictionary to help. The man glanced at the paper, then at Jackson and smiled. He turned away into the restaurant. Dogs barked in the distance. The bar was well worn and looked as if it had been cut from the door of a church. The small patio area had seven tables crammed into it and Christmas lights woven throughout the lattice. The floor was peach tile, but a layer of dust muted its color. The portly man’s voice carried through the wall of the restaurant.
“No es una fantasma, los fantasmas no beben cerveza.” The portly man reemerged; all smiles. He presented Jackson with a beer and poked at the piece of paper with a rotund finger.
“La officina de Señor Jaggers, está en al otro lado de el centro, junto al banco.” Jackson smiled, understanding half of what the man said. Jackson pointed to the left of the bank, and the man agreed by pointing.
At the office, Jackson knocked on a heavy pine door and hoped his brother’s lawyer spoke English. An Anglo with over-tanned skin in a rumpled linen suit answered. His dark brown hair was trimmed close to his scalp, and, near his temples, it was lighter from years of desert sun.
“You must be Will Erhardt’s brother. I’m Juan Jaggers.” He put his hand out.
“Jackson Erhardt.” He grasped the hand firmly. It was damp and rough. Juan’s face seemed oddly familiar, as if Jackson had seen it on a police flyer at the post office. He fought his gut, but still found himself distrusting the expatriate.
“Come in, we have a lot to work out. Your brother made you the sole heir to his property. I’ll take you up there. It’s on the opposite edge of town across the arroyo.”
“Toward the airport?”
“No, the opposite side. Let me get out his will and check it over.”
“Who sent me the death notice?” Jackson straightened up and leaned forward.
“I don’t follow.”
“It was unsigned and undated.”
“This ain’t the States.” Juan stared blankly at him with a half smart-ass smile. Jackson smiled uncomfortably.
“Where is he?”
“He was cremated last month.”
“And?”
“His remains are in Mulege, about hundred and fifty miles north.”
“How did my brother die?” Jackson glared and played with the short dark hairs of his beard. Juan’s eyes held firm.
“You can view the corner’s report at the hospital. But he had a heart attack.” Juan spoke slowly and clearly. Jackson knew he had rehearsed saying those exact words.
Juan Jaggers drove a beat up Toyota Tundra. It was gunmetal black with Oregon plates. The back bumper was dusty and rusted. As they moved slowly through town, Jackson understood why his brother had liked it here. Loreto’s malecone hugged the shoreline. The ragged desert cliffs stretched out and died quietly in the Sea of Cortez. It was peaceful, not a tourist trap like the rest of Mexico. Brick and adobe buildings were painted in dark shades of red and yellow. Tin roofed shops lined the cobbled streets. Ads for various politicians were painted on cracked walls.
“Loreto was once the capital of all of California.” Juan spoke to the air. “But now Cabo gets all the attention. Better that way. Keeps it quiet.”
Jackson nodded and looked up the road. A rusted blue and red station wagon pulled in front of them and tottered along full of lumber and trash. Jackson eyed himself in the mirror, running worn fingers through his black hair. He massaged his beard down. The mirror image of each other, the brothers had become estranged after Will’s move. His brother had not communicated with the world outside of the Baja peninsula. As the Tundra crossed the arroyo, a small sand gully that would turn into a river during the rains, two policemen, tending a barricade, stopped a wagon in front of the truck.
Juan let out a groan. “This could take a while.” Jackson clenched his teeth in a smile and nodded. The wind slapped at the car, tossing dust through the arroyo. The colors of the town blended into the Baja desert. Sage Brush and Saguaro cacti dotted the hills. The sunlight was bright and acrid, as if the world had been dyed mustard. The wagon jolted off, tossing dust into the sunlight. As the Tundra neared, the officers stepped out of the way, waving. The truck climbed the hill, and stray dogs chased after them, mingling and fighting in the dust. Will’s house was the largest on the street, but it was the same style as the others. It was a large and rectangular with a palapa roof and mud brick walls. The windows were shut and dark like eyes closed to the world. In the small front yard a mescal plant took up a whole corner. On the left side, a muddy driveway stretched the length of the building to a back yard, where a small outbuilding stood. The wind picked up, tossing mini dirt devils through the yard. A cop slept in the front seat of his car behind the house.
“Who discovered Will’s body?”
“His cleaning woman. I believe she’s his neighbor, too. He’d been dead a few days though.”
“What’s with the cop?”
“There’s been some break-ins, and I asked for a cop to be stationed here. Everyone in town knew Will.” Juan wiped his forehead and opened the door to the heat. He walked over to the police car and rapped on the window. The man inside snapped out of his slumber. Juan pointed back at the truck as Jackson stepped out. The cop stared at him with the look of a confused dog. Juan spoke some quick Spanish, and the cop nodded, waved and started his car.
Inside the house the air was thick and stale. As Juan took Jackson through each room; he popped all the windows open. The only bedroom was at the back of the house; its large windows faced the backyard and the bathroom outbuilding. In the afternoon light, long shadows stretched across the rooms. The kitchen and living room were joined in an L shape. A dusty birdcage hung in the corner. Jackson examined the fridge and found it devoid of anything but a box of baking soda and three unlabeled cans. The furnishings were plain except for some dark wooden carvings of fish and sea birds. Jackson wandered the rooms, his eyes circling. He tried to remember what his brother owned. What he cherished. Three years had passed since they’d been together.
The last time he had seen Will, they were at LaGuardia Airport. It was winter. Will looked sick and his bones showed through his weathered skin. Jackson protested Will’s move, his escape to Baja. The sun looked weak, its waning rays giving weak warmth.
“There’s better medicine here.” Jackson argued as the Skycap checked the bags. Will turned and looked up at him, smiling through his pride.
“You’re right. But Ibogaine is illegal here. This clinic in Loreto is the only one in North America. I don’t intend to die in an alley, choking on vomit from one last hit, Jack. And this could be a cure.” Will moved his last bag, breathing thick steam into the air. “You know I fucking hate this, I can’t stop doping myself.”
“There’s heroin in Mexico, too.” Jackson spoke without hearing himself. Will looked out over the airport road, his body and eyes solid, vapor venting from his lips. He took his ticket from the Skycap, tipping him with the same hand. Jackson had always envied Will. He moved with grace and style in every action, like a leaf floating downstream.
“Well, fuck Jack. Aren’t you observant? I’ll give you a call when I touch down in Loreto. It’ll be sometime around nine tonight.” Will picked up his backpack, coughed from his chest and spat as he walked through the rotating doors. Jackson fumbled for a moment with his keys in his coat pocket. He didn’t follow Will. From his earliest memories spawned the continuous image of him chasing Will; always trying to catch up. After the death of their parent’s, Will finally ran into addiction. He switched between cocaine and psychedelics before finally settling down with a healthy heroin addiction. Jackson couldn’t follow his brother’s path. That was five years before Will left for Loreto. Now he’d died young and suspiciously in Baja.
Jackson wandered back into the living room.
“Is this it?” He let his eyes drift to the palapa roof. The palm fronds were layered into a perfect cover.
Juan shifted uneasily. He glanced at his watch and wiped his forehead.
“Let me take you out tonight. There’s a small place back in the center of town that’s perfect.”
“What about Mulege?”
“It’s too late in the afternoon now. We’ll go tomorrow. I’ll be back around seven thirty to pick you up for dinner,” Juan spoke quickly, wiping sweat from his forehead. Before Jackson could respond, Juan turned and started for the door. Jackson found it hard to think in this heat. He was alone in a house he didn’t know, but suddenly owned, and wondered what the hell happened to his brother. Will was supposed to be at the Ibogaine clinic for three weeks and then return to the states, but he never did. He stayed down here. Jackson longed to know what his brother had found down here, what had made him stay. The palm leaves in the ceiling began to spin and melt into one another. He rubbed his eyes, and wiped sweat leaking from his face. His head was light and his throat dry. He ran to the sink, put his face below the faucet and was about to drink from it when he remembered not to. Feeling dumbfounded and slightly twisted, he wandered back into the bedroom. He drowned into a restless sleep.
He dreamed he and Will were kids again. They were running through grasslands. The sky was a deep purple and yellow. The setting wasn’t right though, and as they ran it was changing. Jackson looked around, and they were in the deepest part of an unknown desert. Will had stopped ahead with his back turned. There was a massive single tree in front of them and it glowed with orange fireflies that hummed like cicadas in its twisted, ancient limbs. It stood with a massive cliff behind it. Will was silhouetted by the glow. Jackson snuck up and tried to grab him by the shoulder. But when Jackson’s hand reached Will, his body turned into a column of flies. They hovered for a moment in Will’s shape and then exploded outward into the desert wind and Jackson was left alone, facing the abyss.
He awoke, sweating, as Juan was lighting a cigarette. The metalic click and grind of Juan’s Zippo echoed in the room. He was sitting in a chair in the corner. The sun was setting somewhere to the west over the mountains. It cast long lines of light into the backyard.
“You hungry?” Juan took a drag on his cigarette.
“How long you been here?” Jackson sat up sharply, wiping dried sweat from his forehead.
“Only a minute or two. Best never to wake a man directly. Let ‘em wake in their own time.” Juan’s face glowed red when he inhaled. He took shallow drags as if he’d been smoking so long that his lungs couldn’t take anymore. Jackson shook the dreams from his mind, rolled off the bed and to his feet in a smooth motion. He didn’t feel like himself but felt at home. His hair was matted and stiff with salt. He washed his face in the bathroom outbuilding. Pictures of wild goats, various seabirds and sea lions were framed on the bathroom walls. A thin layer of dust coated everything. It lingered on the mirror and gave Jackson’s image a hazy tinge. His eyes looked dark and wild; thin red veins tracing across the whites.
The drive back into town was solemn and quiet. Juan rambled more history. Jackson tried to remember his childhood. He longed to find a moment that defined his brother, a defining moment of himself. But like all memories they floated up through his mind and instantly, when brought to the light, became insignificant. Like old sepia toned-photos from an attic, little new information could be gleaned from single snapshots saved in time.
The sun slipped into the mountains as they made their way across the arroyo and back into the cobbled streets. The vendors were closing, locking tin doors and retiring for the night. An odd peace hung around Loreto, as if the modern world had come here but never really taken hold. The restaurant looked over the malecone and the sea. Fishing boats were returning, drifting only as lights to the harbor. For the first time, Jackson felt the confused eyes of the locals. People gossiped around him in quick Spanish, their glances telling too much of the subject.
“Don’t worry ‘bout them. They think you’re Will’s ghost.” Juan smiled, shoveling paella into his mouth. Jackson didn’t like the way Juan ate. He scooped the sea life from the rice with his dirty fingers, sucking and slurping on crab legs and shrimp. His napkin tucked under his chin was filthy with cumin and other seasonings. Every few bites he would wipe the sweat from his brow, sit back and smile greedily at Jackson. Jackson sipped his beer and looked out at the sea. The spices in his enchiladas made his eyelids sweat and face flush. He watched another set of lights slipping up the coast. A sliver of the moon was rising. He thought of his brother, his mirror in life, and held back tears rising through his cheeks.
After Juan dropped him off, Jackson wandered through the simple house. He searched through all the cabinets and drawers looking for any trace of Will. The situation was surreal, and he half expected Will to stroll into the house at any moment. The house didn’t feel like it belonged to his brother. Only a few of his brother’s possession were littered around. Jackson fell asleep in the living room and awoke sharply around three in the morning. He’d fallen asleep with all the lights on, and now he felt eyes on him. He refused to look panicked so he calmly rose to his feet. But in his half conscious state, he’d forgotten the beer bottle nestled between his legs and it shattered on the floor. There was a rustle in the backyard. Jackson froze. When it grew silent, Jackson turned the lights off.
When he woke, there was a Mexican woman in the house. She was old and by her slow practiced movements, Jackson knew she was nearly blind. She held a dirty rag in each hand and was wiping down the bookshelves in the living room. Keeping an open house clean in this climate must have taken leagues of patience.
“Buenos dias.” Jackson spoke quietly, afraid that any jolt might kill this ancient one. She turned her head and nodded with a toothless smile.
“Buenos dias.¿Como esta Usted?” She answered slowly and softly; speaking through a toothless mouth.
“Bien, es una dia muy bonita” Jackson tried to nail his accent down. She smiled again, and stared past him, as if he’d become invisible. He got the feeling that she couldn’t see him but was looking straight into him.
“Me llamo Jackson. Como te llamas?” He couldn’t remember the polite conjugation, but he let the words fly all the same.
“Me lamo Esmerelda. Limpio este casa alas lunes y miercoles.” She turned back to the bookshelf and resumed her work. Jackson tiptoed out of his brother’s house and to the bathroom outside. After showering, he found Juan chatting with Esmerelda in the front yard. They spoke in hushed tones, and Juan made smooth, grand gestures with his hands through the air. Esmerelda let out a crow that would make children run. Juan walked inside, leaving Esmerelda futilely sweeping the dust from the dirt driveway. A cloud formed in front of her and she chased it down the drive with the broom.
Juan was wearing another linen suit, but it was more hemp colored. Jackson imagined an entire closet of linen suits.
“Is the water safe to drink?”
“I do. I’ve been drinking it since my first day here. Mind you the first couple glasses don’t sit right, but it’s a choice you make. I say it’s training for the immune system.” He seemed quite proud of his idea, and as he spoke he walked over to the kitchen sink, pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it. Juan wiped his forehead. The man was constantly sweating, as if his blood was too thick for the desert.
On the road to Mulege, Juan was quiet for the first time. Jackson tried to nap, his eyes closed behind dark sunglasses, but the sharp corners woke him. The road wove alongside the Sea of Cortez on spindly ledges. The turquoise water below was beautiful, especially without a guardrail between the road and the abyss. When trucks or cars sped past in the other lane, Jackson held his breath and fought the urge to close his eyes. Juan chain-smoked. After lighting each new cigarette he would leave the old one in the truck’s ashtray to slowly smoldering to death.
They came to an intersection, and Juan turned left and pulled off the road. He hopped out with the engine still running and ran behind a rock outcrop. Jackson opened up the glove box. Inside it was an XM radio receiver and a manila folder. The folder had Will Erhardt written in cursive on the label. Jackson pulled it out and opened it. It was an original copy of his brother’s will. Will’s signature looked fresh. Jackson traced the pen mark with his fingers, feeling the grooves of his brother’s pen. He turned the first page, but Juan was ambling back to the car. He closed the folder and the glove box quietly and tried to look normal. Juan got back in, flashed a smile and flicked the dial of the radio.
“Do you like country?” He pressed buttons, drawing Johnny Cash’s voice from the speakers. He opened up all of the truck’s windows, letting dust circulate with the cigarette smoke. Jackson smiled. He loved Johnny Cash, but was unwilling to admit it. The car bumped along down the desert road, over the small passes. Ancient Saguaro cacti grew from the red rock cliffs in elephantine formations. They came through the pass and to a T-intersection with the main highway.
“How far from here?” Jackson took his sunglasses off and tried to blow the dust from them. It was no use. Fighting the lingering dust was like trying not to sweat. Living in the desert was a constant struggle. Like the sea, you knew deep down you could never triumph, only endure.
“Uh, bout two hours. Depending.” Juan turned the radio back up. Jackson stared at him and then out the window. Away from the coast the country was barren and rocky. They passed several abandoned cars. Gutted, tireless beasts left to rot in the sands. Jackson closed his eyes and faded into a restless sleep. He still could hear the music and Juan trying to sing along. Jackson couldn’t place his accent. It was west coast but not Californian. He woke up as they pulled into a roadhouse grill. They were by the sea, and the roadhouse was jockeyed perfectly between the blue waters and the black roadway. After they sat down and ordered a beer, an ugly silence hung around them. Juan used his keys to clean dirt from his nails. The floor of the building was sand, and ceiling was decorated with whalebones, shark jaws and turtle shells. Sea cockroaches scurried around. When the beers came, Juan took his teardrop shades from his face and leaned forward taking a sip.
“I’m telling you, this is the strangest experience of my entire life. Will never told me you guys were twins. Seeing you in the flesh is like having him back. But no offense, he was a bit livelier than you.” Juan laughed uncomfortably. Jackson looked glass eyed at Juan and shook his head. He cleared his throat; tired of dancing around the table.
“I want to know when my brother died, and how he died. The truth this time.” Jackson took his dusty shades off and smiled at his own audacity.
“About three months ago. It wasn’t easy to find you. Will never left a forwarding address.” Juan took sipped on his beer and sucked it from his teeth.
“What the fuck happened to my brother down here?” Jackson picked up his beer, tired of looking at the man in front of him. Jackson began to wonder what qualifications it took to become a lawyer in Mexico. Juan leaned back and took a deep breath. He fumbled for a moment in his suit coat pockets.
“If you don’t believe me, then look at the coroner’s report.” Juan fumbled a minute more and then retrieved cigarettes from one of the pockets. Jackson laughed. And then took a big swig on his beer. This was pointless. He might never find out what actually happened. He would have to have Juan sell the house and only God knows if he would receive a dime of it. He felt hopeless and alone. Juan smoked and shifted nervously in the silence.
“Will was afraid you’d be too smart for this.” Juan said under his breath, looked out toward the sea and took a drag. He looked tired and worn out as if he were holding a heavy weight behind his forehead.
“Too smart for what? What…th”
“The one contingency in his will was if he died from an overdose of any sort, I was to pay to make it look like a heart attack.” Juan exhaled, looking around the empty restaurant, ensuring that no one was eyeing them. “He died three months ago, about a week after he started shooting up again. He was clean for so long, I just didn’t…” Juan trailed off. His eyes focused on a point somewhere behind Jackson.
“Why did he start back up?” Jackson felt relieved, but he felt terrible in that same instant. He’d always suspected Will would die of an overdose. A sudden anger toward Will sprouted up, but Jackson pushed it aside. No use being angry with the dead. Juan took a deep breath, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. It registered to Jackson that Juan was crying. The shack was filled with the sounds of the ocean wind picking up outside and Juan sobbing softly and wiping his eyes. Jackson couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen another man cry. Juan wiped his eyes one more time and put his dark sunglass back on.
“He thought he’d lost her. The clinic closed down and she was going to move back to the states.” That was all Juan said. Jackson didn’t understand but he sipped his beer and waited for Juan to clarify. But Juan maintained his silence, finished his beer and ate without even a glance at Jackson.
On the way back from the hospital Jackson, held his brother’s ashes in a bronze urn. It was inlaid with a ring of flowers, and when the car hit bumpy spots in the road, odd bits of ash rattled against the sides. He couldn’t flee the feeling that this wasn’t real. There were no instructions for spreading the ashes and Jackson thought it was a monstrous idea to let them cake away in the urn. He imagined years down the line, digging through a closet and coming across the morbidly sentimental thing. Or even worse: misplacing it.
Juan hadn’t spoken a word since the restaurant and Jackson found himself trusting him. He asked Juan to drive him to the cliffs north of town. Juan smiled and lit a cigarette. He exhaled and sung along softly to John Lee Hooker now playing from the radio. Jackson smiled. At a place called Juancalito Bay, Jackson rolled the urn between his palms. He was standing high on a lip of the cliff, looking over the calm waters of the Sea of Cortez. The water was lighter near the rocks and sets of rolling waves drubbed the cliff below. A massive single tree clung to the lip of the cliff, its gnarled limbs shaped by the wind. He imagined Will standing at this bay with the sun sinking behind. He smiled and held the image in his head. The wind was offshore and Jackson struggled for a moment with the lid. As soon as it was off though, the ash broadcasted out from the urn and made a cloud in the air. It was off-white and it drifted with the wind out over the water until it vanished below.
By the time they’d gotten back to Loreto, the sun was searing the mountains red and orange. Juan stopped to pick up documents from his office and left Jackson to wander around Loreto’s central square. In the first shop Jackson pondered buying a hammock but realized he didn’t have enough pesos. The next shop was filled with intricately craved wood. Fish of all varieties, seabirds and Aztec calendars covered the shelves. The store was narrow and the walls were mirrors. Jackson liked the optical illusion two mirrors facing each other created, always suspecting that alternate dimensions were tapped into through it; the string theory in action. At the far end, a little old man with a small mustache was watching T.V. Jackson examined the stone Aztec calendars. They were all dark obsidian. He traced his fingers through the shallow grooves, and felt the faces of gods carved into stone. He pondered the use of immortalizing deities in stone, unlike the gods, man and stone won’t outlast the stars.
“We’re closing sir.” A young man emerged from the back of the store. He smiled with crooked teeth when he saw Jackson. He was short and his hair was a buzz cut. Jackson nodded and continued looking. He carried the best looking one to the counter in the back. The carving was clean and the cuts in the polished rock were precise. The old man was ancient looking. His face was a mess of wrinkles and dark lines. He smiled toothlessly at Jackson. Jackson smiled at the young man, who was staring at him.
“How much?” Jackson pulled his wallet out.
“Two thousand pesos.” The young man put his hand out. “My name is Raúl.”
“Jackson. Nice to meet you.” Jackson gripped the hand. Raúl was smiling and glowing.
“Do you know much about the Aztec calender?”
“To be honest,” Jackson smiled “I thought it was just interesting looking.”
“This is actually two calendars. You see,” Raúl pointed to the first circle of carvings within the calendar. “There are two cycles, each is run by a different god. The first is Quetzalcoatl, the second is dependent on the exact day.” Raúl thumbed the second groove. “Each day is ruled by two separate gods and they give the day certain aspects.”
“Sort of like a horoscope?” Jackson was losing interest. He was never into esoteric beliefs. But there was something immensely genuine about Raúl.
“Si, claro.” Raúl began wrapping up the heavy stone. His eyes looked watery and too focused on the simple task.
“What’s today’s reading?” Jackson asked, trying to humor him. Raúl smiled and pulled a book out from behind the desk. He flipped through the pages and scribbled something down on a scrap of paper. He read from one section, and then flipped to the other half of the book, scribbling more down. He then took out a second sheet, translating Spanish to English. He passed the paper to Jackson, who handed him money in the same hand.
“A day of the purified heart. A good day for transformation, which arrives like an earthquake. One should become the mirror rather than the reflection.”
Raúl smiled but handed the money back.
“I can’t take money from old friends.” Raúl turned and walked into the back area of the store. Jackson stared at the wrapped bundle, and then the reading for the day. It made little sense to him, but one line stuck out. “One should become the mirror rather than the reflection.” He stepped out into the desert dusk. Juan was sitting by the fountain in the center of the square. He snubbed his cigarette out. Jackson offered to take Juan out. They ate at a place a bit further down the malecone. It had an Italian theme, but no Italian food. He ate paella on Juan’s recommendation. After dinner, Juan ordered a bottle of tequila. Jackson took obligatory shots, staying mute through the toasts to life and success. After the fifth shot, Jackson watched Juan amble to the bathroom and then b-line over to the bar. He put his arm around a skinny woman, whispering to her through a mane of black hair. She turned quickly, shooting Jackson a mournful stare. She was young and had defined cheeks and slim curves. Juan waved Jackson to the bar. For the first time in years, Jackson wanted to smoke a cigarette.
“I would like you to meet Gabriella Colón.”
She put her hand out, wrist held higher than her fingers. Jackson took it gently.
“Me encanta, Senorita.”
“Mucho Gusto, Señor.” Her eyes were a deep and dark brown, but near the edges of her pupils, they were marbled with gold, mixed like tiger’s eye.
“How ‘bout another? This time Gabby gets one.” Juan walked back to the table and swiped the bottle. Jackson looked out the corner of his eye and nodded.
“Did you know my brother, Will?”
“Si, todos los gente de Loreto saberon tu hermano. ¿Cuánto dias esta en Loreto?” She smiled lightly. Jackson felt his stomach turn. Her grace became more radiant by the second, as if it were a radio frequency Jackson tuned into.
“Un dia mas, manana es mi ultimo dia.” Jackson shrugged his shoulders. Gabriella frowned, but giggled afterward. She stole a step toward him. They stood for a second, holding each other’s gaze. Juan was back with the bottle.
“And one for the lady.” He spilled as he poured, leaking tequila down the wooden bar. After another round, Jackson’s stomach felt like coals. He excused himself and strolled down the malcone. Around each light a circus of insects collected. The waves were coming into shore in slow sets. Each wave would take forever to reach the seawall, but then in an instant it would explode and disappear into nothing. After standing at the wall, watching the way all things in life moved, he vomited quickly and quietly over the edge.
Back at the bar, Juan and Gabriella were singing folk songs. Juan was singing tones, while Gabriella actualized the words. Jackson smiled and ordered a beer. Juan turned and snapped something at the barkeep, who nodded and brought Jackson a shot of Tequila. Jackson waved it away. The keep shrugged and turned to tend others at the bar. Gabriella looked tearful when she caught Jackson’s eyes.
That night as rain slapped on the palapa roof, Jackson made love to her in his brother’s bed. She writhed underneath him, whimpering with each thrust. More than once Jackson thought she wiped away tears.
Before they slept, she rose to the bathroom. Jackson watched her navigate the darkened house naked as a shadow. She returned with two glasses of water and four Mexican ibuprofens.
“Bebe.” She handed him a glass, and two pills. He smiled, confused, and wondered who she was. Before he fell asleep, he was flooded with the images of children running through the house. They were small, dark and bilingual. He chased them, yelling after them in English and Spanish. The images faded away as sleep overcame him.
As dawn broke over the Sea of Cortez, Jackson stumbled out of the house and fell on his hands and knees in the backyard. He vomited paella and tequila in a sour mix that resembled blood. He didn’t notice the horse until there was a lull in the vomiting. He had only enough time to notice the animal, not understand it, before more liquid poured from his stomach. He sat back, his hands feeling behind him in the grass. The horse was old and gray. Its bones shown through its weathered hide. It continued to eat, as if witnessing men vomiting in their yards was commonplace. Jackson stood up, hands at his sides and watched the horse for a while more. The light of dawn was killing off the darkness, and the moon was still visible to the west. Jackson stole a step toward the animal, which responded by taking one back. Its cold white eyes locked with Jackson’s. It raised its head and stood transfixed. Its tail rhythmically swatted at non-existent flies. Jackson watched the animal until the sun was high and then returned to the bedroom. It was empty. A small envelope was perched on the rumpled pillow. Jackson ran out the front of the house, following her footprints in the dust of the street. After a few hundred feet, he gave up the chase, realizing he was chasing a ghost. He jogged back to read what she had left.
The note was simple.
Amaré siempre a su hermano.
Lo siento.
Jackson rubbed sweat from his brow. He remembered her tears the night before. And suddenly was flooded with images of Gabriella and his brother together. Will had stayed because he’d found peace and completion in Mexico. When he lost it, he became lost again.
Jackson marched into town, struggling through the mid morning heat. He attracted dust and stares as he worked his way across the arroyo. At a small restaurant, on the south end of the malecone, he ordered breakfast and drank three cups of black coffee. His Huevos Azteca were the meixcan equivalent of eggs benedict. After scanning the newspaper and understanding words peppered throughout he articles, he strolled up the malecone to a payphone. He called his airline to move his ticket back.
