Jaz & Miguel Read Free

anymore—they
were fucking brothers. Brothers in blood. Whereas they had been close before,
that day had solidified a connection between them—of mutual suffering
endured—that soldered them together with an unspoken agreement to be there for
each other into the future and forevermore no matter what .
    No one would ever tear them apart.
    Miguel sipped another bit of Pepsi. The memories were killing him today.
    Where was his father?
    His dad normally arrived at around seven each night. Miguel
sometimes worked late with him but tonight—on the second anniversary of that fateful
day—he just wanted to get out of there. Which is probably why his father wanted
to stay late. Whereas, to escape the memories, Miguel would also escape work,
his father would bury himself deeper in it. In a way, Miguel was
grateful—better to be buried in work than in liquor. He respected his father
for this. He'd seen many a Portuguese man in South Africa turn to the bottle as
a source of hope because of much smaller things, but not Miguel's dad.
    He did, however, worry about his father's health. His skin had
yellowed slightly of late, and he wasn't eating much either. Miguel just wanted
to let his dad know that he was still OK. That he wouldn't need to worry about
him. He was just going to go out with Sandile and play some pool.
    He heard the door click open and an anvil lifted from his chest, his
legs feeling suddenly weaker.
    Thank God. It was only then that he
realized he'd been silently freaking out, wondering if something had happened
to the old man.
    His dad said nothing when he arrived. He never did. Miguel raised
the volume of the TV just to let his father know he was in the TV room—as
always.
    Predictability. This was something Miguel had learned was helpful in
getting through these things. If there were no surprises, there would be no
shocks; and every shock was a memory of what had happened before, a memory of
the greatest shock that could have ever been. And so it was that Miguel would
always be here, in the TV room, watching something, waiting for his dad to come
home from work, as his mother had done all those years before, just to let the
old guy know that there was still someone here for him.
    " Miguel, tudo bem? " his dad asked
as he took off his coat. Everything OK?
    "Sim, pai, e contigo?" Yes, dad,
and with you?
    "All's good with me. You going out with Sandile tonight?"
    Hell yeah. Please . "Yes, shortly."
    "You know you don't have to wait for me every night, son, don't
you? You should live your life. I'm fine by myself."
    But you are all I have left, papa. "I
know, dad. I was just watching this show on TV. It's quite interesting."
    His dad looked at the TV for a moment, blankly, and Miguel didn't
know if his dad knew he was lying or if his mind had suddenly drifted to
something at work. "Well, OK, son. Say hello to Sandile for me."
    Miguel nodded.
    His dad went up to bed.
    Predictability. Every night the same thing. Sometimes they would
have dinner together, many times not.
    Miguel would wait a bit before he left. He would wait for his dad to
fall asleep. He always fell asleep quickly.
     
    It was now eight-fifteen p.m. and Miguel was going silently nuts.
The memories had been hitting him so hard that a sweat had broken on his brow.
The more he tried to forget them, the harder they came at him. He assumed his
father would be asleep by now so, without taking his eyes off the TV—as if
doing so would trigger some alarm within him—he dropped his arm onto the phone on
the side-table by the couch, turned it around, hit two for speed dial
(still without looking), and held the phone to his ear.
    "Ready?" said Sandile as he answered, already knowing it
was Miguel.
    "Ja," said Miguel, his voice croaking.
    " Die Arend ?"
    "As always."
    Sandile did not sound depressed at all. It's not to say he didn't
think about that day as well; they just dealt better with this kind of stuff (the
Xhosas). Miguel had gone to Sandile's sister and