I continue rocking. I really don’t have the energy to rock, but I do it anyway, faster now. I rock and huddle in on myself because my brother had been marked as well.
Yes, marked and desecrated.
I can’t afford to cry, to expend the energy on tears, but they flow anyway as I recall my brother’s crime-scene photos.
There had been, of course, a large number “8” carved deep into his chest. Perfectly carved.
As I weep silently, Numi reaches his arm around me and holds me and I let him. I let him.…
“We’ll find him, cowboy,” he whispers, and he keeps whispering it, even as I continue weeping and rocking.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It’s late afternoon and my apartment is stifling.
Except I’m deathly cold—with emphasis on the deathly. Numi systematically opens all the windows and curtains. Numi thinks that I need fresh air to help me breathe. Not to mention my place smells like death warmed over. Literally. Dying smells.
He has already placed a half-dozen pillows behind me so that I rest in a half-sitting position. This will prolong the period before my inevitable pneumonia, the doctors tell me, and so Numi takes every precaution to keep me as healthy as long as possible. I do not tell Numi that I don’t care about the room’s temperature, or about sitting up, or about the fresh air. I do not tell him mostly because I don’t have the strength to protest, and Numi wouldn’t listen anyway.
I am in his care now. I am his patient.
I am not sure how I feel about this, but what can I do? The fates placed into my life a gay African artist with a heart of gold. Go figure.
What I really want is more espresso. Now that is my drug of choice these days. I am sick of being tired. I’m sick of being sick. I want to die or get better. No more middle in-between.
Except I know how this is going to end. I have had more trouble breathing the last few days than all the other days combined. Numi knows this, too. He knows my body and habits and rhythms intimately. I’m not sure how I feel about this either. Actually, I do know how I feel about it. I’m uncomfortable about it. But also thankful. I’m not sure what I did to deserve his loyalty, but he has literally, and single-handedly, added months to my life.
I watch him as he goes about my apartment. His jaw is set. His nice shirt has untucked itself as he reaches up for my windows and curtains. There is some sweat on his brow. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t judge. He just helps.
Always helping.
He glances at me, sees me watching him. “You appreciating my form, cowboy?” he says.
Except I don’t answer. I’m not sure what to say. I want to say thank you for giving me his time and energy—hell, his own life. Except I am uncomfortable opening up to another man. And so we look at each other some more. Numi’s hard eyes soften a little. I make a noncommittal face, and look away. I think Numi was thinking I might finally open up. I sense his disappointment as I study the window next to me.
He goes back to work on the windows.
I’m fighting for breath.
Numi is next to me in bed, willing me to breathe with his strong hands on my shoulders and his encouraging words. The need for oxygen overpowers the pain in my bones and I actually find this somewhat of a relief.
Choose your poison, I think.
“Help me, Numi.…” I gasp.
“You’re going to be okay, brother.” He says these words with strength and power and I can feel something coming from him and into me, and I know it's strength, energy, power.
“Numi.…”
“Calm down, brother. Breathe, there you go, there you go.”
There, there… there’s the breath I need, that I crave. Oh, God, so nice, so good, so beautiful.…
I breathe and weep and look into Numi’s gentle eyes and for the first time I see a tear in his eyes.
It’s beginning, I think.
Numi helps bring the glass of water to my lips.
I sip the water. It helps a little. I know I have to keep up my strength but I’m torn between keeping myself in the best health possible and just staying strong enough to solve this case. I owe it to Olivia and, more importantly, I owe it to my brother.
Numi understands this. He is my closest friend and he understands that I am walking on the edge of a knife. He sees my dilemma as clearly as I do. I need to keep myself alive long enough to find the killer. I need the espressos, if not something stronger and perhaps illegal, to think clearly. I also need to treat my body—this body that has failed me—as a temple. It is a fine line.
No, I think again. I have failed my own body. You and you alone are the cause of this. The cause of everything.
I understand this. It has taken me some thirty-nine odd years to understand the lessons of taking responsibility. A good lesson to know, for sure, except I couldn’t do much with it. Not now.
“Rest, cowboy,” Numi says as he draws a blanket around me.
“Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll rest if you make a run to The Coffee Bean.” I try to make my voice strong but the words come out as a whisper.
“Or you will rest and do what I say, cowboy.”
“Please, Numi. Help a brother out. Caffeine.”
We are alone in my apartment. We might as well be alone in the world. It is just Numi and me. As I suspect it will be to the end. Numi’s palpable stare searches my face. As it does, the corners of his mouth begin to quiver, and then he breaks out into a wide smile, showing a lot of perfectly white teeth.
“I think I’ve helped this brother out above and beyond the call of duty.”
“Please, Numi. Coffee is life.”
He shakes his head once. Always once. Numi doesn’t waste his movements. “You need a few hours of rest, cowboy. Otherwise you won’t be help to anyone. Not Eddie, not Olivia. Not your brother.”
“If you don’t go for me, I’ll call a cab,” I threaten, but we both know this will never happen. I wouldn’t be able to walk down the stairs from my apartment to a cab without Numi’s help and he knows it. Numi leans against the wall with his strong arms crossed and one foot hiked up against the wall. He is my friend, the only friend I have left. He studies me as one studies a fine painting and I fight my discomfort.
He holds my gaze and I sense his great love for me. I am uncomfortable that a man loves me, even friendly love. Numi does not hold back his feelings. Yes, he is a man of few words, but he does not hide his emotions. They are there, on his face, in his eyes. In his touch. In his tenderness. In his sacrifice. He is his own passionate art, personified. I could learn from him. I need to learn from him.