Three Weeks With My Brother Page 9

  “Let’s go down there,” my sister suggested.

  Micah and I looked at each other, glanced at the ledge, and shrugged. “Okay,” we replied. I mean, why not? How dangerous could it be? It didn’t look too unstable.

  Anyway, we climbed down and sat on the ledge for a few minutes, three little kids with their legs dangling free. Far beneath us, we could see the Colorado River snaking through the canyon and hawks circling below. The differing strata of rock resembled a soft-hued, vertical rainbow. After a while, however, we got bored.

  “Hey,” my sister said, “I have an idea. Let’s pretend we slipped off the edge of the canyon and scare people.”

  Micah and I looked at each other again, impressed. This would normally have been one of our ideas. “Okay,” we answered in unison.

  Now, squatting on the ledge, we raised ourselves slowly and poked our heads and arms over the top of the canyon. No one noticed us at first. Beyond the ropes about thirty feet away, we could see a group of people taking pictures and staring off in different directions, marveling at the natural beauty. When my sister nodded, we suddenly began screaming for help at the top of our lungs.

  Heads immediately whipped in our direction, and people saw what seemed to be three little children clawing for their lives in an attempt to hold on. An older woman swooned, another grabbed at her heart, another clutched at her husband’s arms. No one seemed to know what to do. They continued staring at us with wide, fearful eyes, frozen by shock and horror.

  Finally, one man broke free from the spell he was under, and was stepping over the rope when we saw my mom come rushing toward us.

  You can probably guess what happened next.

  “Stay there while I take a picture, kids!” my mom yelled.

  As fun as it was, sadly we couldn’t stay at the Grand Canyon. A few minutes later, our family was told that we had to leave.

  “Now,” as the ranger on duty so kindly put it.

  Six months later, my brother and I had our BB guns confiscated by the sheriff. Not because of the BB gun wars, but because my brother went a little too far. Basically, what happened was this: There was no one to play war with one afternoon, so my brother recruited a couple of first-graders for a different kind of game. He told them to bend over and hold the cuffs of their pant legs out, so he could shoot through the material.

  “Don’t move, or I might accidentally shoot your leg,” Micah explained patiently. “I just want to practice my aim.”

  Anyway, as I said, the sheriff came and took away his gun.

  A week later, they came again and took my gun, too. My brother had used it to shoot holes in a couple of neighbors’ windows.

  And just like that, our days playing war were over.

  CHAPTER 7

  Lima, Peru

  Sunday, January 26

  When it was time to bid farewell to Guatemala, we boarded our plane and headed to our next stop, Lima, Peru, a city of eight million and home to nearly a third of Peru’s population. Once the capital of a Spanish empire encompassing Ecuador, Colombia, Bolivia, Chile, Argentina, and Peru, Lima was one of the world’s wealthiest and most luxurious cities in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. Exploitation, mismanagement, and poor planning eventually weakened the Spanish empire, however, leading to Simón Bolívar’s eventual rout of the Spanish forces in 1824. A succession of governments over the next 175 years finally led to democratic elections in 1980, and I was anxious to see how the country was faring.

  Lima was sweltering when we landed. It was summer in South America, far warmer than it had been in Guatemala. As we boarded buses, TCS handed out bottles of water, and introduced the local tour guides, who would speak to us about the culture and history of the places we visited. We were also given a radio and earpiece, which we turned to the same frequency as our guide. Thus, even up to a hundred feet away, we could always hear what was going on.

  The central plaza was crowded when we arrived. It was one of the few open areas in the center of the city, colonial in design, and crisscrossed with curving sidewalks lined with freshly planted flowers. Kids played games in the grass and played in the fountains, trying to keep cool in the summer heat. Others did their best to sell us souvenirs, and crowded around our group the moment we stepped off the bus.

  We took photographs of both the Presidential Palace and the cathedral where Francisco Pizarro was buried. Pizarro, I knew, was one in a long line of historical figures whose reputation largely depends on perspective; while known in Spain as an explorer, he had also captured Atahualpa, the leader of the Incas. When he demanded and received as ransom a roomful of gold for his release, he promptly executed the king anyway before enslaving the natives. I couldn’t help but wonder what the descendants of the Incas thought about his church-sanctioned burial place.

  From there, we made our way to Casa Aliaga, which was located just off the main plaza. Literally, “Aliaga’s House,” it was one of the most striking examples of early Spanish architecture in the city, yet from the outside it blended into the other structures on the block. Unless you knew it was there, a person could walk by without noticing it.

  Beyond the doors, however, was a home that boggled the mind.

  Casa Aliaga has been owned by the Aliaga family for over four hundred years, and is still occupied by the Aliagas today. Designed in typical hacienda fashion, rooms surround an open courtyard, complete with a hundred-foot-tall fig tree stretching to the sky. It is also home to one of the finest art collections in South America. Because the house is so large and expensive to maintain, the Aliagas open the house to tourists, and Micah and I wandered through with wide eyes. Everything, with the exception of the plaster walls—the banisters, door frames, crown moldings, and railings—had been intricately carved, and paintings covered every available wall space. The furniture, mostly from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was so ornate that it was impossible for us to bring our cameras into focus.

  As we were walking through the house, Micah finally turned to me.

  “Can you believe this place?”

  “No. That tree . . . well, everything really . . . it’s incredible.”

  “I’ll bet you’re getting some good ideas for the next time you remodel, huh?”

  I laughed. “I have to admit that it would be nice to have paintings of famous ancestors.”

  “You mean if we had any.”

  “Exactly. While the Aliaga family was building this place, our ancestors were probably putting shoes on horses and working the farm.”

  He nodded and looked around. Our group had dispersed throughout various rooms in the house.

  “Be honest though—would you want to live here?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “It’s . . . unbelievable, but it’s not really my style. And the upkeep must keep the owners awake at night.”

  “I know what you mean. I mean, can you imagine how long it takes to dust this place? Christine would die.”

  The TCS crew began herding us together, counting heads, and making sure everyone was accounted for. After leaving Casa Aliaga, we climbed back on the bus for the ride to the hotel.

  This would become our routine over the next few weeks. While a tour like ours has advantages, the schedule is carefully predetermined, and in many places there’s little time to linger or explore on your own.

  It was the night of the Super Bowl. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers were playing the Oakland Raiders, and a number of people in the tour wanted to watch it, including Micah. Because he lived in Sacramento, the Raiders were his favorite team and he’d even been to a few of the games that year. We weren’t even sure the game would be broadcast in Peru, and there was a veritable whoop on the bus when TCS confirmed that it would be. The game would be on via satellite in the bar, and would stay tuned there throughout the game; apparently, this required quite a bit of finagling by the crew of TCS; few people in Peru care about the Super Bowl, and a soccer game—which was important to Peruvians—wouldn’t be shown
.

  Wanting a good seat, Micah and I were among the first to arrive and we began ordering traditional pregame goodies. Others gradually joined us. Half the crowd favored Tampa Bay, the other half favored Oakland, and by the time it was ready for the game to begin, the hotel bar looked like a bar in any city in the United States. There wasn’t a local anywhere near the place.

  There was no pregame show; instead, roughly five minutes before the start of the game, the television flickered once or twice, and we found ourselves watching the teams lining up for the kickoff.

  “See, everything we’re doing is new,” Micah said. “Be honest, who do you know who’s ever watched the Super Bowl in Lima?”

  “No one,” I admitted.

  “Having fun yet?”

  “Having a blast,” I answered.

  “You thinking about work?”

  “Nope. Just thinking about the game.”

  He waved a french fry at me. “Good. There’s hope for you yet.”

  “Turn it up!” someone yelled from behind us. “We can’t hear in the back!”

  The bartender used the remote, and the volume began to rise. With it, the familiar sounds started to register. We heard the roar of the crowd, the names of the players as they were announced in the stadium, then the coin toss. Only then did the announcers begin their commentary.

  Everyone leaned forward.

  “What the hell are they saying?” someone shouted.

  “I don’t know,” another answered. “I think they’re announcing it in . . . Spanish.”

  Of course, it made perfect sense once you thought about it.

  “Spanish?”

  “It’s the official language of Peru,” Micah offered. “And Spain.”

  No one thought it was funny.

  “I thought it was coming in on satellite,” someone grumbled. “From the States. Maybe it’s in English on another channel.”

  The bartender surfed around; this was it. Spanish or nothing.

  I leaned toward Micah. “Now you really have a story to tell,” I said. “Not only did you see your favorite team play in the Super Bowl in Lima, Peru, but you can tell them you heard it in Spanish.”

  “Now you’re getting in the spirit. That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

  We settled in to watch the game. The Raiders weren’t playing well and quickly fell behind. Micah’s cheers gradually grew more infrequent, and by halftime, he was shaking his head.

  “You gotta have faith,” I urged.

  “I think I’m losing it.”

  “I’ve heard that,” I said pointedly, recalling my previous conversations I’d had with his wife, Christine. “So, are you still avoiding church?”

  He smiled, but didn’t look at me. Faith and religion was a subject we often discussed, even through our early years. Since Micah had married, however, the subject had been coming up more regularly. Christine wasn’t Catholic, and instead of going to Mass, they attended a nondenominational Christian service. Unlike the Mass I preferred, which is highly traditional, with only slight variation from week to week, Micah preferred a service with less structure and more time for personal reflection. Or, more accurately, those were his original reasons when he explained the change to me. But lately, even those differences hadn’t seemed to matter.

  “Let me guess. Christine told you to ask me about this on the trip, didn’t she?”

  I said nothing. Micah shifted in his seat.

  “No, I go sometimes. But only because Christine wants me to. She thinks it’s important for me to go because of the kids.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Are you getting anything out of it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you praying at all?”

  “I haven’t prayed in three years.”

  A life without prayer is something I couldn’t imagine. In no small way, I’d been depending on prayer for as long as he’d been avoiding it.

  “Don’t you feel like you’re missing something?”

  “I don’t pray because it doesn’t work,” he said curtly. “Prayer doesn’t fix anything. Bad things happen anyway.”

  “Don’t you think it helps you handle those bad times, though?”

  He didn’t answer, and by his silence I knew he didn’t want to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.

  In the end, the game was a blowout. Tampa Bay had the game in hand, and Micah and I left the bar to work out in the hotel gym during the second half. We jogged and lifted weights; afterward, we went back to our room and collapsed on the bed.

  “Sorry your team lost,” I said.

  “No big deal,” he said. “I’m not like you used to be. Remember? Back when you were a kid? You used to cry whenever the Vikings lost.”

  The Minnesota Vikings had been my favorite team growing up; I’d picked them because it was where Dana was born.

  “I remember. It broke my heart when they lost the Super Bowl.”

  “Which one? They lost a bunch of them.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “No problem.” He paused. “You do know you were nuts when it came to the Vikings, don’t you?”

  “I know. I tended to go overboard in a lot of things.”

  “You still do.”

  “We all have our problems. Even you.”

  “That’s untrue. I’m perfectly happy. Haven’t you noticed? It was I who—through the sheer force of my buoyant personality—lifted you from the depths of despair only a couple of days ago.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s just because we’re on the trip. You have to remember—doing something like this has always been more your style than mine. You grew up loving adventure. You used to search it out. I just tagged along, trying to keep you from getting into too much trouble.”

  He grinned. “I did get into trouble a lot, didn’t I?”

  “Quite a bit, actually. Especially when it came to weapons.”

  A look of fond reminiscence crossed his face. “You know, I just don’t understand why that happened. I wasn’t a bad kid. I was just trying to have a good time.”

  I smiled, thinking, good times indeed.

  My parents, being the wise and wonderful folks they were, finally realized Micah and I weren’t exactly responsible when it came to BB guns, despite the good times we had had with them. No matter how much we begged, they refused to buy us new ones. Nor would they consider giving us rifles, when we offered that by way of compromise. Instead, they bought us bows and arrows.

  We had fun with those bows. Our aim wasn’t too good, but what we lacked in accuracy, we made up for with velocity. We could send those arrows humming, practically burying them into trees. My brother took to it a bit more easily than I did, and eventually got to the point where he could actually hit a fairly large target from thirty feet away at least 5 percent of the time, as opposed to my 3 percent of the time.

  “Hey, let’s put an apple on your head and I’ll try to shoot it off,” he finally suggested.

  “I have a better idea,” I said, “let’s put the apple on your head.”

  “Mmm. Maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

  One day, when we were out with our bows and arrows in the woods, one of the arrows went astray, heading toward a group of workers that were framing a house. (In the years since we’d moved there, construction on new homes had begun in earnest.) Now, the arrow hadn’t landed too close to the workers, but it wasn’t too far away either, and one of the carpenters got pretty mad at us, even when we tried to explain that it was an accident. “Don’t even think about shooting arrows around here,” he growled, and even worse, he refused to give us the arrow back, no matter how much we pleaded. Since we had only three arrows to begin with, losing one was a big deal.

  My brother and I skulked off, heading back up the hill toward our street again, seething. By the time we reached the top of the hill, my brother decided that he wasn’t about to follow some stranger’s orders, especially since he’d kept the
arrow.

  As he put it: “He can’t tell me what to do.”

  My brother loaded an arrow and tightened the bow, then leaned back with the intention of shooting the arrow straight up into the sky in a statement of defiance, a sort of “take that!” He launched the arrow and it zoomed skyward, higher and higher, until it was just a speck in the sky.

  Of course, he hadn’t taken note of the light breeze that afternoon. Nor did my brother actually shoot straight up, though—as God is my witness—that was his intention. Instead, the arrow had just enough angle to sort of veer in the direction of the house (and workers) at the bottom of the hill, and the wind took over from there. I watched the arrow’s changing trajectory, feeling my chest begin to constrict as I realized where it was heading.

  “Micah—is that arrow heading where I think it is?”

  “Oh, no . . . no . . . NO . . . NOOO . . . NOOOO-OO!!!!!!”

  My brother, turning white like me, was hopping up and down in ardent denial, as if hoping to change the obvious. We watched the arrow as it began arcing downward, toward the worker who’d confiscated the previous arrow. Had Micah aimed, had he purposely been trying, there wasn’t a chance he’d ever launch an arrow two hundred yards with such accuracy.

  “NOOOOO . . . NOOOOOO!!!!!” Micah screamed, continuing to hop up and down.

  I watched the arrow descending toward doom itself, surer with every passing second that we were actually going to kill the guy. Never had I been so terrified. Time seemed to slow down; everything moved with dreadful determination. I knew we’d end up in Juvenile Hall; maybe even prison.

  And then it was over.

  The arrow hit the ground, less than a foot from where the man was working with a shovel, landing in a poof of dust. He jumped to the side in shock and horror.