Cricket Hunters

by Jeremy Hepler

  He knew he should lie down and try to relax in order to lower his blood pressure, but he was too keyed up. His mind was racing and his feet begged to follow. He paced back and forth in front of the mattress as far as the chain allowed, balling and opening his fists. The slacks insulating the chain muffled the irritating scrape of metal on cement as he moved, allowing his stressed mind to run uninterrupted from one tangent to another, his emotions to stretch from tears to laughter.

  First, he questioned the picture. Who could’ve taken it, placed it there? Why Cel? What was the message? Was she being held captive, too? Or…there was no way she was involved in this, right? Had she hired someone to kidnap him like she’d hired Josh Teague to kick his ass?

  Which led to him weighing his entire relationship with Cel. The highs and lows, good times and bad. Moments they were the only two people on the planet. Ones filled with cursing and punches and pain. The sex and miscarriages. Regrets and missteps. Could’ves, would’ves, should’ves, and ifs. Did he still love her as much as he once did? As much as a husband should?

  Which led him to Lauren. Was he falling in love with her, or just infatuated with someone new, someone perkier?

  Which led him to the last argument he’d had with Cel. How much did she know about Lauren? Or the other girls over the years, during what she called their ‘dark stints?’ Did she know Lauren had a kid, or that he’d met Sammy?

  Which led to him revisiting Sammy’s birthday party at Peter Piper Pizza in Austin, smiling at the thought of the boy’s joy when he opened his presents and ate cake with his friends.

  Which led him to speculations about the four sons or daughters he had almost had. What they would’ve looked like, acted like, laughed like. As toddlers, teens, adults. Their hobbies, habits, idiosyncrasies. Hairstyles, height and weight, sexuality. Would they be a momma’s boy? A daddy’s girl?

  Which led to him revisiting his own childhood: Christmas mornings and board game nights with his mom and dad and sisters. Egging and teepeeing houses on Halloween with his neighbor Billy before the Hamiltons moved away. Beers and poker with Uncle Marty when his parents went out of town. Fairs and movie nights and Hunter’s Haven with the Cricket Hunters. Enemies like Jose. Girls. Like Abby. The real one who disappeared and the ghost one he chased through Hunter’s Haven. Had that really happened?

  The span of time between when Parker started pacing to when his legs and throbbing head started singing for relief could’ve been ten minutes, or it could’ve been ten hours. He couldn’t be sure. Time no longer existed as far as he was concerned. He sat on the foot of the mattress, picked up the water jug, and took a long hard pull. The water tasted bitter, like the first batch, but that didn’t diminish the relief his body expressed as wetness coated his mouth and throat and pooled in his empty stomach. He took two more decent sized gulps before lying down.

  After positioning his shirt under his head, he closed his eyes, focused on breathing slow and steady, in the mouth out the nose like Dr. Gordon had taught him, and dove into one of his favorite childhood books.

  He’d already swum through countless titles to stave off the hunger and isolation and fear. Sometimes he’d recited the stories aloud, sometimes silently. Sometimes he imagined turning actual pages filled with words as he read. Other times, he would visualize the action like a movie. He’d already traveled to Mars and The Shire and Derry, Maine. Anywhere to escape. This time, he decided to go to a “great town,” as Roald Dahl called it, and follow Charlie Bucket on his quest for a golden ticket.

  SEPTEMBER 1998

  Chapter 28 - Cel

  On the outer reaches of Twin Tree Cemetery, Cel, Parker, Abby, Omar, and Natalie stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a heap of dirt, looking into a hole at Tia Dillo’s homemade, hand-painted coffin. At Yesenia’s request, they were dressed in colorful, casual clothes, and not the typical dark, formal funeral attire. This wasn’t a regular religious funeral, after all. There had been no obituary in the Oak Mott Daily, no viewing or church service. There would be no graveside sermons or prayers or speeches. There would be no line of mourners. It was simply a burial, a returning of Tia Dillo’s vessel to the Source.

  A few days earlier, Yesenia’s and Cel’s next door neighbor, Mike Stabel, had built the coffin in his garage, using leftover locally harvested oak he’d purchased for a patio project the previous summer. Mike was Cobalt Street’s retired, jack-of-all-trades handyman, and one of the few people on the street who treated Yesenia like a human rather than a plague. He’d helped her with many plumbing and electrical issues over the years, replaced many hoses and gadgets on her ‘82 Starlet, and when she’d knocked on his door and offered him cash to build a simple wooden box to bury her sister in, he’d accepted without batting an eye. But as always, he’d refused payment. When finished, he and his son Mike Jr. propped it on sawhorses in Yesenia’s driveway, where she and Cel had spent the afternoon painting it.

  The glossy colors they’d chosen shone bright in the Saturday afternoon sunshine that spilled into the hole.

  “It looks good,” Parker said, shoving his hands into his deep cargo short pockets. “The swirly star things are cool.”

  Natalie adjusted her Astros hat to better block the sun from her eyes, then pointed at the foot of the coffin. “My favorites are the red and yellow flowers down there.”

  “I like the crescent moon,” Omar said. “And the white cat in the tree.”

  “It’s supposed to be a ferret,” Cel said in a monotonous tone. “Dillo’s favorite familiar.” Her eyes were aimed at the coffin, but she wasn’t seeing colors and images like the other hunters. She was seeing what lay beneath the coffin lid: Too-skinny Tia Dillo in her now too-big favorite dress on top of the quilt her mother had sewn for her when she was a child, surrounded by the personal items Cel and Yesenia had placed around the too-pale body at the funeral home before the final ritual was performed and the lid nailed shut.

  “Oh, right,” Omar said, fidgeting, sliding his hands in and out of his oversized sleeves. “I see it now. My bad.”

  After a short hesitation, Cel blinked away the image of her dead aunt and gave Omar a slight smile. “Don’t worry. I painted it, and I can’t even tell what it is.”

  “I thought it was a squirrel,” Abby admitted demurely, keeping her hands clasped behind her back and not looking up.

  “I thought it was a rat,” Natalie said.

  “Chihuahua for me,” Parker said. “I thought Tia Dillo said they were her favorites once.”

  Cel chuckled, and everyone joined in. She fingered her necklace and found the clasp wedged up against the infinity symbol. She kissed the clasp, whispered the good fortune spell as she repositioned it, and then looked over her shoulder at Yesenia.

  Twenty yards away, on a blanket in the only shaded spot in the cemetery, Yesenia sat cross-legged like a little girl. The two long-limbed oak trees that had given the cemetery a name lorded over her. She sat in between the two, below where their branches tangled. Supposedly, the trees sprouted the day after two young lovers, a white woman and black man who’d been secretly meeting in the field, died in the late 1800s. Yesenia had told Cel she would’ve preferred to bury Dolores in a more secluded place, Hunter’s Haven maybe, naked and wrapped in a shroud, like they had their mom on their homestead. But since Tia Dillo died in a state hospital, and Texas has strict rules about known burials, she had no choice. Twin Tree was the cheapest cemetery in Oak Mott, so Twin Tree it was.

  “Should we go back over there?” Parker asked. He and the others had briefly greeted Yesenia when they’d arrived on their bikes thirty minutes earlier.

  Cel bit the corner of her bottom lip and looked at him. The concern she detected in his voice comforted her. She nodded, and he nodded back, took her hand in his, and led her and the others toward the trees.

  She felt lighter with each step, as if his hand, his touch, somehow had the power to lift her off the ground and whisk her through the air, causing the blue and black flannel shirt ti
ed around her waist to flow behind her like cape. He’d called her every night since Dillo’s death, talking her through the sleepless hours, promising her an exciting future with him by her side. Now, here he was, choosing to hold her hand out in the open, in front of the other hunters. She hoped they noticed. Especially Abby.

  They sat in a semi-circle facing Yesenia. Two tight braids hung down either side of Yesenia’s head and rested on her chest. In between them, Mina’s severed leg bulged beneath her heavily embroidered quechquémitl. A Saran-Wrap-covered paper plate of pan de leche sat in the center of the blanket in front of her. She and Cel had baked the batch of Tia Dillo’s favorite snack at sunrise and placed the largest one inside the casket. Yesenia peeled off the wrap. “You kids eat before the flies do.”

  They each took a piece of the sweet Mexican milk bread and started eating. The muggy air made the gummy dough stick to their fingers and lips. Parker finished first. “Delicious as always, Mrs. G,” he said, wiping his hands on his shorts.

  Yesenia gave a slight nod and smile of gratitude.

  “I’d like to learn how to bake them,” Natalie said. “My dad would love them.”

  “Bien,” Yesenia said, her eyes moving from her sister’s gravesite to briefly meet Natalie’s before returning.

  Robins chatted in the oak trees overhead as everyone silently finished their treats.

  After dumping the crumbs into the grass and folding the paper plate into a small triangle, Yesenia’s eyes moved across the kids’ faces. “I told Cel last night I’d like for you all to keep hunting the crickets around the house until the cold weather comes. They’re getting louder. I’ll keep paying if you do, like I promised.”

  Natalie shot Cel a quick glance before looking at Yesenia. Her eyes were fraught with worry. “Are they starting to bother you now, too?”

  Yesenia shook her head. “They’re just a bad reminder, and we all had a deal.” Then she locked eyes with Cel, her expression asking her questions.

  Why did Natalie give you that look? What haven’t you told me?

  Cel felt the weight of her abuela’s expectant eyes pressing on her. She hadn’t told Yesenia about her fear that Maria might’ve sent the crickets after her, too. She’d only told the other hunters. With all Yesenia had gone through, she didn’t want to stack any more worry on her plate. “When Tia Dillo was in the hospital, I had trouble sleeping because of the crickets, but they haven’t bothered me ever since the night you did the…” Cel’s eyes dipped to the bulge on Yesenia’s chest, then swung back to her face. “Rituals.” The inside of her mouth felt dry. She force-swallowed. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I think they just bothered me because we hadn’t been hunting as much, and I was home alone, and I felt guilty about Tia Dillo, and they reminded me of her, and I regretted that I’d…” Cel’s eyes welled up.

  “Esta bien, mija,” Yesenia said, and stood. “Esta bien.”

  Cel stood, too. “I swear they haven’t bothered me since then.”

  As Cel hugged Yesenia, the other hunters stood and brushed the crumbs off their clothes.

  “We’ll do it for free,” Parker said.

  Abby met eyes with him and nodded in agreement. “Of course, we will.”

  “Yeah, we don’t want any money,” Omar added.

  “We’ll do it to honor Dillo,” Natalie said.

  Yesenia released Cel and smiled big enough to expose her crooked Garcia incisor. Her eyes were bleary, matching Cel’s. “Gracias, mis pequenos.”

  All their attention turned south when an engine roared in the distance. Parked in front of the cemetery gate about fifty yards away was a red Mustang. Jose’s Mustang. The passenger side faced the cemetery. The window was down, revealing Maria’s chubby face and thick head of wavy hair. Jose leaned forward to see past his mom, one hand on the wheel. He gunned the engine, and Maria smiled and waved. “How is it, Yesenia?”

  “Bitch,” Parker said.

  When he bolted toward the car, Abby grabbed his arm with both hands. “Don’t, Parker.”

  He raised his middle finger high in the air and yelled, “Fuck you!”

  Jose jumped out of the car, his bare chest and arms visible above the Mustang roof. He threw his hands in the air. “Bring it, ese! I’ll put you in the ground, too.”

  Parker jerked free from Abby, but Yesenia grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. “No, Parker. Detener. This is what they want. They want us upset so they can laugh. Don’t give that to them.”

  “But—”

  “You better get back in the car with your mommy, asshole!” Cel bellowed from behind Yesenia. She pointed at Jose. “Before we put you in the ground.”

  Yesenia spun around. “Celia! Basta!”

  Jose picked up a loose rock and hurled it at the hunters. When it landed a good twenty yards shy and no one responded, he threw his hands forward as though shooing a swarm of flies away. As though the hunters and Yesenia weren’t worth the time or effort. When he ducked back into the Mustang, Cel noticed a cat’s head peek out of Maria’s window. A cat the same color as Frito. Her breath caught in her throat—it couldn’t be—as Jose gunned the engine two hard times, and then shot gravel and dirt into the air as he peeled away from the cemetery gates.

  Cel met eyes with Yesenia once the car was out of sight. “Sorry, Buela.”

  “Me, too.” Parker said. “He’s just…They’re so…ugh.”

  “Right,” Abby added, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Natalie shook her head. “I can’t believe they would come out here and do that.”

  “I can,” Cel countered.

  “Some nerve,” Omar said.

  Yesenia took in a deep, audible breath. “You kids need to go home now.” She spoke with an authoritative tone.

  “But Cel said you needed to fill in the hole yourself,” Parker said. “And we wanted to help.”

  “You can’t,” Yesenia said. “We only have two shovels.”

  “We could take turns,” Natalie suggested.

  “No.” Yesenia motioned the kids off the blanket, scooped it up, and shook off the crumbs. “It’s to be done by family only. Now go,” she ordered. “I don’t want you here if they come back.”

  Parker and the others looked back and forth at one another for a moment before heading toward their bikes. The southernmost road in the Gateway neighborhood nestled up against the back end of Twin Tree Cemetery. Cel had ridden with Yesenia and entered through the front gate, but the other hunters had taken the back way and propped their bikes on the outer side of the hurricane fence bordering the cemetery.

  Cel snuck glances their way as she helped Yesenia fold the blanket and saw Abby hook her arm around Parker’s and Natalie throw one of hers over his shoulders. They were out of earshot, but she could tell he was angry. His arms flailed wildly as he spoke. She hoped he wouldn’t go looking for Jose without her.

  Yesenia recited a protection spell for the hunters as they hopped the fence, which inspired Cel to cast a calming spell of her own for Parker. A simper formed on her face when he mounted her bike and smiled at her over his shoulder before pedaling away.

  Graveside, Cel and Yesenia picked up the two shovels lying on the mound of dirt and began scooping soil onto Tia Dillo’s casket. Thirty minutes in, covered in sweat, her arms and shoulders aching, Cel was glad they were not allowed to both dig and fill the hole like Yesenia had wanted. The cemetery owner, Tom Schneider, a hefty man who trimmed his beard in a way to remind people he had both a face and neck, had told them Texas required a certain depth and size for a burial hole, and he could be fined if those specifications weren’t met. He demanded his team dig the hole, but that Cel and Yesenia could refill it as long as they didn’t damage any nearby graves.

  The soil was dry and airy, but each scoop and toss seemed heavier, harder to maneuver. They spoke little, and other than occasional glances at the cemetery gates, focused solely on shoveling. They stopped for water only once during the two hours it took to finish the job, when
Mr. Schneider arrived in his small truck and approached them with two cold bottles, praising their efforts. Shortly after they’d finished, he returned with a second bottle for each of them, offered his condolences once again, and reminded them the flat grass headstone would take about four weeks to arrive. Having already spent countless hours over the past few days talking about Maria and Jose, curses and safety, Cel and Yesenia sat at Dolores’s graveside without speaking about the incident. They rested with their own thoughts, drinking water, watching the sun slip toward the horizon in a wash of blues and purples and oranges.

  At home, Yesenia insisted Cel shower first. Cel set the water as hot as she could tolerate and stood under the showerhead with her eyes closed, allowing the heat to soothe her sore muscles. She could’ve stood there all night but only stayed around twenty minutes to make sure her abuela would have plenty of hot water, too. When she walked into the living room in her purple robe, she found Yesenia asleep. She was in her chair, feet propped up on the coffee table, head tilted sharply back, mouth open. She snored at a steady pace, the cat-leg-bulge on her chest swelling and falling with each deep breath. Cel considered waking her but decided against it. Her abuela hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours since Tia Dillo had passed. She needed rest. So Cel untied and slipped off Yesenia’s shoes, laid the couch quilt over her legs, turned off the lamp, and headed to her bedroom.

  The alarm clock on her window sill read eight-fifteen. She knocked the folder stuffed with school make-up work off her pillow onto the floor and lay down. She placed her phone onto her lap, intending to call Parker, but the relief of being horizontal forced her to close her eyes. She felt like they’d only been closed a few seconds, a long blink maybe, when a tap on her window jolted her upright, the bright green numbers on her alarm clock read nine-thirty.