by K. A Knight
I didn’t know if I could stomach the answer.
“So, we need to make a hundred more flowers,” I said, changing the subject.
“Be thankful we don’t have to help in the kitchen. My tía can be a real drill sergeant when it comes to making the food.”
“At least I could have snuck some snacks in if we were in the kitchen.”
“Don’t be so sure. She would smack your hand like a child. She got that from abuelita.” Sadness hit Myrna then and she blinked away a few tears. I stood from my seat and moved to her side, wrapping my arm around her.
“I know all the normal stuff people say doesn’t help,” I murmured. “But I’m here for you.”
She nodded her head and turned into my arms, and for the first time since we’d arrived, she collapsed into a bundle of tears, her emotions finally spilling over the edge.
If Día de los Muertos gave her some sense of peace, then I was here to dive completely into the tradition, even if I didn’t believe, even if my own mother couldn’t ever cross over during the Day of the Dead.
I ignored the feeling of unease that crawled along my skin and the goosebumps that travelled up and down my arms.
I didn’t have time for those feelings. We had too many paper flowers to make.
Chapter 2
It’s hours after midnight when Myrna and I break away from the grave, leaving the rest of the family to mourn and talk with Gloriana in peace. At some point, I swear I could feel a presence there, but my mind refused to accept it, and the feeling went away. I considered it a trick of my mind, the effect of being around all the beliefs. It’s like an entire audience believing a magic trick is real. Suddenly, even if you know it’s an illusion, for a moment, you believe, too. That’s how Día de los Muertos feels for me. An illusion just waiting to break.
We had too many shots of tequila, that much I’m certain of as we weave our way along the dusty street, the crowds of festival goers overflowing. It doesn’t feel as late as it is. If we were back at school, we’d already be asleep, preparing for our full roster of classes the next day, but we’re at a celebration of life, a celebration for those who had passed. Now isn’t the time to hold back or to worry about curfews.
“Where do we go now?” I ask Myrna, my steps shaky as we made our way through the crowds.
“I’m starving,” she moans, dragging me towards the thick smell of cooking meat. Normally, I’d bypass the small street vendors in favor of something more established, but just like Myrna, I’m starving and there’s too much alcohol in my body to care about how I’ll feel the next day when I wake up.
“Should we be having so much fun when we’re supposed to be mourning?” I glance over at Myrna. “I have a feeling Gloriana would have wanted us to have fun after all the stories I’ve heard, but I don’t know what the traditions are.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “My grandma would have shaken her head and told us to not be out too late. Then she’d remind us to clean the bowl when making tortillas. We should have had that engraved on her tombstone, she said it so much.”
We both chuckle but Myrna’s laughter is filled with that sadness again, the one that I’m sure won’t go away for a long while. I wrap my arm around her shoulder for a moment in a side hug before the scent of cooking meat catches my attention. I release her and stop in my tracks, staring at the tiny cart selling food. “One sec! I’m gonna grab us some fuel.” I move behind Myrna and walk up to the cart, a smile on my face. My stomach growls.
“Dos carnitas, por favor,” I mumble, my Spanish halting and too formal, but the vendor smiles at my attempt and prepares our food. I dig around in my pocket for money, pulling out double the cost, and pass them over the little trailer.
“No,” the man tries to tell me, but I shake my head. That money means nothing to me, but it could mean everything to him. “Gracias, senorita. Gracias.”
“De nada,” I crow, taking the carnitas from the man. I turn to give one away to Myrna, but she isn’t there. “Myrna!” I shout, but the street festival is too loud. I doubt my voice travels very far. “Myrna!”
Panic that normally I’d dismiss spreads through me . Myrna had warned me not to get separated from her, to not be alone during the festival. I might not believe her tales of monsters, but I certainly believe that it was not the best time to be alone and stand out so much with my blonde hair. At least my face is painted, but that does little to calm my nerves.
With the two carnitas clenched tightly in my hands, I scan the crowd around me, looking for the ring of flashing flower lights that Myrna had worn as a crown. The only problem is, it seems like everyone is wearing the same lights. I turn in circles, searching, yelling, hoping she just stepped away for a moment. No one answers. And Myrna doesn’t pop back up.
“Okay, Mal,” I tell myself. “Myrna is a big girl. She’ll make her way back home. You can just meet her there.”
I turn in the direction I think the house might be and hesitate. With the tequila in my body, the harder I think about which turns to take, the less I can remember, until it’s a massive blur inside my head. I grit my teeth, trying to think harder. We didn’t travel very far. If I can at least find the cemetery, then I can find her family and I’ll be okay. I move both carnitas into one hand and tap the nearest person on the shoulder.
“Uh, donde esta el, la, uh, fuck!” The man stares at me in confusion as I flounder my hand around. “Cemetery. Graves. Los Muertos!”
“Ah, si,” he nods and points down the street in the opposite direction Myrna and I came from. At least I think so.
“No. No.” I press my hand against my forehead, trying to think of the word cemetery in Spanish. Normally, I could pull out my phone for the translator, but I’d left it at the house out of respect for the festival. I couldn’t imagine how disrespectful it would have been for my phone to ring at Gloriana’s grave.
Not that anyone ever calls me. . .
“Lo siento,” the man mumbles and slips into the crowd, away from the crazy lady swinging her hand around in an attempt to tell him I need to know how to get to the cemetery.
“Myrna!” I call again uselessly. I hadn’t seen a sign of her since I stopped to grab the carnitas. I stare at them in my hand for a moment before I start eating. If I’m gonna be stumbling around trying to figure out which way to go, the least I can do is keep my energy up. Besides, I’m too hungry to let the food go to waste.
I’m taking a bite, the salsa and lime juice trickling down my chin, when I feel those eyes on me again, the ones I’d felt earlier in the night. I wrinkle my brows and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I search the crowd in front of me, studying them, trying to figure out if it’s the same man I’d seen or if it’s a new problem.
“Do you need help?” a heavily accented voice asks in my ear.
I scream, my reactions way overblown because of the tequila. I throw my hands up, my poor carnitas flying from my fingers, as I spin and stumble over my sandaled feet. A large hand reaches out and grabs my elbow, keeping me from falling to the dirt and doing something far more embarrassing, like having my skirt flying over my head, my lace underwear there for everyone to see.
I stare in open mouth shock at the man in front of me, his fingers still on my skin. “What the fuck?” I whisper.
“¿Lo siento?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I take a step back, more like a stumble, and put distance between us. “Do you speak English?”
“Sí,” he grins, and I realize it’s the same man I’d seen outside the cemetery.
“Are you. . . following me?” I ask suspiciously. I can’t find my own friend, but I suddenly run into the same man I caught a glimpse of earlier. Not that I’m not secretly excited I ran into him again.
I look him up and down, the black tailored slacks fitting his muscular form in a way that makes me hope he turns around so I can see his ass. His shirt is also black, but with tiny embroidered flower patterns on it. It’s unbuttoned two buttons too many, reveal
ing golden skin underneath. His hair is long, a curl falling across his forehead in that sexy lazy way only men can pull off. But his eyes are what confuse me the most. Red. He’s wearing red contacts.
“If I was following you?” He shrugs, his lips curled at the ends.
“That’s a little stalker-ish,” I say narrowing my eyes.
“This is a celebration of life. I did not want a missed opportunity.”
He looks sincere, but something about him makes me take a step backwards anyways. He puts me at ease far too easily, and that finally wakes up my instincts. His eyes follow the action, but the smile doesn’t drop from his face. If anything, it spreads just a little more.
“Uh,” I start, realizing suddenly the carnitas I’d barely eaten are all over the ground. “Dammit,” I moan.
“Do you have a name, senorita?”
“I do.” I turn towards the little cart that sold me the carnitas, but even he’s gone. In fact, the street seems a lot emptier now than it did a moment ago. Sighing in frustration, I look at the man again. “Why do you want to know it?”
He slips his hands inside his pockets. “It’s customary to exchange names, yes?”
“Then why don’t you tell me yours first?” I narrow my eyes on him. I’m sure I don’t look as fierce as I hope I do since tequila has a way of really messing with your perceptions, but I don’t let that stop me.
The man chuckles, amused. He tilts his head studying me. “You can call me Maestro.”
I point my finger at him. “That’s a no. First, that’s not your name. Second, I’m not calling you Master even in Spanish.”
His eyes widen in surprise for a moment before he schools his features again. “Lo siento.”
“No you’re not. You thought I didn’t know what the word meant and that’s fine. I’m a gringa walking the streets of Matamoros. I don’t fault you. But I’m not telling you my name if you don’t tell me yours.”
A flash of irritation crosses his face, as if me refusing to tell him my name is an inconvenience, but the look crosses quickly and the smile returns. “Of course. Estaba siendo grosero. Entiendo.”
I brush my hand through my wild hair, pushing it back from my face while I study the man. Something bothers me at the back of my mind, something that Myrna warned me about, but for some reason, I can’t quite figure out what that is.
“I feel bad,” he says, leaning down a bit to stare into my eyes. It’s the first time I realize how much taller he is than I am. It’s also the first time I imagine standing on my tiptoes to kiss him. “When I scared you a moment ago, you lost your food. Let me get you something else.”
“No, it’s fine. Really.” As if to argue, my stomach growls and I wince.
Laughing, he holds out his hand and it hangs there in the air. “Allow me to find you replacements, senorita.”
“Should I be worried about you?” I ask. “I don’t have any plans of being found in a ditch somewhere tomorrow and you’re a little too smooth for my nerves.”
A Cheshire grin spreads across his face, that little curl on his forehead driving me mad as he tilts his head. I want to run my hand through it, to see if it’s as soft as it looks. “You haven’t seen anything yet if you think this is me being smooth.” His accent washes over me and I’m embarrassed at how affected I am by the sound of his voice. “And the streets of Matamoros are safe. If you’re with me, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Are you a drug dealer?”
He throws back his head and laughs, the column of his throat smooth and tempting. My mouth drops open a little in surprise at how attractive it is to watch him laugh.
“No, I’m not a drug dealer,” he clarifies when he calms his laughter down to just chuckles. “No, not even the drug dealers will mess with me.”
That should scare me. In my tequila addled brain, though, it only turns me on more. I stare at his outstretched hand carefully, tempted to take it, to enjoy the night and let a tall, dark, and handsome stranger treat me to food and maybe join the festival. What’s the harm in having a little fun?
Gloriana, I think, protect me please.
With a shaking hand, I reach forward and slide my fingers against his warm ones, a little zing going up my arm at the touch.
Grinning, he tugs me down the street, towards the center of the festival.
“I like your red contacts,” I comment, walking by his side, his hand still enveloping mine.
He looks down at me, his eyes racking my body in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly. I glance back the way I’d came with Myrna, worry interrupting my thoughts for a moment. This was probably the worst thing I can do, but a little fun couldn’t hurt.
Besides, Día de los Muertos is a celebration of life, right? What better way to celebrate?
Mentally, I set another shot of tequila on Gloriana’s grave, just in case.
/-/-/-/
“Remember what I told you,” Myrna warned as we rolled to a stop in front of a modest little house in Matamoros.
“Yeah, I know.” I unbuckled my seatbelt. “Don’t wander off alone. Don’t be the gringa in the movies that gets chopped up into itty bitty pieces.”
Myrna nodded. “Correcta. Make sure to stay close. My mom will probably give you some weird things to stick in your pockets. Take them. They’ll protect you against the hadas.”
“Right.” I rolled my eyes. Criminals I could understand. Fairies, nope. My brain refused to believe there was some mythical danger from the creatures here. They weren’t real, but Myrna’s family was extremely superstitious. Myrna had even made me leave my decorative Ouija board planchette necklace back home. I love that necklace.
I had no desire to stick chicken legs and weird baubles in my pocket, but Myrna didn’t need to know that.
An older woman that was the spitting image of Myrna strode out the front door as we stepped from the car, tears in her eyes. I watched awkwardly as they hugged each other, standing off to the side so I didn’t impose.
“Ven aca, mija,” she crowed, dragging me into the hug. I tensed, but after a moment, I relaxed into the hug. It’d been so long since I’d felt motherly affection, it felt foreign to me at that point, but standing there, sharing both the joyful reunion and the overhanging sadness of Myrna’s grandma’s passing, I felt more at home than I’d felt in a long time.
“Tenemos mucho que hacer,” her mom murmured, leaning back and holding first Myrna’s face between her palms and then mine. “Ven. Pongámonos a trabajar.”
Myrna grinned. “She’s gonna work us like dogs.”
Her mom slapped her arm, the action more loving than angry, and dragged us inside. But she never let us work on an empty stomach. Before we could ever touch any of the preparations, she stuffed us full and made sure we were okay.
Then, we stared in horror at the yards and yards of tissue paper.
Chapter 3
The festival in the square is going strong when he leads me into the crowd. My unease grows when people give him a wide berth as we walk through the crowd. Before, I’d been pushed and shoved while walking through. Now, no one will touch me.
“What’s going on?” I ask when an older woman makes the sign of the cross over her chest while looking at me. “Why are they acting like that?”
“They can’t help it.” He glances down at me. “They are superstitious here.”
“But that doesn’t answer why so many people are making crosses at me just because I’m walking beside you.”
“Maybe they know I’m trouble,” he purrs, lifting my hand to place a kiss against my skin. My stomach flips. “Are you afraid of a little trouble, senorita?”
“Depends what kind of trouble it is.” I smile just a little bit. “If it’s the kind of trouble that’ll get me thrown in jail in a foreign country, I’ll pass.”
Music fills the square around us, the sounds of mariachi bands competing the same way as I’ve heard banjos do. One will play an upbeat song, and another answers back with their own. It m
akes me feel good as I listen to the music and stare into his eyes, as he tells me he’s trouble, and I still don’t back away.
“You said I’m safe as long as I’m walking beside you.” I tilt my head. “Does that mean I’m completely safe while I’m with you, or that it’s only when I’m beside you?”
I surprised him again. I can tell. Something in my brain tells me to push for clarity.
“I did just tell you I’m trouble,” he points out.
“You did, but the people are treating you as if you’re the devil, not some random criminal.” Even with the tequila in my system, I can see that.
He takes a step closer to me, and when I don’t back away, he wraps his other arm around my waist and starts to sway us to the beat, distracting me. I don’t fall for it though, even if he moves closer, and suddenly, all I can imagine is my legs wrapped around his hips. “Do you think I’m the devil, dulzura?”
“I think you’re certainly devilish, or else they wouldn’t be afraid of you.”
The corner of his lips kicks up and he leans his forehead against mine, that curl touching my face and making me want to run my hands through his hair again. “Temen a la muerte. That’s all.”
“If they’re afraid of death, why do they fear you?”
For a moment, he closes his eyes, his fingers clenching at my side, caressing, driving me insane. When he opens them again, the red seems brighter. “Perhaps, I’m Muerte.”
I raise my brows. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“Doesn’t it?” he purrs, the hand holding mine letting it go to circle the back of my neck in a soft caress. “Does it not scare you to dance with the devil, senorita? Are you not afraid to die?”
I give into temptation and place one hand against his chest, and the other around his neck to tangle in his hair. It’s just as soft as I imagined. “I’m not afraid of death. And I don’t mind dancing with the devil if he comes in such a package as you.”