Stepping carefully, so as not to wake the kitten, Brenda peeked around the corner of Daisy’s door. The child was fast asleep, lying on her side. Bones was on the bed, his head resting on Daisy’s knee.
A flash of irritation shot through Brenda, and then she sighed. She had made it plain the dog was not to climb on the furniture…but what the hell? If it gave Daisy comfort, that was what mattered.
The puppy rolled his big brown eyes in her direction. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be on the bed, but he didn’t care. That was the message in those eyes. This one might prove to be trouble.
She didn’t understand dogs. She knew most people thought they were loving and demonstrative, but give her a purring kitten any day for affectionate company. You knew for sure when a cat was happy. A dog’s smile might be gas.
Brenda took a cup of hot herbal tea, her book, and Mask to bed with her. The kitten tucked herself into a ball on Ethan’s pillow, yawned delicately, and was fast asleep again before Brenda found her place in the book.
It wasn’t long before Brenda joined the kitten in sleep.
“Mama! Eeeww. Mama!” Daisy’s peremptory cries woke Brenda a split second before the alarm went off, adding a cacophony of rock and roll to the din.
Disoriented, Brenda struggled to sit up, dislodging the kitten, which had been sleeping on her chest. “We’ll have to discuss that, Miss Mask,” she scolded as she set the ball of fluff aside and grabbed for her robe.
“Mama, hurry!”
“I’m coming, Daisy.”
The note of disgust in Daisy’s voice had somewhat prepared her for the sight she beheld upon entering the bedroom, but the stench was amazing. The source of the stench was in the center of Daisy’s bed. In a large, neat pile.
“Bad dog!” Brenda snapped, clapping her hands sharply.
Bones slunk off the bed.
“Mama, that’s nasty,” Daisy announced, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “Bones—”
“I can see what Bones did, Daisy. We’ll just have to make sure he gets walked right before bedtime.”
“But it’s on my bed!” the little girl sobbed. “It’s on my bed! That’s gross.”
“It will be okay, Daisy. It’ll wash out of the covers.”
“I can’t use those covers anymore, Mama. Eewww.”
Brenda ran her hand through her hair. She could see Daisy was upset, but replacing the bedclothes would be expensive—and unnecessary. She had to draw the line somewhere.
“It’s all part of having a dog, Daisy. Dogs make messes. They have to be trained. But we can’t afford to throw those covers away. We’ll take them to the cleaners so they’re all nice and clean. Okay?”
Daisy’s lip trembled, but she nodded.
Good. Brenda didn’t know how she was going to work a trip to the cleaners into her day, but she would figure something out later. For now, priorities were cleaning up the immediate mess and getting Daisy to school on time…for the field trip!
Damn it, why did that have to be today?
Wrinkling her nose at the smell, Brenda disposed of the pile of feces by dumping it in the commode then stripped the bed, piling the covers on top of the washer until she had time to get to the cleaners. “We’ll find you new covers tonight before bed, Daisy. Get a move on now. It is almost time to leave for school, and we have the field trip today.”
“To the museum?” Daisy hopped off the bed and stood before her closet, inspecting her wardrobe eagerly. “Mrs. Castillo says we are going to the museum.”
“Yes, honey.” Brenda shooed the puppy out into the fenced backyard.
Fenced. The thought struck her like a blow to the heart. Whoever was outside Daisy’s window the other night had to work to get there. She shivered.
Bones whined, but Brenda hardened her heart. “If you hadn’t gotten so creative, you might have spent the day in the garage, mister.”
She glanced up at the sky. It looked to be a beautiful day. “You’ll be fine,” she promised the dog, filling his food and water bowls on a corner of the porch.
It still left her feeling slightly guilty when she went inside and left Bones with his nose pressed against the glass door of the porch. No, she couldn’t chance leaving him cooped up inside while she was gone.
Mask, on the other hand, had taken to the litter box like a pro the first time she was set into it the night before. Brenda wasn’t at all worried about leaving the kitten in the house for the day. She set out Mask’s food and water in the pantry, and then went to get Daisy dressed.
Thirty minutes and a toaster pastry apiece later, Brenda pulled the station wagon up to the school entrance. She hustled Daisy into the building. They were running later than she would have liked due to Bones’ unexpected present that morning.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Barnett,” Mrs. Castillo said, with a quick, harried smile. “I don’t know what I was thinking to schedule this for a Friday. The children are so hyper today.”
“What can I do?”
“Well, I’m going to say a few words first about what we will be seeing on the trip, and then we’ll be loading into the bus. If you can sit in the back of the bus for me, that would be great. I conned my brother into coming along to help chaperone. I wish more parents would show interest like you do.”
Brenda felt a stab of regret. Most parents were probably at work about now or home with younger children. Only a few were without outside responsibilities like she was.
She followed Mrs. Castillo into the classroom, and stood in the back while Daisy went to her desk. Her little social butterfly was soon laughing and talking with her friends. From various gestures and gales of laughter, Brenda was sure that Bones’ exploit would be the talk of the class for days.
“Settle down, boys and girls,” called Mrs. Castillo from the front of the room. “I need to talk to you before we leave. Five, four, three, two…”
By the time she got to “one” the room was silent, and twenty attentive little faces drank in her every word.
Some people are natural teachers, Brenda thought with a touch of envy. Such a wonderful gift.
“Now, class, today we’re going to the Cultural Museum. Does anyone know what ‘cultural’ means?” She wrote the word on the chalkboard.
A little boy raised his hand. “My mom says that plays and junk are cultural.”
Mrs. Castillo hid a smile. “Yes, Tommy, that is one meaning of cultural. Anyone else?”
No one volunteered another guess.
“Well, the museum we are going to today deals with a little bit different kind of cultural. The fancy definition is ‘denoting or deriving from or distinctive of the ways of living built up by a group of people.’ But what that really means in our words is those things that join a group of people together. Remember when we talked about the Indians and their dances?”
Several heads bobbed. Brenda marveled at their comprehension. They really seemed to understand the concepts Mrs. Castillo was discussing, and most of them were not yet five.
Just goes to show that we sometimes underestimate what our little ones do and don’t understand…Brenda thought.
“That was one kind of culture. Can anyone think of another example now?”
Tommy’s hand danced in the air.
“Yes, Tommy?”
“My gramma is from Ireland, and she tells a lot of stories about leprechauns and stuff. Is that culture?”
“Yes, it is, Tommy. The stories and myths of a group of people are very much part of their culture.”
“Bullfighting?”
Mrs. Castillo stifled a sigh. “Yes, Davy, that is culture…though not all culture seems good to people outside of it. Many people feel bullfighting should be stopped entirely. It’s painful to the bulls and dangerous to the matadors.”
“What about songs?” murmured a lovely, dark-eyed girl. “My grandpa used to sing me songs at bedtime he said were passed down from the slaves in the olden days.”
“Yes, the slaves formed their own cul
ture in this new world they found themselves brought to. It was a way for them to hold on to the beliefs of the lands they came from. Very good, Helen. Anyone else?”
No one else volunteered anything, so Mrs. Castillo turned back to the chalkboard and wrote clearly Songs, Dances, Stories, Sports in a neat list. “We’ll see if we can add more when we get back from the museum. One of the main things we will be seeing today is an exhibit on the Mexican culture. How many of us are Hispanic?” She raised her hand.
Davy raised his hand, and several other children scattered throughout the room.
“Can anybody tell me some things that are part of our culture?”
“Besides bullfighting?”
Brenda admired Mrs. Castillo’s restraint.
“Yes, Davy, besides bullfighting.”
“Cascarones?”
“Very good! Does everyone know what a cascaron is?”
Little heads shook all over the room. Brenda was curious herself. The word sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
Davy blurted out. “A cascaron is an egg that’s been emptied out and filled with confetti. They’re painted bright colors and they’re in the stores around Easter time. People smash them over each other’s heads.”
Mrs. Castillo laughed. “Very good, Davy. Maybe we can make some in class next spring.”
“Cool!” echoed throughout the class.
Hopefully the eggs will stay in the school if they do, Brenda thought. What a potential disaster that could be! I’d hate to have to clean up after them…
“Now, there’s something very special coming up soon in the Mexican culture. It’s a celebration where the Hispanic community honors our loved ones who have died. This is what we’ll be seeing at the museum today, an exhibit on this tradition. Does anyone know what it is called?”
“Día de Muertos,” answered Davy, his little hand bobbing in the air.
“Right, Davy. Day of the Dead.”
Brenda felt a chill shoot down her spine.
Chapter 14
Twenty excited, chattering children surged out of the classroom toward the waiting bus. Daisy was holding hands with Irish Tommy and whispering in his ear.
What is that all about? Brenda wondered as she followed her daughter onto the bus and sat at the rear of the vehicle.
“Is this seat taken?” The voice was amused, and teasingly familiar.
She looked up into the gorgeous caramel eyes of Phillip Sanchez.
“You’re—”
“—the brother. Yeah. I didn’t know you were going to be along on this three-hour tour.”
“Should be interesting.” She glanced down at her hands, feeling suddenly shy.
Then her head whipped up. “Oh! Guess what? I got that puppy.”
“Great! What did you get?”
“It’s a spaniel. Not sure what kind exactly—it’s all shaggy white fur and feet like hot pads at the moment. Barks a lot though.”
“That’s the main thing.” Sanchez laughed.
“Daisy insisted on naming it ‘Bones’.” Brenda’s brow wrinkled at the thought. “I don’t know what this obsession with death is all about.”
Sanchez looked down at her, face grave.
“Don’t you? Mrs. Barnett, she feels their loss as strongly as you do, but she isn’t as equipped to deal with it. This is probably her way of coping with death, to become fascinated by it.”
“Guess this field trip should help then,” replied Brenda with a little grimace of distaste. “What perfect timing.”
“Día de Muertos actually is quite fascinating, Mrs. Barnett. Before the Spaniards Christianized the pagan societies of Mexico and Central America, it was observed in what is now August, and it ran for a month of feasting and celebration. Most of the time, it’s a one-day event in this country, but in many regions of Mexico, it’s divided into El Dia de los Angelitos on November 1st, recognizing the little ones who have died, and El Dia de Muertos on November 2nd commemorating the adults.”
“A day just for the children…?” Her mind conjured a picture of Robbie in his baseball uniform, that engaging grin on his face—the one that reminded her so much of Ethan.
Sanchez placed a hand on her arm. Warmth spread from his touch.
“Maybe this field trip will do you both some good.”
They spent the rest of the brief ride in silence, but Brenda was very aware of his presence on the seat beside her. She felt a little like a schoolgirl with a secret crush. She really needed to get a handle on these reactions.
When they arrived at the museum, she was swept up in the flurry of activity associated with getting twenty children to form a line and move into the building with some semblance of decorum. Luckily, the museum seemed very “kid-friendly” as they walked through the big double glass doors into the heart of the exhibit.
Mariachi music spilled from speakers on each corner of the open space, and eight-foot-tall caricatures of skeletons dressed in formal period clothing danced to the music, raising squeals of delight from the children.
A colorful square made of Mexican blankets lay in the center of the floor, and a smiling museum curator in a serape stepped between the dancing skeletons and clapped for attention. “Buenas dias, boys and girls. Please come and sit down so we can talk about a few things.”
Brenda helped Sanchez and Mrs. Castillo herd the children to spots on the blankets then stood behind the class with the other adults. She noticed that Daisy was watching the gyrating skeletons with rapt fascination.
The music died, and the dancers ground to a halt. The gray-haired curator gestured to the figures behind her. “These skeletons are known as calaveras. Sometimes they are named Catrin and Catrina. Don’t they wear funny clothes?”
The children nodded and laughed.
“She’s very good,” Brenda whispered to Sanchez.
“Yes, I know,” he whispered back. “She’s been telling these same stories for years.”
Brenda looked at him skeptically. “And how would you know that?”
“She’s my mother.” He put a finger to his lips, but his eyes were twinkling.
Mrs. Sanchez continued, “The calaveras have become the most famous symbol of Día de Muertos. When most people think of the Day of the Dead, the skeleton is what comes to mind. But there are other things that are a part of the celebration, and we’re going to look at some of them today. I’ll ask you not to touch anything unless I say it’s all right, is that a deal?”
The children solemnly promised.
“After I show you the things you can’t touch, I’ll have a surprise for you all.” The diminutive woman beamed down at the children.
Brenda trailed after the children as they followed Mrs. Sanchez into a side exhibit. Each wall of the room sported a themed altar.
“These are some examples of the altars that are used to honor the dead. Can anyone tell me what an altar is?”
Daisy’s friend Tommy raised his hand. “It’s the table where the priest says stuff at church.”
“That’s a good definition. The important part is that it’s a place of worship and honor. These altars are a little different. They aren’t in a church. These are examples of the kind of altars people build in their homes for their loved ones who have died. Usually, they’re for friends or family members, but sometimes they’re just for people someone wants to remember.”
She led the class to a lavish velvet-draped table with an electric guitar in a place of prominence. Scattered around the base of the guitar were bright yellow marigolds and a handful of Elvis CDs. “This altar was created by one of my staff who’s a big fan of Elvis Presley. She put some things she thought he might have liked on it.”
Mrs. Sanchez pointed out a model of a convertible and a pair of blue suede baby shoes. “People usually leave food on an altar, but since the museum is closed on weekends, we decided just to put the empty boxes.” She pointed to a chicken bucket. “This was supposed to be one of Elvis’ favorites.”
> The next table was draped in a colorful serape similar to the one Mrs. Sanchez was wearing. She laid her hand atop a gilt-framed photograph of an older gentleman with an engaging grin and waving gray hair. “This is the altar I made for my husband.” Again, there was the scattering of marigolds. “You see these flowers that are on both of the altars we’ve looked at? We use them because they have a strong scent.” She picked up one of the bright flowers and held it under each little nose. “Smell that?”
The children nodded, faces rapt.
“The scent is supposed to be strong enough to pull the dead back to the site of the altar so they can see the offerings their loved ones have given them. People also burn candles to light the way, and sometimes put out soap and a hairbrush so the loved one can freshen up after their journey.”
“What did you put on it to make it special for your hubband?” asked Daisy.
Brenda’s heart clenched. She could guess where this would be going…but maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
“Besides my favorite picture of him, I put one of our whole family together.” Mrs. Sanchez picked up another frame and turned it toward the children. “Do you see anyone here you recognize?”
“Mrs. Castillo!” chorused the class in ragged unison.
“That’s right. She’s my daughter. And here is my son, Phillip.” She pointed to the photo. “You’d never know he grew up to be that big policeman over there.” She pointed at Sanchez, and Brenda hid a grin at the look on his face.
“I also put a bottle of his favorite wine, and a box of the little cigarillos he loved to smoke. And here is the medal he won in the army.”
She adjusted the photographs in the display, and then led the way to the final altar.
“This altar is to honor the memory of my assistant’s little girl.”
The altar was draped in a soft white baby blanket, and the picture that held the place of honor was of a toddler with baby-fine hair and a gap-toothed smile. Brenda’s heart went out to this unknown mother.
A pristine teddy bear sat beside the photo, and Brenda mentally compared it to Maggie. This bear had never gotten a chance to be loved almost to death. Tears threatened to climb the back of her throat, and she cleared it roughly.
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