by Ellen Datlow
“You do?”
“Don’t you know? You called me.”
“I didn’t call you.”
“What’s my name, pachuco?”
Again, that misspelling. I nod, okay.
“So think. What you need?”
I know what it is when we arrive at Evergreen cemetery. It’s how I fucked up the first time….Only what do I call it now: Closure? Atonement? Forgiveness?
It’s Santi, and I don’t deserve nothing from him but his hatred.
Truth is, I’m not a fighter, I’m not tough, I ain’t shit, and Santi always saw through my bluffs, my doubts. He knew me like brothers do, knew more about me than even myself, and he accepted it all.
It’s hard to repeat what took place, to even admit…But listen, okay, it happened I wasn’t thinking. Two months ago…
We were back in the concrete channels of L.A., laying low in the shade of ducts that crisscross the dry river, just chillin’ from late summer heat. I was downin’ a bottle of Four Roses whiskey, and I didn’t even care.
“Carnal, you need to kick back some,” Santi said. “You’re going to drink yourself to a grave young.”
“Who the fuck cares,” I said, and I meant it.
“I do, carnal.”
I blew out air, shrugged him off.
“You don’t believe?” And out of nowhere, he turns to me like he’s going to say something else, and there’s this fire in his eyes as he leans in, like now it’s one of those secrets he’s got to say, only there’s no one around, so why’s he need to whisper, and then his lips were on mine…
I froze, there’s this warmth I never felt before. His chest pressed lightly to my own, his hands circled my wrists, pulling me closer, and I dropped the whiskey bottle.
The explosion of glass, it was loud, okay, especially in those channels, it echoed. It made me jerk back, I yanked my arms free, but my mouth hesitated, like it acted on its own, didn’t want to give up.
Then we were apart.
“Fuck was that?” Santi asked, like I was the one did it to him.
And I flushed, got all hot under the collar he was calling me a queer in my mind. My heart was confused, it was excited, it was scared, angry, embarrassed…
“I didn’t do shit,” was all I could say, this flat denial.
But now I think back, what Santi really said was, “Fuck was that?” in a voice that’s only joyful, like a weight had lifted off….It was me took his words the wrong way.
And there wasn’t nothing more than what happened anyway, just a kiss. My homie kissed me, is all.
But turned out, we weren’t alone. Chivo was passing through on the embankment above us with some of his White Fence cholos. The whiskey bottle exploding, it must have drawn his attention. He saw us, if even for a moment.
And they were at us like that, running down the cement slope, all kinds of curses and shouts. I knew it was trouble when I heard the words, “Fuckin’ hotos!”
Nobody does that here, what Santi and me did, nobody who doesn’t want to get jumped by every dude looking to make a name about how badass they are, how vigilant, protecting the streets from cocksucking homos.
So I knew what was going down: someone tries putting a gay jacket on you, and you don’t deny it with fists, you’ll be wearing that jacket the rest of your life, no matter what else.
“Butt bandit pendejos!” It was a blur of faces, my head rocked left, knocked right, I saw stars fly overhead. I swung back, connecting with I don’t know who or what, I just hit and ducked at the same time, shouting that I didn’t do nothing.
“¡Hotos!” I heard again, and I couldn’t believe I once wanted to run with those guys.
So by then I’d already said it, I’d thought it, I believed it: when I broke free from the fight, tumbling away, I swore it wasn’t my fault. I turned and pointed at Santi. “He’s the fag, not me!”
Like I said, it’s hard to admit….There’s Santi, blood leaking from his mouth, an eye all swelled, and I called him out like that. I was dazed, afraid, there was no time to think; I just didn’t want to have been seen doing that…I was thinking my family would hate on me, though now I find out no one could hate on me more than myself.
And it didn’t matter anyway what I said, the White Fence crew was just lookin’ to brawl, to hurt anyone for any reason, ’cause that’s how they earn fuckin’ street cred.
They advanced on me, I remembered the switchblade I carry around, and I pulled it out.
Chivo paused, then from his own pocket he pulled this zip gun, handmade from piping and a block of wood, the firing pin nothing more than a rubber band, but it puts a .22 hole in your head all the same. He’d used it on a rival from the Maravilla street gang the month before.
“You want to play, puto?” he asked.
I trembled, my switchblade went away. I raised my hands. Santi launched himself at Chivo, hit him dead-on, and he said, “Run, carnal!”
And I did.
Behind me came the crack of Chivo’s gunshot, louder than anything….
And now here we are.
I lead Saint and Papá through the cemetery, its bright colors nothing like a cemetery should look, with lawns of rose petals and vaults of starburst. We pass gravestones of sweetbread emblazoned with crossbones on the crust, each topped by La Madonna candles that flicker flames of red, of pink, of blue.
Saint says, “The flames are made of sugar, vato. You know that?”
I shake my head slow, while a sweet scent of clay and icing skims across the wind.
Green-eyed ghosts are everywhere too, prosperous or poor, old or young, boxers, brides, priests, and monsters, they’ve all had that last dance, all had their faces painted. They ignore us, smoking cigarettes with loved ones, toasting shots to old times upon their burial mounds of flowers and fruit, and we ignore them in turn.
My heart’s for only one grave. And I could get there with my eyes closed, I’ve been here almost every day.
“Over the next rise,” I say, my chin pointing the way up while my hands wring at each other.
We pass a crypt decked in lucky charms and flaming-heart tattoos, and only then I see too late, a clique of gang members—seven of them—from the La Purissima Crowd, Eastside Varrio White Fence.
It’s crazy twisted they’re here too, but I guess even cholos got loved ones to visit.
I recognize them all: Big Shadow, Spider, Puppet, Javi, Huero, Scrappy, and their leader, fuckin’ Chivo, passing a bottle with dead homies.
My heart goes cold with hatred.
Puppet sees me, elbows Javi. They point, throw their W.F. signs. The others stare me down, and Chivo sticks a finger in and out of his mouth, I know what it’s supposed to mean. I step quicker. They got better shit to do at least, they return to their own affairs, though their laughs echo.
“Fuck those punks,” Saint says.
“Yeah,” I reply, hoping they don’t hear.
We crest that last rise and follow a slope down. Around us señoritas dance and musicians play and even little boy and girl ghosts go chasing each other with hoops and sticks.
And then we’re at Santi’s grave. It looks fresh, the dirt turned over, moist. Here, whorling wet vines slink across, and tall-stemmed cherries fan out like swirls of smoke. The flower wreaths I laid for him are still in bloom of precious scents, even if they’re two months old.
A figure is sitting on the headstone, looking down at the earth, looking all solemn too, nobody’s here to mourn him.
“Santi?”
He glances up, and the faintest of smiles pulls at the stitching of his lips. I could think he’s wearing makeup, only no makeup can cause eyes to glow green like this. Besides the smoldering light and the cobwebbed forehead, the corkscrew brows, the crucifix chin and carved spade nose, Santi might appear as I seen him last.
“What’s up, carnal,” he says.
“I—I…” And it’s all stutters from me.
“You need a moment alone?” Saint asks.
I shrug, and he knows that’s a yes. Papá carries the sugar skull away, I see them last turning behind a mausoleum. And by last I mean I don’t see nothing else for a minute after, because my eyes are a well of tears, everything’s a blur.
I break down, “I’m sorry, man, I’m so damned sorry—”
“It’s okay, carnal, I shouldn’t have done that.”
Which makes me feel worse, him apologizing, when it’s me done all the wrong. That moment between us, what we did, I didn’t expect it, but it felt like it’s supposed to, and I can’t think of nothing else, except how I left him, and here’s Santi taking the blame.
“No…” I want to tell him more, but it’s hard to get the words out.
I reach to touch him, and my hand passes through.
“It’s too late for me, carnal. The top hat man already came, we did the dance.”
“It should’ve been me, Santi, I shouldn’t have left you. I’d have fucked those bitches up for what they did.”
A voice snaps from behind. “What’d you say about us, ese?”
The world freezes, everything silent but for that voice….When I turn, there’s Chivo and his White Fence crew.
Big Shadow taunts, “You come here tonight to suck some ghost chorizo, hoto?”
They laugh while spreading in a circle around me, I think of a hangman’s noose set to tighten.
I look to Santi for help, his eyes meet mine then fall. His head is a sad shake when he says, “I’m only a ghost, carnal, I haven’t been called forth. The name on the skull, you know it’s not mine. I can’t step through.”
The old defense rears up as their noose constricts. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Then why’re you here?” Chivo asks. “And why’d you run from us, puto? That was guilt.”
I go to my second defense, flick out the switchblade from my pocket.
“You got stones to use it now, hoto?” Spider says, and the White Fencers move in even closer.
I slash at the air, but it’s no good, the effect like a child throwing his rubber ball at a pack of wolves, and my heart’s pounding enough to break ribs. I know what’s next, they start whistling, shadow-punching the air around me, taking warm-up swings with crude weapons.
“You’re gonna wish you stayed last time,” Javi promises.
I close my eyes: all I want is to be a child again, me and Santi riding our bicycles up Whittier Boulevard together, only I know it’s too late, and now I just want this over….
A clatter erupts, a sound like tap dancers moving on the wood floor of American Bandstand, and I open my eyes to Papá! He doesn’t give warning, just launches himself at the nearest one with a deafening clack-clack-clack!
Papá hits the dude with his thumpers; it takes a couple moments for me to recognize it’s Scrappy he hit, because Scrappy’s face goes sliding to the left, while a couple teeth go flying to the right.
Now it’s on….
I lash out with my blade fast at Chivo, but he dances backward, I miss by inches. My arm’s extended when I slice at him, and Big Shadow has a big baseball bat….He swings down, and my forearm cracks. The knife goes flying, and I scream in pain and anger, and all else while I trip to my knees.
I was never a fighter like Papá—even if just his skeleton—who goes after Huero next. At least my screams don’t sound like Huero’s, once Papá hooks a frightening punch to the cholo’s kidney, and follows with a cross that caves in Huero’s nose.
I’m not even a threat anymore, holding my arm and groaning, but Chivo makes sure I feel the kick of his steel toe across the side of my face. I go from kneeling to sprawling while he laughs.
Papá roars, Clack-clack-clack!
Javi goes down next under Papá’s thumpers, I think Javi’s face will be scarred as Frankenstein once he’s out of the hospital.
And all the time, Saint is shouting from the ground where Papá dropped him, “Kick ’em in the huevos, gouge out their eyes!”
It’s three down, but then Big Shadow uses that bat to the back of Papá’s skull, and Papá stumbles. And Spider has a lead pipe, and Puppet has iron-link chains wrapped around each fist….They take turns pounding at Papá, one after the other, and with each blow, pieces of bone break away in dust and splinters, cometing across the night sky.
There’s just too many of them, and it’s like Papá getting beat to death all over, only I’m here to witness it; his skeleton arms snap away, his spine comes apart, his bones fall to pieces, like Tinkertoys you toss across the floor. There’s nothing but pegs and rods, connectors and slots.
Saint’s not a smart-ass anymore when he says, “Oh, damn.”
And all the while, Chivo’s still laughing.
Santi’s ghost says to him, “Haven’t you done enough, asshole? Just get out, leave us alone!”
“You’re the one talking about assholes, you must like them so much, huh?” Chivo mock-thrusts his hips with grunts.
“Always a punk, only tough with a gun and a gang. I’ll see you in Mictlan, you’ll be sorry.”
“If that’s where hotos go, you won’t see me ever.” But Chivo stops laughing.
He scans his crew, realizing half of them are out. Suddenly he pulls that zip gun, points it at me, his dark eyes glinting flames.
“Look what happened to Scrappy, Huero,” he says like it’s my fault. His voice drops, it’s even worse than his shouts, his taunts, when he speaks real quiet to the others. “Get him.”
I’m curled up in a protective ball until they grab me, pulling each of my arms and legs so I’m spread-eagle, facedown, straining. I can barely cry out ’cause I can barely breathe.
And I don’t see what’s going to happen, but I feel it: Chivo’s gun pushing deep in my ass, and all this because of a kiss….
“You like it going in, don’t you?” Chivo asks.
“He didn’t do nothing, it was me!” I hear Santi’s voice. I want to scream, It’s not true, but neither will it matter.
“You should thank me,” Chivo answers. “I’m sending him to you, you can pork each other in hell.”
More laughs. More jeers.
A thud sounds like a dump truck smacking into a wall, and my right arm is freed. I look up to see Puppet sailing twenty feet through the air. He shatters two headstones when he lands, and he don’t get back up that night.
The others let me go, I roll over. There’s a new skeleton standing beside Papá’s bones, a short, squat skeleton wearing a handmade Campeche dress trimmed with lace and mourning crepe. Its skull is draped by a black mantilla veil, held in place by a tortoiseshell peineta I recognize as having been passed down from its own grandmother’s grandmother.
Abuelita has arrived from Juárez, and her hair is of marigolds.
She’s holding that book of black magick, Brujería Magia Negra. She says, Clack-clack-clack.
Spider’s head is knocked sideways like a crowbar tried to pry it off his body. He spins a full circle from the blow and lands in a heap.
Big Shadow gapes, and his eyes fill with the fright of your last dance, when she says again, Clack-clack-clack.
And something sorta collapses under his T-shirt when he gets hit, I don’t know how many ribs it is, only his feet fly up while his head goes down, and then he’s curled in a ball like I was, gasping for breath with sobs I never heard before.
“Fuckin’ puta witch!” Chivo shouts, turning the gun from me to her, that gun he thinks makes him so tough.
He fires, and the shot is thunderous; there’s a gasp when the bullet hits Abuelita’s head, only I half realize the gasp is from me.
The tortoiseshell peineta that had been her grandmother’s grandmother’s falls away, smashed to bits by the bullet. There’s a smoking hole in the front of her skull too, but a spray of marigolds blossoms instantly from it. I don’t think she cares about the bullet hole anyway; it’s the tortoiseshell peineta—since that was a family heirloom and all—that’s going to be the thing to set her off.
And I won’t joke,
at this moment I almost feel bad for the cabron. He don’t even know what he’s done….
Like I said before, you don’t fuck with Abuelita.
Her skull eyes seem to widen, or maybe it’s the barbed wire thorns that circle them, causing the effect of those sockets to stretch and spin, and she raises both her arms like she’s holding up the night sky, and when the sleeves of her dress slide down, I can see the ink still there, tattooed runes along thin bone arms.
Clack-clack-clack, she says.
Clack-clack-clack!
Clack-clack-clack!
The air in the cemetery just goes still, like it’s been sucked out, and this red light glows around Chivo, and then he fuckin’ explodes.
There’s no other way to put it, but it’s like he had a stick of dynamite inside; Chivo is dead as dinosaurs.
I gulp, wiping splatter off my face. Blink a couple times.
And Chivo returns….
He rises from the muck that was himself, this version that’s half-mist, half-solid. His eyes are all cartoon-huge, like he can’t believe it either. He pats himself over while we watch. There’s no blood, no mud, nothing wrong, his khakis still got their tight crease.
He glares at us one by one, last at me. “I’m gonna make you pay, hoto.”
“No, vato, you forget,” Saint tells him. “It’s time for your last dance.”
And maybe Chivo was half-mist already, he looked so pale, but now any color left in his face goes to milk.
There’s a sorta swirl like a whirlwind of fog and leaves, and the big whooshing sound of a waterfall, and this painted skeleton of a giant steps from the air as if coming through an invisible doorway.
He’s larger than anyone and dressed sharp in charro regalia, with a greca suit sparkling to the sheen of ten thousand gems, and if you don’t know already who he is, the top hat on his skull is tall as an eagle can fly….
It’s King Mictlantecuhtli, the top hat man, and when his great gold teeth clatter, the ground shakes.
The king of Mictlan glances to each of us with a smile you could drive a car through, and he makes a grand bow, and that top hat brushes along the ground, and everywhere it touches, marigolds sprout.
He turns to Chivo and holds out a long bone hand, inviting the dance to begin, and I see the appliqués at his jacket cuff are webs of crystal.