by Kevin Lucia
(or was it Marcus?)
. . . valued his mother’s traditions? All Hallow’s Eve, Saint’s Day, All Souls Day, Dia de los Muertos. Those quaint Mexican customs (of which his sons had acted increasingly ashamed) meant nothing to him, so how could Carlos (Marcus?) understand Whitey’s need to be close to Maria tonight?
Whitey sat down on the cot, knees popping, his lower back aching. Didn’t matter what they thought. He’d decided to spend October by Maria’s side here at the cemetery, and he had. Only one more night left. Tonight, All Hallow’s Eve. Dia de los Muertos. Day of the Dead. Technically it fell on November 2nd, but after they’d gotten married, Maria had insisted on celebrating it Halloween night. To her, it felt right to celebrate Dia de los Muertos the same night the whole town armed their porches with grinning Jack o’ Lanterns while costumed youth patrolled the streets.
Some front yards on Halloween boasted haunted graveyards filled with foam headstones, skeletons and lurching zombies. Their front yard on Henry Street offered a monument to the Day of the Dead. Central to the display had always been the ofrenda, a wooden altar Whitey had built from sheets of plywood. On it, Maria always assembled an offering for their dead relatives and loved ones, to welcome their spirits on a night when the boundaries between worlds grew thin.
Sitting on his cot, Whitey recalled the days when Carlos and Marcus marveled at the ofrenda. For years it had lit their eager, drinking faces with soft electric light glowing from strings of orange and yellow bulbs and the flickering of ceremonial candles. During those innocent years, the boys thought they had the best Halloween exhibit in town. The finest touch? The Coqueta Catrina and Elegant Catrin (two opulently clothed foam skeletons), standing silent and grinning watch on either side of the ofrenda.
Their lawn did boast foam headstones also, but they were garlanded with bright orange and yellow marigolds. Before each, Maria filled plastic bowls full of candy apples, homemade pumpkin empanadas, pumpkin spice brownies, and of course, homemade Calaveras. Sugar candy skulls. She and Whitey—faces painted in Calaveras masks, dressed as the Coqueta Catrina and the Elegant Catrin—directed the children to these bowls.
Whitey sighed. As children, Carlos and Marcus had begged to sit before the ofrenda, long after the trick or treaters had gone. But it got “old” as they entered their teenage years. They’d gone so far as to accuse Maria—their mother—of not believing in Dia de los Muertos at all. She’d co-opted it, according to Marcus . . .
(or was it Carlos?)
. . . made it her “thing” to show how Mexican she was. Said she thought the stories nothing but superstition. So disrespectful, it made Whitey’s hands shake with barely-restrained (but still futile) rage thinking about it. He sounded like his brother.
(but which one?)
Whitey bent and covered his face with shaking hands.
***
After being struck dumb by Maria’s transcendent twelve-year-old beauty at Five Mile Speedway, Whitey didn’t instantly pursue her. After all, she was twelve and in sixth grade. An unattainable prize for a lowly fourth grader.
However, as they progressed out of grammar school into junior high, a combination of happenstance and Whitey’s own quiet determination kept them crossing paths. By high school they were friends. They walked home from school together. They sat together at lunch. During the summers they picked blueberries at Mr. Trung’s, browsed garage sales, and once they braved the first floor of old Bassler House, the dilapidated Victorian farmhouse on the edge of town. They wandered through Raedeker Park Zoo, talking about nothing and everything. They watched the Wednesday night summer movies at Raedeker Park when it was a monster movie or a western, and they endlessly searched Handy’s Pawn and Thrift for the trinkets only young people found fascinating.
The tipping point occurred Maria’s senior year, when Whitey asked her to the annual Halloween movie at Raedeker Park. At the time, he hadn’t understood her unusually excited acceptance of his invitation. Only later did it dawn upon him: For the first time he’d formally asked her to go somewhere with him.
When he knocked on her door and she opened it, he could only stare, speechless. Her usually light brown face was a startling white. Large black ovals circled her eyes, mimicking the gaping eye-holes of a skull, but they didn’t make her eerie or frightening. She appeared mysterious. Otherworldly. Likewise, her nose was painted black—a skull’s empty nose cavity—her lips were also white and sectioned by black lines into two rows of skeletal teeth.
On her forehead and cheeks, faint colored lines—yellow, blue and red—swirled in delicate patterns. Peering closer, he noticed the small blue circles bordering her eyes, as if a chain of sapphires circled each. As a finishing touch, a red flower blossomed on her chin.
She stared at him for a heartbeat. Whitey opened his mouth and closed it, still speechless, because she was unearthly and ethereal. It flitted across his mind to ask if she was practicing for Halloween, but the painted mask invoked a seriousness which transcended a mere spook mask.
Finally he swallowed and managed, “Wow. You look amazing.”
Maria smiled, transforming her face into a beautiful and disconcerting grinning skull. “Thanks!” She stepped out, shut the door behind her, and they left for Raedeker Park.
After a few steps, Whitey said, “It’s awesome. Is it for Halloween?”
“Not exactly. We’re doing a family heritage project in Mr. Groover’s class, and I’ve been studying Mexican customs. Cause, you know,” she jerked her head back toward her house, “Mom and Dad won’t talk about Mexican stuff because they’re trying so hard to be American. Which is fine. I’ve got no problem being American, except whenever Grandma Louisa tries to tell stories about Mexico, Mom and Dad hush her, as if she’s going to spill all these embarrassing secrets, especially when she tries to tell us about Dia de los Muertos. So I decided to study it for my history project this year.”
She offered Whitey a brilliant grin, which only made her more beautiful and ghastly. “My parents weren’t happy. Got an ‘ay dios mio’ from Mom, which is impressive. But anyway, it’s for a school project, and they know I hate school, so I guess they figured if it’ll get me interested in schoolwork, they’d tolerate it.”
They left Henry Street and crossed onto Main, heading to Raedeker Park. “Dios de los Muertos. Day of the Dead, right? Mrs. Millavich talked about it in Spanish last week, but . . . I, uh . . . ”
Whitey shrugged. “I sorta wasn’t paying attention.”
Maria’s painted-on skull smirked as she punched his shoulder. “Of course not. She was probably wearing one of her tight sweaters.” Whitey said nothing and kept grinning, because of course, it was true.
“I’ll skip the parts about the Catholic Church and All Soul’s day. Day of the Dead is ancient. It recognizes death as a natural part of life. Not something to be feared. That’s why the face-paint.” She tapped her cheek. “This is a Calavera, representing the human skull not as something scary but something beautiful, because it’s a part of life. They make little sugar candies in the shape of skulls. Can’t buy them around here. Next year, I’m going to learn how to make them myself.”
Samara Hill, which led to Raedeker Park, lay only a few blocks away, but suddenly Whitey wanted to walk slower, and make the time last. “What else is the Day of the Dead about?”
Maria talked excitedly, gesturing with her hands, warming to the subject. “Mostly, it’s about honoring those who have gone before us. You decorate loved ones’ headstones, offer their favorite foods in clay bowls, maybe sing their favorite songs or hymns. Nana always mentions it every year because Grandpa is buried out in the old Shelby Road Cemetery, and she gets upset we don’t erect an ofrenda and celebrate for his spirit to return.”
“What’s an ofrenda?”
“An altar you place at a loved-one’s grave. You put pictures of them on it, maybe some keepsakes they loved in real life, candles, or bowls of their favorite foods.”
“Do you believe people’s souls actually come
back on the Day of the Dead?”
Maria shrugged, smiling wistfully. “I don’t know. I know it’s an important part of my culture, which my parents want to ignore. I’m not going to get all traditional with everything. I like America fine. But I want this one thing from my heritage, y’know? And I’m going to celebrate it from now on.”
Blazing inspiration pumped Whitey’s heart. “Can I celebrate it with you? Can boys have their faces painted, too?”
They’d reached the next-to-last intersection before Samara Hill. Maria turned and favored him with an earnest expression of affection which burned its way into his soul. “Of course boys can have their faces painted as a Calavera. And of course you can celebrate it with me.”
She reached out and gently took his hand. Squeezed it, and held it. He smiled, and, because he didn’t trust himself to speak (and maybe she likewise) they turned and crossed the street. Whitey realized he’d done something far greater than simply ask Maria Alvarez to the annual Halloween movie.
***
A soft knock on the door pulled Whitey from his memories. His knees felt tired and sore (as always these days), so he didn’t stand. Only glanced up and said, “Come in.”
The door opened. Sheriff Chris Baker removed his campaign hat and stepped in. “Evening, Whitey.” He gestured with his hat. “Your Elegant Catrin is wonderful this year. Wasn’t sure you’d be celebrating, especially after . . . well. Happy to see you’re carrying on.”
Whitey smiled slightly. Sheriff Baker was young and relatively new, and he still had some things to learn. But he knew how to flatter his elders. “Thank you, Sheriff. I’m not so wonderful, honestly. A tired old man wearing white face paint and a dusty tuxedo bought forty years ago at Handy’s Pawn and Thrift. Nothing more.”
Sheriff Baker waved off Whitey’s dismissal. “Humble as always, Whitey, but this town loves you as much as it loved Maria.”
Whitey smiled fully now, blinking back an irritating wetness in his eyes. “You’re too kind, Sheriff. Parents obviously taught you some manners.”
“My mother didn’t suffer fools, sure enough.”
Whitey folded his hands in his lap, feeling mild impatience at being interrupted (something he’d felt more and more the past few years, because he was old, and tired, and interruptions wearied him, and he hated the whole feeling, which only made him feel older). “What brings you out here, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Baker shrugged. “Patrolling. Halloween and all. Wanted to stop by, make sure none of the kids were sneaking around here, getting into mischief.”
Despite his irritation at the interruption, Whitey chuckled. “We haven’t had any problems in the cemetery since before your time, Sheriff. Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here?”
Sheriff Baker’s smile faltered. He actually appeared embarrassed. “Well. Understand, Whitey. No one’s been talking behind your back. We all imagine how you’re feeling right now, this being your first Day of the Dead without Maria. But a few folks have noticed you didn’t put up your ofrenda or Day of the Dead decorations this year, and they’re worried, I guess. Hoping you’re all right.”
Whitey forced a smile. “Death is a part of life, Sheriff. Maria taught me that.”
He allowed his smile to slip a bit. He’d come to respect and like the new Sheriff, and believed he could trust him with some of the truth.
Some, of course.
Not all.
“But I wasn’t quite up for it this year. I did answer the door for a few children, but I didn’t have it in me for anything more.” He offered the Sheriff a sad smile. “I’m sure you understand how much it weakens a man to lose his wife, regardless of the age.”
Sheriff Baker nodded, distant pain glimmering in his own eyes. Whitey didn’t enjoy taking advantage of the Sheriff’s recent loss—the sheriff’s wife had died shortly before they moved to Clifton Heights—but a growing impatience for the Sheriff’s departure warred with his sense of propriety. The time was coming to welcome Maria’s spirit from the Other Side. He wanted to be alone, and his desire outweighed his concerns for the Sheriff’s own grief. “I know you understand what it means to lose your wife. I didn’t have the gumption for the whole production this year.”
Sheriff Baker nodded. He glanced around the shed, gesturing with his hat. “Got things nice and fixed up. You comfortable out here? Not too cold or anything?”
Whitey sighed and leaned back against the wall, stifling a grimace at the small flare of pain in his lower back. “All right, Sheriff. Who sent you? Which of my boys called you, asked you to come out and check on me?”
Sheriff Baker frowned, confusion and also worry showing in his expression. “Your boys? Whitey, I don’t understand. The boys . . . ”
***
“ . . . have been asking for you, Maria. They wanted to be here, but they can’t come yet.”
A weak, fluttering smile. Eyes sad and regretful, yet understanding. “You haven’t told anyone, have you? About the boys? I don’t think they’d understand.”
“No, Maria. It’s nobody’s business. But they miss you. They miss their Momma.”
Another sad smile, stretching tight skin over sharp cheekbones. “I know. But it is the way of things. We live then we die. So long as you build the ofrenda, light my candles on Dia de Los Muertos, if you prepare, I will come. I promise.”
“I’ve made all the preparations. Like you always wanted.”
Raw emotion closed his throat. He’d tried to be strong. God, he’d tried. He’d managed to put a good face on it; he’d managed to act brave, but he couldn’t do it anymore. “Maria, please. Don’t leave me.”
A slow blink. Eyes dulling as their light receded, faint voice rasping, “I must. It is the way of things.”
“But I can’t. The boys. They keep nagging me. Night and day. They keep telling me what I can and can’t do. I’m not a child. I don’t want to move into an old folks’ home or a nursing home, but the boys won’t stop.”
***
On their first trip to Mexico, they saw the catacombs. They stayed in Mexico City on November 2nd because Maria wanted to see the Day of the Dead up close. They watched parades with hundreds of people dressed as the Coqueta Catrina and the Elegant Catrin, wearing exquisite
Calaveras face paintings. They ate sugar candy skulls bearing their names. They listened to men playing Guitarrones on the street corners. When night fell, they visited the graveyard on the outskirts of town and watched in awe and reverence as families lit candles on ofrendas at tombstones and sang songs to their beloved dead.
Maria was inspired. She asked Whitey to build an ofrenda in their front yard, for all of Clifton Heights to see on Halloween night. And it was on their trip, the next day, when Maria told Whitey—made him swear on his solemn word—how she wanted him to celebrate Dia de los Muertos with her, should she pass away first.
***
Whitey realized his slip soon as Sheriff Baker frowned. “The boys? I’m not sure I follow, Whitey.”
Whitey offered him a weak smile, hoping he appeared as baffled as Sheriff Baker, who no doubt imagined he was. “Pay no mind to me, Sheriff. I’m an old, sad man rambling after losing the love of his life, is all.”
Whitey could see he’d inflected the right tone, as the younger man’s face relaxed. “I understand. After Liz passed, I wandered in a daze for weeks. Didn’t know which end was up.”
He gestured around the cabin with his hat again. “Whitey. It’s none of my business. But is everything okay? You managing all right at home? You mentioned the boys, and I . . . ”
Another flickering, weak-old-man-can’t-blame-me-I’m-losing-my-mind grin. “Apologies, Sheriff. I’m not myself right yet. Still haven’t gotten my wits about me.”
Sheriff Baker nodded, sympathy glimmering in his eyes. “I understand. Certainly do.” He replaced his campaign hat on his head and moved to leave, but paused before stepping out the door. “Listen, Whitey. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you,” Whitey said sincerely, lying with his next words, “I will.”
Sheriff Baker nodded, tipped his hat, said “Happy Halloween, Whitey. Feliz dia muerte,” and stepped out into the night.
***
Whitey eased himself down the ladder, rung by rung, into the cellar he’d dug under the shed when he’d rebuilt it shortly after accepting the head caretaker’s position. Back then he’d only the barest idea as to why he’d dug the cellar. The old shed he’d rebuilt because it had been a ramshackle affair. He’d wanted something sturdier, so he’d erected a finely built shed which doubled as a surprisingly comfortable sleepover when he occasionally drank too much at The Stumble Inn. Maria had nothing against drinking and had never persecuted him for having a few too many, but he’d never felt comfortable coming home drunk, worried one of the boys would see him stumbling to bed.
Oddly enough, he hadn’t any booze the entire time he’d slept here since Maria passed.
He stepped off the last rung and onto the cellar’s concrete floor. He put his hands on his hips and gazed around, appraising his handiwork, thinking how pleased Maria would be when she saw it because, after all, it was what she’d asked for. The day after Dia de los Muertos, in Mexico City.
***
“Ay dios mio,” Maria whispered as she descended the rickety wooden ladder, following Whitey and their guide into the subterranean depths of the catacombs outside Mexico City. “I’ve read about it and seen pictures, but I’ve never . . . ”
Their tour guide, a plain-faced man named Juan, glanced at her in mild surprise. “You are Mexican, si?”
Maria smiled apologetically at him. “Si. But I was raised American. My parents became citizens before I was born. But all my life, I’ve felt something in here,” she thumped her heart with a closed fist. “A wish to know who I was. To know my culture. I’ve studied and read for years, but this,” she gestured at the shadowed depths of the catacombs, lit by flickering orange bulbs hanging by wires from the ceiling, “this, and the celebrations, Dia de los Muertos. Seeing this is a dream come true, since I was a teenager.”