by Diana Lopez
But it didn’t matter—at first, because he was there to do something he loved, but later, because it was the same routine every time. At every stop, he and Ernesto posted flyers and went to all the plazas and cantinas to tell people about their show. Sometimes they had a large audience, but most times, a modest one. It was the same amount of work regardless of who showed up. Héctor didn’t care. He was as happy alone as he was in front of a crowd as long as he could play his songs. But Ernesto was another story. Without a large audience, he performed half-heartedly. He just couldn’t get into the music. It amazed Héctor to see his friend so charming and energetic one day but gloomy and tired the next, and that’s when Héctor realized that popularity, not music, fed Ernesto’s soul.
Héctor soon regretted his decision to go on the road. He thought touring would inspire him, give him material for more music. He thought it would help him make a living while doing something he loved. But he didn’t need to be on the road to play his songs. The people in his hometown always needed music for weddings, parties, holidays, and bailes, or for no special reason at all.
So one night, when they were in Mexico City, Héctor made a decision. He couldn’t be on the road anymore. How he longed to sleep in his own bed again, to be near friends and family. Yes, Ernesto was his best friend, but it had been a mistake to join him. So Héctor threw his songbook in his suitcase and grabbed his guitar. He was ready to leave, but his friend refused to let him go.
“You wanna give up now?” Ernesto said. “When we’re this close to reaching our dream?”
“This was your dream,” Héctor argued. “You’ll manage.”
When he headed toward the door, Ernesto grabbed him by the suitcase, but Héctor pulled away.
“I can’t do this without your songs,” Ernesto pleaded.
“I’m going home,” Héctor said, adamant. “Hate me if you want, but my mind is made up.”
Ernesto fumed, dark anger crossing his face. Héctor worried he’d lose his friend forever. Even though they had different ambitions, they both still loved music. Plus, they had grown up together, like primos. Héctor couldn’t remember a time when Ernesto wasn’t around. The last thing he wanted was to anger his best friend. He was about to explain this when Ernesto brushed aside his dark mood and became cheerful again.
“Oh, I could never hate you,” Ernesto said, playfully punching Héctor’s shoulder. “If you must go, then I’m…I’m sending you off with a toast!”
Ernesto poured a couple of drinks, and Héctor gladly took the glass he was offered. More than anything, he wanted to end this adventure in peace and with their friendship intact.
“To our friendship!” Ernesto said, raising his glass. “I would move heaven and earth for you, mi amigo. ¡Salud!”
Then they both took a sip.
After Héctor emptied his glass, he grabbed his suitcase and guitar. “It’s time,” he announced. “I must go.”
“I’ll walk to the train station with you,” Ernesto said.
Héctor was glad for the company. It was like the old days again. On the way to the station, they joked about their adventures, and every time they laughed, they roused the sleeping dogs, making them bark. But it was late, the streets empty. No one glanced out a window or switched on a porch light, so the streets remained dark.
Suddenly, Héctor’s suitcase and guitar became very heavy. He stumbled, and Ernesto reached out to steady him and took the suitcase to lighten the load.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Héctor grabbed his stomach. “Ay,” he moaned. “It must be something I ate.”
“Maybe it was the chorizo,” Ernesto said.
Héctor moaned even louder, then doubled over from the pain. I have food poisoning, he wanted to say. He needed a doctor. He had to call for a doctor! But before he could utter a word, he collapsed.
And that is the last thing he remembers.
“Later, I woke up dead,” Héctor says, the realization coming to him. “It wasn’t the chorizo after all. It was the drink. You poisoned me—just like the character in the film.”
“You’re confusing movies with reality,” Ernesto says, his arms extended.
“All this time I thought it was just bad luck.” Héctor clenches his jaw as he imagines the scene after his collapse. Ernesto must have taken his songbook. That’s what happened—he’s sure of it now. “I never thought that you might have…” Now he clenches his jaw and his fists. “That you…”
He can’t finish. Anger and betrayal surge through him. He bounds at Ernesto, tackling him to the ground.
“Héctor!” Miguel shouts.
But Héctor ignores him. He’s too angry. “How could you?!”
“Security! Security!” Ernesto cries as he and Héctor scuffle on the floor.
“You took everything away from me!”
They wrestle. Every time they roll, Héctor worries that his bones will shatter in all directions and then turn to dust, but his anger gives him strength. He’s about to clamp a chokehold when the security guards rush in. Héctor tries to fight them off, but it’s no use. He’s outnumbered, and in his weakened condition, he has no chance.
“You rat!” he yells when they pull him away.
Ernesto stands and coolly brushes himself off. “Have him taken care of. He’s not well.”
“You rat!” Héctor yells again as the guards drag him through the doorway. “I just wanted to go back home!”
He wanted to go back home that night in Mexico City, and he wants to go home right now. He has to get back to his girl.
Héctor glances back, once again seeing the opportunity slip from his hands. “No! No! Nooo!”
When the doors shut, Miguel can no longer hear Héctor’s cries, and he feels caught between the man he’s only recently gotten to know, Héctor, and his great-great-grandfather, de la Cruz, someone he’s known his whole life—or rather, someone he’s known about.
Miguel has never felt so torn. De la Cruz is the reason he loves music. Besides, Héctor’s a con man! Or maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s a friend. I’m related to a great musician, Miguel assures himself. No, I’m related to a…
De la Cruz interrupts his thoughts. “I apologize,” he says. “Where were we?”
“You were going to give me your blessing.”
“Yes. Uh…sí.” De la Cruz plucks another marigold petal from the vase, but then he hesitates. “Miguel, my reputation. It is very important to me. I would hate to have you think…”
“That you murdered Héctor?” Miguel’s words come out before he can stop himself.
“You don’t think that. Do you?”
“I…no. Everyone knows you’re the…the good guy.”
But is he? Miguel asks himself, thinking of the ofrenda room with its giant piles of gifts. De la Cruz’s fans leave him more offerings than he knows what to do with. Isn’t that what he said? So why doesn’t de la Cruz share any of it? Miguel thinks of Shantytown. Lots of people in the Land of the Dead have nothing. Surely he can spare a gift? And what about that pile of letters? Most of them were still in sealed envelopes. Had he read any of them?
What about Miguel’s offerings? Once he left a poem, thinking de la Cruz could put it to music. Another time he left a commemorative coffee mug with de la Cruz’s face on it, using his allowance for the purchase. But did his great-great-grandfather ever notice or care?
Miguel looks at de la Cruz’s face. A dark shadow crosses over it, and the eyes are suddenly sinister. Instead of preparing for the blessing, de la Cruz is stuffing Héctor’s photo into his pocket.
“Papá Ernesto?” Miguel says. “My blessing?”
In response, de la Cruz’s smile is replaced with a sneer. He crumples the marigold petal and shouts, “Security!” His guards appear immediately. “Take care of Miguel,” he instructs. “He’ll be extending his stay.”
They roughly grab him by the shoulders. Miguel has never felt more betrayed. This is worse than the moment his family denied his dream.
De la Cruz is denying Miguel his life!
“What?!” Miguel cries. “But I’m your family!”
“And Héctor was my best friend,” de la Cruz says coldly.
Miguel gulps and goes pale. He doesn’t want to believe it, but it’s true. “You did murder him!”
“Success doesn’t come for free, Miguel.” De la Cruz sounds as though he thinks he’s giving good advice. “You have to be willing to do whatever it takes—to seize your moment. I know you understand.”
The guards take Miguel away, and like Héctor, he cries out, “No! No!”
But it’s no use. They have their orders and they obey. They drag him through the exit, to the back of de la Cruz’s mansion.
“Let go!” Miguel shouts as he struggles to get away.
And they do let go—right into a cenote, an inescapable sinkhole behind the estate. Miguel falls four stories down!
“No! Ahhhh!” He splashes into a pool. It isn’t very deep. He can feel the muddy bottom, but he still has to paddle his way to an island of stone at the center.
“Help!” he cries, cupping his hands around his mouth to make a megaphone. “Can anyone hear me? I wanna go home! I need to go…” His voice bounces off the walls, mocking him, and Miguel collapses in defeat. “I need to go home,” he whimpers. Even his tiny voice echoes in the rocky chamber.
He can see the sky in the opening far above, but the walls of the cenote are tall, steep, and slippery with damp algae. All he hears is an occasional plop of water. How will he ever escape? To make matters worse, his soaked hoodie sags off, and instead of skin and muscle, he sees the ball and socket of a bony shoulder haloed by a soft glow. His transformation is almost complete. Morning is just around the corner, and even if he manages to escape the cenote, he will never escape the Land of the Dead.
Miguel groans and curls into himself. He’s never felt more alone.
But then, mixed with the sound of plopping water, he hears footsteps. When he turns toward the noise, he sees a familiar face! Héctor is stumbling from the darkness. The poor hombre’s clothes are even more tattered, and he’s got cracks and scuff marks on his bones from being manhandled by the guards.
“Héctor?”
“Kid?”
“Oh, Héctor!”
They run to each other, sloshing through the water, and then they embrace. They might be in a dire situation, but at least they have each other.
“You were right,” Miguel rambles. “I should have gone back to my family.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Héctor soothes.
“They told me not to be like de la Cruz, but I didn’t listen.”
“It’s okay.”
Miguel thinks about the last thing he said to his family and cringes with shame. “I told them I didn’t care if they remembered me. I didn’t care if I was on their stupid ofrenda.” What if he never gets a chance to make it right?
He’s shaking with regret and anger, so Héctor holds him to his chest.
“Hey, chamaco. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“I told them I didn’t care,” Miguel sobs. He backs away, wipes his tears, and takes a few calming breaths, but he still feels hopeless.
Suddenly, a golden flicker flutters through Héctor’s bones, and he falls to his knees. Héctor grabs his gut like someone getting punched. “Hhuuh!” he groans.
“Héctor!”
“She’s…forgetting me.”
“Who?” Miguel asks.
“My daughter,” Héctor says.
“She’s the reason you wanted to cross the bridge?”
“I just wanted to see her again.” Héctor shakes his head with his own regret. “I never should have left Santa Cecilia. Ernesto convinced me that my ‘big moment’ was waiting for me far away from home, but…my family…they were my big moment. I wish I could apologize. I wish I could tell her that her papá was trying to come home. That he loved her so much.” He closes his eyes. “My Coco…”
A chill runs through Miguel. “Coco?” It could be a coincidence, but what are the odds that Héctor would know someone named Coco, someone who is forgetting things, just like Miguel’s great-grandmother? He reaches into his hoodie and looks at the photo of Imelda, Coco, and the faceless musician. Then he shows it to Héctor, who’s confused, like he’s seen a ghost.
“Where…where did you get this?”
“That’s my mamá Coco,” Miguel explains. “That’s my mamá Imelda.” He points at the man. “Is that you?”
A glimmer of recognition crosses Héctor’s face. “We’re…family?”
Miguel is shocked. He looks at his true great-great-grandpa, and yes, the cheekbones and the chin are familiar. They remind him of…of Mamá Coco! How could he have been so blind? His great-great-grandfather was beside him the entire time! He compares Héctor and de la Cruz. Héctor’s the one who gave advice about music, while de la Cruz gave advice about fame. Héctor taught him about playing a song from the heart; de la Cruz was just concerned about his reputation. Yes, everything makes sense now. I’m related to a real musician, Miguel thinks, realizing for the first time that being a real musician is not necessarily the same thing as being a famous one.
Héctor gently touches Miguel’s cheek as if to confirm that the boy is real, and then he touches the image of baby Coco. “I always hoped I’d see her again,” he says with a saddened voice. “That she’d miss me…maybe put up my photo. But it never happened. And you know the worst part?”
Miguel shakes his head.
“Even if I never got to see Coco in the living world, I thought at least one day I’d see her here. Give her the biggest hug.” His dreamy voice gets sad again. “But she’s the last person who remembers me. The moment she’s gone from the living world…”
“You disappear from this one,” Miguel finishes. “You’ll never get to see her.”
“Never again.”
Music is why Héctor and Miguel left their family. Now, here they are, both about to disappear—Héctor from the Land of the Dead and Miguel from the Land of the Living. And Miguel knows that they both wish, more than anything, that they could reunite with their loved ones, no matter what.
Héctor starts to speak again. “Listen, chamaco, when I used to play for my family—I’ve never been so happy.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “You know, I wrote Coco a song once. We used to sing it every night at the same time. No matter how far apart we were. What I wouldn’t give to sing it to her one last time.”
Héctor begins to sing softly. It is the famous “Remember Me,” but a much sincerer version. Miguel remembers Héctor’s advice about singing from the heart and dedicating your songs to someone special. He’s singing to Coco, Miguel realizes. No wonder the song is so famous. No wonder it’s touched so many hearts. It’s filled with the secret ingredient—love.
As Héctor sings, Miguel imagines a young Mamá Coco singing along. The lyrics, particularly the parts about remembering someone when they are far away, about knowing they are still with you, have a new meaning now.
Héctor sighs heavily. “He stole my songs,” he says about de la Cruz. “He stole my guitar. He stole everything from me.”
Miguel is outraged. “We can’t let him get away with this! You should be the one the world remembers, not de la Cruz.”
“I didn’t write ‘Remember Me’ for the world. I wrote it for Coco. I’m a pretty sorry excuse for a great-great-grandpa.”
“Are you kidding?” Miguel says, trying to lighten the mood. “A minute ago, I thought I was related to a murderer. You’re a total upgrade.”
Héctor doesn’t smile, and it breaks Miguel’s heart to see his great-great-grandpa so depressed. Especially because he understands what it’s like to feel alone. But Miguel is not alone, and neither is Héctor. They have each other. More than that, they have a love for music and for family.
“My whole life,” Miguel says, “there’s been something inside me, something that made me different, and I never knew where it came from.” He puts a han
d on Héctor’s shoulder. “But now I know. It comes from you. I’m proud we’re family!” He looks up at the hole in the cenote and shouts, “I’m proud to be his family! Trrrrrai-hay-hay-hay-haaay!”
Héctor perks up and follows with his own grito: “Trrrrrraaaaai-haaai-haaaaay!”
He rolls his r’s and extends his a’s and puts every drop of his fading energy into it. Miguel tries to outdo him, but every time, Héctor comes back with a stronger, more defiant grito. They trade off shouts until the cenote echoes with the sound! Soon the echoes and gritos are indistinguishable. They’re in a drum of their own making, the sound waves booming through their bones. For a moment, Héctor seems more alive, but then he’s panting, exhausted. While he tries to catch his breath, the echoes fade, and the cenote gets silent again. In spite of their victorious cries, they are still stuck. There’s no escape from this situation. They can’t shout their way to freedom.
Miguel’s shoulders droop. He’s got nothing left, but then he hears something in the distance. He turns his head, cups his ear. It’s a familiar sound—a wonderfully familiar sound, for he hears a distant “Rooo-rooo-roooooooo!”
Miguel and Héctor look up.
“Dante?” Miguel calls.
“Roooooo-roo-roo-rooo!” It’s closer now. And then—it’s there! From the upper edge of the cenote, Dante peeks down.
“Dante!” Miguel laughs. “It’s Dante!!”
The little dog pants and wags his tail happily. Then, from behind him, two more figures peek down—Mamá Imelda and Pepita. When Miguel and Mamá Imelda catch each other’s eyes, they laugh with joy. Pepita roars happily, the sound shaking the cavern.
Then Héctor says, “Imelda! You still look good.”
Miguel realizes this is the first time they’ve seen each other in person in many years. When Mamá Imelda notices Héctor, her joyous face looks surprised and then turns cold, and Miguel has to wonder, Will she ever forgive him?