A Corpse for Cuamantla

by Harol Marshall

  "Hey, what's taking you two so long?" Juan called out as they came into view. María and Juan waited side by side under the arch at the end of the pathway, looking like the bride and groom on a wedding cake.

  "We were smelling the flowers, Maestro," Miguel replied, "the Maestra wished to expand her senses and I accommodated her." Puzzled looks crossed the couple's faces as Anna tried to keep from blushing.

  "Miguel," María scolded, "stop trying to embarrass Anna with your double entendres unless you want her to get the wrong idea about you."

  "You're right, Maestra. I wouldn't want her to get any wrong ideas. Just wishful thinking on my part," he said, amused at María's reaction. "How far is the restaurant from here, Juan, are we almost there?"

  "One block down," Juan said, taking María's elbow and guiding her across the street.

  Miguel used the opportunity to do the same, smiling and winking at Anna as the two held up more traffic than either noticed. Anna shut off the pesky monitor in her brain warning her to be careful, and decided to enjoy this time with her friends. Peculiar, though, to think about enjoying a day dedicated to a funeral. She wondered how many others would enjoy Pedro's funeral day.

  Near the end of lunch at Juan's favorite restaurant, Miguel excused himself and left the restaurant alone, weaving past the scattering of dark pine tables. At the front door, he stopped to chat with the waitress and pay for lunch. Anna's eyes followed him as he walked toward the hotel not once looking back. A foreshadowing of being separated from him forever swept over her and she fought back tears, puzzled at her response.

  "Maestra, are you okay?" María asked, reaching out to place a hand over hers. "You seemed troubled after Miguel left and I wondered if his behavior on the way here upset you. He's a complicated man as I'm sure you realize, so take him in stride."

  Anna nodded and concentrated on her guava flan. She and María lingered over coffee while Juan finished his second helping of hazelnut torte before they gathered their belongings to leave.

  On the way back to the hotel the three walked in relative silence. If Juan was saddened by Pedro's death, his grief wasn't showing. Even María's mood changed when she was with him. Anna couldn't stop wondering why María ever rejected Juan in favor of Pedro and hoped she wouldn't make the same mistake twice. She watched María's interactions with Juan and sensed that despite the interlude of Pedro in her life, Juan was not out of the running. Obviously, María cared for him. How much wasn't clear, perhaps not even to María.

  Chapter 52

  Miguel climbed into the lead taxi in front of the hotel. A short conversation with the elderly driver revealed the old man knew Pedro's family. Miguel glanced at his watch, nearly three o'clock. Not as early as he wished, but still time to meet with Pedro's family before the pallbearers gathered to transport the coffin to the church. Remembering how Pedro's Indio parents tended to resist modernization he wondered if he would see a burro and cart at the house instead of a hearse. Any other day and he would have walked the mile or so to the home of Pedro's parents, but a leisurely lunch hadn't left him the option. The American Maestra was complicating his life, he reflected, and that worried him a little.

  "This street, Señor, yes?" the taxi driver asked.

  Miguel looked up, squinting at the rapidly advancing intersection. "Correct. The García family house is at the end of the street."

  "Sí, Señor. I know the house, a brick one near the end of the street. Correct?"

  I believe that's what I just said, Miguel thought, trying to suppress a smile. The taxi turned onto a street lined with cars and crowded with people.

  "This is the place, gracias." Miguel said, relieved at the sight of a flower laden gray pickup truck parked in front of the house. At least he wouldn't have to deal with a stubborn burro.

  "I'll have to let you out here so I can turn around," the taxi driver said. "I don't want to run over someone. Will this be okay, Señor?"

  "Not a problem, gracias." Miguel departed the cab, generously tipping the driver for the short ride. He was glad for an excuse to walk up to the house rather than be delivered by taxi. The old taxi driver knows people, he mused.

  A crowd of black clad mourners congregated in front of Pedro's house. Miguel searched unsuccessfully for a familiar face. Smoke rose from the rear of the house accompanied by familiar odors that told him tacos were frying on a grill nearby. He'd eaten more than usual for lunch. He'd have to be judicious about the inevitable platters of food offered once he stepped inside Pedro's parents' house.

  "Con permiso, excuse me." Miguel pushed his way through the crowd to reach the front door. The nearer he got to the door the more immoveable the mourners. Finally, he announced himself as a pallbearer enabling him to enter the house.

  An unusual mixture of vinegar and something like floral cologne greeted him. He wrinkled his nose, trying to adjust to the unpleasant odor. Both the front room and the one behind were clear of furniture. An exquisite coffin, lid open, stood in the center of the floor surrounded by generous floral arrangements. Scented candles burned on wall shelves in every corner of the room.

  Pedro's mother, a small handsome woman, nervously occupied a chair near the foot of the casket. Next to her was Pedro's son, Paulo, sitting beside Yolanda, dressed in black. An elaborate black veil concealed her face. Pedro's father, looking uncomfortable in an ill-fitting blue twill suit stood at attention near the head of the casket. He fiddled with his tie, which remained stubbornly askew. Beside him lurked a rotund priest balancing a prayer book in one hand and a plate of food in the other. Beads of taco grease decorated his habit. No one seemed to notice. Family members milled around in small groups, most with food in their hands. Miguel wondered if he were the only pallbearer not from Zocatlo.

  Yolanda extended her hand in greeting. He gave her a hug and she thanked him for coming.

  "Have you met my in-laws?" she asked, the timbre of her voice lower-pitched than normal.

  "Yes, Maestra, but that was a few years ago. I doubt they will remember me."

  "No matter, I'll re-introduce you." She turned to her mother-in-law. "Please don't get up, Mamá. I want you to meet Pedro's good friend from the Cuamantla school, Director Miguel Menéndez. Remember, I told you he agreed to serve as padrino de parada?"

  Miguel bent down to shake her hand, but Señora García used his arm to lift herself from the chair. "I remember you well, Maestro," she said, reaching up to embrace him. "I remember the beautiful flowers you brought when you came with Pedro for a visit. Your mother raised you well."

  "As you did, Pedro," Miguel replied, nearly biting his tongue as the white lie slipped out. "I'm so sorry about your loss. Pedro loved life and we'll all miss him."

  Pedro's mother introduced Miguel to her husband. "Papá, this is Pedro's compadre from Tlaxcala. You remember when he accompanied Pedro to our house for a visit? He brought the beautiful flowers. Remember?"

  "How could such a thing happen to my son and at a school of all places?" Pedro's father asked, as if Miguel might somehow have prevented the misfortune. "I intend to find the murderer myself and woe be to that person when I do. What do you know about all of this?"

  "Please, Señor, I know nothing more than what the village officials have told you," Miguel said. "In fact, I may know less. I do know your son was a good friend and I will greatly miss him. You and your family have my sympathy for this tragedy. Whatever I can do to help, I will." Miguel held out his hand to the distraught man who hesitated for a moment then shook hands with Miguel, pulling him into the next room.

  "I don't understand any of this. Nothing makes sense," Señor García whispered to Miguel as they entered the adjoining room. Miguel looked around realizing they were in a former bedroom now emptied of its furnishings and filled with relatives, some grieving, some enjoying the food.

  Pedro's father continued to whisper in Miguel's ear, pulling him closer and out of sight of the front room, his warm fetid breath fusing with the rest of the malodors in the house.
<
br />   "I keep asking Yolanda, what happened when you went to Cuamantla and why did you go? But she pretends innocence and tells me she knows nothing. Only that she went to Cuamantla to talk with Pedro about some business and that she and Pedro argued. So, what's new about that? Arguing is all they ever do. It's all they've ever done. It's the only thing they enjoy together. Did you know they were getting a divorce? I know because Pedro told me. Yolanda pretends she is offended by the idea but I know better. I know, too, about her latest boyfriend."

  "Boyfriend?" The news surprised Miguel. "Who is that?"

  "The one she keeps secret, a teacher at her school. My wife hasn't found out yet, but she will soon. He's here, Maestro, you'll see him tagging around after Yolanda, looking satisfied with himself. He's very bold, coming here today. Tell me the truth, Maestro. You were there. Do you believe my daughter-in-law killed my son?"

  "Papá, what are you and Maestro Miguel whispering about? You look like two conspirators. Do you know something you're not sharing with Mamá and me?"

  Both men turned to see Yolanda leaning against the doorframe. Her black veil rested on top of her head. The lace border lay against her forehead just above her eyebrows, one of which arched royally as she questioned her father-in-law.

  "Maestro Miguel is kindly enlightening me as to what he knows about the events surrounding the death of my son in Cuamantla. Why would you even assume we are conspiring?" He asked the question with more innocence than his daughter-in-law believed.

  "I'm not suggesting you were conspiring, Papá, why would I think that? I was only commenting on how the two of you looked, standing in the corner whispering to each other. Nothing more. I meant no offense and I apologize. May I bring either of you some food?"

  "Yes, that's a good idea, hija. I'm not hungry but I think I should eat something before we leave for the church. And you, Maestro? What can my daughter serve you?"

  "Just something to drink, please. I'm not very hungry, either." The current unappetizing ambience might set off a full-fledged rebellion in his stomach if he dared insult it with more food. Yolanda walked over to one of the young women standing nearby and asked her to bring some tostadas for Pedro's father and his friend. Apparently, she had no intention of allowing the two men to finish their conversation in private.

  Yolanda picked up a drink and took it to Miguel, asking if she might speak with him in private. He nodded and followed her to the opposite corner of the room. "Miguel," she asked, "do you have any idea who might have done this to Pedro?"

  "No, Maestra, but I can tell you we have hope of discovering his identity. The American Maestra was filming the fiesta and we believe she may have filmed the murderer. The State Police are investigating the matter now," he said, hoping for no more questions

  Chapter 53

  Back at the hotel, María unlocked the door and Juan followed the women inside. "I'm not staying Maestras, only retrieving the room key I believe Miguel left on your nightstand," he said. "Let me know when you're ready to leave for the funeral, and if neither of you mind, I'll use the bathroom first. I'll knock when I'm done." Turning to María, he added, "please let me know if you need me or if I can help with something."

  María nodded. "I will, Juan. Give us some time to dress. When we're finished, I'll rap on the door."

  "Gracias." Juan stepped into the bathroom and turned to wink at María before closing the door."

  "All that Sangria is getting to me," Anna said. "I hope he doesn't take too long in there."

  "I don't think I can go through with this." María sank onto the bed and covered her head with a pillow. A wave of grief swept over her and she curled into a ball. "I can't cry, I just can't, and I won't."

  Anna went over to the bed and sat beside her. "María, you don't have to attend the funeral. There are no expectations. You should do whatever you feel is best for you."

  "The expectations are my own, Anna. I have to go and I have to keep from crying, even now. Why is grief so physically painful? These waves of sadness make my whole body ache. Then they go away for a while and I feel fine. I need another pill," she said, confirming Anna's suspicion about medication and María's mood swings.

  "Can I get anything for you?" Anna asked, wishing she could help in some way.

  "Yes, my purse, thank you. I have a bottle of tranquilizers in there. They help. The one I took before lunch seems to have worn off. There's some bottled water in my purse as well."

  A knock on the door from Juan signaled the bathroom was free. Anna deferred to María, even though she felt her bladder would give out soon.

  "No, Anna, you go ahead. I can wait. I need to take my medicine and lie down for a few minutes."

  By three forty-five, the trio was dressed for the funeral and sitting around the hotel room looking glum. Anna got up to stretch her legs and stood at the window watching the church. She noticed an empty park bench directly across from the main entrance, nearly hidden among the zócalo vegetation.

  "Would you two mind if I left for a short walk, or in my case, a hobble, around the zócalo before the funeral? I can meet you at that park bench across from the church."

  "Are you sure you want to go out alone, Maestra?" María asked.

  "I really won't be alone. You can see the whole zócalo from this window, so you can check on me whenever you want. It's all very public. I'll be fine."

  "Not a problem, Maestra," Juan said. "We can meet you in half an hour. How's that?"

  "Great. I'll see you then." Anna grabbed her backpack and left the two alone, happy to extricate herself from third wheel status. She would worry about María's reaction later, if, in fact, María resented her hasty exit. Somehow, she believed it wouldn't be a problem.

  Part IV. The Second Death

  Chapter 54

  At the home of Pedro's parents, Father Diaz announced the time had come to honor Pedro with a reading of the Rosary. Pedro's father slipped over and whispered that he would talk with Miguel later. Miguel nodded his agreement and moved into the front room followed by Yolanda who positioned herself next to him.

  The priest began by intoning the First of the Five Sorrowful Mysteries in a low droning monotone, causing Miguel's mind to wander. This boyfriend of Yolanda's was an interesting revelation. Miguel wondered why Yolanda created such a scene at Cuamantla, why she traveled to Cuamantla at all? He wanted to discuss the matter with Anna, see what she thought about this new information. She'd be surprised and interested to learn about the boyfriend and about the tense relationship between Yolanda and her father-in-law.

  Pedro's mother, on the other hand, seemed quite attached to Yolanda, probably due to the boy. He wondered what else Señor García knew about Yolanda and whether Yolanda knew or even cared. This whole episode felt like a nightmare. He would try to use his association with the funeral to gather as much information as possible, maybe spend a little more time with Yolanda and see if she opened up to him about the boyfriend, or anything else, like the real purpose of her visit to Cuamantla.

  "One condemned to death by crucifixion is forced to carry the cross to the place of execution. . . ," the priest's voice lifted slightly at the beginning of the Fourth Mystery, ending Miguel's reveries and returning his thoughts to the present. He should make an effort for Pedro's parent's sake to seem more involved, although he certainly had no plans to return to Zocatlo for the Novenario, the nine days of prayer and Rosary recitations following the funeral. Maybe he would show up for the last day and the dinner since it would include large helpings of posole, his favorite soup. Yes, that might motivate him, although he wouldn't admit it to anyone, particularly not the idealistic gringa currently consuming his thoughts and emotions.

  ". . . have mercy on us and on the whole world. Amen," the Priest concluded.

  "Amen," the mourners replied.

  Yes, have mercy on us, Miguel thought, glad the reading was over.

  Satisfied at having lulled the crowd into servility if not sleep, the Priest faced his tasks with renewed vigor.


  "Pallbearers," he called out in an authoritative tone, "and just the pallbearers, please. Assemble here for instruction as we prepare to move the coffin to the church."

  Miguel watched seven men join him in gathering around the priest. Their ages ranged from late twenties to over seventy. He wondered if Yolanda's boyfriend was among them, but a glance at Yolanda suggested otherwise. As she moved among the crowd greeting mourners and accepting their condolences, a good looking man somewhat younger than Pedro followed nearby, never taking his eyes off Yolanda. I don't recall having seen him before, Miguel thought to himself, now anxious to check the video and see whether Anna captured Yolanda's mystery man at the Cuamantla fiesta.

  Father Diaz lowered the lid of the coffin and positioned the pallbearers, placing each person's hand on one of the handles and whispering instructions in his most somber tone.

  "This coffin is heavy, you will need to lift very carefully. Let me know when you are ready and I‘ll count to three. Whatever happens, don't let go of the handle with your other hand. Remember, the dignity of Pedro's funeral is in your hands. Ready? One, two, three, lift."

  The Priest wasn't exaggerating about the weight of the coffin. "This thing must be lined in lead," one of the pallbearers complained as they struggled to squeeze through the front door of the house. Hoisting the coffin onto the truck was an easier matter and the men breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  "Muy bien," the oldest pallbearer sighed, glad they were riding instead of balancing a coffin on the back of a burro cart or worse, walking it to the Church. Once the doors slammed shut, the driver honked the horn and a line of vehicles, gray pickup in the lead, began the slow crawl down the narrow streets toward the Virgin de Guadalupe y Todos Los Santos Catholic Church whose ornate architecture dominated the placid zócalo of the village of San Juan Zocatlo.

  Miguel sat with his head bowed and eyes closed for most of the ride. His fellow pallbearers assumed he was praying for the soul of his departed friend. They would have been surprised to learn his thoughts were consumed instead with his future and his feelings for the uniquely impassioned woman who arrived in his life unexpected and unplanned. Miguel checked his watch. Two fifty-five. They were scheduled to deliver the casket at the church by four.