by Clive Barker
“No, Maria. That’s nobody else’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 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’ve always wanted. Like you said you wanted, if . . . ”
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, they won’t . . . the boys . . . ”
***
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 Elegent Catrin, wearing Calaveras face paintings the likes of which they’d never seen. They munched on sugar candy skulls bearing their names. They listened enraptured 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 that 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 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 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 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 better, so he’d erected a finely built shed which doubled as a surprisingly comfortable sleepover when he’d 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 tipsy, 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 looked 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 Mecico City.
***
“Ay, dios mio,” Maria whispered as she descended the rickety wooden ladder after 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 . . . 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 light 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.”
Juan nodded once with a small smile, as if he’d seen it before, and didn’t find it strange. “Well then, señorita.” He waved ahead. “Welcome to the catacombs.”
As they followed Juan down the narrow corridor dug out of red hardpan and rock, Whitey marveled at how dry the air was, but also how cool. It didn’t smell foul or rotten, as he’d feared it would. The only scent tickling his nostrils was of dust, an ancient spice he couldn’t place, and the musk of old books.
They passed the corpses leaned upright against the wall. Whitey was amazed at their condition. Their desiccated skin—like dried leather—had pulled tight without rot. No maggots, rats or any of the more sensational signs of decay. Something about the dry, cool air, perhaps. Or something done special to the bodies themselves, like with Egyptian mummies.
Or, perhaps it was fortunate they hadn’t descended into the catacombs after a recently interred body. In either case, the experience—especially for Maria—of walking down the softly lit dirt corridor past rows of the dead wasn’t ghoulish, or ghastly, or stomach-churning in the least. It was intriguing, mysterious, enthralling . . .
And it was peaceful. Even the corpses’ faces appeared composed and relaxed. Their hands folded on their midsections (Whitey had never been sure how the arms had stayed put; perhaps they’d been wired into place), their empty eyes gazing nowhere.
“Oh yes,” Maria murmured, hands clasped together in eerie pantomime of the corpses leaning against the wall, her eyes shining, “Yes, Whitey. Like this someday. Promise me, all of us together, like a family.”
“Of course,” Whitey murmured, thinking nothing of it, thinking it was only inspiration from the moment, nothing more.
“Promise me, Whitey. Please.”
And he did.
***
Whitey stomped his boots on the cellar’s cement floor. Thankfully, he’d poured several feet of sand and gravel before laying the concrete. Amazingly, after all these years, the floor was still relatively smooth, with few cracks and no heaving.
He placed a hand on the brick wall he’d mortared himself. It felt cool and dry, mostly, as did the air. Not quite as arid as the Mexican catacombs, but it was the best he could manage in the Adirondacks, and would have to suffice.
Flickering light drew his gaze to the cellar’s far wall. He faced the ofrenda he’d so lovingly constructed for Maria years ago, when she’d first decided to celebrate the Day of the Dead on Halloween night. He’d had to disassemble it, bring its parts here to reassemble. It hadn’t been easy. His hands shook these days, and his back hurt. Of course, he’d had since Maria’s diagnosis to complete it. He’d sensed from the beginning hers was a losing battle.
For a moment, gazing upon the ofrenda, sharp grief twisted his insides. Thick white candles had been lit
on all the ofrenda’s shelves, firing the bouquets of red, orange and yellow marigolds. Framed pictures of Maria from when he’d started dating her to pictures from before her illness lined the top shelf. Next to them, sugar candy skulls he’d made himself, with her name written on their white crystalline foreheads. Also, some of her favorite bits of jewelry. The floppy gardening hat she always wore when tending the flowers lining the front walk. Sheets of wax paper and the thick black sticks of wax she used for her tombstone rubbings, a hobby she’d begun ten years ago.
The ofrenda’s second shelf burned with candles and was lined with marigolds also, but featured pictures of both Marcus and Carlos. Next to the pictures, toys from their youth. A football, basketball, soccer ball, and a baseball. Marcus’s old Nikon camera, from before he’d discovered writing. A hammer, saw and a clutch of nails, because Carlos had fallen in love with Whitey’s hobby of carpentry and had pursued it as a career. Both of them, good boys. Strong boys. Devoted boys, as unique as day and night.
Before the car accident, which had stolen Marcus, five years before. Before the unexpected heart attack claiming Carlos a year later. Suddenly, he and Maria had been rendered childless, having survived their children, which no parent should ever have to suffer.
But it was all right, now.
They were together again at last. Whitey had been worried, initially, how the boys would fare. This, after all, wasn’t the cool and dry catacombs of Mexico. The cement floor and brick walls had helped, and it never got hot here, even in the summers, but there had been spring thaws to deal with. He’d a mess to clean—simply from seeping fluids and general decay—the first several springs. Also, Marcus had suffered a maggot infestation which had been . . . unpleasant. Since then, however, they’d weathered the years well.
He hadn’t been able to stand them against the wall, however, as done in the catacombs. The embalming process had made them too rigid. He’d managed to prop them, seated, backs against the ofrenda, hands folded in their laps, sightless eyes gazing at him . . . somewhat accusingly, which did bother him, when he was honest with himself. For what could they accuse him of? What had he done wrong? He was only honoring Maria’s wishes, after all. Bringing them together as one family, forever.
He turned and grasped the rope hanging from the rectangle opening above, attached to a stick propping the door he’d installed into the floor when he’d dug out the cellar. With a quick tug, he pulled the stick into the cellar. The door swung shut with a thump and the click of the special latch and lock he’d recently installed. A lock which could only be opened from the outside, which he’d also fused shut with an acetylene torch. He’d fastened a throw rug onto the hatch, concealing it from passing eyes. Perhaps, when he turned up missing, someone would eventually discover them down here like this. Perhaps for them, it would be like Maria descending into the catacombs so long ago.
Regardless, Whitey made his way in the flickering candle light—which cast shadows on his family’s faces, and in those shadows he saw them gazing at him—to Maria’s side. He lowered himself to the dry concrete floor, gathered her stiffness into his arms, and waited for the Day of the Dead.
***
Uncountable hours later, candles long since extinguished, a heavy presence—an intangible weight—filled the small catacomb. Whitey smelled Maria’s perfume. Her rich chestnut hair, before it fell out. The warm baked-flour odor of fresh empanadas. Whitey sat up and stared into the darkness, heart pounding with joy as he whispered, “Maria? Is . . . is that you? Maria? It’s me. I’m here, darling. I’m . . . ”
Her head—light from decay—shifted against his neck.
Whitey cried, fear squeezing his heart (because her dry touch was so cold) as he pushed weakly off the wall to his feet, tottering away into the darkness, stiff joints screaming. Hands out, searching the blackness, he felt brick, turned and flattened back against the far wall. He frantically dug into his pocket for his lighter . . .
And heard it.
Scratching.
Dragging. Something . . . several somethings . . .
carlos
marcus
if I believe in it, it will happen
wasn’t supposed to be like this
. . . shifting and crawling toward him.
Whitey’s hand closed around the lighter in his pocket. Squeezed it, feeling the cool metal housing a flame that could . . .
No.
Fear drained away.
He tottered several steps toward the dragging, clicking, sliding. His legs trembled, knees buckling, and he fell to his knees. Opened his arms.
Waiting.
Maria reached him first. And she didn’t smell bad at all (not like her perfume or hair or freshly baked empanadas, but not bad, either) as she nestled her withered mouth at the base of his neck. Sighing, he craned his head back and, gently holding the back of her desiccated head, pressed her to him, so her teeth could get a better grip on his jugular.
And with his other, he welcomed his sons as they came together, at last.
As he’d believed they would.
HEY, LITTLE SISTER
Maria Alexander
Childhood memories wind through my thoughts like the fire trails burned into the surrounding foothills. I marvel at the destruction of the summer blaze as I head up Highway 50. My wife Allie’s getting her drink on with her fellow bridesmaids in San Francisco this weekend. Since the bride made it clear “No Boys Allowed,” I said au revoir this morning and took off in our black Prius to see Sophia, my severely disabled sister. She lives just three hours away at the old homestead in Placerville. Or “Hickville” as I like to call it.
After texting the public guardian for permission, I pick up Sophia for her usual Saturday afternoon hair appointment. The caregiver waves to us as we pull out of the driveway, her brows scrunched together with worry. Whether she’s worried because I’m wearing a black Nine Inch Nails t-shirt with equally dark jeans, or if it’s because she has some other phantom fear, I can’t tell. My sister’s soft, crooked smile lights up my passenger’s seat.
“Why don’t you wave back, Sophie?”
“I’m not . . . a child . . . you know,” she says in her halting speech. Not in years, anyway. She’s just over forty, but mentally she’s about six. Maybe seven.
“I know!” I wink at her. “So, yer gettin’ yer hair did? We going to the barber?”
“Nooooo,” she laughs.
“I dunno. It’s cheaper. I think you should give it a consider, there,” I reply.
Laughing harder, she tells me how to get to the salon. I’m shocked she remembers. Then again, before our mother died five years ago, she took Sophia to that same salon every week for twenty years to get her gorgeous sable hair washed and styled. Brain-injured folk like Sophia don’t like to bathe. It was probably the only way Mom could guarantee at least Sophia’s head didn’t stink. Since they went regularly for so long, Sophia’s injured synapses must have been able to forge a rare path to that destination.
We find the tiny island of business buildings tucked halfway up one of those charred hills. Sophia’s disability placard lets us park near the door, and we enter the busy salon reeking of rummy suntan lotion and Fukushima-brewed hair products. The woman at the front desk unleashes a hundred-megawatt smile at Sophia. She’s the sort of gal that would have scared me to death in high school. Bronze skin, blond highlights, pink manicure, perfectly straight teeth, v-neck tee dipping into a hint of cleavage and khaki shorts that reveal her tightly sculpted limbs. I was the nerdy goth boy in the computer lab who could barely manage to look a girl in the eye through my overgrown black bangs, much less court one of these leonine goddesses that prowled the campus in basketball uniforms or cheerleading skirts. Even at six-foot-three, I can still be that knee-knocking little boy around women.
“Hi, Sophia! Who’s your friend?” the woman asks.
“Hey, I’m Barry.” I shake her limp hand. “Sophia’s older brother.”
“Ah, yeah, I see the resembl
ance. I’m Carol,” she replies. Did her smile just dim? “It’s good to meet you. Come on back, sweetie! Lane is waiting for you.”
Sophia wobbles off, her leg braces and poor balance binding her eager stride. I sink into one of the seats by a table piled with fashion magazines, checking photos on my phone from Allie’s celebrations. God, I’m a lucky sonuvabitch. Amazing wife who puts up with weird-ass, mopey me and my damned obsessions. She says the glass is half-full even when I insist there’s no glass at all. I chuckle at a photo of the bridesmaids lined up doing the Amy Schumer pose for the movie Trainwreck, beer bottles to lips, fingers wagging at the camera. It’s barely lunchtime and they’re already at it.
“Uh, Barry?” Carol bites her thumbnail, hip leaning against the front desk, and she glances at the front door. “Can we talk?”
Crap. Something must be up with my sister.
We step outside into the bracing heat dusted with the scent of burned grass. When the sunlight strikes her face, I notice faint lines around her mouth. Man, I suck at ages. She’s older than I originally guessed.
“You look so much like Sophia,” she says.
“Yeah. Too much like our dad, I’m afraid.” My nerves start dancing a jumping-bean jig. Something about her look tells me this is going to be awkward. Does Dad owe them money? I can take care of that. I make plenty doing database programming for a telecommunications startup.
She crosses her arms, struggling to find my eyes. “I’m sorry you lost your father.”
I shrug. “Thanks. We didn’t exactly get along, so . . . ” Understatement of the year. He was an abusive monster who’d made our childhoods nightmarish with physical and verbal abuse, not to mention the ongoing sexual comments he made to Sophia that perpetually freaked her out. After Mom died, I’d tried to get the county people to step in and take Sophia out of the house. I failed because there wasn’t enough evidence that Dad was abusing his disabled daughter to interfere. Dad hated me for it and cut off contact between me and Sophia. I didn’t even know if they were safe during the fire. I had friends cast runes and do tarot readings to reassure me when relatives didn’t respond to my calls.