Mountain View had clearly been the place to be buried back in the day. Elaborate crypts marched up the hill and looked out over a multimillion-dollar view of Oakland, the bay, and San Francisco beyond. Adorning these were ornate carved marble and granite sculptures, bronze plaques, stained-glass windows, and colorful mosaics. The grounds were landscaped in a crazy medley that reminded me of California itself: Towering palm trees stood shoulder-to-shoulder with grand redwoods, magnolias edged out pines and oak, and wisteria fought with English ivy.
I like cemeteries. The vibrations of grief can be overwhelming at the new burial sites, but otherwise there is a calm solemnity and acceptance tinged with sadness that can be strangely comforting. Yes, it is sad when people pass on. Their loved ones mourn them. But mourning indicates that there was once love, and that’s a good thing.
The last time I was in a cemetery was in rural France. I remembered watching the black-clad old women tending their family graves and wondering, Would anyone mourn me when I was gone? My mother, perhaps, and certainly my grandmother, but few else. I realized in that moment that I wanted to find a community, make a home, create a web of friends . . . and perhaps even start a family. It was this revelation that led me to settle down in the Bay Area. That and a crazy parrot in Hong Kong, what felt like a lifetime ago.
I kept driving until I found Frances’s final resting spot. My unscheduled tour of downtown Oakland had made me fifteen minutes late, but it looked as though the minister was just beginning. A dozen folding chairs had been set out, but the few mourners present stood beside a single stand of flowers. Maya and Delores were standing next to each other, holding hands. I recognized a couple of faces from Frances’s neighborhood. But the biggest surprise was seeing Tomás on the other side of the grave. I crossed over to him.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” I whispered.
“My family’s at the cemetery to tend my cousin Juan’s grave. That’s what we do on the weekends. I saw the old lady was being buried, so I thought I’d come watch.”
“I wanted to thank you again for saving me the other night.”
He looked down at me, bitterness in his eyes. “No of fense, lady, but I don’t got no business with brujas, good or bad. I’m only here ’cause I wanted to see this one go in the ground.”
What could I say to that?
As the preacher droned on, I looked out over the hill-side. This was a new section of the graveyard; here the headstones were flat rectangles of granite on the ground, horizontal rather than vertical. I supposed the riding lawn mowers could go right over the top of them, so they made sense for maintenance, but like so many modern concessions to convenience they lacked the drama and dignity of the historic stones.
My gaze landed on a figure dressed in white standing a good forty feet away amidst a small copse of eucalyptus trees. Katherine. As I watched, it seemed as though she was rhythmically rocking. . . . Was she mumbling something? An incantation? She had her big black Lab with her—he was sitting obediently at her feet. Could that dog be her familiar?
The preacher wound up his talk, and Katherine turned to leave. I trotted up beside her before she could run away.
“Katherine,” I called. “Wait, are you all right?”
“Of course,” she said, hiding her hands behind her back.
I looked at her for a long moment. If I could trust my instincts—which were in question lately, what with sweetness charms and false assumptions—what I sensed from Frances’s daughter was fear and sadness, not evil.
“What do you have in your hands, Katherine? What are you hiding?” I held my hand out, palm up, as though I were a schoolmarm demanding a student turn over her gum.
To my surprise, Katherine complied. She brought her hands out from behind her back and placed a chain made of black beads and a cross in my hand. It was a beautiful carved-wood rosary.
“You were praying?”
Katherine nodded. She hadn’t been casting a spell; she was reciting the rosary.
“I have to tell you—” Katherine began.
“Katherine!” yelled the young man we had met at her house. He stood some twenty feet away, beside a sleek champagne-colored Jaguar. Katherine looked over at him briefly, then back down to me.
“I see you burned the house. Thank you for that.”
“I didn’t—”
“My sister . . .” She grabbed my hands. Her own were icy. “She’s not dead.”
I nodded. “I know. Do you know what happened to her?”
“She’s not . . . human.”
“I understand, but, Katherine, where is she?”
She began to say something, then swallowed the words. She was scared to death. She looked over to the car again, then back to the grave of her mother.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I have to go.”
“Listen, Katherine. You should know . . . what your mother did, how she sent you away, how she never saw your children—she was trying to protect you.”
She nodded, and the flatness of her countenance began to dissolve. A palpable wave of sadness enveloped her. She started to cry, and hugged me, taking me by surprise. Not knowing quite what to do in return, I hugged her back. I awkwardly patted her carefully coiffed blond hair, trying not to muss it.
The young man came up to us, nodded at me, wrapped his arm around her, and led her back to the luxury car. They drove slowly off down the twisting drive.
I condoled for a few minutes with Delores and Maya and thanked the minister for his service, and then trudged back over to my Mustang, emotionally spent. Oscar jumped back and forth over the seat, wanting to get out, having conveniently forgotten his solemn promise to be still and silent. I finally relented and drove to an older section of the cemetery, where I noticed a few people walking their dogs.
“What is that?” Oscar demanded, looking aghast at the collar and leash I brought out of my bag.
“Dogs have to be on leashes. I assume the same rules apply to potbellied pigs.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” He cowered in the footwell of the passenger’s seat.
“Come on, Oscar, I don’t have a lot of patience right now. This is the deal; take it or leave it.”
Fuming, he transformed into his pig guise and allowed me to put the collar on, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
It was a great afternoon for a walk, and I savored the sunny, cool day as we strolled through old-fashioned plots proudly labeled with their family names: Pridham, Downey, Coop, Dixon. I liked to read the names off the stones and try to piece together the relations. Here lay the Marsh family, mother Abbie and father John, their daughter Alice and her husband, Cyrus, a baby named Gracie who had passed away too young. Such a beautiful monument to a loving family.
On the other hand, I passed an obelisk that read merely: My husband died. May 18, 1881. Short and to the point. Still, she had a husband. I had no one. Except for an ugly goblin who, I was sure, had been sent as a spy for reasons I still did not understand.
Said goblin was chafing at his collar, pulling hard on the lead.
“Oscar, stop it!” I pulled back.
Oscar changed into his natural form, snapping the collar. He glared at me with his knobby arms crossed over his chest. Worried someone would see him, I looked around, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. I had to hand it to Oscar: So far he had been pretty safe about changing whenever normal humans were around.
“That is the most humiliating thing anyone’s ever done to me.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen.”
He sniffed and held up his chin, refusing to meet my eyes. I took another look around and sighed.
“Okay, go off and play for a few minutes. But be careful.”
He loped off through the monuments.
I had my own surreptitious activity I needed to pursue. I went back to the car and grabbed a small garden spade and a plastic container, then crossed over to a recent burial by the cyclone fence in an inconspicuous spot beneath a
tree. I filled my container with fresh dirt from the grave. I would take it back with me and use it to bury the mandragora in my rooftop garden.
Looking through the cyclone fence, I spied several members of Jessica’s family gathered around what must have been Juan’s grave. In true Mexican style, they had brought a picnic blanket and food; several children ran about, laughing. Felipa and a younger woman were digging bright orange and yellow marigolds into the border. Funny how differently we all mourn our loved ones.
If all went well tonight, I thought while I caressed my medicine bag, Jessica’s family would be celebrating reunion in a few short hours. If all went well, they would no longer mourn her—they would have their precious little girl back in their arms. It would be worth the sacrifice.
A groundskeeper in green coveralls strolled by with a shovel and a hoe resting on his shoulder. He nodded and wished me a good afternoon. I tucked the container full of dirt behind my back along with the leash and returned his smile. Then I realized I couldn’t see Oscar anywhere.
“Oscar?” I called in a loud whisper, not wanting the personnel to think there was a dog loose.
I looked behind headstones and in crypts, until finally spotting him perched on top of a moss-encrusted mausoleum, crouched and looking down with a sinister scowl upon passersby, just like a real stone gargoyle.
“Come on down from there, Oscar. That’s not funny.”
“Didja see that? That gardener didn’t even see me!”
“Okay, you fit right in at the cemetery. You make a great gargoyle. Is that what you want me to say?” My eyes wandered to two elderly women standing at a serviceman’s grave, placing a wreath of flowers and an American flag upon it. “Come on down now, Oscar; this isn’t a place for joking around.”
“Why not?” Oscar asked me as he obeyed, easily scaling the side of the crypt. “Why do cowans take it all so seriously? They’re so solemn about it. Don’t they know there’s nothing to fear?”
Don’t we, indeed?
Chapter 18
Half an hour later I was back at work, slowly making my way through yesterday’s invoices, when I looked up to see Aidan swinging through the door of Aunt Cora’s Closet with aplomb.
As before, the bell failed to tinkle. But this time Aidan stopped, looked up at it until it rang, then turned back to me and grinned with an aw-shucks duck of his blond head.
“Lily, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been thinking about you.”
I didn’t call. I didn’t even know his phone number.
Oscar ran around his legs, overly eager to be appreciated.
Maya and Bronwyn were sorting through a recently acquired bag of clothes, doing a terrible job of pretending not to overhear.
“Hi, Aidan. These are my friends Bronwyn and Maya.”
“So good to meet you both,” he said, taking their hand in his, each in turn, and presenting them with a smile. They appeared speechless.
“Bronwyn, would you mind taking the store for a few minutes?” I asked.
“You two go on and have fun. Don’t worry about a thing; I’ll take care of the shop.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes. . . .”
“Why don’t you take your time?” Bronwyn urged, eager as a mother in pursuit of a bride-price.
“Perfect,” said Aidan just as I opened my mouth to protest. “You can buy me that drink you owe me.”
“It’s only three o’clock.”
“Is it?” He glanced down at a sleek silver watch. “I suppose you’re right; it does seem a bit early to start in. A coffee, then.”
We walked out into a clear, warm day. The streets, as usual, were filled to overflowing with tourists, street kids, aging hippies, and the newest wave of yuppies in search of tasty caffeine and microbrews. Seeing them today didn’t bring me the usual delight; I was having a hard time thinking about anything besides tonight.
“I didn’t call,” I pointed out.
“But you wanted to see me, am I right?”
“Do you really want coffee, or could we take a little walk? I’m in need of some fresh air.”
He inclined his head. “Lady’s choice.”
Haight Street is bordered by residential areas full of Victorian duplexes with tiny yards. I steered Aidan the few blocks toward Golden Gate Park. As we were walking by one home, we saw a middle-aged couple awkwardly lugging a bunch of protest signs down a broad wooden set of steps. They sported the pale, gaunt visages of strict vegans; their clothes were baggy and made of natural hemp. They both smiled hugely when they saw us.
Aidan sprang up the steps to help them with their signs, loading them into an old yellow and white VW bus. He held one up for me to read.
“‘Make love. Not war,’ ” he read aloud before placing it on the pile. “Have truer words ever been written?”
The woman, emboldened by Aidan’s enthusiasm, reached into the cab of the VW and brought out several pamphlets and photocopies on purple paper. I’ve noticed that a lot of activists have yet to internalize the “save a tree” mentality—they always seem to abound with flyers.
After politely refusing their offer of a soy chai latte, Aidan came back to my side and handed me one of the anti-nuke flyers.
“Are you trying to prove you’re a nice guy?” I asked.
“I am a nice guy. I swear . . . the way you treat me simply because I’m a witch—”
“That’s not the reason.”
“Oh, yes, it is. You might want to examine this tendency . . . what with you being a witch yourself and all. Just a suggestion.” Aidan continued to hand out the pamphlets to passersby.
“Have you been watching Dr. Phil, by any chance?”
“Don’t be dissing Dr. Phil. The man’s a genius. Speaking of geniuses, when’s the last time you saw your father?”
“Let’s leave him out of this.”
My only childhood memory of my father was from when I was very young, so young that no one thought I remembered. But I did.
He was a handsome man, with dark hair and eyes like mine. He was leaving us, arguing with my mother about wanting to take me with him, to raise me—and train me—himself. At the last moment Graciela, who had raised my father when his own parents were killed, intervened. I remembered things flying about the living room, the whole place being torn apart. I had watched from my playpen, laughing. When it was over, Graciela picked me up and told me not to laugh, that it wasn’t funny. My mother certainly took that advice to heart—I don’t know that she ever laughed again.
As an adult, I had met my father only once face-to-face. It was not a happy reunion.
Aidan and I walked through a small tunnel beneath the Alvord Lake Bridge, and up the walking paths leading north just inside Golden Gate Park. Known as Hippie Hill, the grassy, southern-facing slope near the Haight entrance to the park always featured an interesting assortment of people. A drum circle played, a magician was holding several small children in his thrall, a number of young men played hacky sack, and here and there couples ate picnics and napped in the sunshine.
“I need to ask you for a favor,” I said.
“Another favor?”
“This one’s easy. I think. Do you know who Mary Ellen Pleasant is?”
“Sure. The mother of civil rights in San Francisco.”
“If she’s so important, why don’t you have a sculpture of her at the Wax Museum?”
“I don’t own the place, Lily. I just have my office there.”
“Oh.” I watched the magician make a boy’s athletic shoe disappear before I turned back to Aidan. “Why do you have your office there?”
“The guy owed me for a thing.”
“Does he still owe you?”
“As in, enough to create a sculpture of Mary Ellen Pleasant?”
I nodded. He looked at me curiously for a long moment before inclining his head.
“I can get it done.”
“Thank you. I want you to know I’ve started on your mandragora.”
“Rea
lly? That’s fabulous!”
“It will take thirty days before he’s born.”
He nodded. “Whatever’s necessary. I’ve been making inquiries into Frances Potts’s death. She was killed by slow-acting poison, and placed in the pentagram only after death, when someone tried to use her body as a sacrifice. But as you know, it was too late, since she was already dead.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Talked to the police inspector earlier today. It was ruled a suicide.”
“Ah. Well, then, about La Llorona . . .”
“What is it?”
“She’s here, out on the bay. . . .”
“I knew that much.”
“You’re very impatient, you know that? You should slow down, learn to enjoy yourself a little.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to control my frustration. It wouldn’t do to lose my temper in front of this male witch.
“You have to stop this crazy quest against La Llorona , Lily,” he said, suddenly serious. “I was able to make contact with her. She knew you were here, even from before.”
I remembered the articles about me on the altar. Apparently Frances had known about my past as well. I guess I really did have a reputation.
“Interestingly, she’s afraid of you. She wanted to appease you with the inheritance.”
“That was supposed to appease me?”
He shrugged. “The point is, you’re not strong enough to go up against her.”
“I have to talk with her. I want to offer her a deal.”
“La Llorona is not what you’d call a pillar of reason.”
“I know that. That brings me to my next question: Are you willing to combine forces against her?”
He held my eyes for a very long time.
“I thought you didn’t want to be beholden to me.”
“I’m making you a mandragora.”
He laughed. “A mandragora in exchange for all this? Hardly seems fair.”
“What else do you want?”
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