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pengychan · 6 years

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[Coco] Down to Dust, Pt. 14

Title: Down to Dust Summary: After it all came crashing down, Ernesto’s to-do list is short: stay hidden, and wait for the Final Death. Héctor’s is even shorter: enjoy being with his family again. But life - or rather, the living - will get in the way even of the simplest plans. Characters: Hector Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, the Rivera family in general, Miguel Rivera, Socorro Rivera. [Part 1 can be found here. All parts up so far here.]

A/N: as you probably guessed, this chapter has some serious suicidal thoughts, as well as the mention of an actual suicide. I apologize.

***

Día de los Muertos

“All done!”

Socorro took a step back from the ofrenda to admire her handiwork. All right, so it was pretty small and nowhere as decorated as the one downstairs, with only one picture she’d found on an old vinyl cover, a few flowers and a couple of candles on it… but then again that was the most she could get done on her own, in the attic, and without her family noticing anything.

There would be questions if they found out she’d made an ofrenda for the guy who had stolen her great-great-grandpa’s songs and ‘probably’ killed him, and they weren’t ones she would be able to answer without having to tell a very long story they likely wouldn’t believe. So, that would have to do. Socorro put some pan de muerto on it as an offering, and snuck back downstairs and into the courtyard.

She was supposed to help Benny and Manny make a path of marigold petals leading to their courtyard for their family to follow - which was a bit silly, did they really think they would just forget where they used to live? - but Miguel had offered to do it in her place. She went past the path, careful not to step on it and ruin it, and went to their family’s ofrenda room.

Abuelita was there, placing the last of the offerings before each photo. Most of the things they had made for them had already been placed on their graves earlier that day - there was a nice pair of shoes that Abuelita had helped her make for Cheque, and an ocarina she hoped he would like to play, plus a bunch of black markers in case he needed new ones - but Abuelita always placed something more on the ofrenda, too. Usually food.

“Oh, Coquito! I was wondering where you went,” Abuelita said, and reached to put an arm around her shoulders. Socorro clung to her side, resting her cheek against her apron and looking at the pictures. Her gaze paused on Cheque’s, and the writing on the whiteboard he was showing. IF LOST RETURN TO SOCORRO, it read. But he would never be lost again, because that photo would always lead him home.

It was her favorite, but no longer the only picture she had of him. Cheque’s fosterers had been really nice: they had kept a lot of his photos, but had also given her a few of the two of them together… and had let her make a copy of one that must have been taken a long time ago, before he was left in foster care.

Cheque was only a baby in it, maybe one year old, looking at the camera with wide eyes and a hand stuck in his mouth. He was in the arms of a woman with shiny black hair just like his, tied in a loose ponytail. She didn’t look as young as she must have been - she looked tired, and too thin; someone who’d been beautiful in better times - but she was smiling at Cheque, and despite the ruined teeth it was a smile so sweet it could melt butter… just like his.

She must have loved him very, very much. Socorro wondered where she was now, and if she even knew that Cheque was dead. That photo was the only thing she had left him, she’d been told, so now she had placed the copy inside an envelope, along with a picture of them together and her letter - the coded letter, like those they exchanged in class when they wanted to make sure no one would understand - to Cheque. Miguel had told her that the dead could take things from the Land of the Living by making some sort of spirit copy, whatever that meant, and she was sure Cheque would love to have that picture back.

“So, what did you write him?” Abuelita asked as Socorro stepped closer to the ofrenda and stood on her toes to place the envelope on it, right in front of Cheque’s picture. She turned to look at her over her shoulder and gave what she hoped was a perfectly innocent-looking smile. She wasn’t as good as Cheque was, but she could try.

“Oh,” she said sweetly, “it’s a secret.”

***

“... And that’s the fourth and fifth crates, Anita. It looks like it’s all good.”

“Perfect. Help Fabricio take them out.”

“They’re heavy!”

“Will help you and Pedro build some muscle. Sort of. Now move.”

“Ugh, fine. Hey, de la Cruz, are you going to help us out or--”

“No. I’ve got to talk to him. Get to work, Bartolo.”

There was some grumbling and a sullen glare, but Anita’s men did exactly as they’d been told and began taking the crates out of Ernesto’s small apartment. Each of them was full of fireworks; none of them licensed, of course, but that wasn’t a detail Anita cared much about, and Ernesto cared even less. It was a way to make some money with the only skill he’d ever had aside from acting, singing, or playing the guitar, so he’d taken the chance.

The money Héctor had handed him had been enough to buy a decent place with decent furniture - sleeping in a proper bed had been nothing short of bliss - but there were still bills to pay. Ernesto had honestly no idea how Anita had known that he’d learned how to make fireworks, more than one lifetime ago; he’d wondered from time to time if Héctor had told her, but he had never asked if it was the case. He’d rather not know.

Either way, it had ended up working for both of them: after closing down the fighting pit for being ‘too much of a hassle’, in her own words, she’d focused more on fakes and unlicensed fireworks as a source of revenue. It was a job he could get done without ever having to go outside; all he needed was delivered at his door. He hardly ventured outside, never without a hat and a scarf to disguise himself and, so far, he’d never been recognized.

Anita and her men probably made thrice the amount of money they gave him by selling them on, but trying to sell the unlicensed fireworks himself would leave him too exposed, and he’d rather keep hidden as much as possible. No one would ever need to know who made those fireworks as long as it was someone else to sell them.

Plus, it wasn’t something he’d planned to keep going indefinitely: that batch might just be the very last they got out of him.

“So, what are your plans for tonight, Bellboy? I’m guessing it doesn’t involve a concert.”

Ernesto snorted, choosing to ignore both jabs. “I’ll cross over,” he said, reaching up to rub his forehead. There was a headache building up and he wanted a drink more than anything, but this time - much like when handling explosives - he needed to be stone sober. There would be a decision to take by dawn, and not the kind one can take while dunk.

Leaning against a wall with her arms crossed, Anita let out a chuckle. “Heh. Do you think there are still ofrendas out there for you? Might be, come to think of it. The world is full of weirdos like that.”

“There will be at least one. Or so I was told,” Ernesto said dryly, glancing at the chair his hat and scarf were on. He would have to reveal his face at the scanners, of course, but he’d hide it for as long as he could. Last thing he needed was getting into confrontations on the way. “I suppose I’ll find out if that’s true tonight. I’m no longer wanted, so I won’t be arrested on sight. Nothing keeps me from crossing now.”

“And will you also cross back, or are you thinking of watching your last sunrise in the Land of the Living before you turn to dust?”

Her words caused Ernesto to pause, annoyance turning into surprise. He glanced at her, taken aback. “What makes you think I would do that?” he asked slowly.

Anita shrugged. “The look on your face. I have seen it before,” she said, and gave a sharp smile. “Did I ever tell you how I died?”

Ernesto turned to fully face her, feeling as though he was moving underwater. “A bullet to the head, yes.”

“Did I tell you who pulled the trigger?”

“I suspect you’ll tell me now.”

“I did,” Anita said. Part of him had expected the answer, and he found he didn’t know what to say. He stared at her for a few more moments, watched her sharp smile fade in something different, something blank. “It was soon after the end of the civil war.”

“La Revolución?”

“Hah, I wish! I’m older than that. It was after la Guerra de Reforma. 1860. Never fought a war, did you?”

“No. I had an unpleasant brush or two with the Revolution, you might say. Nothing more.”

“Good for you. You probably wouldn’t have lasted, and even if you had, you can kill only so many people before it stops making you feel anything. You kill the enemy, then you kill your wounded comrade to make him stop screaming, and then you kill a civilian who looked at you wrong. Until the war ends and you realize you do not belong to the life you had before,” she added, and shrugged. “That look on your face right now? I know it. I got up one morning and saw it in the mirror. I never went to sleep without a loaded gun within reach - yes, this one. I had the luxury of a quick death. But then I woke up here, dead and yet not gone, and I found I was glad it wasn’t over after all. What you’re thinking of is final, Bellboy.”

Ernesto scoffed. “Stop calling me that. And you don’t know how final it truly is. No one does. All that I care is that it gets me away from here,” he added, realizing only after he’d spoken that he’d just admitted that she was right, that he was considering not crossing back.

Anita stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Fair enough. I had no interest in discussing the unknown when I was alive and I’m not interested now either. So I’ll just ask again, and only once: do I have to get looking for someone else to make us fireworks?”

Ernesto found himself drawing in a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he finally heard himself saying. It was odd, saying as much aloud. It made his intent seem so much more real than just a half-baked thought.

What you’re thinking of is final, Belloboy.

I hope it is, oh God, I want to be gone and to stay gone, but no one knows. What if it’s worse? What if I find the fire and brimstone everyone always babbled about?

“I’ll figure it out once I’m on the other side, I suppose,” he added in the end, and gave a sarcastic smile. “Will you weep if I don’t return?”

“Hah! Hardly. You’re a good asset, but not that good. We can replace you. But the guys and I will have a toast to you, if that counts,” Anita replied, and walked to the door. She glanced back over her shoulder. “We’ll wait until midday before we have that drink. If you’re still around by then, drop by. We don’t mind sharing, sometimes. As long as you’re not the one to pour it,” she added, and then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a loud clack.

Ernesto stared at it for a few moments, speechless, before he turned away. His gaze fell on a small table where he’d left Cheque’s latest letter; he hadn’t seen him since the previous year, but the boy had been writing him at least once a week since. A couple of days earlier he’d written to remind him that there would be an ofrenda for him at the Riveras’, Socorro had promised and she kept her promises, was he going to cross over to Santa Cecilia, too?

I’ll think about it, he’d replied. It wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t a lie at all. He had thought about it, and he’d decided to go, if anything to take a look at his grave.

What he was still mulling over, however, was whether or not he would ever head back.

***

Socorro had grown up.

It was nothing Ezequiel hadn’t expected but as she looked at her, dancing at the sound of Miguel’s guitar and Rosa’s violin, it felt a bit like a slap; not a very strong one, but a slap all the same. When he’d died she was half a head taller than him, joking that she’d be so annoyed if Abuelita turned out to be right about that growth spurt thing and he got taller than her. Now she stood a full head above him, and Ezequiel would never catch up.

It wasn’t often that he thought about being dead; it was just his new normal. But there had been moments when he’d thought it wasn’t fair, when he’d think back of his nine years of life – eight years and eleven months, really – and think, is this it? Is it all I get?

Everyone had told him that it was normal, especially for someone who died young, but now he felt a pang of shame for thinking like that. He should be happy to be there, to see Socorro again even though she couldn’t see him, to see her doing so well and having so much fun. He shouldn’t be getting frustrated for something so far beyond his control. Still...

“Feels a bit odd, huh? Seeing them getting older than you,” Héctor spoke, crouching down to put a hand on his shoulder. He seemed to have read his mind, and it occurred to Ezequiel that he’d mentioned, on their way there, that Miguel was now the same age he’d been when he died. Next year, he would be older.

Ezequiel nodded, and looked up at him. He was looking at Miguel, sure enough, but then he let his gaze wander on the entire family, dead and alive, and smiled. “It wasn’t fair, chamaco. I’m not going to lie. You shouldn’t be among us,” he admitted. “But you can sit and be bitter all you want, and it wouldn’t change a thing. Or you can enjoy your afterlife until they join us and you catch up. And maybe mock them a bit. Imagine, Socorro having to do tax returns! You didn’t dodge the van but oh, did you dodge a bullet,” Héctor added, winking, and Ezequiel couldn’t hold back a snicker.

Héctor grinned out at him, and tilted his head towards Miguel. “Hey, listen. A soul without a voice? I think he wrote this one is for you.”

Taken aback, Ezequiel followed his gaze and realized that he was right, that Miguel was singing another song that he’d never heard before.

“El alma sin voz no se queda en silencio, sólo habla sin emitir sonido…”

As Ezequiel listened with wide eyes, Héctor smiled. “I’ll have a good listen, chamaco. So that I can play it for you whenever you want,” he said, and ruffled his hair. That never failed to make Ezequiel huff in protest, but this time he found he didn’t even mind.

For a time he just listened to the music, watched Socorro dance to it and sing along, and noticed how from time to time her eyes would wander around – like she was looking for something. Had her gaze just paused on him just now, even for only a moment? Had he imagined it? He wondered how odd it had to feel, knowing that he was there but being unable to see him.

When the song ended, Miguel crouched to tell Socorro something before he pulled her in a tight hug, and then Elena was joining in, too. He’d liked her, too, like the grandmother he never got to have, and suddenly Ezequiel wished more than anything that he could touch them, and join that hug. He wished it so much that it almost hurt… and it had to show, because only a moment later someone was hugging him.

“Oh, chico, don’t make that sad face. They know you’re here,” Rosita said. She hugged him a lot, and Ezequiel found he liked that, even when they were so tight he could almost hear his ribs creaking. “Now, come take a look at the ofrenda! Óscar and Felipe are just done arguing over which picture is whose, like every year, and there is something for you.”

He followed her after giving one last glance in the courtyard – where Socorro was dragging two of her cousins away from the food to dance with her stepping right through Victoria – and he found himself looking for the first time at the photo Socorro had put up for him. He was smiling at the camera, months away from his death, holding up the whiteboard.

IF LOST, RETURN TO SOCORRO.

He remembered that picture really well, because they had taken one each, with Socorro holding the whiteboard reading I AM SOCORRO. It was a stupid joke, but his fosterers had thought it was hilarious. He’d liked them; he hoped they were all right.

Beneath the picture, aside from from the pan de muerto and a few tamales – from Elena, no doubt – there was an envelope. He took it, watching with some fascination as it split in two, leaving one in his hand and one on the ofrenda, and opened it. Inside there was a letter, which he had expected, and two photos, which he had… not. Or, at least, he had imagined Socorro might slip in a photo of them together. It was the other one he had not expected to ever see again.

“Is that your mamá?”

Ezequiel looked up to see Coco smiling down and him before glancing at the picture again. In it, he was little more than a baby and his mother looked almost exactly like he remembered her. He could tell now that the stuff had left a mark on her face, but he still thought she was beautiful. He nodded, knowing that even if he weren’t mute, he wouldn’t be able to speak at the moment.

“Wherever she is, I am sure she misses you a lot,” Coco said, and put a hand on his head in a gentle touch. “I’m sure she loves you very, very much.”

Ezequiel sniffled, and nodded. I know, he wanted to write, but he didn’t want to let go of the photo just yet, so he didn’t. As Coco walked away to give him a few moments on his own, taking Rosita with her with an excuse, Ezequiel found himself alone in the ofrenda room. He stared down at his mother, stroking her features with a thumb, before he carefully slipped both photos in his pocket and turned his attention to Socorro’s letter.

It was a long letter, of several pages: she spoke of how she’d been doing in the past year, how well Miguel was doing - “He wrote a song for you, it was even on the radio! Listen carefully today!” - and about Abuelita starting to teach her how to make shoes. Their school now had a plaque with his name on it, and she’d been hanging out with Romina and Tomás a lot - “They’re all right, but they’re not you”.

She was worried that Gabriel was starting to have a crush on her - “I’d rather kiss a coyote” - and also his fosterers were all right. They were going to have a baby of their own after years of trying, Socorro wrote, a boy they were going to call Ezequiel. They had given her those pictures and she thought he would like to have them, especially the one with his mamá.

Ezequiel smiled, and looked down when he heard a purring noise. An alley cat that was not an alley cat at all was in the ofrenda room, headbutting his leg. Ezequiel reached down to give Pepita a rub behind the ears, and then turned the sheet to read more – only to blink when he saw that the last page didn’t look like the others at all. It took him a moment to realize what it meant, but when he did, his smile turned into a grin.

To anyone else, it would have looked like a bunch of random letters: it was a code he and Socorro had come up with to pass each other messages in class, when clicking pens was not an option. Whatever was written on that page was for his eyes only, and Ezequiel made sure he was alone in the ofrenda room before he started reading… but he didn’t get very far.

Crash.

“Oh, this dog again! Does it ever go away?”

“Ruff!”

“Yip! Yip!”

“Ay, another! Where did that come from? This place is turning into a dog pound, it really is!”

Ezequiel looked up to see Dante hurling through the courtyard, causing a table to almost topple before Socorro’s cousin Abel managed to steady it, and then crashing into Héctor and Imelda, putting an abrupt end to their dance. It was a pretty funny scene, but his attention was taken by Diablo, who looked like a normal Chihuahua with tan fur on that side of the bridge. He came running into the ofrenda room with a chicken wing in his mouth… and with Socorro in tow. She picked Diablo up before he could dart away, and held him close.

“Where is Cheque?” she whispered to the tiny dog. “Is he here?”

Diablo yapped through the chicken wing, and turned to look at him, wagging his tail. Socorro followed the dog’s gaze, and Ezequiel’s non-existent heart seemed to skip a beat when her eyes paused right on him. He could almost think that she could see him now.

“Read the letter. All of it,” she said, and grinned in his direction before she ran back outside, Diablo still in her arms. Ezequiel stared at her retreating back, then looked down at the letter. He went through the coded message as quickly as he would have if he were reading plain Spanish, and by the time he finished he was grinning again.

Remember, at nine on the dot. Be there. I can’t wait to see you.

***

He had expected his mausoleum to be in a poor state. He had expected it to be barren save for a few scraggly flowers. He’d expected the insults scribbled on the marble, and had even predicted a few of them.

He hadn’t expected it to hurt as much as it did.

All around him, and yet very far away, the cemetery was alight with candles and a blur of movement as the dead and the living walked through it and occasionally through each other, some to leave offerings and others to take them. He’d walked through them in silence, with his head lowered, the scarf up to almost his nose and the hat down to cover his features, and no one seemed to have recognized him. Now that he was finally in a dark spot, in the shadow of the mausoleum that held his body, Ernesto allowed himself to really look around.

Santa Cecilia’s cemetery was much bigger than it had been back when he’d been alive; as a boy he’d known it like the back of his hand, but now he’d almost gotten lost. Mariquita was probably buried there, and maybe so was the daughter he knew nothing of other than a name. Or maybe she was buried somewhere else entirely; not that he would know.

His parents were definitely there, but he had no idea in which part of the cemetery. He hadn’t been there when they’d died and been buried. He’d meant to, for his mother at least, but he’d been busy. There had been places to be, crowds to play for, movies to shoot; he had no time to go back to bury a body that wouldn’t even know he was there.

Plus - and that was something he could hardly admit even to himself - the thought of going to Santa Cecilia had never failed to make him feel slightly sick, like he was looking down from a great height. It was the place he’d strained to escape from and, most of all, he had too many memories tied to it. Happy memories, even, but those would be the hardest ones to face, he suspected. The one who’d made them happy was gone.

It wasn’t like he’d neglected his duties as a son. He’d sent money, plenty of it, so that they could live comfortably. He’d written home when his father had died, sent more money for both funerals when needed. He’d seen them again in the Land of the Dead, sure enough, after his own untimely death. Now they were forgotten - they’d both been forgettable people - but from the day they had known their memory was beginning to fade to their last moments in the Land of the Dead, they had lived in his mansion. Ernesto couldn’t let them spend their last years in a shack, after all. What would people say if they knew Ernesto de la Cruz had let his own mother and father spend the remainder of their existence in a shack?

He hadn’t precisely spent much of that time with them; they were too reserved, too out of place in the parties he would throw, with the guests he would entertain. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of them, precisely, but… well, they all had known they were simply not what people would expect, so they’d kept to themselves. But they had been comfortable to the end, he had made sure of that. He’d done all that could be expected of him, right? Right?

I wasn’t happy to see them go, but it was a relief in its on way. It is a relief now. What would they say if they knew?

“Oh, look at Maria! All grown up!”

As an elderly deceased couple passed him by, far too close for Ernesto’s tastes, he pulled the scarf up his face and stepped further into the shadows, looking up at the mausoleum.

He’d rarely bothered to visit the living world, sending others in his stead to pick up the endless offerings, so he’d seen it few times in its full glory, but he remembered what the it had looked like when he’d been dead for only one year - precisely one year, as he’d died on Día de los Muertos of all days. Ironic how his downfall, and now his second death, would be on that day as well.

He hadn’t quite adjusted to being dead yet, then, and seeing all that adoration in the Land of the Living as well as in the Land of the Dead had been of help. The world - his familia - still loved him. He remembered the offerings, the flowers, the candles all around it. Now there was nothing but dust, and black paint to mar the whiteness of the marble.

Forget you, the most prominent of the graffitti read, and Ernesto de la Cruz let out a laugh so bitter it seemed to scald his non-existent throat. Oh, if only. He’d spent nine years wishing more than anything that he could be allowed to fade into whatever oblivion was to be found beyond the Final Death, knowing that he wouldn’t be forgotten for a long time to come. Now he could make that wish come true by just sitting down and waiting for the sunrise. His last.

It wouldn’t be spectacular, but very much welcome for sure. It was his chance to end it all and, ironically enough, he had Héctor to thank for it. Had he imagined, even for a moment, that it would come to this? That his decision to drop all charges against him, making him a free man at least on paper, would give Ernesto the chance to bring it all to a close?

As much as part of him wished to believe so - to think that Héctor’s insufferable generosity had been a façade, that putting a loaded gun in his hands had been his plan all along, his true revenge - he knew that wasn’t it. He knew that the mere idea hadn’t even touched him… and, most infuriating of all, he knew that Héctor would try to stop him if he had an inkling of what he was planning.

The man I killed, and the only who’d want to save me. Life is messed up but oh, ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbours, so is death.

Except that he wouldn’t be quite the only one who’d want to stop him, would he? Cheque would try, too, and that was why Ernesto had decided against telling him what he planned to do. He’d wanted to, wanted to share what he had in mind with at least someone, and he’d even begun writing a couple of days earlier… but then what? The kid would run to Héctor and they would both try to stop him, that was what. He couldn’t allow that. Cheque would just see his letters go undelivered, perhaps wonder about it, and then move on with his afterlife.

They hadn’t even met in a year, after all. He’d forget about him soon enough.

Forget you.

Oh please, please do.

Ernesto’s hand went to a pocket of his coat, where in the end he’d stuck a bottle of tequila. After all, he’d told himself that he’d stay stone sober for as long as it took to take his decision… and that decision was taken. He may as well make himself comfortable for the hours of wait, make that constant headache go away at least. It might make it easier to face what was to come… whatever it would be.

Gaze fixed on his bust - it had splatters of what looked like red paint on it, and someone seemed to have taken a hammer to it, because part of the hat and a good chunk of the nose had been broken off - Ernesto took the bottle out, opened it, and took a generous swig. He was just gulping down that first mouthful when a familiar chorus of yapping reached him.

Well, it looked like their little tour of the town hadn’t lasted too long. Ernesto turned to see his alebrijes running up to him, except that now of course they did not look like alebrijes at all. They had taken the form they’d had in life, when they had been just dogs: a long-haired white one, one black, one silvery-gray... and one tan. Diablo.

The realization caused the smile that had tugged at the corners of his mouth to fade. If Diablo was nearby then so was Cheque, and he didn’t want the boy to see him, not like that, not there. He thought of hiding inside the mausoleum, but before he could take one step a voice rang out, a little girl’s voice that he’d only heard once before but would know anywhere.

“... Señor de la Cruz?”

Ernesto winced, the bottle falling from his hand and rolling somewhere in the dust, but he hardly noticed. He turned, thinking that he must have heard wrong, but he hadn’t.

Standing only a few feet from him, looking straight at him, was Socorro Rivera.

***

Miguel was once again singing the song he’d written for Cheque - El Alma Sin Voz, he’d called it - when Socorro left the courtyard, saying that she wanted to visit Cheque’s grave again. And really, it was only half a lie. She would get there, after paying a visit to Mamá Coco’s grave and taking a little something to get herself cursed… only for a little while.

To say that Miguel had not agreed with her idea at all would be an understatement, but he’d come to see things her way event-- no, all right, he hadn’t. He just knew that there was nothing he could actually do to stop her, short of tying her up and locking her in a closet.

“I’d rather you don’t do it, but if you must--”

“I’ll take something from the grave of a family member. I know. I don’t want to have to ask de la Cruz for a blessing again. Hey, do you think he’s going to show up here? With the secret ofrenda and all?”

“Unless he wants a booth’s heel through an eye socket, I doubt it. But it would really be best if you didn’t--”

“I want to see him.”

In the end Miguel had given up, but he’d made her promise time and time again she would take only from a relative’s grave, and had said he’d come to look for her if she didn’t turn up again, in the flesh, by midnight. That gave her three hours to be with Cheque, and she had agreed. She wanted to see him, but she didn’t want to see Miguel scared like the previous year ever again; that was a fair compromise.

Getting herself cursed was far less scary now that she knew what was going on: one small gesture, glowing petals, and suddenly the cemetery was twice as crowded. Socorro smiled and ran through it towards Cheque’s tomb, avoiding the dead and running right through the living. It took less than a minute for her to get to it – and Cheque was there already, looking down at the shoes and the ocarina she and Abuelita had left for him earlier.

“CHEQUE!”

Her yell caught him by surprise, and so did her hug. He almost toppled backwards, but Socorro lifted him from the ground and dragged him into a half-twirl before putting him down. He felt lighter, because she had grown stronger, and he looked shorter, because she had grown taller – but he could recognize those eyes, that hair and those markings everywhere… as well and the grin showing on his face when he looked up at her, still trapped in her grip.

“I’ve missed you so much!” she exclaimed, and tightened the hug for a moment before letting go of him. “You look great! How have you been? What have you been doing? You’ve got to tell me everything and oh, I practiced reading sign language! I’m a lot better now! Try me!”

He did, and she was a lot better at understanding it. It was faster than writing, but even so they talked and talked and talked for what felt like a long time, because there was so much to say. Cheque was well, he had settled down with her family and he wasn’t very good with shoes yet, but that was okay because he got to do deliveries and he liked that a lot.

I know the Land of the Dead like the back of my hand now, he signed, and gave that cocky tilt of the head she remembered so well. I’m faster with deliveries than anybody else!

“Of course you are. You were the fastest in our school,” Socorro laughed, and she was about to add something else, but she trailed off when a chorus of yapping reached her ears. They both turned to see four tiny dogs playing and tumbling among the graves. Were those…?

A look at Cheque was enough to tell her that yes, they were. He had only kept one alebrijes, he’d told her, the one she had seen earlier. But if the other three were there, did that mean that de la Cruz was there, too?

“Maybe he came for the ofrenda,” Socorro said, then, “Have you seen him since last year?”

Cheque shook his head and stepped forward, but before he could get the alebrijes’ attention they began running off. Socorro and Cheque exchanged a glance, and she shrugged.

“May as well,” she said, and he smiled back before they began running after the tiny dogs across the cemetery, through the crowd, right up to Ernesto de la Cruz’s decaying mausoleum… and to a lone figure in a dark coat, almost hidden in the darkness. It was him that the dogs were heading to, and that in itself was a dead giveaway of who it had to be.

He didn’t look as scruffy as he had been the previous year, but then he turned to the chihuahuas and, despite the hat and scarf, Socorro recognized him right away. Seeing him up close, it was impossible not to. “… Señor de la Cruz?”

De la Cruz recoiled, dropping the bottle he’d had in his hand, and turned. He stared at her, clearly stunned. “You?” he muttered, then scowled, but he didn’t look angry, not really. He mostly looked scared. “What are you-- why-- how-- do you need another blessing?”

“Huh? No. I mean, yes, but not from you.”

“Oh, good. Because if you do, I’d rather we get this over with before a giant jaguar is involved or--” he trailed off suddenly, his gaze finally moving beyond Socorro, and he fell silent as Cheque stepped by her side. He looked slightly taken aback, but not that much. He didn’t step any closer, but he reached for his whiteboard.

HI, he wrote.

“Er. Hi,” de la Cruz muttered, shifting a little, and looked around. “If they’re nearby, I’d really rather be somewhere else just about now,” he added, and Cheque shook his head.

THEY’RE AT HOME, he wrote, then he took a look at the old mausoleum and frowned. WHY HAVE YOU COME HERE?

That caused de la Cruz to let out a bitter chuckle. “Why, I’m taking a look at my legacy,” he replied, turning to glance up at his desolated mausoleum. It was in pretty bad shape, and the municipality had stopped even trying to clean the graffitti years ago. Socorro knew it looked worse in daylight, when all of the writings showing clearly, but she knew better than saying it.

“You know, it’s not that bad,” she said instead. “Everything looks a little depressing when it’s dark. But in daylight, it’s actually a lot bett--”

A piece of stone that had probably been what remained of the bust’s nose chose that moment to fall on the ground with a dull thud. All three stared at it for a couple of moments before de la Cruz spoke, his voice flat. “Well. I do appreciate the attempt.”

“Uh. You’re welcome?” she mumbled, feeling more than a little awkward. Cheque moved forward before she could think of anything else to say, and reached to grab de la Cruz’s sleeve, causing him to recoil and look away from the debris. He was holding up the whiteboard with his other hand.

SOCORRO MADE AN OFRENDA FOR YOU, TOO. LIKE SHE PROMISED.

“It’s not very big,” Socorro said. To her own surprise, her voice sounded a little bit apologetic. “But there’s a picture and flowers, and candles and some pan de muerto. You’re welcome to it. I mean, it’s your offering.”

De la Cruz shook his head. “I’d rather not come within striking range of a Rivera,” he said, and really, Socorro wasn’t surprised. Miguel was right: Mamá Imelda probably would stick a heel in his eye socket if she saw his face anywhere near their family home. Cheque was unsurprised, too, but he was writing again the next moment.

I CAN TAKE THE OFFERING AND GIVE IT TO YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE. DIABLO CAN LEAD ME TO YOU. HE DID IT BEFORE.

De la Cruz’s expression stayed blank for a moment, then he smiled a little. It was not a happy smile by any stretch of imagination, but it was still better than no expression at all. “That would be nice, niño. Thank you.”

With a smile, Cheque gave his hand a squeeze before he looked from the mausoleum to the exit of the cemetery, his question obvious: you’re not staying here all night, right?

“I’m not going to be here for much longer,” de la Cruz said, very slowly, and crouched down, reaching to brush back Cheque’s hair. Had she been a bit older, Socorro would have recognized his expression for what it was - that of a man who knows he’s looking at someone for the very last time. But she did not, and neither did Cheque.

In the end, de la Cruz stood. “Now go back before someone comes looking for you. I'd like to avoid a broken skull,” he added, looking at Socorro. He didn’t scowl or anything; his gaze had the distant cast of someone whose mind is miles away. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention my presence. I just... want some peace. Nothing more.”

Cheque nodded and then he was off, with Diablo and Socorro in tow. When they got to the entrance of the cemetery, however, Socorro paused for a moment to look back, towards the decaying mausoleum. In the dark, she could barely make out the shape of a man picking up something from the ground - it was a bottle, the one he’d dropped - and bringing it to his mouth, emptying it in one gulp before he discarded it and walked, silently, into his tomb.

It was sad and somewhat creepy, but in the end it was nothing she could do much about - and besides, she had little time to be with Cheque and her family from the Land of the Dead. It was all that she would get for another year, and she wanted to make every moment count. Socorro Rivera turned away from the cemetery and ran after her best friend, towards the light and warmth of her home.

***

One hour to dawn.

Last time that thought had crossed his mind, precisely a year earlier, he was sitting in a filthy alley in the Land of the Dead, thinking that it was all finally over. He’d been wrong then, but not now for sure. One hour, and the sun would rise to turn him to dust; then it would truly be over, with no Héctor Rivera coming to disturb him. A quiet and lonely end, a far cry from what his first death had been like... but as long as it was equally painless, it didn’t matter at all.

He’d even gotten to see fireworks one last time, from one of the windows, a few hours earlier. The noise made the constant throb in his skull even worse, but the spectacle had been worth the spikes of pain. At that point, all that was left for him to wish for before the Final Death claimed him was one last drink. A stiff one.

We’ll wait until midday before we have that drink. If you’re still around by then, drop by.

He wouldn’t cross back, though, so no drink for him. Huddled on the floor of his tomb, Ernesto let his gaze wander from his portrait - that, at least, had not been vandalized - to the marble sarcophagus that held his remains. He’d never known what his body had looked like after being crushed by the bell, but he supposed it must have been a gruesome sight; at least now there would be no mess to clean up. Only dust and then, hopefully, oblivion.

And a boy who’d look for him to give him some pan de muerto, but would never find him.

The thought was sudden as it was chilling, cutting through his bleak thoughts like a shard of glass. Somehow, it was worse than the thought of letters going unanswered. Ernesto wrapped the coat more tightly around himself, and looked up.

The mount were the guitar used to be was empty, but it was no surprise. It had never been his guitar; of course the Riveras had reclaimed it, like they’d reclaimed everything else. He wished he could go back to hating them for it, wrapped up in his comforting delusions, but-- my fault my fault it was all my fault --that was no longer an option. Some mark he’d left in the world, some legacy. They had his great-great-grandson too, now, and that was for the best. He would forget him, in time.

Forget you.

He will not.

No, of course he would not. He knew that he wouldn’t. Diablo can lead me to you again, he’d written, but he couldn’t, not... wherever he was going. How long would the boy keep looking for him before he figured out what had happened? Would he figure it out at all, or just assume he’d walked away - one more person to leave him behind? What would he think? Would he be saddened? Angry? Both? It didn’t matter either way, it didn't matter at all.

Except that it did. In the smoking ruin of his existence, it suddenly seemed the only thing that mattered. He should have written to him, he should have tried to explain; he could have posted a letter right before crossing. But it was too late now, too late to do anything but sit and wait, and so much for seizing his moment. He wondered, faintly, how quickly he would fade. Would the first toll of the morning bell be the last thing he heard when dawn broke?

It should be, he thought. I’ve got a theme going on here.

Inside the silent mausoleum, his echoing laughter sounded like it belonged into the padded cell of a madman. It almost covered the sound of barking as three tiny dogs began nosing and pawing at the closed entrance, whining with growing urgency and then howling. Almost.

Ernesto de la Cruz did hear them but, as much as he ached to go to them, he forced himself not to turn. He shut his eyes and tried to block out the noise, burrowing his face in hands, the pain in his skull growing worse the louder they howled. He soon slumped on his side to curl up in the dust, clutching his head, shuddering with something that was not laughter anymore.

In the east, slowly, the sky began to brighten.

***

Oh yeah there's also a cliffhanger. I apologize for that too.

***

[Back to Part 13]

[On to Part 15]

#coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #socorro rivera #miguel rivera #down to dust

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