Mean Streets (24 page)

Bundled up against the chilly morning, we had to shed our coats by the time we were carrying home the third load of the stuff on which Mickey had insisted: colored paper and strings of paper banners; armfuls of flowers; incense cones; food; sweets; candles; tiny toys; papier-mâché skeletons going about their daily business, including one lady called Catrina in an elaborate hat; and a set of combs and brushes for the dead to tidy themselves with, once they arrived for the party. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was enjoying himself, but of course Mickey managed to drag me thither and yon with disgusting amounts of energy, while still slouching, glowering, and shooting barbed comments, though almost none of them were now directed at me. I bought him a sugar skull with his name on it as a birthday present, getting a twisted, uncertain smile in return.

Iko followed us back and forth, barking and running through the stalls, playing with skeleton children and chasing skeleton rats. The odors of food and flowers and cones of copal incense waiting to be burned mingled with the odor of wet streets and warm bodies. Color rose in dust devils from the power grid of the Grey and spun off Mickey’s shape like the golden spines of a religious icon. I felt light-headed and found it difficult to tell the Grey from the real, if not for the hard shapes of skulls and bones where I would normally expect flesh. More than once I excused myself to a specter after stepping on it and each time they nodded to me as any living person would. Mickey stared at me with a strange yearning expression that disappeared under the glower as soon as he noticed my attention.

I wasn’t sure this crazy plan was going to work, but it was the best thing either of us had come up with. And frankly, it was nice to get out of the guesthouse before the smells of food overwhelmed me. Mercedes Villaflores and her daughters had been cooking since before dawn, starting with the
pan de muerto
—traditional loaves of bread that smelled of orange and spices and had dough bones crossed on top. By the time I’d gotten up, there’d already been half a dozen of them set on the patio counter to cool; excess seemed to run in the family.

After our shopping, Mickey dropped me off at the cemetery in San Felipe del Agua to clean the grave site, promising to come back with the ofrenda supplies later. Then he dashed back down the hill to join his family for their own work party. As I crossed the cemetery gate, Iko the ghost dog appeared and followed me to Hector Purecete’s plot, making scent-led loops and discursions across the path as we went.

The morning was giving way to afternoon and in the thin air at fifty-five hundred feet, the sun warmed the graveyard and set the odors of earth and work, flowers and food toward the blue crown of the heavens above. Iko performed an inspection of the site and gave it his doggy approval as I rolled up my sleeves and began clearing weeds, hearing the chatter of others working at family plots, or setting up vendor booths in the square and street nearby. Some musicians started practicing in the distance, serenading our labors in fits and starts. After a while, the ghost dog hied off to hunt ghost rodents, leaving me alone with the weeds.

A while later, I paused to wipe the sweat off my face and found an old man in a wide-brimmed hat squatting at the edge of my efforts, grinning at me. I had to look hard through the thickened and colorful Grey to be sure he was no ghost, for he looked more like a vision than a man. But that might have been the elevation and my own sleep-deprived brain talking.

He held out a clear glass bottle. “Agua?”

I took the bottle gratefully, muttering my “gracias,” and sipped the warm water. It tasted of deep rock wells.

“I never see a gringa working out here before,” he said, watching me drink.

“Never been here before,” I replied, pushing my clinging hair back and returning the bottle to him.

He put the bottle down, digging its bottom into the dirt I’d softened with my weeding at the edge of the grave. “You come for this man’s angelitos?”

“I don’t know if he had any. Did you know him?”

The dark-tanned old man shook his head. “No. I live here all my life and I never hear of him until they bury him here. And no one comes to this grave for a long time. Until you. Why?”

“A woman named Maria-Luz Arbildo died last week and she wanted me to come here and take care of the grave.”

“Huh. But she never come here. I never see any woman here before.”

“No. She didn’t know where the grave was. I had to find it. You ever heard of her?”

He narrowed his eyes and searched the ground for his memory, brushing pebbles and bits of weed away from the headstone. “No. Antonio Arbildo lived here, long time ago, but he moved away. Old man, then. He get rich, the whole family go to the D.F.—Distrito Federal, Mexico City,” he explained with a nod. “I’m a little boy, then—so tall,” he added, holding his hand up about two feet from the ground, and cackling. He shot an amused glance at me from the corner of his yellowed eyes. The ghost of Iko trotted back from his hunting and threw himself down in the dirt about two feet from the old man with a contented dog sigh. The old man made no comment.

I nodded. Another interesting connection, but not complete. “Are there Arbildos buried in this panteon? Maybe Maria-Luz?”

Again he shook his head, his gnarled stick fingers digging into the ground to pull a weed. “Not her. Some a long time ago,
sí
. Not now.” He pointed to a group of equally abandoned graves nearby. “There.”

Hector Purecete had been buried within sight of the Arbildos of San Felipe, yet it seemed Maria-Luz had never found him on her trips to Oaxaca. But with the two false graves Mickey and I had found, maybe that wasn’t so strange. Of course the Arbildos of San Felipe and those of Mexico City weren’t necessarily the same family, but I doubted it.

I nodded to the old man and got up, unkinking my work-stiff knees and back, to go look at the graves of the Arbildos. The most recent had been buried in 1943. When I got back to Purecete’s grave, the old man was gone, but his water bottle still stood in the soft earth between the gravestone and Iko’s napping form sprawled in the dirt. I looked around for the man. A dozen hats identical to his bobbed in the field of graves, but I couldn’t spot the old man under one. I took another sip of the water and went back to work, thinking Iko had it good.

By two o’clock I’d gotten the weeds cleaned up and the plot squared away. Some helpful live children helped me find stones to replace the missing border around the grave, begging, in return, for
“mi calavera,”
which confused me until Mickey showed up.

He made a face at them and started digging into one of the boxes of ofrenda decorations. “They want these,” he explained, dragging out a box of small sugar skulls, coffins, and lambs we’d purchased in the market that morning. “Like your trick or treat, but with skulls.”

He handed me the box and snapped at the kids to go away as soon as they had their “calavera” in their sticky fists.

“Need to work, here!” he added to me, unfolding a small card table he’d snatched from the guesthouse. “Usually the ofrenda’s at home, but yours will have to be here.”

The ghost dog sat up and watched us work. We got a few odd looks from the humans, too, as we put up the decorations, but no one came to ask what we were doing. Mickey helped me bend long, slender poles into arches over the table and attach them to the legs. Then we put colored paper over it all and hung up the paper banners, which were decorated with punched silhouettes of skeletons dancing, riding bicycles, eating, and generally carrying on. We made patterns on the grave with the marigolds, magenta cockscomb flowers, and greenery, edging it all with white candles in tiny glass jars.

Mickey looked around. “You should go wash while I put out the food—and bring back water in the big bowl for the spirits to wash in, too.”

I shrugged, not minding a pause to clean the dirt and sweat off my face and hands while Mickey took over—he had managed to avoid the really filthy work of weeding, edging, and shoring up the grave, after all. Iko dogged me to a standpipe where a few other people were washing up and filling containers with water for flowers or washing. The old man was standing near the water spigot and grinned at me as I approached.

“It is going well, your ofrenda?”

“I think so. Does it look OK?”

He glanced toward Purecete’s grave. “
Sí
. Is very nice for the angelitos—white is good.”

“Mickey picked the color.”

“Really?” the old guy said, raising his eyebrows. “Surely for him, red is more likely.”

I turned to glance back at Mickey. He did have a lot of red in his aura. . . .

“You mean Mickey?” I asked.

“Your
amigo joven, sí
. So very angry . . .” He shook his head.

I stared at the old man. “What is it about Oaxaca? Is everyone around here tuned in to the freaky frequency?” I asked.

His laugh was like sandpaper. “Only you,
pequeña faisán.
But, you are staying to see the angelitos?”

“Sí,”
I answered, turning back to the immediate task, putting my hands under the cold water that streamed from the pipe, and then throwing several handfuls onto my sticky face. Iko stuck his muzzle into the water and tried to drink it, but I wasn’t sure any was making it down his ghostly throat, no matter how fast his spectral tongue was going. “Maybe it’s not so bad that Mickey’s supposed to be home with his family tonight.”

“Maybe.” The old man nodded. “I also must go tonight, so I bid you
buenas noches
. Dress warm—the night takes the heat away. And give your amigo good wishes from Tío Muñoz, eh?”

“I will,
gracias
,” I replied, filling the washbowl for the spirits of dead children. My hands full, I nodded again to him and turned to head back to the plot, wondering what Mickey was up to.

“Buena suerte,”
the man said with a chuckle as I started off.

I turned my head to look back at him over my shoulder and saw him scratch Iko’s head, smiling. I guess I wasn’t even surprised. Then he turned and walked away, vanishing into the crowd with a golden glitter in his wake. I stood a moment staring after him, not sure what he was; nothing about him seemed ghostly, yet in the mess of the active Grey of Oaxaca, I hadn’t noticed he had no aura. What was he? I frowned, holding the heavy bowl of water. Iko pawed at my knee and barked, prancing impatiently on the path.

I shook off my surprise and walked to rejoin Mickey.

While I’d been gone, Mickey had laid out a small feast of sweets, soda pop, and pan de muerto as well as some more substantial food—all provided by his aunt. Small plastic toys were scattered among the cockscomb flowers that we’d piled up around a stack of empty boxes at the back of the table and an arc of small teacups and saucers surrounded a dish for the copal incense. A dozen more white candles now stood on the boxes. It looked like an album cover for something gothic and creepy.

“Nice, huh?”

“Umm . . . yeah. These ghosts eat a lot. . . .”

Mickey shrugged. “They eat the spirit of the food. My cousins say the food they leave behind has no calories.” He barked a derisive laugh. He pointed to the end of the table. “Put the water, comb, and towel where the hot bottle is.”

I saw a large vacuum flask where he pointed.

“Tía Mercedes made hot chocolate. You can put it on the ground till you need it,” he said. “Pour some for the angelitos after you light the candles and the incense—they should come when they smell it. And there’s a box under the ofrenda with some food and a blanket and stuff for you. Think you can make it?”

“It’s not as cold as a stakeout during a Seattle winter.”

He snorted. “Gonna be empty up here. Most people do this at home.” Mickey gave me an assessing look that clearly found me a bit wanting.

“I think I can handle it,” I said.

Yet another shrug as he started gathering up the excess supplies. “The angelitos come at four and stay until the morning. You’ll have to do it all again tomorrow for the adults, too. I’ll pick you up when the sun comes up.”

“Hey, Mickey, Tío Muñoz says Happy Birthday.”

He jumped back from me. “What?”

“An old man near the water said I should tell you he sends his good wishes.”

He stared at me. “Tío Muñoz?
Mierda!
He’s a legend in my family. He’s a . . . a . . .”

“Ghost? Didn’t look like a ghost. . . .”

Mickey was shaking his head and gathering the excess stuff in a hurry. “No, no. . . . He’s the one—you know: I said about my great-uncle? What’s the word . . . a bad wizard.”

“Warlock?”

He shook his head. “No. . . . Not a
brujo
. He’s . . . a black sorcerer. Undead.” He threw the last of the materials into a box and snatched it up against his chest, eyes wild—which was not what I’d have expected. “I’m going back to Tía Mercedes. You’ll be fine, yeah?”

“Yeah . . . ,” I said, not sure why he was freaking so thoroughly, since his Tío Muñoz wasn’t any kind of undead I knew.

“Yeah, right. OK. I’ll be back for you in the morning. Don’t go talking to Tío Muñoz! Don’t believe what he says!”

Iko and I followed him with the rest of the boxes and loaded them into the Chevy under the weight of Mickey’s red-and-orange brooding. Then we watched him drive away, leaving the ghost dog and me in the emptying panteon as the hour of dead children approached.

The last of the homeward-bound walked out of the gate—two small children in slightly rumpled clothes—strewing a path of marigold petals for the dead. I watched them lay the deep orange line down the road until they disappeared around a bend in a mood of strange solemnity. I walked back to the grave, Iko dancing before me all the way.

The ghost dog seemed more real than ever, if still a bit translucent. As the long shadow of the mountain began to steal the light, that became less apparent, but a new oddity began to show around him: a blue glow like marshlight that flickered over the dog shape and cast it into strange silhouette against the pockets of twilight forming in the cemetery as night crept forward.