Fiesta Moon (14 page)

“Here I am, Soledad,” Mark called.

The housekeeper emerged just as Toto, who recognized the voice of the hand that fed him, found her. “Where have you been, you little bad pig?”

“I've looked all around the yard, Soledad . . .”

Clad in a somber dark blue dress, Corinne broke off as she entered the hall from the kitchen and saw Mark, Soledad, and the missing pig. “Well, well, did you two enjoy your night on the town?”

Sinking, sinking . . . there was no wiggle room. He'd messed up big time.

Juan Pedro stumbled to Soledad's side, staring at the pig with confusion. “Oh,
sí,
Señorita Diaz,” he assured Corinne, rumpled hat in hand. “We enjoyed us very much,
gracias.”

Sunk.

Instead of acknowledging the electrician, Corinne swept past the two men as though she could wish them away. But on reaching the door of her bedroom, she froze with a gasp that took in enough breath to fill a hot-air balloon.

“What—”

“I know, I slept on your new bed,” Mark said, heading after her before she exploded. “It's not that big a deal. I left the plastic covers on.” Of course he couldn't account for what the pig had done.

Straight-arming the doorjamb to steady himself, he paused, a snicker sneaking up on him at the scene he witnessed. Soledad incinerated the penitent electrician with her dark gaze, dodging a hungry, grunting pig that nearly knocked her legs out from under her, while Corinne stood, mouth agape at the possibility of pig doo-doo in her new bedroom.

“Mark?” His name rolled off her lips.

Red, just like the temptress in his dream.

“Mark . . .” It faltered this time, staggered, not by anger, but a trepidation that banished the scant humor he'd dabbled with.

What had they done?
he wondered, sparing a glance at Toto, who had also picked up on the alarm in Corinne's voice.

Mark followed her gaze and froze in disbelief. Scrawled across the wall over the bed was a warning.
Leave or be witched.
The
leave
and one letter of the
or
had been spray painted. The rest was some sort of chalk or—

Mark approached the bed and rubbed his fingers over the plastered wall. Wax came off under his fingernail.
Crayon
?

“
Madre de Dios!
” Soledad prayed, crossing herself. “We must get Father Menasco
imediatamente
.”

“
Calme, calme,
Soledad.” Mark turned to Corinne. “What does
be witched
mean? Is it like
bewitched?”

“It means that you have been cursed, señor.” Behind Soledad, Juan Pablo made the sign of a cross over his chest.

“Oh, Señor Mark, your hair.”

Before Mark knew what she was about, the housekeeper picked at the back of Mark's head. A glance at the mirror revealed that someone had cut a chunk of his hair.

“Aw, man, that ruined a good cut,” he complained to his image. Aside from the bad hair, his eyes were red with pockets under them deep enough to carry water. His clothes were rumpled from being slept in, and he didn't even want to imagine what he smelled like after spending most of the evening in a bar without smoke filters.

“The witch collects for her dolls, for to do you harm.”

That drew Mark's attention from his condition. “Don't be ridiculous, Soledad. Someone is trying to scare us.”

“Your liquor-dulled brain might not have enough sense to be rattled,” Corinne said, “but I'm certainly unnerved.”

In other circumstances, Mark might have infused more indignation in his voice. Instead, his scorn was tepid, so as not to anger the gods of thunder in his head. “I don't believe in witches or ghosts.”

“Neither do I.” Corinne crossed her arms, brushing at the gooseflesh pimpling her skin. “But someone sneaked in here while you were in your drunken stupor, wrote on the wall, and cut your hair.” She glanced at Toto, who was circling Soledad's feet, rubbing against the woman's legs like a cat. “And they probably let the pig out.”

When she looked at Mark again, disappointment, even hurt, grazed her expression. “Somehow I thought . . . I hoped,” she corrected, “that you would be different.”

The look reached deep beyond Mark's defenses, tugging at the most vulnerable need he had, one he'd never admit to, no matter how it pained him. The need to be needed . . . and trusted.

“Wait . . .” Mark started after her as she turned to leave. “Where are you going?”

“To get ready to leave for Enrique's funeral.”

The funeral. Mark had forgotten. He glanced at his watch and groaned. He'd had a full day, and it was only 7:00 a.m. There was no going back to bed after this, he thought, overriding the protest of his remaining mind and body over the decision. Besides, there was something he had to do. It wouldn't get him out of the proverbial doghouse, but it might bring a little joy into what otherwise promised to be a miserable day.

It was hot and dry in Enrique and Antonio's village of Flores when the entourage from Mexicalli arrived, Father Menasco's small sedan followed by Corinne's SUV. Business as usual had stopped for the celebration; at least it would appear a celebration to those unfamiliar with the customs.

Yet, due to Lorenzo Pozas's uneasiness with the church, this observance broke with tradition. Instead of having the wake the night prior to the service at the village chapel and the procession for the interment, a short one was to be held before the ceremony at the man's home.

Like most of the homes clustered in and about Flores, it was a single-story adobe, dingy white, its tiled roof overgrown with vegetation. Corinne had visited similar ones in Mexicalli, sparsely furnished. An old box spring covered with boards might serve as a bed for the parents, with
petate
mats that were rolled up during the day serving as beds for the children on the earthen floor at night. And for all their want, the inhabitants were usually happier and more eager to share what they had than were many of Corinne's acquaintances back home, who lived in expensive homes, drove nice cars, and wanted more.

Enrique's paternal uncle proved the exception. Compact as the concrete barrier barrels along the turnpikes back home and with about as much personality, Lorenzo Pozas was anything but glad to offer hospitality. He welcomed them with a few clipped English words, did an abrupt turn, and motioned for the village musicians to strike up the
jarabe,
a folk dance for the amusement of the
angelito
in the brown box coffin.

Corinne recognized them as the same group who had played at the fiesta of St. John in Mexicalli.

A man in a brightly colored serape proceeded to dance and frolic to the music, making himself appear tall by putting a clay jar on his head as he portrayed a folk character for the benefit of two other guests—a couple on the maternal side of the family whom Soledad said were the godparents of the boys. But it was the attending children who cackled as he pulled one comical face after another, and stumbled about as though one of his legs had suddenly turned to water.

Freshly showered, shaved, and dressed, Mark still looked the worse for wear from his night at the Cantina Roja. He nudged Corinne. “What's the deal here? It's sounds more like the cantina than a funeral.” Although he wore concealing sunglasses over the bloodshot eyes she'd seen earlier, his face was still drawn, undoubtedly caught in the jaws of a hangover headache. He deserved every beat of it.

“Since Enrique died so young,” Soledad answered at Corinne's hesitation, “we are providing the amusement of the childhood years that he will miss.”

As they watched, the man removed the jar from his head, adjusted his serape, and crouched over in another role—a bent crone with a broken walking stick.

Corinne had heard of the custom, but at the moment she wasn't in a talkative mood—particularly when it came to Mark. While he had showered and dressed, she'd called Capitán Nolla to the scene of the crime, informed Father Menasco, who could do no more than she with the funeral pending, and then hurriedly freshened up.

If only Mark had been sober, he might have caught the culprit who had vandalized her room with the threatening message. If he wanted to waste away his life, so be it. It surprised Corinne that he had even managed to pull himself together in time to leave for Enrique's funeral, much less had time for Soledad to even up the sandy hair that had once curled over his collar.

But he had, a voice reminded her, for the sake of the grieving boy at her elbow. Didn't that count for something?

Yes,
she argued against herself, lest the fortification around her senses weaken. But his motive was guilt. Plain and simple guilt.

The music ended, signaling the time for the service. Corinne held her breath, uncertain what to expect as Tío Lorenzo opened the lid of the coffin. Usually it was left open so that attendees could view the
angelito
, but in this case, the body barely had been recognizable. When Corinne saw that the child's remains had been covered with a blanket, she gave a sigh of relief.

While Lorenzo watched, puffed with self-importance as the host, the mourners walked in a single line by the bier, dropping in flowers or small toys, continuing an age-old Indio tradition carried over into their Christianized ways—of sending things that the deceased might need on the way to life in heaven. Waiting until the last, Antonio left Corinne's side with a small jar of water. She walked with Antonio to the bier that held the small paint-gilded coffin. Chin trembling, Antonio put the container inside.

“Now you can help the angels water the flowers in heaven, Enrique.” The bravado that the boy had tried to maintain gave in to a sob that strangled his voice as he added, “And give
mamá y papá
for me a kiss.”

The uncle grabbed the boy's arm with a harsh whisper about men not crying, but Antonio reached for Corinne's hand as though avoiding the devil himself. As she enfolded the crying boy in her arms, Lorenzo glared over Antonio's head, the cold blade of his stare sending a shiver up Corinne's spine. Lips pressed thin and white with contempt, he closed the lid, so hard that Antonio and Corinne started.

“Nine
niños
, he has,” Soledad whispered to Corinne as two men fastened it.

The large size of most families was a primary reason for relatives to decline becoming guardians for other children. Most of the time they could hardly support their own. But with Lorenzo, Corinne didn't think it would matter if the man had been childless. Nor, given the personality she'd seen in his eyes—which were said to be the gateway to the soul—would she even want to place a child in his custody.

Not that Antonio's custody was at risk, with the English couple making arrangements to adopt him.
Thank You, Lord, for Your light in these dark times.

As the men stepped away from the bier, the godmother draped a pink and blue–checked cloth over the little brown box, after which Soledad placed a wreath of fresh flowers and ribbons at its head. In the distance, the church bells tolled the death knell, timed with the opening of the service by Father Menasco as the guest priest.

Corinne dug some tissues from her pocket, taking one and passing the package to Antonio, who blew his nose almost as loud as the bells.

At the end of the
rosarios
, or prayers, four of the village men took the coffin up on their shoulders for the trek to the cemetery. Once again the musicians struck up a tune, one more reverent than the
jarabe
music. Women carrying small jars of burning
copal
—the Mexican version of frankincense—followed, laying a scented trail for the rest of the mourners through the narrow cobbled street. The village priest began to sing a repetitive prayer for the dead child and was soon joined by the others.

A colorful combination of music, mourning, and prayer, the procession marched to the cemetery next to the village church on the outskirts of town. Soledad explained that this church had replaced the original one in the center of town after a fire ten years earlier.

“And just as well,” the housekeeper confided behind the cover of her hand. “For the cemetery in the old was full . . . and this is so beautiful for the angels to look upon.”

She pointed to Lago Flores, where the morning sun cast light like a shower of confetti from the glittering water's surface. It was almost impossible to see the flowering hyacinth flotillas for which the lake had been named.

“
Recibe, Jesús, recibe. Recibe, Jesús, recibe. Recibe el niño tan pura y lindo. Y mis oraciónes con el. Y mis oraciónes con el
,” the group sang as they approached the freshly dug grave.

“Receive, Jesús, receive,” Corinne sang along, soft and low, falling into ranks with her Mexicalli friends on the side of the bier where Father Menasco stood. “Receive this child so pure and beautiful, and our prayers with him. And our prayers with him.”

As the group finished the final “Amen,” she heard a deep male voice conclude with her, and turned to see Mark Madison standing on the other side of Antonio, holding the boy's hand. Folded under Mark's other arm was a paper bag. Her first thought, that he'd have the nerve to bring liquor along, was quickly negated by the shape of the package. Besides, for all her disgust with him, Mark wasn't
that
bad.

As the village priest began a final prayer for the boy, Corinne studied the iron set of Mark's jaw from behind the screen of her sunglasses. His profile was the kind that sold books: strong, decidedly masculine. Yet, even though she couldn't quite put a finger on it, there was something vulnerable in the way he stared straight ahead through his designer shades, watching Tío Lorenzo lead his family by the grave to toss handfuls of dirt upon the coffin in the bottom.

The musicians, who'd found shelter under a tree nearby, continued with music for the graveside ceremony. The formalities over, men finished covering the grave while others handed out mugs of hot tequila and cigarettes to the guests. While Father Menasco bade his good-bye to the village priest, other guests thanked Corinne and the staff from the orphanage for joining them.