by Diana Lopez
Soon the whole family was at her side.
“What happened?”
“We heard you scream.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes,” she assured them. “It was just a little tumble.”
Then her mother’s cat trotted up and sniffed the shoes, bringing them to Mamá Imelda’s attention.
“What were you doing?” Mamá Imelda asked.
“I was just, um…um…stretching my legs.”
“How were you stretching your legs?”
The breeze brought the sound of music from a neighboring hacienda, and Mamá Imelda scoffed. “Music!” Then a glimmer of realization crossed her face. “Were you dancing?”
Coco had no choice but to confess. “Yes, but I was dancing alone, and only after a few hours in the workshop. I wasn’t neglecting my duties. Just stretching my legs, like I said. I wasn’t hurting anybody.”
“But you hurt yourself,” Mamá Imelda said, pointing at the scrape on Coco’s arm and the bruise appearing on her ankle.
Coco winced. The pain was getting intense. She’d have to ice her foot and keep it elevated for a few days.
Then she spotted her daughters. They weren’t crying, but they were about to—especially Elena, with her pursed lips and furrowed brow.
“What’s the matter, m’ijas?” Coco asked.
“You’re hurt,” Victoria said, and Elena, beside her, nodded, her face full of worry.
They let loose their tears. Coco beckoned to them, and they ran to her, falling on their knees for a group hug. She stroked their hair, trying to calm their sobs, and that’s when she made a vow to herself. She would never dance again, for as much as she loved music, she loved her family even more.
Miguel hustles down a staircase with Dante, then huddles beneath it to hide. Between the slats, he can see the upper floor where his family is already searching for him. He can tell by Tío Oscar’s gestures that he’s giving a description to a patrolwoman. After taking a few notes, she picks up a walkie-talkie, and Miguel nearly panics.
Breathe in, breathe out, he tells himself, hoping to calm his heartbeat. He can’t hide beneath the stairs forever. Soon enough, his family will come down, and if they catch him, he’ll never find his great-great-grandfather.
He needs an escape route, so he scopes out the area and spies an exit with a revolving door. He pulls up his hood, tightening the drawstring so that only one eye peeks out through the tiny opening.
“Vámonos,” he tells Dante, and they head out. “If I wanna be a musician, I need a musician’s blessing. We gotta find my great-great-grandpa.”
The exit door isn’t far from the staircase, the space crowded with skeletons milling about and showing off the offerings they received from the Land of the Living. Miguel carefully makes his way around them, but with everyone shifting around, it’s like navigating a constantly changing maze. He has to hurry, but if he goes too fast, he’ll draw attention. Twice he has close calls when he bumps into skeletons. Luckily, his hoodie provides a good disguise.
Finally, he gets close to the exit, and he’s almost there when a patrolman stops him.
“Hold it, muchacho.” Miguel looks up and his hoodie loosens to reveal his living face. “Ahh!” the patrolman shrieks.
Then there’s a call on the walkie-talkie, and they hear a woman. “Uhh, we got a family looking for a living boy.”
The patrolman wastes no time. “I got him,” he says.
Miguel’s pulse races again, making him wish that his chest were as hollow as the skeletons’. Surely they can hear the loud thumping of his heart! He doesn’t belong here, but he can’t accept a blessing with conditions. If he does, he’ll never play music again. He’ll be stuck making shoes for the rest of his life just like his primos, his parents, his grandparents, and all his aunts and uncles. He must escape.
Just then, he spots a large family approaching and takes a few sneaky steps to the side, so that when they pass, they’ll create a wall between him and the patrolman.
It works, and the patrolman notices too late. “Uh, whoa. Excuse me. Excuse me, folks!” Miguel backs away as the patrolman deals with the crowd. “I’m at the Eastside exit,” he says into the walkie-talkie. He keeps eye contact with Miguel, but there are still people between them. Then another large crowd arrives. Miguel continues to back away, and when he’s a safe distance, he mischievously waves goodbye before sneaking into a corridor. He glances back and is relieved to discover that, for the moment at least, he’s escaped.
Miguel and Dante hurry down the narrow hall, but then Dante doubles back. “Dante!” Miguel calls. He knows it’s risky to retrace his steps, but he doesn’t want to lose his dog, so he follows. When he catches up, Dante is at a door, sniffing the threshold. “What is it?” Miguel asks. He peeks through, but when he sees an officer inside, he hides just outside the doorway. “Shh!” he tells Dante as he tries to figure out how to escape unseen.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, Héctor impatiently taps his foot. He’s been stuck there for at least half an hour, and he can’t afford to waste more time. He needs to get back to the Marigold Bridge. The Frida Kahlo costume was a fiasco, but perhaps he could try another famous person. Since he’s had bad luck with artists, maybe he could be a celebrated politician or author or telenovela star. But where will he get a disguise on such short notice? He could hide in something other than a raspa cart. A golf bag? Surely his bones are as skinny as golf clubs. Or maybe he could separate himself and hide in several purses. It seems like a good idea, but what if the ladies were to go in different directions? He’d never be able to reassemble himself!
As he brainstorms, the corrections officer reviews a list of offenses. “Disturbing the peace,” the officer drones on, “fleeing an officer, falsifying a unibrow—”
“That’s illegal?” Héctor asks.
“Very illegal. You need to clean up your act, amigo.”
“Amigo?” Héctor says, touched. He has an idea. Perhaps an emotional appeal will get him to the Marigold Bridge. “That’s so nice to hear you say that, because…” He wipes a fake tear from his eye. “I’ve just had a really hard Día de los Muertos, and I could really use an amigo right now.” He takes the corrections officer by the hand and is nearly overwhelmed by emotion.
The officer can barely respond. “I…”
“And amigos,” Héctor continues, “help their amigos. Listen. You get me across that bridge tonight, and I’ll make it worth your while.” He’s not sure how he’ll fulfill the promise until he spies a poster of Ernesto de la Cruz. The officer is a fan. Perfect! thinks Héctor. “Oh, you like de la Cruz? He and I go way back! I can get you front-row seats to his Sunrise Spectacular show!”
“No, no! Oh, no no no no—”
“I’ll…I’ll get you backstage. You can meet him!” Héctor says. “You just gotta let me across that bridge!”
The corrections officer pulls away, disgusted. Whatever pity he felt disappeared the moment Héctor tried to bribe him. “I should lock you up for the rest of the holiday,” he says. “But my shift’s almost up, and I wanna visit my living family. So, I’m letting you off with a warning.”
Héctor stands. “Can I at least get my costume back?”
“No!”
He really wants that Frida Kahlo outfit, but he knows he should leave before the officer changes his mind. “Some amigo,” he scoffs as he marches toward the door.
Miguel steps back just as the tall, lanky skeleton in tattered clothes comes out. Without hesitating, Miguel follows him down the hallway.
“Hey! Hey!” he calls out. “You really know de la Cruz?”
“Who wants to know?” the man says, turning around and shrieking when he spots Miguel. “Ah, ah! You’re alive!”
“Shhh! Shhh!” Miguel says before someone hears. He glances around. So far, the coast is clear, but he can’t take any chances, so he pulls the man into a phone booth.
“Yeah, I’m alive. And if I wanna get back
to the Land of the Living, I need de la Cruz’s blessing.”
“That’s weirdly specific,” the man says.
“He’s my great-great-grandfather.”
“He’s your gr-gr—whha-whaat?!” The man’s jaw begins to dislocate and drop to the floor, but Miguel catches it and pushes it into place. He can’t believe how easily these skeletons fall apart, and this one seems to be falling apart physically and emotionally. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Wait, wait,” the man gasps, turning away. “Wait, no, wait, wait, wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.” Another gasp. “Yes! You’re going back to the Land of the Living?!”
This guy’s got a few screws loose, or rather, ligaments, Miguel thinks. “D’ya know what? Maybe this isn’t such a g—”
The man snaps his fingers quickly, pistons firing. “No, niño, niño, niño. I can help you! You can help me. We can help each other! But most importantly, you can help me.”
He’s definitely loco en la cabeza, Miguel thinks. He peeks out from the phone booth. Bad idea! His family is coming down the staircase! Mamá Imelda spots him and heads his way.
“Miguel!” she calls.
“Ah!” he screeches.
Meanwhile, the skeleton extends his hand. “I’m Héctor.”
“That’s nice,” Miguel says, grabbing Héctor by the wrist and dragging him to the exit, away from Mamá Imelda and the rest of the Riveras.
“There you are!” the patrolman calls.
Miguel speeds up, lifting Héctor’s hand as they run past.
“Found my uncle so we’re all good now!” he explains.
He finally makes it to the revolving doors, zipping through so fast that several skeletons break apart as they slam against the glass. He feels guilty, but he doesn’t have time to apologize as he rushes out. Once he exits Marigold Grand Central Station, he runs down a flight of stairs. When he’s a safe distance away, he realizes that he’s holding Héctor’s arm but missing the rest of him.
“Espérame, chamaco!” Héctor calls. He catches up and says, “Now that’s what I call a dislocated shoulder.”
“Um, sorry,” Miguel says, handing back the arm.
Héctor reattaches it. “So why are you running away so fast?”
“Because I’m…I’m…” Miguel looks down. “I’m wanted by the authorities.”
Héctor shakes his head. “No need to say more. Those guys are always chasing upstanding citizens like you and me.” He starts to lope off, and Miguel follows him into an alley.
“How do you get away from them?” Miguel asks.
“Most of the time, I wear a disguise.” Héctor glances at Miguel. “That’s what you need. A disguise, so you can blend in. Right now, you got all that…all that…” He lifts Miguel’s chin and turns his face left, then right. “All that flesh.” He thinks a moment. “You got any makeup? Face paint? Crayons? Any insects like cochineals?”
“Ugh! Why would I have bugs?”
“Just asking. They’re used for making dye.”
Miguel reaches into his pockets. “Will this work?” he asks, pulling out a couple of tins, one with black shoe polish and another with white.
Héctor inspects it. “Perfect,” he says. Then he points to a crate. Miguel takes a seat, and when Héctor’s bony thumb touches Miguel’s face, he jumps back, afraid that being touched by a skeleton will speed up his own transformation.
“Hey, hey, hold still, hold still!” Héctor quickly applies the polish. Miguel closes his eyes as the skeleton rubs polish onto his forehead and eyelids. Every now and then, Héctor stands back to inspect his work. “Just a touch here,” he says, “and a touch there.” And finally, “Ah, ta-da!” He opens a small mirror and holds it in front of Miguel, who now looks like a skeleton. “Dead as a doorknob,” Héctor says, and then, “So listen, Miguel. This place runs on memories. When you’re well remembered, people put up your photo and you get to cross the bridge and visit the living on Día de los Muertos.” A sad shadow crosses his face. “Unless you’re me.”
“You don’t get to cross over?” Miguel guesses.
“No one’s ever put up my picture.” Héctor’s shoulders droop, but then he brightens up. “But you can change all that!” He unfolds an old picture. In it is a young living Héctor. He’s smiling, dimples in both cheeks. He’s got a goatee and round brown eyes that are looking dreamily toward the sky.
“This is you?” Miguel asks.
“Muy guapo, eh?”
“So,” Miguel says, “you get me to my great-great-grandpa, and then I put up your photo when I get home?”
“Yes! Great idea, yes!” Héctor pauses. “One hiccup: de la Cruz is a tough guy to get to, and I need to cross that bridge soon. Like tonight. So, you got any other family here? You know, someone a bit more…eh, accessible?”
“Mmmmm, nope,” Miguel lies. He tries to be convincing, but he must have guilt written all over his face, because Héctor is suspicious.
“Don’t yank my chain, chamaco. You gotta have some other family.”
“Only de la Cruz. Listen, if you can’t help me, I’ll find him myself.” Miguel whistles. “C’mon, Dante.”
He marches out of the alley, Dante padding behind. He’s desperate, but he can tell that Héctor is desperate, too.
“Ugh, okay, okay, kid,” Héctor says. “Fine…fine! I’ll get you to your great-great-grandpa!”
Miguel can’t believe it. He’s finally going to meet his hero, Ernesto de la Cruz, in the flesh—or rather, he thinks with a chuckle, in the bones!
“I had him in my sights!” Mamá Imelda exclaims. “But now he’s nowhere to be found!”
The entire family had followed when she’d chased Miguel to the exit. They’d crammed themselves into the revolving door and it got stuck. Then they’d spent several minutes trying to escape. Luckily, Tío Felipe had a shoehorn in his apron and used it as a crowbar to force open the door. In their rush to get out, they slammed into each other. So now Papá Julio’s and the twin uncles’ bones are scattered about. They busily put themselves back together, Mamá Imelda frowning as she impatiently waits.
“Here,” Tía Victoria says, adjusting Papá Julio’s skull.
“I feel whole again,” he says.
“And you?” Mamá Imelda asks her brothers.
They shake their heads at two patellas on the ground. “Which is mine and which is yours?” Tío Oscar asks.
“Well, I’m missing my right patella,” Felipe says.
“I am, too.”
“Mine’s the whiter one. I polished it for the evening celebration.”
“I polished mine, too.”
“Hmm…It’s a conundrum,” Felipe says, “but perhaps it doesn’t matter since we’re identical twins.”
“Of course it matters,” argues Oscar. “You wouldn’t want me to wear your chones or use your toothbrush, would you?”
Felipe squirms, disgusted at the thought of wearing someone else’s underwear.
Mamá Imelda picks up the patellas. “Here,” she says, handing them out. “This one’s yours and this one’s yours.”
Felipe slaps on his kneecap. “Are you sure?”
“Of course she’s sure,” Oscar says. “We’re as different as hammers and mallets.”
“As scissors and saws?” Felipe replies.
“As wood and rubber.”
“As left feet and right feet?”
“As—”
“Quiet!” Mamá Imelda says. “We have bigger worries. Where is Miguel?” She wrings her hands on her apron, distraught.
“Maybe he’s at the food court,” Rosita says. “I bet he’s hungry, with his stomach and intestines. They’re probably making all those hunger noises. Remember when we used to have stomachs that growled? Or maybe he’s at the arcade trying to win a prize. The last time I was there, I won—”
“We can’t stand around guessing where he is,” Victoria interrupts. “We need a plan. We need to find him before he gets hurt.”
“Ay, he is
going to get himself killed,” Mamá Imelda says. She paces a bit, and then she gets an idea. “We need…Pepita.”
“P-P-Pepita?” Papá Julio stutters.
Mamá Imelda lets out a loud whistle as if calling a dog. A few minutes later, a figure sweeps across the sky, momentarily blocking the colorful lights of the city. It lands in a corner and casts its shadow on the wall. Papá Julio’s bones clatter nervously when he spots the silhouette of a giant winged jaguar.
Mamá Imelda smiles. “There you are,” she says sweetly. “Come to Mamá.”
The creature lurches out of the shadows and into the light, baring her teeth as she roars. She’s an imposing jaguar with huge wings and horns atop her head. Her long tail has scales like a dragon’s, and her back feet have talons like a hawk’s. Pepita’s entire body is a rainbow of orange, yellow, red, green, and blue, with decorative dots and stripes. She’s a real, live, giant alebrije, and though she looks frightening, she purrs contentedly when Mamá Imelda reaches up to pet her.
“We need your help, Pepita,” Mamá Imelda says. “My great-great-grandson, Miguel, is lost in the Land of the Dead. Can you help us find him?”
Pepita bows in response. Mamá Imelda holds up a marigold, the same one she used to bless Miguel, and Pepita sniffs it to catch his scent.
“We last saw him here.” She points to the revolving door of the exit. Pepita approaches and sniffs. She somehow catches Miguel’s unique scent amid those of the hundreds of skeletons who pass through each day, and she starts meandering through the square, finally making her way to the dark alley.
“Have you found him, Pepita? Have you found our boy?”
Pepita breathes on the ground, revealing something that glows for a moment. The family leans in to inspect, everyone chiming in:
“A footprint!”
“It’s a Rivera boot!”
“Size seven—”
“And a half.”
“Pronated.”
Mamá Imelda nods. “Miguel.” She strokes Pepita’s chin. “Show us more.”
Pepita leans forward, and the magical glow from her breath reveals a trail of footprints. The family follows. Every now and then, Pepita stops to investigate more closely. Then she finds a wooden crate, lets out a low growl, and turns it over, revealing canisters of shoe polish.
