by Diana Lopez
Victoria doesn’t skip a beat. “Well?” she asks them. “Did you see Miguel up there? Any hints about his whereabouts?”
“No,” both skull-heads say in unison.
Then one says, “It’s going to take a while to figure out who’s who.”
“Even now,” responds the other, “I can’t tell whether I’m Oscar or Felipe.” A couple of hands flick off the skulls’ fedoras and scratch their heads as they try to work out the puzzle of their mixed-up bones.
A few minutes later, Mamá Imelda steps in and spots the twins, only half assembled. “What is going on?!” she demands, but she doesn’t let them answer. “Never mind. Get yourselves together so we can find Miguel. He’s not here. Pepita picked up his trail again, and you’re not going to like where it goes.”
As Héctor leads Miguel and Dante down a stairway, Miguel looks at his hand, turning it palm up and then palm down. It’s getting bonier, and it seems to have a soft glow around it. Part of him is amazed, but most of him is frightened. Time’s passing, and little by little, he’s transforming from a living boy into a skeleton. He shudders as he recalls the last thing he said before leaving the hacienda: I don’t want to be in this family! If he doesn’t get back before sunrise, that’s the last thing his parents will remember. It will break their hearts, and his heart, too.
He glances around. The stairway is steep and seems to lead into a dark shadowy place. Soon the bright lights of de la Cruz’s tower disappear behind old buildings, all in disrepair.
“How much farther?” Miguel asks.
“What, you in a hurry?”
“I’m turning into a skeleton!”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Héctor glances at Miguel, who is inspecting his bony knuckle. “We’re almost to your guitar,” Héctor says. “Then you can perform your way to your great-great-grandpa. I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”
Héctor jumps past the last few steps, his torso going first and the bones of his arms and legs following and reconnecting to his body one at a time.
“Keep up, chamaco. Come on!”
Miguel hops over the last steps, too, and finds himself in a shanty town. Instead of the colorful lights that brightened the upper part of the city, campfires cast flickering shadows across sooty buildings. The ground is littered with crushed soda cans, shattered tequila bottles, torn candy wrappers, and burnt-out matches. The buildings look abandoned, their broken windows revealing an even deeper darkness within. They pass a wall of graffiti—an angel falling from the sky with the words Los Olvidados—“The Forgotten.”
This must be the underworld of the underworld, Miguel thinks.
Occasionally, they walk by other skeletons, but instead of gleaming white, their bones are gray and dusty—like Héctor’s. Still, they aren’t sad. When Miguel spots a group of ratty skeletons laughing around a burning trashcan, he recognizes a camaraderie similar to that of his family as they tell jokes around the workshop.
“Cousin Héctor!” the group says when they spot him, and to Dante, they say, “Hola, Pelón!” Dante trots up, yapping happily as if he’s greeting old friends.
“Aay! These guys!” Héctor says, nodding to a man playing a jaunty tune on a makeshift violin. Miguel guesses it’s made from discarded cabinet doors, twine, and coffee cans, with a bow that looks like a pool cue snapped in two. It’s roughly cobbled together, but Miguel admires it because it reminds him of his own makeshift guitar.
“Hey, Tío!” Héctor says. “Your D string is sounding a little sharp.”
“That’s ’cause it’s a piece of barbed wire!”
They laugh, Miguel joining in.
“Cousin Héctor!” the ratty group cheers.
“Hey!” Héctor says, waving goodbye.
“These people are all your family?” Miguel asks.
“Ahheh, eh, in a way,” Héctor says. “We’re all the ones with no photos on ofrendas, no family to go home to. Nearly forgotten, you know?” He takes a few steps before continuing. “So, we all call each other cousin, or tío, or whatever. A pretend family’s better than none at all, right?”
“I don’t know,” Miguel says. “Sometimes it’s better not to have a family.”
“You can’t be serious. Why would you think such a thing?”
“Sometimes your family gets in the way,” Miguel explains. “Sometimes they keep you from following your heart.”
Héctor stops mid-stride. Then he turns to face Miguel straight on. “Let me tell you something, chamaco. When I follow my heart, guess where it leads.”
Miguel shrugs.
“It leads to my family.”
“If that’s true, then why are you alone?”
For a moment, Héctor seems to get a shade paler, and Miguel regrets his words. He’s not trying to hurt Héctor’s feelings. He just wants Héctor to understand how he feels about his dreams. He’s about to apologize, but then Héctor recovers and cheers up.
“Who says I’m alone?” he says, tousling Miguel’s hair. “I’ve got you, this little pelón dog, and all these primos in Shantytown.”
He moves along, Miguel and Dante following. Eventually they find three viejitas playing cards around a wooden crate. A flashlight illuminates the game, but the battery’s weak. When the bulb blinks off, the ladies shake it till it flicks back on. Soon, Miguel thinks, the battery will go out completely.
“Héctor!” one of the ladies says.
“Tía Chelo! He-hey!”
He hands them a bottle of tequila. They open it and take sips, passing it along. “Muchas gracias!”
“Hey,” Héctor says. “Save some for me!” He examines the cards on the crate for a moment, and when the flashlight blinks out again, he shakes it for them. “Is Chicharrón around?”
“In the bungalow,” Tía Chelo says. “I don’t know if he’s in the mood for visitors.”
“Who doesn’t like a visit from Cousin Héctor?”
The ladies chuckle, pass around the bottle again, and hand it back to Héctor. He nods a goodbye, and Miguel follows him into an alley with tarps and cardboard boxes lining the walls. About halfway down, Héctor stops before a tent, holds open the flap that serves as a door, and gestures for Miguel and Dante to go inside.
Miguel shivers, because the tent looks haunted. I’m in the Land of the Dead, he reminds himself. Of course it’s haunted.
He steps inside, where it’s damp and quiet. As Miguel’s eyes adjust to the darkness, he sees piles everywhere—stacks of mismatched dishes, a drawer full of pocket watches ticking out of sync, magazines, records, hubcaps, and deflated pelotas de fútbol. This place belongs to a collector, the stacks like miniature versions of the skyscrapers that make up the Land of the Dead. Miguel bumps into one. It teeters a bit but doesn’t fall.
Héctor pours the tequila into two shot glasses. Then he heads to a hammock covered with a pile of old trinkets, a dusty hat on top, and when he lifts it, a grumpy face glares back at him.
“Buenas noches, Chicharrón!” he says.
“I don’t wanna see your stupid face, Héctor.”
“C’mon. It’s Día de los Muertos! I brought you a little offering!”
“Get out of here.”
“I would, Cheech, but the thing is,” he gestures toward Miguel, “me and my friend here, Miguel, we really need to borrow your guitar.”
“My guitar?”
“I promise we’ll bring it right back.”
Chicharrón bolts up, the pile of trinkets falling off the hammock. “Like the time you promised to bring back my van?” he asks, incensed.
“Uh…” Héctor says.
“Or my mini-fridge?”
“Ah, you see…uhhh…”
“Or my good napkins? My lasso? My femur?!”
“No,” Héctor says, “not like those times.”
For a moment, Miguel thinks Chicharrón is going to swat Héctor with his femur. Instead he raises a finger to give a tongue lashing, but before he can say another word, he slumps weakly and coll
apses back into the hammock, a golden flicker flashing through his bones.
Héctor rushes forward. “Whoa, whoa! You okay, amigo?”
“I’m fading,” Chicharrón says. “I can feel it.” He glances at his guitar. “I couldn’t even play that thing if I wanted to.”
Héctor’s eyes dart from Chicharrón to the guitar. “Well, since you’re not using it.” He reaches for the instrument.
“Héctor,” Miguel says, “maybe you shouldn’t.” He really wants the guitar, but not like this. He can tell that Chicharrón’s sick, that the guitar gives him comfort.
“Shh, shh, shh, shh,” Héctor whispers. Then he tunes the guitar, and to Chicharrón, he says, “Any requests, my friend?”
“You know my favorite, Héctor.”
Héctor plays a few opening notes and starts a lovely, lilting tune. Chicharrón nods to the beat and smiles. Meanwhile, Héctor begins to sing a silly song about a girl named Juanita. Miguel stares at him in amazement. Héctor is a musician?
When Héctor gets to a funny part of the song, he pauses to glance at Miguel, his hands still strumming. He adjusts the lyrics.
“Those aren’t the words!” Chicharrón says.
“There are children present,” Héctor explains before continuing with the final verse.
He holds on to the last syllable and then finishes with a soft flourish on the guitar. Miguel is surprised. This guy has talent!
He can tell Chicharrón thinks so, too. The old man is tickled and joyful with no sign of the grumpy face that had greeted them a few minutes before. For a moment, he seems healed and fully alive. “Gracias,” he says. Then he closes his eyes, at peace.
Suddenly, the edges of Chicharrón’s bones begin to glow with a soft, beautiful light. Then…he dissolves into dust.
Miguel shakes his head and rubs his eyes, as if to double-check what he just saw. But Héctor doesn’t seem surprised. He looks at the empty space—first with sadness and then with respect. He picks up a shot glass, lifts it in Chicharrón’s honor, and drinks. Then he places it, rim down, next to Chicharrón’s glass, which is still full.
“Wait,” Miguel says, “what happened?”
“He’s been forgotten,” Héctor sighs. “When there’s no one left in the living world who remembers you, you disappear from this world. We call it the Final Death.”
“Where did he go?” Miguel asks.
Héctor shakes his head. “No one knows.”
Miguel considers this. When he first arrived in the Land of the Dead, he was pleased to learn that his departed ancestors were still out there, enjoying themselves and having new adventures. He can’t believe they’ll completely disappear someday. That’s why the pictures on the ofrenda are so important, he realizes. All these years, he put them up without questioning why, a mindless habit. Now, for the first time, he’s truly grasping the significance of his family’s traditions.
All these piles in Chicharrón’s tent, they were a desperate attempt to hold on to life, but no amount of stuff can equal a loved one’s memory.
“But I’ve met him,” Miguel says about Chicharrón. “I could remember him, when I go back.”
“No, it doesn’t work like that, chamaco.”
“Why not?”
“Our memories,” Héctor explains, “they can only be passed down by those who knew us in life. In the stories they tell about us. But there’s no one left alive to pass down Cheech’s stories.” His voice is full of remorse, and Miguel realizes why he’s so desperate to cross the Marigold Bridge.
“You’re about to be forgotten, too, just like Chicharrón.”
Héctor nods and sighs heavily, but then he puts a reassuring hand on Miguel’s. “Hey,” he says, his old cheerful self again, “it happens to everyone eventually.” He gives Miguel the guitar. “C’mon, de la Cruzcito. You’ve got a contest to win.”
Héctor throws aside the curtain and exits. Before heading out, Miguel glances at the shot glasses—one empty, the other full. Now he’s got two reasons to return home—to save himself from turning into a skeleton, and to save his friend from turning into dust.
On the other side of Shantytown, the Riveras tiptoe down the dark stairway. When they reach the bottom, they take a minute to observe their surroundings.
“You’re right,” Papá Julio says to Mamá Imelda. “I don’t like where this trail has taken us.”
“It’s so gray,” Tío Felipe says.
“And dusty,” adds Oscar.
Tía Victoria runs her finger along a wall. It’s black with soot when she turns it over.
“I was hoping to avoid this place for many years to come,” Mamá Imelda says.
Papá Julio turns back to the stairs. “Good idea. Why don’t we avoid it right now? It’s…it’s…it’s haunted! And you know me, I’m scared of ghosts.”
“You are a ghost,” Tía Rosita says.
“Well, then,” he replies, “I guess that makes me scared of myself.”
Pepita roars to get their attention. Her colors are even more brilliant against the gloomy background.
“What is it?” Mamá Imelda asks. “Have you found Miguel’s trail?”
Pepita exhales, but when the cloud of breath floats away, it reveals nothing. She lifts her nose to the sky and sniffs around, but she fails to catch Miguel’s scent.
“Maybe he isn’t here?” Papá Julio says, one foot on the stairs.
“No, no, no,” Mamá Imelda says. “He’s near. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Then why can’t Pepita find his footsteps or catch his scent?”
“Because,” she explains, “this is the land of the forgotten. Nothing here lasts for very long.”
“Including us,” Papá Julio says. “That’s why we should leave right now.”
She ignores him. “We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way, by using our own tracking skills.” She looks to the right, then left. She hushes everyone and closes her eyes to listen. “I hear”—she turns her head slightly—“music. And if I know Miguel, that’s where he went.”
She leads the way, the other Riveras and Pepita following. As the music gets louder, Tía Victoria and Tía Rosita absentmindedly hum along, their feet stepping to the beat. Then Mamá Imelda turns sharply, hands on her hips. “You know the rules.”
“Yes, but we can’t help it,” Rosita says, “because…well…it’s like this. I like making shoes, but I might like it more if I could sing while working.”
“Me too,” Victoria adds, for once agreeing with her aunt.
“Me three,” the uncles say in unison.
Mamá Imelda dismisses them. “That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows that singing while you work hampers productivity.” She stares at them until they all nod in agreement.
The group continues on its way, eventually reaching the ragtag musicians huddled around the burning trashcan. When they see the family, they stop singing, mid-note, and the lead musician says, “Buenas noches.”
“Hola,” the Riveras say in unison.
He tips his hat. “And how may we help you? You are amazingly”—he hunts for a word—“solid for this part of town.” He and his friends glance at their own bones for contrast. Not only are they dusty and brittle, but they are also slightly transparent.
Mamá Imelda says, “We’re looking for—”
“You look familiar,” the musician interrupts. “I’ve seen your picture. Where did I see it?” He snaps his fingers a few times as he tries to remember.
Mamá Imelda shrugs it off. “You probably saw my picture on an advertisement. My whole family is famous for making shoes. Riveras make the best shoes in both the Land of the Living and the Land of the Dead.”
“Famous shoemakers, eh? Perhaps you can help us out. We haven’t had a good pair in many years.” The ragtag musicians lift their feet. Sure enough, the soles of their shoes hang open.
The uncles lean over to examine. “Too threadbare to fix, but perhaps we can offer some duct tape?” Oscar reaches into a pocke
t and pulls out a roll.
The leader takes it. “Pos, it will have to do.” He starts wrapping duct tape around his shoe and repeats his earlier question. “And how may we help such fine, solid-looking people like yourselves?”
“We’re searching for a boy,” Mamá Imelda says. “Have you seen him?”
“He’s with a little Xolo dog,” Rosita adds.
“Sí, sí, with Pelón.” He hands the duct tape to another musician, and he points. “They went that way.”
“Gracias, gracias,” the family says as they head off in that direction.
A few minutes later, they hear the musicians singing again, but soon the voices fade away. Then they pass a crate with a dead flashlight and a haphazard arrangement of cards. They also pass a campfire in the middle of the street. It has a grill with a can of beans bubbling over. When a letter flies by, Victoria catches it. “Dear…” it says, and nothing more. They turn into an alley and observe a rocking chair with a half-finished mitten on the seat.
“Ay, los pobrecitos,” Tía Rosita says. “They turned to dust right in the middle of knitting or playing cards or heating beans.”
“I wonder what this letter was going to say,” Victoria adds, turning it over.
“We’ll never know,” Rosita says. “It’s like an unfinished story.”
Oscar says, “I would hate to experience the Final Death—”
“Right in the middle of making shoes,” Felipe finishes.
“I want my Final Death to be just like my first one,” Papá Julio says. “With Coco by my side.”
There’s a moment of silence as they remember Coco. Then Mamá Imelda whispers, “Listen.” She turns her head this way and that. “I hear flapping.” She follows the sound, eventually arriving at Chicharrón’s tent, the loose curtain swaying in the wind.
The family enters, sidestepping around the piles.
“Look at all these wonderful items,” Rosita says.
“You mean, junk,” Victoria says.
“Oh, no,” Rosita says. She points to a stack of newspaper. “I could use those for giftwrap, and those”—she points to a pile of hubcaps—“can be for giant wind chimes. And—”
