by Diana Lopez
The party’s bustling. Groups of skeletons mingle, laughing at jokes or pretending to be scandalized by gossip.
Then someone says, “Look, it’s Ernesto!”
Miguel catches a glimpse of the back of someone who looks like de la Cruz heading deeper into the party. “De la Cruz,” he whispers to himself, awed once again. He follows him up a staircase, but it’s difficult to catch up with all the people around. They seem to part for de la Cruz, closing the gap after he passes and making it more difficult for Miguel to reach him.
“Señor de la Cruz!” he calls, elbowing his way through the room. “Pardon me. Señor de la Cruz! Señor de la—”
It’s useless. Miguel’s lost him in the crowd. Part of him wonders if he’ll ever have a chance to get his great-great-grandfather’s blessing.
He takes a minute to study his surroundings. He’s in a huge circular hall with hundreds of guests, the heart of the party. Waiters carry silver platters with champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. There’s a juggler, a magician, a flutist, a contortionist, and many other performers entertaining. And on the walls, long vertical banners serve as projector screens for clips of de la Cruz’s movies.
On one banner, de la Cruz says, “When you see your moment, you mustn’t let it pass you by. You must seize it.”
On another, he says, “This one has a wise spirit.”
On a third, he portrays a ghostly grandfather: “You will pass down a song of your own, as I have done with you.”
Miguel’s eyes are wide with astonishment. He’s never been in such a fancy place before, but best of all, this hall is like a gigantic version of his secret hideout with all his de la Cruz memorabilia. How wonderful to be around so many others who appreciate de la Cruz as much as he does!
He takes it all in. Synchronized swimmers make formations in a guitar-shaped indoor pool, their swim caps as bright orange as marigolds. A DJ lays a soundtrack, a mariachi mash-up covering decades of the best groups and songs. Meanwhile, the film clips continue to loop on the banners.
“We’re almost there, Dante,” de la Cruz says in another film.
Miguel jumps to see above the crowd, and he thinks he spots him. “Señor de la Cruz! Señor de la—”
He stops, because his favorite clip from Nuestra iglesia is now playing.
Nun: “But what can we do? It is hopeless.…”
De la Cruz as the priest: “You must have faith, Sister.”
Nun: “Oh, but Padre, he will never listen.”
De la Cruz: “He will listen…to music!”
Yes, yes! Miguel tells himself. The passionate words have emboldened him. He knows what he has to do!
He climbs a banner to the landing of a grand staircase and stands above the crowd. Then, remembering his performance earlier, he takes a deep breath and throws out a grito as loud as he can! It echoes through the hall. The party guests turn, the performers freeze, and the DJ even mutes the music.
Now that Miguel has their attention, he strums his guitar. More guests turn, intrigued. A hush falls on the crowd, and soon Miguel’s guitar is the only sound in the room. That is, until he starts singing. Of course, he sings a song by de la Cruz. It’s an upbeat number that talks about music bringing joy and making everyone, even strangers, part of a family.
He continues to play and sing as he nervously steps toward the edge of the staircase landing. Now the crowd is parting for him. Little by little, he gets closer to de la Cruz, repeating the lines about music and family. He passes a movie screen where a clip features the same song, and for a brief moment, his and de la Cruz’s voices overlap.
The crowd is captivated by his talent because he’s singing with all his soul and heart. The world seems to fall away as Miguel continues to sing.
There’s a sudden gasp from the crowd and then—splash! Miguel tumbles into the indoor pool!
Bubbles float around him. Disoriented, he can’t tell which way is down and which is up. Plus, his arms are tangled in the guitar strap! He panics and his flailing only makes things worse. He can’t believe he’s drowning when he was so close to fulfilling his dream!
Suddenly, he feels a firm hand clasping his hoodie and pulling him up. Miguel breaks the surface. He’s coughing, but he’s alive. Someone drags him to the edge of the pool and lifts him out of the water. Then a voice asks, “Are you all right, niño?”
And when Miguel rubs the water from his eyes, he sees that the hero who jumped into the pool and rescued him is none other than…Ernesto de la Cruz!
Miguel wipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket to get a better look, and that’s when he realizes—the water from the pool has washed off his disguise! The crowd gasps and murmurs. De la Cruz’s eyes go wide with shock.
“It’s you,” he says. “You, you are that boy, the one who came from the Land of the Living.”
“You know about me?” Miguel asks.
“You’re all anyone has been talking about! Why have you come here?”
“I’m Miguel. Your great-great-grandson.”
The crowd murmurs again. A thread of excitement, disbelief, and scandal runs through their voices, Miguel’s announcement like a surprising twist in a telenovela.
“I…have a great-great-grandson?” de la Cruz says. At first he seems confused, but then pleasantly surprised.
Miguel nods and gives de la Cruz a moment to let the revelation sink in. Then he says, “I need your blessing so I can go back home and be a musician, just like you.” He pauses because of the eavesdropping people, but he can’t resist saying more. “The rest of our family, they wouldn’t listen. But I…I hoped you would?”
The world seems to pause, waiting for de la Cruz’s answer. Miguel holds his breath. And then, de la Cruz puts a hand on his shoulder. “My boy, with a talent like yours, how could I not listen?”
Miguel beams. He knew de la Cruz…no, Papá Ernesto…would understand! He thinks about all the times his family asked him to give up music, all the disappointment they felt when he dawdled or wasn’t as involved with the shoemaking shop as he could have been, and all the tears he’s cried. He’s struggled so much, but now the struggle is over, because someone—the most important someone!—supports his dream.
De la Cruz embraces Miguel and then sweeps him onto his shoulders. He shows him off to the crowd and they erupt into wild applause. As they parade around, Miguel feels like a fútbol player who has just made the winning goal.
“I have a great-great-grandson!” de la Cruz announces, and the crowd roars again.
Giddy with excitement, de la Cruz barges into the mingling guests and interrupts their conversations with “This is my grandson! Would you like to meet my great-great-grandson? He’s a musician like me!” And, of course, everybody wants to meet Miguel. He shakes hands, poses for pictures, even signs a few autographs. So this is what it’s like to be famous, he thinks. This is what it’s like when the whole world loves you!
They go to the garden, where de la Cruz introduces Miguel to some of Mexico’s most famous celebrities, including Jorge Negrete and Pedro Infante! They ride horses to a field and interrupt a polo match so everyone can admire de la Cruz’s great-great-grandson. Back in the mansion, de la Cruz tells everyone, “He’s alive! And a musician to boot!” And Miguel shows off his fleshy features. “Dimple. No dimple,” he says to a group in the parlor. “Dimple. No dimple.” They’re tickled, because skeletons don’t have dimples. Some of the ladies delightedly poke Miguel’s cheeks. He giggles, unable to believe that a few hours ago, the thought of being poked by skeletal fingers made him cringe.
To show off his entertaining talent, Miguel recites lines in sync with de la Cruz’s characters on the screens.
“To our friendship!” Miguel says, changing his voice so that he sounds like the character Don Hidalgo. “I would move heaven and earth for you, mi amigo. ¡Salud!” He even pretends to take a sip and then to spit it out as another character, de la Cruz as a peasant, says, “Poison!” And when the characters start fighting, M
iguel punches at the air in perfect unison with them.
“You know, I did all my own stunts,” de la Cruz boasts.
Miguel can’t imagine a more talented celebrity. His great-great-grandpa is amazing! He sings, acts, and does stunts!
“Sing! Sing!” the people beg.
So de la Cruz and Miguel start singing “Remember Me,” and soon the whole crowd joins in. Everyone loops arms and sways to the music as they enter the ofrenda room. Once inside, the crowd oohs and aahs at the opulence. Miguel gasps. This isn’t an ordinary ofrenda room. It’s not a room at all. It’s a warehouse filled with pan dulces, tequila, flowers, instruments, sombreros, trinkets, and demo tapes—all in massive piles that are several stories high. There’s even a mountain of fan mail!
De la Cruz sweeps his arm across the room. “All of this came from my amazing fans in the Land of the Living! They leave me more offerings than I know what to do with!”
Miguel gawks. It’s almost too much to absorb, like trying to see all the stars at once. The ofrenda room back home is small and shabby in comparison.
Miguel feels a sudden wave of regret, and de la Cruz notices, because he kneels down and looks into Miguel’s eyes. “Hey, what’s wrong? Is it too much? You look overwhelmed.”
“No. It’s all great,” Miguel says.
“But…?”
Miguel’s not sure. Part of him remains impressed. Who doesn’t dream of being loved like this, of living in a grand place with so many beautiful things? But another part of him…
“It’s just…I’ve been looking up to you my whole life. You’re the guy who actually did it! But…” He takes a moment, worried he might offend his great-great-grandpa. “Did you ever regret it?” Miguel asks. “Choosing music over…everything else.”
De la Cruz sighs. “It was hard,” he admits. “Saying goodbye to Santa Cecilia. Heading off on my own.”
“Leaving your family?”
“Sí. But I could not have done it differently. One cannot deny who one is meant to be. And you, my great-great-grandson, are meant to be a musician!”
The way de la Cruz speaks, with so much enthusiasm and conviction—it makes Miguel smile, and his chest swells with pride. For the first time in his life, he feels validated for being good at something he loves.
“You and I,” de la Cruz continues, “we are artists, Miguel! We cannot belong to one family. The world is our family!”
Yes! Miguel thinks. The world is our family. He looks at the crowd. All these people are my family, and as soon as I get the chance, I’m going to learn all their names!
De la Cruz stands and gestures to the window. The sparkling city glows all around them. Miguel’s never been so high before. He marvels at this view from the hilltop hacienda, how the people below look like ants bustling about. He wonders if one of those “ants” is his mamá Imelda, and he worries that she’s going to turn up at the tower to ruin his chance of going home as a musician. But no. She would never come here, because she wants nothing to do with the man who left his family so many years ago.
Before Miguel can give this more thought, a firework booms and colors the sky.
“Oooh,” de la Cruz says, giddy. “The fireworks have begun!”
The party guests move outside to watch the show while Miguel and de la Cruz head to the veranda overlooking the great hall. With the guests gone and the lights turned down, it’s a dark, empty cavern. Flashes of color from outside cast creepy shadows across the walls. De la Cruz’s films continue to play, but the words seem rehearsed and insincere, probably because the speakers need an adjustment after looping through the audio clips all evening.
They descend the staircase into the emptied hall, Miguel happy to finally have a moment alone with his great-great-grandfather.
“Soon the party will move across town for my Sunrise Spectacular,” de la Cruz says. Then he gasps, his voice full of excitement. “Miguel, you must come to the show! You will be my guest of honor!”
“You mean it?”
“Of course, my boy!”
Miguel’s chest swells again, and his eyes light up. He’s going to be the guest of honor at the Sunrise Spectacular—the capstone event for the Land of the Dead’s holiday celebration!
He stops himself. Wait a minute. The Sunrise Spectacular. When his skeletal transformation will be complete!
Miguel lifts his shirt and reveals his rib cage. “I can’t. I have to get home before sunrise.”
De la Cruz frowns at Miguel’s transformation. “Ooey, I really do need to get you home,” he says. He searches for a marigold petal and plucks one from a vase. Then he stands before Miguel. “It has been an honor. I am sorry to see you go, Miguel. I hope you die very soon.” He catches himself, and chuckling, he says, “You know what I mean.”
Miguel nods and then he straightens, ready for his blessing.
“Miguel,” de la Cruz begins, “I give you my bles—”
Before he can utter another syllable, a voice calls out from the darkness. “We had a deal, chamaco!”
Héctor can’t believe it. He almost missed his chance to cross the Marigold Bridge!
“Who are you?” Ernesto calls out. “What is the meaning of this?” Héctor steps from the shadows, and Ernesto looks delighted. “Oh, Frida!” he says, because Héctor’s in costume again. “I thought you couldn’t make it.”
But Héctor addresses Miguel instead. “You said you’d take back my photo. You promised.”
When Héctor throws off the wig and the dress, Miguel backs into de la Cruz, who puts his hands defensively on Miguel’s shoulders.
“You know this, uh…man?”
“I just met him tonight,” Miguel says. “He told me he knew you.”
Héctor steps forward, holding the photo. He has only one mission—to get it to an ofrenda before it’s too late. “Please, Miguel, put my photo up.”
He pushes it toward Miguel’s hands, but Ernesto intercepts, glancing at the picture and then at the gray, faded skeleton before him. Recognition slowly creeps onto his face, and for a moment, Héctor’s ashamed to be so tattered and frail.
“My friend,” Ernesto says, “you’re…you’re being forgotten.”
“And whose fault is that?” Héctor asks as bitter memories come flooding in.
“Héctor, please.”
“Those were my songs you took. My songs that made you famous.”
“W-What?” Miguel stutters.
“If I’m being forgotten,” Héctor continues, “it’s because you never told anyone that I wrote them.”
“That’s crazy,” Miguel says. “De la Cruz wrote all his own songs.”
Héctor shakes his head. The entire world has been fooled all these years, and this poor kid has spent his life idolizing a con man. He hates to come between Miguel and his great-great-grandfather, but isn’t it better for the boy to know the truth?
“You wanna tell him, or should I?” he asks Ernesto.
“Héctor, I never meant to take credit.” Ernesto pauses, remembering. “We made a great team, but…you died, and…I…I only sang your songs because I wanted to keep a part of you alive.”
“Oh, how generous,” Héctor says sarcastically.
“You really did play together?” Miguel asks.
Héctor sighs. “Look,” he says, “I don’t want to fight about it, Ernesto. I just want you to make it right. Miguel can put my photo up—”
“Héctor…”
“And I can cross over the bridge. I can see my girl.”
Instead of answering, Ernesto looks at the photo, deliberating. What’s there to think about? Héctor wonders. As far as he’s concerned, Ernesto can keep the fame, the parties, and the shining, bright tower. All he wants is a chance to visit the Land of the Living. Little by little, his clothes are getting more tattered and his bones more brittle. If he doesn’t get his picture on an ofrenda tonight, he’ll disappear just like Chicharrón.
“Ernesto,” Héctor says, keeping his voice calm because he re
ally doesn’t want to fight, “remember what you told me the night I left?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“We drank together and you told me you would move heaven and earth for your amigo. Well, I’m asking you to now.”
“Heaven and earth?” Miguel repeats. “Like in the movie?”
“What?” Héctor asks. He can’t believe how obsessed people are with movies. There weren’t many films when he was alive, so he never bothered to watch them after he died. He couldn’t name a single famous movie, so he doesn’t know what Miguel’s talking about.
“That’s Don Hidalgo’s toast,” Miguel explains. “In the movie El camino a casa.”
“I’m talking about my real life, Miguel.”
“No, it’s in there. Look.”
Miguel points to a movie clip being projected across the room. Up till now, Héctor hasn’t paid attention to the screens. But there he is—Ernesto, dressed as a peasant and speaking to a handsome man, who must be Don Hidalgo, and who’s holding up a glass.
“Never were truer words spoken,” Don Hidalgo says. “This calls for a toast! To our friendship! I would move heaven and earth for you, mi amigo.”
“But in the movie,” Miguel explains, “Don Hidalgo poisons the drink…” His voice trails off for a second. Héctor wonders what he’s thinking about. “Don Hidalgo poisons the drink,” Miguel continues, “so he can steal de la Cruz’s farm.”
“¡Salúd!” Don Hidalgo says.
Héctor watches as the characters each take a drink, as Ernesto, acting, spits and utters, “Poison!”
Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Héctor’s brain is screaming. This is all too familiar!
“That night,” he says to Ernesto. “The night I left. We’d been performing on the road for months. I got homesick, and I packed up my songs.…”
The past floods back. Héctor and Ernesto had toured all over Mexico, in dozens of cities—Toluca, San Luis Potosí, Monterrey, and every little town in between. Every night, they were in a new location. They stayed in different hotels, but since all the rooms looked the same, Héctor got confused. Each morning, he’d wake up wondering where he was. Which city this time?
