The Grave House

by David Garaby

  "Those who deserve the light are quick to hide in the shadows." She smiled lightly, "Let us devils feel the fire," she pointed at the photographer and herself.

  Adam scrunched his forehead, unable to come up with a decent response. As Adam exited the photo shoot the reporter, Elena, sat across from Margo, her notebook was in hand.

  She fumbled with her thick black glasses. Margo tried to see if the spectacles contained any prescription on them or if they were simply a way of adding some interest to an otherwise bland and forgettable face. Margo controlled the urge to roll her eyes.

  "Tell me, what was your inspiration for your exhibit?" asked Elena. "What are you passionate about? What makes Margo tick?"

  "It’s nice to have a passion, but it’s better to have a paycheck," she quipped.

  Elena jotted notes. "You do this for the money?"

  "I used to,” she nodded. “And I still do for the most part, but this time I have to say that this work is the result of the many tragedies I've endured in recent years. One cannot create without hate," she smiled.

  The reporter flipped through her spiral. "Ok," Her voice went up an octave. "As a Hispanic," she clutched her chest and nodded, "I think it's so wonderful to have other Hispanic role-models in the artistic and entertainment community. I really wish there were more. How has being a Hispanic helped your career?"

  Margo slouched back into her loveseat, crossing her arms and pressed her lips. The reporter pressed hard against her pad. "Hispanic?" she scoffed. "You think being Hispanic has helped me?" Margo laughed.

  "Oh, absolutely. It’s opened so many doors,” said Elena.

  Margo laughed harder.

  "Mrs. Sullivan?"

  "Yes. That’s right: Mrs. Sullivan. Not Mrs. Sanchez. Not Mrs. Lopez. Not. Mrs. Hernandez. It’s Sullivan. And the only reason you know anything about me is because my last name rolls off the tongue of the American public quickly and easily. Do you really think I would be anything if I had kept my real last name? Do you think using my real name: María Magdalena would open any doors?"

  "Well, yes, Ma’am. I do. It’s alright to have a Hispanic name nowadays. Look at J-Lo."

  "Elena, you can’t be serious."

  "Mrs. Sullivan?"

  "Yes. Yes. That’s my name. Stop saying it."

  "I’m sorry if I’ve upset you."

  "I’m so tired of being asked about my Hispanic origins, as if that’s the one and only god-damn thing that makes me. I am a painter, I am a mother, I am a woman, and the only thing people see is that I overcame the horrible shadow that lingers behind the ubiquitous Mexican-American persona. When does it end?"

  "I didn’t mean to offend you," Elena lowered her gaze.

  "No, you people never do. You think it’s so simple to organize and label, even people are products to you. This nation is one giant container store, neatly fixed and coordinated so one can avoid the unpleasant lower left hand bin and keep the good china in the top right hand slot. That's where all the porcelain lays. I am tired of having to explain how I overcame my minority status and became a success. If I did do what you said, paved the way for other Hispanics, it was unintentional. I didn't do it to open doors for you. I am an American—I did it to open them for myself. I don’t want to be a successful Hispanic. I don’t want my Wikipedia page to read this nonsense. I am an American, but the dwindling majority never quite wants to put down the label machine."

  "It must be hard—" said Elena.

  "Being Hispanic?"

  "Yes."

  "No, it’s hard being me, Hispanic or not. It’s ridiculous, this obsession people have with Hispanics. I am Margo. I married a man named Carl Sullivan and decided that keeping his last name would open more doors. It's certainly been lucrative. I didn’t betray my heritage. I can’t betray something that was never there. I've always been from this country, it didn't land on me and I didn't swim up the river. But my relatives did have a hard life so I suppose their struggle did open doors in a way. I grew up on stories of fields and discrimination. But I don’t dwell on the past."

  "It gives you character."

  "Yes, it lets me dip my toes in the ethnic pool High Brow America loves to swim in, makes them feel cultured. Makes up for the fact that this little country is only two hundred years old and doesn’t have much of a history or culture of its own."

  Elena shifted her head, "I thought you were proud to be an American?"

  "I am, but I know its flaws. It’s like having children. You love them but you know when they are ugly, or limited. You accept it and try to compensate with other things."

  "And what do you compensate with?"

  Margo inhaled deeply but remained silent, she began to drift, her mind and eyes scanned across the room. She didn't want to venture down this road, but she certainly knew it was coming. The reporter did not disappoint.

  The question came quickly, as if to get it all in one breath: "You mentioned children, you recently lost your son?"

  She knew she would need to discuss Daniel and let her eyes close softly as she said, "I did."

  Elena shifted through her notebook, "Your son was found—," she stopped herself and took a moment to fix her glasses and stare at Margo thoughtfully. "He was found in Mexico. News reports suspect he was attacked by the cartels. Did you ever find out if he really was?"

  "Yes. Well, it’s been suspected, but I don’t know for sure. No one does. It’s Mexico—there is no order." Margo felt uneasy, began to fidget and shift her eyes. She looked past the reporter for Bertha but did not find her. There was a knot forming in her throat. Her hands were beginning to tremble, she clasped them tightly to avoid detection.

  "How did that make you feel?"

  "What a ridiculous question," she spat. "And impossible to answer."

  "I’m sorry."

  "This interview is just whittled with apologies."

  "I thought it would be something you would be comfortable with."

  Margo tilted her face and felt her own mouth fall slightly, and felt the corners of her nose began to pull back and form a sneer. The nerve of this little girl. It was a symptom of youth—this gall, the willingness to dissect a beating heart. Unaware and unfazed of its owner and uncaring to the screams that ensue when the scalpel meets red flesh.

  "How would I ever be comfortable with that?" Her tone was both cold and solemn all at once.

  The reporter sat back, rested her notepad on her lap and pulled back the corners of her mouth then mouthed the words "I'm sorry," at Margo.

  Margo shook her head light, pinched her face to the side then paused for a moment before beginning to speak again: "The phone call shook me. I felt like my insides were going to come out of my mouth. A cold feeling. I can't even describe it." Margo could feel her eyes burning "My son’s death," she whispered to herself. "My Daniel's death affected me in many ways. It was a deep voice telling me my son’s body was in Mexico. I almost didn’t understand. The phone was scratchy, but he gave me a city and told me they found him between two mesquite trees. My son was in a barrel and had been there for at least two days. Two whole days. Some farmers found him. The smell gave him away."

  "Horrible!"

  "Today I can say it was horrible, yes. It was a resounding void the phone called left. After I heard his hoarse voice, I knew my Daniel was dead. It was the end. A mother is never the same when her child dies. Someone has stolen a piece of my face. An eye. A nose. An upper lip. Something went missing.

  "The FBI was called, they told me a task force was sent into the city—La Sombra. They stuffed his body in an old barrel. They were going to burn him, there was gasoline, and I’ll never know why they didn’t set him on fire. I don’t believe in God, but I have to tip my hat at him nonetheless. It was a gift. I lost him, but I could bring him back, look at him one last time."

  "He was mutilated. Why would you want to see that?"

  "Because he is my son. I would have picked up the pieces and carried them with me if those policemen hadn’t held me back.
What do they think? I’ll never be embarrassed of my son." Margo found Adam walking past the door, heading outside the house. She sighed and followed his silhouette. "I'll always love my boy."

  Adam/Nina

  10:30 AM

  TWO CROWS ON THE BANISTER flew away as Adam sat on a white stone bench. He hunched over his cigarette, gave it life then reached for his cell. There were still no bars, and he wondered what Ashley might be thinking. Adam spoke with his best friend every day since they met over five years ago. This was unprecedented, he hoped she wasn't worried, or worse, come down to Diller and see for herself why he hadn't returned her calls. She was capable of just about anything.

  He regarded the massive estate. A mixture of old world charm and Spanish architecture; it reeked of a pretentiousness that made him both cringe and smile. She WAS this house. She was the white mandevillas, the tiled floor, and the large romantic white fountain in the interior courtyard garden. The stone statues that lined the white stucco walls stared back at him.

  It was hard to concentrate, Adam could still remember the strange dream he had last night. He needed to tell someone about the dream he had, the putrid smell, he couldn’t recall ever having dreamt a scent before, how horrible it was to have his first scent reek of rotting blood. The sweet and horrifying sound of the woman calling to him made him shiver, the dream was so vivid, his head was still spinning. The eyes on the wood grains, the face that formed on his closet door. He tried to shake the dream.

  He opened his notebook and wrote more questions to ask Margo. About her past, about her work, about the death of her son, about the painting she wanted from him. Lost in thought, he didn't notice the long shadow growing before him.

  "You're the guy," said a voice. He stopped his pen and gently raised his head. "The one they've been yapping on about."

  Blinded by the mid-morning sun, he only saw the curvy silhouette of a woman with flowing hair. For a moment he thought a statue in the courtyard had come to life.

  The voice repeated, "Anyone home?"

  His eyes began to focus. "I'm Adam," he said as he blew smoke away from his face and set his notebook down. He stood up and extended his hands. He was much taller than the woman and could see her hair was thinning. She brushed her hair back.

  "Nina," she said and sat on the bench. The woman was unusual, her hair frizzy and unkempt, surely not the daughter-in-law Margo deserved. Adam realized this was the strange woman he had seen the day before, the one circling the mausoleum outside his room.

  There is nothing particularly beautiful about Nina Sullivan, her thin body and light complexion were agreeable, but not entirely desirable. In many ways she was quaint and homely, the kind of woman one expected to see with three children by the age of thirty, who sprinted in suburban malls with less attractive mothers who felt the need to speed walk just a few steps ahead of her. Her voice, though, this was something of a gift, a sultry sound with a light, raspy quality which both enticed and beckoned unwillingly. Her words were powerful, in another life she may have been a poet of sorts, a damned woman, whose words would carve themselves onto reams of feverous linen paper and scorch the lives of men and women who had cut her—left her emotions bloodied and thrown on the ground.

  "Let me die with you," she said, signaling for a smoke. Her stare was intense, Adam couldn't tell if she was being overly dramatic or dead serious. She took the lit cigarette from his hands and took a drag. Her eyes never left his.

  He chuckled nervously as he pulled out a pack from his shirt pocket and lit another cigarette.

  "There's no greater pleasure," she said.

  "Sorry, I'm a bad influence."

  "I haven't smoked in over a week," Nina scratched her arms and appeared fidgety. "Margo makes her faces at me when she catches the slightest hint of smoke. If she comes out and smells it on me,= I'll just blame it on you. She's not going to chew your ear off. You're a guest. What the fuck is she going to tell you?" She was unable to keep still for even a second. Was she on something? Some things? Should she be?

  "Alright then. Guess I'll take one for the team."

  She nodded, "Good sport."

  "You're Daniel's wife aren't you?"

  She crossed her legs and flicked her cigarette. "That's right," she said. "And you're the painter."

  "The Painter?" he inhaled. "Makes it sound almost true."

  "I know why she hired you."

  "She liked my work."

  Nina giggled suddenly. "I'm sorry. That was no reflection on you or your work."

  "I don't understand."

  Nina sighed. "It's just you look like him."

  "Like who?"

  Nina laughed again. "Oh my god, it's so fucking obvious, dude. You look like Daniel. It's the eyes. The hair. Everything."

  Adam tilted his head, tried to scan the images he'd seen of Daniel online. He didn't see any resemblance, but even if there were, what difference would it make?

  Nina stopped laughing, she knew she had gone too far. "I'm sorry. I sometimes run my mouth. It's just that you scared the shit out of me when you first walked out here. I got all sweaty. Thought you really were Daniel for a second. But it couldn't be could it? And I get comfortable with people very quickly. They say I don't respect boundaries anymore. I didn't even before I cracked," she laughed. "It's one of my many flaws. I'm sure you are a wonderful painter. I'm sure that's why you're here."

  "Ok," he said, confused by the awkward conversation.

  "I hope you don't mind me asking, but why would you want to paint for someone like Margo? What kind of a masochist are you?" She grinned, her teeth were pearls. Her lips supple. Her legs, small but lean bounced. She brushed her foot against his legs. I'm not Daniel.

  He chuckled nervously. "I don't know what you mean," he was a bit embarrassed. "I'm glad to be here actually. I've always been interested in her; in fact, I'm writing my thesis about Surrealist art. I might make her a focal point depending on the information I get. The fact that I'm going to painting for Margo is just icing on the cake."

  "Well, a week or two in this place is going to fix that shit right out of you." Adam didn't know what to make of this odd, little waif. She seemed friendly, but eager to stir a pot which she had no business meddling with in the first place. Why was this little woman even in the kitchen? She seemed desperately out of place in that house, he could tell she wanted to leave and he couldn't help but feel she had been abandoned there somehow. Nina was partner-less now, much in the same way Adam was, and clearly spent her time over analyzing the past. She was looking down at the ground now, as if her mind had drifted away momentarily. Was she remembering something? Was she analyzing Adam's words? He wanted to know, a part of him wanted to help her. Adam saw in Nina what happens when love is not healed and feared he would find himself drifting away in conversations if his heart were not mended.

  "It will probably be less than that,” he said. “I have to be back in Austin in a few days. I can't be away from school too long. "

  She suddenly flung her cigarette into the pristine fountain. "A few days, huh," she grunted. "Well, it's best we not waste any time then."

  "What do you mean?”

  Nina abruptly stood up, popped her neck, then began walking towards a door at the end of the courtyard. She turned back to him. "Are you coming?"

  He looked around the courtyard to make sure she was speaking to him. Is this chick for real, he thought to himself. He stood up, grabbed his notebook and began walking towards her. Nina opened the weathered door and walked through.

  "Where are we going," he asked.

  "You want to know about Margo Sullivan?" she asked. "You're not going to find out anything in there," she pointed back to the house. "Come with me. I'll show you the Margo Sullivan they don't tell you about in books. I'll tell you all about my delightful mother-in-law."

  Adam reluctantly followed Nina and closed the door behind him.

  Bertha was walking towards her bedroom on the second floor when she caught the pair leaving
the courtyard, her eyes pinched tightly as she followed them walk through the tall sugar cane field that neighbored the property.

  — 2 —

  1:00 AM

  “ARE THERE SNAKES here?” he followed Nina into the sugar cane field while keeping a watchful eye on the ground. He thought he heard a rattle and quickened his pace.

  "That's not the snake you should be worried about," she replied.

  They passed the field and reached a bluff overlooking the Rio Grande, stopping a few feet from the edge.

  "I can't believe there's not a fence here. I expected a big wall, something," said Adam.

  "No, but there's always border patrol around here. National Guard is here too, but you can't see them. They’re in the brush and helicopters."

  "It's not very wide is it," he said regarding the serpentine river that wrapped around Diller.

  She nodded. "Ferry's on the other side of town. It's the last hand-held ferry in the whole United States. Pretty impressive shit for a town like this," she said.

  "Why did you bring me here?"

  "This is where they found him." She pointed to an old mesquite tree in front of them. Its hollow branches appeared ready to decay, the trunk, a blistered and masticated remnant of its former glory.

  "Who?"

  "Sebastian."

  "Who is that?"

  She gave a grim laugh. "You don't know shit about her, do you?"

  "I don't know who Sebastian is—"

  "—He was her son," Nina interrupted.

  "Who's?"

  "Margo's."

  "Margo only had one son," he said with assurance. "Just Daniel."

  "Some scholar you turned out to be," she snickered.

  "Now wait just a minute. I don't appreciate that one bit. I've done a lot of research on that woman," he shot his arms back towards the hacienda.

  "Wikipedia isn't a reliable source, Adam." The smile never left her face, it was a taunting glare.

  He shook his head defiantly. "I would have found something on him, on this Sebastian," he repeated, his eyes darted back and forth scanning his memory. "There was no mention of any other son."