Fiesta Moon

by Linda Windsor

  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.

  Suddenly Antonio turned and tugged on Mark’s sleeve. “It’s time now.”

  Corinne was astonished when Mark pulled a rocket from the paper bag.

  “In honor of your brother,” he said, handing it over to th
e lad. “But I forgot matches.”

  “I can find matches.” Proud as a peacock, Antonio planted the rocket at the head of the gravesite. The guests, seeing what was about to happen, stepped back in anticipation. The man who’d played the comic roles for the children earlier moved forward, offering his cigarette lighter for the fuse.

  With a loud hiss and a pop, the rocket shot into the air, straight up toward the cloudless blue morning sky. The guests applauded in delight, but the sheer joy on Antonio’s tear-streaked face filled Corinne from the toes up.

  Since the introduction of gunpowder by the Spanish conquerors, the Mexican people delighted in it. Fireworks were as common at funerals as they were at celebrations.

  Wonderstruck, Corinne turned to Mark. “How did you know?”

  “Juan Pablo told me last night at the cantina that no funeral was complete without at least one rocket,” he told her. “So I bought one, just in case there weren’t any.” He shifted, uncomfortable under her curious appraisal. “It was Antonio’s and my little secret.”

  What made this guy tick? One minute she wanted to strangle him, and the next, hug him.

  “It was perfect,” Antonio announced, joining them. “I know that Enrique is smiling from heaven. Gracias, gracias, gracias.” The boy hugged Mark, nearly taking him off his feet.

  “Perdoname, señor y señora …”

  Startled, Corinne turned to see Lorenzo. “My family and I wish to say our adiós to my nephew,” he explained, easing the child away from Mark. “Will you and your esposo not have a mug of tequila for my late nephew?”

  My husband? The reference to Mark so stunned Corinne that Mark replied for both of them.

  “No thanks. Alcohol puts us to lose.”

  Corinne wasn’t sure whether it was Mark’s use of the idiom or his saying that alcohol wasn’t good for them that shocked her more.

  “I’ll be right here waiting, Antonio,” she assured the wary child. For Lorenzo’s benefit she added, “We have to leave very soon for the orphanage, as we have a supper engagement.”

  “Un momento solamente, Señora,” he assured her.

  “I thought you’d be all over him like ugly on an ape for that,” Mark said, as Pozas led Antonio away.

  “For thinking I’d marry someone like you, or for thinking that I’d drink?” she quipped, never taking her eyes off Antonio.

  Lorenzo’s family surrounded the boy, children hugging, women kissing, and the men shaking his hand or clapping him on the back.

  “Take your pick.”

  Corinne softened her answer with the hint of a smile. “You have some redeeming qualities.”

  “Oh?” Mark stepped closer, invading her space with the scent of his aftershave, the warmth exuding from his body, his breath brushing past her ear.

  Her senses blaring like an emergency broadcast signal, Corinne broke away to meet Antonio as he made his way back from the family cluster with Father Menasco.

  “Ready to go?” she asked with a forced brightness.

  “Un momento, por favor.” He made his way to the small mounded grave site, now covered with bougainvillea and a blanket of flowers made by the women. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out a small palm cross that he’d made in crafts at the orphanage, pressed it to his lips, and laid it on the center of the floral covering.

  When the boy backed away, it was as if he had left a part of his heart behind.

  “Pues,” he said shakily, joining her and Mark. “Now I am ready to go to my new family.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The ride back to Mexicalli was blessedly quiet, Mark thought. The tuba player remained in his head, pumping blasts of brass in his brain. For some reason, Antonio gave up his command of the CD player to sit in the back with him, which was fine, since the boy seemed preoccupied with staring at the passing landscape around the flower-dotted lake. In the front seat, Soledad’s voice took over where the ejected Ricky Martin left off. From what little Mark could pick out, she ping-ponged between praise and criticism of the affair as a whole.

  “Who would think it?” she exclaimed. “First he wants his brother’s boys. Then he doesn’t. But then with nine children of his own …” She paused to tut in disapproval.

  “Do you have a brother?” Antonio asked beside him.

  Mark unglued his tongue. “What’s that, amigo?”

  “Do you have a brother?”

  “Yes.” Alive, thank goodness. Somewhere inside Mark, surprise registered. Yes, he’d like to strangle Blaine, or at least shake him into getting a life, but overall, he cared deeply about his elder sibling. So Blaine was overly responsible—someone in the family had to be, Mark supposed.

  “Does he like adventure?”

  Mark searched the somber boy’s dark eyes, wondering where he was going with this. “Not hardly … unless you count having cereal once in a while instead of his usual bagel.”

  “Then you are very lucky.” Nodding in agreement with himself, Antonio turned to look out the window again as they passed a lookout point over the lake.

  Some vacationers were waterskiing, skirting around fishing vessels where tiny figures struggled with nets. The square pontoon shuttle that offered a direct, but not always reliable, service from Mexicalli to Flores puttered its way toward the Mexicalli dock, which was just a speck in the distance.

  “If I had been the big brother,” Antonio spoke up, seemingly transfixed by the passing scenery, “I would not let Enrique explore so much or leave the house without telling where he was going. And if it put him to lose, I would not let him go.” The boy turned to Mark with a broken smile. “He would not like it. He would call me abuelo for it, but today he would be alive, no?”

  “Probably so, amigo.” Mark thought of Blaine. He’d not called his worrisome brother “grandfather,” but he had referred to him as “the old man” after Blaine lectured him on his less-than-perfect pursuit of life.

  “But I would only tell him such things because I love—” The word caught in the child’s throat, backing his anguish to his eyes, where it welled over.

  Unfastening his seat belt, Mark slid over to put a comforting arm around the boy. “You go right ahead and cry, amigo. Better to get it out than hold it in.”

  “I should have told someone when Enrique left,” Antonio cried into Mark’s rib cage. “But he … he said that he would come back before bedtime … that he had important business with our uncle.”

  Mark stiffened at the mention of the man with beady eyes. “Did you tell the authorities this?”

  Antonio nodded. “Sí, and they talk to Tío Lorenzo, pero—”

  “But what?”

  “Pero Tío Lorenzo said that Enrique came for the novena the next day and after it, he left to return to the orphanage.” Antonio sniffed hard, recovering most of what had come close to soaking into Mark’s shirt. Regardless of his aversion to kids’ runny noses, Mark held the boy tight against him, willing to take whatever leaked if it would ease the grief.

  “If I had remembered that it was the novena,” Antonio said shakily, “then I would have gone to pray for my madre y padre and eat the turkey too.” He straightened with a shot of indignation. “Pues, I have only two years less than Enrique.”

  “And because you were more cautious, you will have many years more,” Mark told him. “Age doesn’t make a guy smart. That’s up here.” He tapped his temple and winced.

  Bad idea. It not only hurt, but drove home the point that smart had not been in residence when he decided to throw it all out and have a little fun. Soon as that supper party was over, he was hitting his new sack, even if it was an air mattress. Staying at the hacienda would enable him to sleep a little longer. Not only could he keep an eye on the place, but Soledad didn’t get as early a start as the chickens, the braying burro, and the protesting cows next to the parsonage.

  While Mark napped that afternoon, Corinne and Soledad tackled the paint and crayon marks on the wall. A phone call to Capitán Nolla revealed that he’d taken p
ictures after they left and was investigating. As they spoke, she envisioned him sitting at his desk, full of himself and cigar smoke, dismissing the case as vandalism by kids.

  That man couldn’t find his backside with both hands, she thought. She painted over the words that hadn’t come off, while Soledad made up the beds at the hacienda. Since Mark announced he was staying over, they’d decided it was time to move in as well. With the three of them in residence, perhaps further mischief would be discouraged. And just in case it wasn’t, she had a borrowed baseball bat from the orphanage sports closet.

  “You will knock a home run with their heads, no?” Antonio observed, highly amused by her choice of weapon.

  “If Soledad doesn’t get them with her broom,” Corinne quipped.

  To keep the boy’s thoughts away from the funeral, she’d asked Antonio to help her bring over her clothing, which she placed in a makeshift closet. With the curtains hung and the boxes put away, the rooms called to be occupied. While Mark and Corinne attended Doña Violeta’s dinner party, Soledad, with the help of her sister, was to finish moving in her and Mark’s belongings.

  No doubt that by the time Corinne and Mark returned, every room in the house would be protected by a cross of some nature. Not that the crosses themselves had any power. When Corinne pointed that out to Soledad, the housekeeper nodded in full agreement.

  “So I said, Corina,” she said, as if Corinne had been loco to suggest anything else. “But it cannot hurt to put the crosses up to scare away the brujas, so that He will not have to battle them, no?”

  It was pointless to argue. Soledad’s faith in Christ was without question. And if the crosses made her feel more safe, fine. Corinne would stick with faith and the baseball bat.