Fiesta Moon

by Linda Windsor

  Her grandmother always said that many hands made light work. If ever there was a day the old adage proved true, it was today, Corinne thought as she handed out another tray of hot dogs fresh from the stone barbecue pit that had been built into the corner section of the courtyard. It hadn’t been used in years, but the bed was sound, and the heavy iron grate had been cleansed by fire and a fervent prayer on her part.

  “That’s the last of them,” she announced.

  Father Menasco helped himself to two of the crispy wieners before passing the tray on to the picnicking villagers. Most sat on the tarps that Corinne and Soledad had spread on the softer yard beyond the patio proper and chattered with an enthusiasm that belied their long afternoon’s work.

  “This is such a treat,” he said. “Boiled hot dogs are good, but cooked over a fire …” The priest smacked his lips.

  “God provides.” Still, Corinne shook her head in wonder. “To think that this morning we were wondering what to do with the extra cases of hot dogs that came with our food order …”

  Corinne had only brought the older children, those who could be trusted to help rather than get in the way. They had a grand time hauling the weeds, brush, and trimmings that the women cleared around the house and yard to the compost heap in the back by Toto’s vacant pen.

  She and Soledad had done what they could with the yard in their spare time, but the years of neglect had made the task formidable.

  As formidable as the project woes that Mark faced. It had been all she could do to hold back guilt upon hearing how the Cuernavaca contractor had jacked up the price now that the job was underway. If she had known, she certainly would have stopped Mark from signing the contracts. But she hadn’t known.

  At least the villagers had taken some of the sting from the disaster. The materials were sorted and moved inside, and the stones from the gate debacle stacked in readiness for reuse. Even the twisted gate was deemed salvageable.

  Next to her, Father Menasco pushed himself up and tossed his plate into the container that Soledad had put out for the trash. “I’d best be getting the little ones back to the orphanage before you and I are both in the oven.”

  “I could probably get them all in my SUV,” Corinne suggested, watching the youngsters frolic in the far yard with Toto. They’d almost taught him to fetch, although once in a while, instead of returning the chunk of wood to the thrower, the pig sought out Mark and dropped it at his feet. “It would be quicker.”

  She’d never seen Mark so … what was the word? It might be humble, except that it was more than the fact that he kept thanking people over and over as he worked shoulder to shoulder with them. Reserved? Aside from his gratitude, he hadn’t had a lot to say … except to the children. Whenever one chased Toto to where the pig dropped the stick at Mark’s feet, Mark went into a clownlike tizzy of “Oh, no, not you again,” to which the children responded with cackles of delight.

  She frowned, puzzled. He was always polite, charming, and full of boyish mischief. Maybe it was what she didn’t see that was different. Had she only been looking for fault before?

  God, we already talked about this. I know You’re right. I know I’ve had a plank in my eye.

  And I haven’t said a word about how I warned him to deal locally, she added, not for God’s benefit, but for hers. Just because she’d confessed didn’t mean she wasn’t clinging to a few fragments of guilt for looking for the worst in Mark and overlooking her own flaws. Lord, I don’t want to become one of St. Matthew’s Pharisees with their camels.

  “Why don’t you and Mark give some of these older folks a ride home instead?” Menasco said, cutting short her confession. “Between your vehicle and the truck, no one will have to walk back to the village.”

  An hour later, and after much persuasion, the elder Primitivo, his two brothers, and their wives accepted Corinne’s offer to drive them home. Like most of the villagers, the Indio and his brothers made and sold crafts with their women—when he wasn’t healing.

  In some cases, healing and witchcraft went hand in hand, but Soledad insisted that Primitivo, who had cured her warts, could only be a healer, since witchcraft was illegal. In her estimation, if the old man was a witch, he was a good witch whose power came from the saints he prayed to at his altar.

  The lively chatter of the Indios faded the moment the last car door was shut. By the time Corinne put the vehicle in gear, she realized the reason for her passengers’ initial reticence and subsequent silence. It was their first car ride.

  Behind her, Primitivo squeezed the back of her neck rest with a crushing grip. It did not release until she braked in front of the old man’s hut. Upon exiting the vehicle, he regained his composure.

  “It is with much thanks that I, Primitivo, invite you to come into my home for coffee.”

  “I don’t know, Primitivo, it’s pretty late,” Mark started, but Corinne cut him off. To refuse would be to insult the elder villager and his wife.

  “You have the heart of an angel, Grandfather,” she said, gathering up her purse from the floor.

  They ducked under a canopy of vines that shaded the entrance. After Primitivo’s coffee, sleep would likely be out of the question.

  CHAPTER 18

  Mark had only been on the main street of Mexicalli—the one that led from the poorly paved road to Cuernavaca and the one that led to the lakeside development—if one could call the cottages there development. But when Corinne had pulled onto an unpaved, rutted street behind the shops and businesses, it was like entering into yet another world, even further removed from that to which Mark was accustomed.

  The white stucco of Primitivo’s house turned from yellow to orange with the glaze of the setting sun, except where patches of it had fallen away to reveal the mud-and-stick construction. Near the foundation, rusted corrugated tin scraps from the roof covered some of the holes. Shaded by a vine canopy, atop which some chickens roosted, was the doorway, with a bench on each side. The elder’s wife hurried in ahead of them and flipped a switch, flooding the windows with light through the poorly fitted shutters.

  Mark gave Corinne a second questioning glance as he motioned for her to precede him into the humble hut.

  “It’s an offense to refuse hospitality,” she whispered as she passed him.

  He knew she was one of those go-native sorts, but agreeing to enter a house that looked one good wind from collapse, and for coffee—the homegrown kind that had to be taken black because it ate spoons? Exhaustion or not, it would be three days before he got another night’s sleep, he lamented, ducking through the low doorway. A single lightbulb, unadorned by a shade or globe, spread its yellow light over the meager furnishings of what appeared to be a kitchen–family room combination.

  Covering a hard-packed earthen floor were woven rugs, once as bright and colorful as the ones sold in the markets along the main highway between Mexico City and Acapulco, now faded and dingy from wear. Blankets and linens rolled up in petate mats that were suspended on nails between the rafters suggested that the enclosure also served as bedroom at night. Señora Primitivo dragged a chair and a stool from under a dinged wooden table near the kitchen wall.

  A strange scent akin to pine smoke assailed his nostrils, growing stronger once Mark was seated in a rocking chair next to an inner curtained doorway that he assumed led to a back room.

  “Mientras … while my wife makes the coffee, I would speak of your troubles, el Señor del Cerdito.”

  It was one thing with the kids, but the Señor of the Pig title was wearing thin with Mark. “Please, Señor Primitivo, call me Mark. Me llamo …” His Spanish floundered.

  “Llámeme,” Corinne supplied.

  “Call me Mark,” he repeated to the man, sparing his companion a grateful look.

  Primitivo nodded. “Señor Marco.”

  “Gracias.” There was no point in arguing. With the Indios, he would be lucky to get rid of the pig label.

  “You have already helped us greatly regarding our tro
ubles, Grandfather,” Corinne put in.

  Primitivo fetched a bottle and three chipped stoneware cups from a shelf by the window over an apartment-size gas stove, where his wife put on water to boil. Next to it was a porcelain-covered sink unit fitted with a pitcher pump.

  As their host poured a clear liquid from a bottle that had served another use—what that might have been, Mark had no idea, as the label was long gone—Corinne stopped him.

  “No refino for me, please. I prefer to wait for the coffee and leave the drink of your ancestors’ spirits to their descendants.”

  Refino? Mark took his cup, aware that Corinne watched him, and sniffed it. The astringent bombardment of his nose left no doubt that it was some sort of liquor—strong liquor.

  “You must have some happy ancestors, Primitivo,” he quipped, lifting the cup to his lips. Whatever it was, it would disinfect any lingering germs in the stoneware. He’d take a small sip to appease his host and dump the rest when no one was looking.

  It was just a sampling, but when it reached the back of his throat, having savaged and pickled his tongue in passing, Mark’s body temp registered four-alarm status. But it was already searing its way to his stomach, tripping a choking mechanism in the process. Somehow at least a pint of it diverted to his nasal cavities, where another wildfire broke out.

  Only by sheer will did he manage to set the cup down on a table before he succumbed to reflex. Tears welled in his eyes and trickled down as he coughed and spasmed, gripping the chair as though his life depended upon his hold.

  “I don’t think your ancestors like gringos,” he rasped, once he realized that he was going to live.

  At this Primitivo gave a quiet chuckle. “There is much for you to learn, Señor Marco, but I have seen with my own eyes that you have a good heart.” He sobered. “And I have heard with my ears that you have made a dangerous enemy. These are matters that gringos do not understand. That is why I come to you.”

  Their host’s last comment wiped the I tried to warn you look off Corinne’s face. “What enemy, Primitivo?”

  The Indio lowered his voice. “The witch.”

  “I don’t think that a witch who uses crayons is much to worry about,” Corinne assured the man.

  Primitivo said something to his wife in their native Indio language. In response, she closed the curtains over the windows. After lighting some candles around the room, he motioned for her to turn off the overhead light.

  “What I am about to tell you can put me to lose with dangerous peoples,” the old man warned, pulling the stool up so that he faced both Corinne and Mark.

  Mark leaned against the back of the rocker with a groan. It looked like this had the makings of a long night. His body was being preserved from the inside out and now, lights out, save for some candles, this old codger was winding up for some ghost tales.

  An hour later, Corinne climbed into the car, warmed against the cool night air with a brace of strong coffee and armed against the powers of evil with copal and candles—the latter at a cost of twenty pesos. Gooseflesh still pimpled her arms, not from Primitivo’s warnings of witchcraft, but from the implications of past deeds. The witchcraft he described was nothing short of murder, disguised as work of an evil naguale—the animal form of the Indio soul—in this case, a witch.

  According to the healer, whose cousin in Flores helped prepare the body of Antonio’s brother, the boy had died of neither exposure nor a gunshot wound—if the boy was even Enrique. Aside from his clothes, little of the body was recognizable. But the neck of the deceased had been broken, snapped—Primitivo clapped his hands, nearly causing Corinne to jump out of her skin.

  “Matones.” On realizing he’d spoken in Nahuatl, which was the closest dialect to the language of his Aztec forefathers, he added in Spanish, “Asesinos.”

  Murderers.

  Not even the boiled coffee had prevented her shudder, the first of many.

  Primitivo went on to explain that the boys’ parents had not died of a gas leak, but from the poison of burning viper’s vine—another tool of witches. At least that was the word among the Indios.

  Now Corinne started the engine of her SUV in front of Primitivo’s humble cottage.

  “I thank you again, Grandfather,” she said to the man standing in the doorway, “for your concerns regarding the hacienda. But our faith must not rest on these candles and incense. They are but a gift between friends. It is Christ who protects us from evil.”

  Though she might witness all she wanted, she knew better than to refuse. If Soledad found out—and she would—the housekeeper would go behind her and purchase the items to use as instructed anyway.

  “Cómo no, daughter,” her host agreed in disagreement, as only the Indios could. “That is as it should be.” He lifted his hand. “May you sleep the sleep of the angels.”

  As they drove away, Mark turned to Corinne. “Am I just totally out of it due to that vicious swig of the ancestors’ brew, or did we just buy protection?”

  “A gift for a gift,” she repeated. “We gave Primitivo a handout and the promise of our prayers in exchange for his prayers and accessories,” she added, nodding toward the sack of goods on the backseat.

  “But to whom is he praying?”

  Corinne tried to think of a way to explain. It was hard when she didn’t quite get it herself. “The Indios have accepted Christ and the concept of the Trinity, but in the context of their past. Did you notice all the pictures of the saints over Primitivo’s altar in the back room when he pulled the curtain aside to get the candles and incense?”

  “Yes, but I had no idea who was who.”

  “Well, they think God has an army of saints and angels, including some Aztec ones we’ve never heard of. The Indios think their good spirits were some of God’s troops.” She pondered her explanation a moment. “At least some of the Indios believe that. Others are outright pagan, worshipping the four corners of the spiritual world and their respective rulers. Father Menasco understands them more than I do.”

  “So the old guy will pray to God and the Indian entities?”

  Corinne nodded slowly. “They sort of pray up the chain of command. In the meantime, the Church tries to show them that the spirits their ancestors worshipped were just man-conjured figureheads for God’s creation, and God is the only God … and that they should pray directly to the head honcho. Some get it, some don’t. It’s really hard to undo thousands of years of belief, especially when some of their practitioners are successful in healing and witching, if you call it that.”

  “You mean murder disguised in a bunch of ancient voodoo-hoodoo.” He shifted in his seat, fastening the seat belt. “And that crap about tying the dead boy’s feet together so that his murder or murderers can’t leave the area … that’s outright nonsense.”

  “Yeah.” At least she agreed about the superstition. But the murder part wouldn’t give her goose-pimpled skin a rest. “Why would someone want to kill the Pozases, much less a little boy?”

  And this was the first implication she’d heard to suggest the corpse wasn’t Enrique. But if that was true, where was the boy?

  “If either was really killed. Gas leaks and kids wandering off and dying in the mountains have been known to happen.”

  Mark’s was the voice of reason. He was most likely right. And the boy’s corpse had worn the orphanage T-shirt. Who else could it have been?

  Mark shoved his hair away from his face as if trying to wipe out the unsettling rumors that the old Indio had shared. “And I thought I was in the Twilight Zone before.”

  When he first arrived, his hair was styled short with a hint of curl at his collar, but now it was thick with sandy rakish curls begging for a comb—or a woman’s fingers. Lest her own be tempted, Corinne tightened her grasp on the wheel as Mark, oblivious of her sidewise study, lurched for it.

  “Watch it.”

  Corinne corrected her steering before she struck a small stone fence marking off the yard of one of the last houses before
the road curved into the main one leading to the hacienda.

  Keep your eye on the road, stupid.

  She faked a yawn. “Sorry. Highway hypnosis.”

  “You mean dirt-lane daze, don’t you?”

  Corinne laughed, a little too hard maybe, but it felt good to release all the tension from Primitivo’s little spook session. Her composure regained, at least outwardly, she rested against the headrest, which was far more comfortable now that one side wasn’t squished by Primitivo’s hand.

  “So what’re we going to do with the witchy stuff?” Mark asked.

  “Use the candles as needed for lighting.”

  “Or for romance?”

  “As needed for lighting,” she reiterated.

  Romance, candles, fingers, sandy hair all spun whirligig-style around reason.

  “And if I have to cook one night, we can use the copal to cover the smell of burned food.”

  “But you cook a mean hot dog.”

  Father Menasco had said the same thing, but his voice didn’t have a velvet undertone that skimmed over her senses, rustling them into an unjustified anticipation. She wasn’t going to be one of Mark Madison’s passing fancies.

  No sooner had Corinne’s mind settled than this morning’s conversation with Doña Violeta tipped it the other way. What happened to her resolution to think the best of Mark, rather than the worst?

  Corinne pulled up to the backyard entrance under the jacaranda tree that shaded it. Not one to play games, she cut to the chase. “You’re not hitting on me, are you?”

  Shoving the car into park, she cut the engine, but her ears still rang with its roar. Or was that her pulse?

  Mark threw up his hands. “Wouldn’t think of it … much.”

  She fumbled with the keys as she pulled them from the ignition, and they dropped to the floor. “Oh, good.”

  Avoiding the stare she felt zeroing in on her, she got out of the car and felt around the carpet in the dark for the keys, lest he see through her fluster to her inner senses, straining like a pup on a leash toward the prospects of that one little word … much. Latching onto her purse, she picked it up from the wrong end, only to have it spill its contents.