by Clive Barker
Flowers bloomed in Spring. Crops grew during summer. Leaves fell in autumn, and things died during winter, except Maria, who had died a month ago of pancreatic cancer, which was the way of things.
People died.
He shuffled to a stop. Grasped the knob on the shed’s door, swallowing a grimace as arthritic pain arrowed glass slivers into his knuckles. Muttering “Sunnuvabitch,” he turned the knob and tried to open the door but couldn’t. Rained yesterday, and the door had swelled as it always did afterward, catching in the doorframe.
He tugged harder.
The door popped open, but he was rewarded for his efforts with an aching pulse in his right shoulder. It had been hurting lately. Ever since something twisted in it when he and Judd were burying the Jensen kid last spring after he rolled his car on Bassler Road.
Whitey stood before the shed’s open door, right hand still on the knob (his joints still burning) left hand gently kneading the leathery meat of his right shoulder, which throbbed dully. Dr. Fitzgerald at Utica General said it was probably a torn rotator cuff. He’d recommended surgery. Or at least therapy. Whitey had waved off the recommendation, claiming he had neither the time nor the money for either, a self-fulfilling prophecy after Maria’s diagnosis.
Whitey didn’t enter the shed immediately. He stood there, eyes closed, rubbing his shoulder, savoring the heady scent of oil and gasoline from the lawnmower out back. It was one of his favorite smells because it reminded him of the night he first saw Maria.
***
He’d first seen Maria Alverez while standing outside the pit area at Five Mile Speedway, hands hooked on the chain-link fence separating him from the powerful cars tended to by mechanics wearing gray smudged overalls. Some of the cars were jacked, tires being changed or their undersides inspected by men lying under them. Others had hoods open, swallowing mechanics intently fixing either carburetors or changing spark plugs. A few cars roared as drivers tested their engines.
At age ten, the world beyond the fence appeared grand. Every Saturday night men conjured strange masculine magic from gasoline-fueled beasts. After spending his childhood watching the races with his father, Whitey Smith would race himself during the early years of his tenure at Hillside Cemetery. This of course earned his modified 1940 Ford coupe (number 72) the nickname “Grave Wagon.”
Those days, however, were distant dreams when he first saw Maria in the Five Mile pits. He’d only been ten, she an exotic twelve, handing her father tools as he worked under a chopped and stripped Chevy.
Whitey fell in love instantly. She hadn’t been wearing anything remotely girlish, clad only in a smaller version of the gray overalls other mechanics wore, hair pulled tight into a ponytail. Face composed and serious, as she watched her father (Carlos Alverez, Whitey would later learn) work underneath the Chevy. Whitey fell in love with her intense expression, her narrowed eyes, pursed lips, (which he suddenly wanted to kiss), and the oil smudge—a beauty mark—on her cheek.
He would chase her, worship and annoy her, woo her and then win her. He’d someday race for her, and would always cherish her.
Now he mourned her.
Whitey inhaled another breath of oil and gasoline, then reached in and flicked a light switch inside the shed’s door. Dim orange light spilled from a single bulb hanging from the shed’s ceiling, illuminating the spartan area, which had become his living space since he’d buried Maria at Hillside.
Against the wall a simple cot, blankets tucked in. Next to it, a wooden crate serving as a nightstand for a small lamp he’d gotten at Handy’s Pawn and Thrift. At the cot’s end sat an old footlocker bought at a garage sale long ago. Pushed into the far corner of the shed was a refrigerator, with his Coleman stove on top.
The tools of his trade hung neatly on the far wall. Two different sizes of shovels, several dirt and grass rakes, hand rakes, weed whacker, a pick and a pitchfork. The small riding lawnmower, push mower and snow-blower (to keep the access roads clear during winter), rested in an adjoining small garage. In the center of the shed sat a kerosene heater.
Whitey grunted as he moved slowly toward his cot. The shed offered everything he needed, regardless what his eldest Carlos thought. Carlos kept saying he’d catch his death out in the cold. Claiming he understood Whitey’s pain in one breath, accusing him of “playing goddamn Huck Finn” in the next. Ungrateful snot had grown too big for his britches, partying in New York City with his writer boyfriend. Said Whitey was foolish to believe in all the old tales of Dia de los Muertos, that Maria wouldn’t come back. Hell with him, anyway. When had Carlos . . .
(or was that Marcus?)
. . . valued his mother’s traditions? All Hallow’s Eve, Saint’s Day, All Souls Day, Dia de los Muertos. Those quaint Mexican customs (of which his sons had acted increasingly ashamed) meant nothing to him, so how could Carlos (Marcus?) understand Whitey’s need to be close to Maria tonight?
Whitey sat down on the cot, knees popping, his lower back aching. Didn’t matter what they thought. He’d determined to spend October by Maria’s side here at the cemetery, and he had. Only one more night left. Tonight, All Hallow’s Eve. Dia de los Muertos. Day of the Dead. Technically it fell on November 2nd, but after they’d gotten married, Maria had insisted on celebrating it Halloween night. To her, it felt right to celebrate Dia de los Muertos the same night the whole town armed their porches with grinning jack-o’-lanterns while costumed youth patrolled the streets.
Some front yards on Halloween boasted haunted graveyards filled with foam headstones, skeletons and lurching zombies. Their front yard on Henry Street offered a monument to the Day of the Dead. Central to the display had always been the ofrenda, a wooden altar Whitey had built from sheets of plywood. On it, Maria always assembled an offering for their dead relatives and loved ones, to welcome their spirits on a night when the boundaries between worlds grew thin.
Sitting on his cot, Whitey recalled the days when Carlos and Marcus marveled at the ofrenda. For years it had lit their eager, drinking faces with soft electric light glowing from strings of orange and yellow bulbs, and the flickering of ceremonial candles. During those innocent years, the boys thought they had the best Halloween exhibit in town. The finest touch? The Coqueta Catrina and Elegant Catrin (two opulently clothed foam skeletons), standing silent and grinning watch on either side of the ofrenda.
Their lawn did boast foam headstones also, but they were garlanded with bright orange and yellow marigolds. Before each, Maria filled plastic bowls full of candy apples, homemade pumpkin empanadas, pumpkin spice brownies, and of course, homemade Calaveras. Sugar-candy skulls. She and Whitey—faces painted in Calaveras masks, dressed as the Coqueta Catrina and the Elegant Catrin—directed the children to these bowls.
Whitey sighed. As children, Carlos and Marcus had begged to sit before the ofrenda, long after the trick-or-treaters had gone. But it got “old,” they said when teenagers. They’d even gone so far as to accuse Maria—their mother—of not really believing in Dia de los Muertos at all. She’d “co-opted” it, according to Marcus . . .
(or was it Carlos?)
. . . made it her “thing” to show how “Mexican” she was. Said even she thought the stories nothing but superstition. So disrespectful, it made Whitey’s hands shake with barely-restrained (but still futile) rage thinking about it. He sounded just like his brother.
(but which one?)
Whitey bent and covered his face with shaking hands.
***
After being struck dumb by Maria’s transcendent twelve-year-old beauty at Five Mile Speedway, Whitey didn’t instantly pursue her. After all, she was twelve and in sixth grade. An unattainable prize for a lowly fourth grader.
However, as they progressed out of grammar school into junior high and eventually high school, a combination of happenstance and Whitey’s own quiet determination kept them crossing paths. By the time Maria was a senior and Whitey was a sophomore, they were friends. They walked home from school together. They sat together
at lunch. During the summers they picked blueberries at Mr. Trung’s, browsed garage sales, and once they braved the first floor of old Bassler House, the dilapidated Victorian farmhouse on the edge of town. They wandered through Raedeker Park Zoo, talking about nothing and everything. They watched the Wednesday night summer movies at Raedeker Park when it was a monster movie or a western, and they endlessly searched Handy’s Pawn and Thrift for the trinkets only young people found fascinating.
The tipping point occurred Maria’s senior year, when Whitey asked her to the annual Halloween movie at Raedeker Park. At the time, he hadn’t understood her unusually excited acceptance of his invitation. Only later did it dawn upon him: For the first time he’d asked her to go somewhere with him, formally.
When he knocked on her door and she opened it, he could only stare, speechless. Her usually light-brown face was a startling white. Large black ovals circled her eyes, mimicking the gaping eyeholes of a skull, but they didn’t make her eerie or frightening. She appeared mysterious. Otherworldly. Likewise, her nose was painted black—a skull’s empty nose cavity—her lips were also white and sectioned by black lines into two rows of skeletal teeth.
On her forehead and cheeks, faint colored lines—yellow, blue and red—swirled in delicate patterns. Looking closer, he noticed the small blue circles bordering her eyes, as if a chain of sapphires circled each. As a finishing touch, a red flower blossomed on her chin.
She stared at him for a heartbeat. Whitey opened his mouth and closed it, still speechless, because she was unearthly and ethereal. It flitted across his mind to ask if she was practicing for Halloween, but the painted mask invoked a seriousness which transcended a mere spook mask.
Finally, he swallowed and managed, “Wow. You look amazing.”
Maria smiled, transforming her face into a beautiful and disconcerting grinning skull. “Thanks!” She stepped out, shut the door behind her, and they left for Raedeker Park.
After a few steps, Whitey said, “It is awesome. I mean it. Is it . . . I mean . . . ”
“For Halloween? Not exactly. We’re doing a family heritage project in Mr. Groover’s class, and I’ve been studying Mexican customs. Cause, you know,” she jerked her head back toward her house, “Mom and Dad won’t talk about Mexican stuff because they’re trying so hard to be American. Which is fine. I’ve got no problem being American, except whenever Grandma Louisa tries to tell stories about Mexico, Mom and Dad hush her, like she’s going to spill all these embarrassing secrets. Especially when she tries to tell us about Dia de los Muertos. So I decided to study it for my History project this year.”
She offered Whitey a brilliant grin, which only made her more beautiful and ghastly. “My parents weren’t happy. Got an ‘ay dios mio’ from Mom, which is impressive. But anyway, it’s for a school project, and they know I hate school, so I guess they figured if it’ll get me interested in schoolwork, it’s okay.”
They left Henry Street and crossed onto Main, heading to Raedeker Park. “Dia de los Muertos. Day of the Dead, right? Mrs. Millavich talked about it in Spanish last week, but . . . I, uh . . . ”
Whitey shrugged. “I sorta wasn’t paying attention.”
Maria’s painted-on skull smirked as she punched his shoulder. “Of course not. She was probably wearing one of her tight-knit sweaters.” Whitey said nothing and kept grinning, because of course, it was true.
“I’ll skip the parts about the Catholic church and All Soul’s day. Day of the Dead is ancient. It recognizes death as a natural part of life. Not something to be feared. That’s why the face-paint.” She tapped her cheek. “This is a calavera, representing the human skull not as something scary but something beautiful, because it’s a part of life. They make little sugar candies in the shape of skulls. Can’t buy them around here. Next year, I’m going to learn how to make them myself.”
Samara Hill, which led to Raedeker Park, lay only a few blocks away, but suddenly Whitey wanted to walk slower, and make the time last. “What else is the Day of the Dead about?”
Maria talked excitedly, gesturing with her hands, warming to the subject. “Mostly, it’s about honoring those who have gone before us. You decorate loved ones’ headstones, offer their favorite foods in clay bowls, maybe sing their favorite songs or hymns. Nana always mentions it every year because Grandpa is buried out on Shelby Road, and she gets upset we don’t erect an ofrenda and celebrate for his spirit to return.”
“What’s an ofrenda?”
“An altar you place at a loved-one’s gravesite. You put pictures of them on it, maybe some keepsakes they loved in real life, candles, bowls of their favorite foods . . . ”
“Do you believe people’s souls actually come back on the Day of the Dead?”
Maria shrugged, smiling wistfully. “I don’t know. I know it’s an important part of my culture . . . which my parents want to ignore. I’m not going to get all traditional or anything. I like America fine. But I want this one thing from my heritage, y’know? And I’m going to celebrate it from now on.”
Blazing inspiration pumped Whitey’s heart. “Can I . . . celebrate it with you? I mean . . . can boys have their faces painted, too?”
They’d reached the next-to-last intersection before Samara Hill. Maria turned and favored him with an earnest expression of affection which burned its way into his soul. “Of course boys can have their faces painted as a calavera. And of course you can celebrate it with me.”
She reached out and gently took his hand. Squeezed it, and held on to it. He smiled, and, because he didn’t trust himself to speak (and maybe she likewise) they turned and crossed the street, Whitey realizing he’d done something far greater than simply ask Maria Alverez to the annual Halloween movie.
***
A soft knock on the door pulled Whitey from his memories. His knees tired and sore (as always these days), he didn’t stand. Only looked up and said, “Come in.”
The door opened. Sheriff Chris Baker removed his hat and stepped in. “Evening, Whitey.” He gestured at Whitey with his hat. “Your Elegant Catrin looks especially fine, this year. Wasn’t sure you’d be celebrating, especially after . . . well. Happy to see you’re carrying on.”
Whitey smiled slightly. Sheriff Baker was young and relatively new on the job, and he still had some things to learn. But he knew how to flatter his elders. “Thank you, Sheriff. I’m not so fine, really. A tired old man wearing white face paint and a dusty old tuxedo bought forty years ago at Handy’s Pawn and Thrift. Nothing more.”
Sheriff Baker waved off Whitey’s dismissal. “Humble as always, Whitey, but this town loves you as much as it loved Maria.”
Whitey smiled fully now, blinking back an irritating wetness in his eyes. “You’re too kind, Sheriff. Parents obviously taught you some manners.”
“My mother didn’t suffer fools, sure enough.”
Whitey folded his hands in his lap, feeling mild impatience at being interrupted (something he’d felt more and more the past few years, because he was old, and tired, and interruptions wearied him, and he hated the whole feeling, which only made him feel older). “What brings you out here, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Baker shrugged. “Patrolling. Halloween and all. Wanted to stop by, make sure none of the kids were sneaking around here, getting into mischief.”
Despite his irritation at the interruption, Whitey chuckled. “We haven’t had any problems in the cemetery since before your time, Sheriff. Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here.”
Sheriff Baker’s smile faltered. He actually appeared embarrassed. “Well. Understand, Whitey . . . no one’s been talking behind your back. We all imagine how you’re feeling right now, this being your first Day of the Dead without Maria. But a few folks have noticed you didn’t put up your ofrenda or Day of the Dead decorations this year . . . and they’re worried, I guess. Hoping you’re all right.”
Whitey forced a smile. “Death is a part of life, Sheriff. Maria taught me that. But.” He allowed his smile to sli
p a bit; he’d come to respect and like the new sheriff, and believed he could trust him with some of the truth.
Some, of course.
Not all.
“I wasn’t quite up for it this year. I did answer the door for a few children, but I didn’t have it in me for anything more.” He offered the Sheriff a sad smile. “I’m sure you understand how much it takes out of a man to his lose his wife, regardless of the age.”
Sheriff Baker nodded, distant pain glimmering in his eyes. Whitey didn’t like thinking he was taking advantage of the Sheriff’s recent loss—his wife had died shortly after he took office here in Clifton Heights—but a growing impatience for the sheriff’s departure warred with his sense of propriety. The time was coming to welcome Maria’s spirit from the Other Side. He wanted to be alone, and his desire outweighed his concerns for the sheriff’s own grief. “I know you understand what it means to lose your wife. I didn’t have the gumption for the whole production this year.”
Sheriff Baker nodded. He glanced around the shed, gesturing with his hat. “Got things nice and fixed up. You comfortable out here? Not too cold or anything?”
Whitey sighed and leaned back against the wall, stifling a grimace at the small brace of pain in his lower back. “All right, Sheriff. Who sent you? Which of my boys called you, asked you to come out and check on me?”
Sheriff Baker frowned, confusion and also worry showing in his expression. “The boys? Whitey . . . I don’t understand. The boys . . . ”
***
“ . . . have been asking for you, Maria. They wanted to be here, but they can’t come yet.”
A weak, fluttering smile. Eyes sad and regretful, yet understanding. “You haven’t told anyone, have you? About the boys? I don’t think they’d understand, and I don’t want . . . ”
