The young man turned his profile towards Ben, and even though his head was bent in conversation, Ben saw he was good-looking, even beautiful. His skin was the dark brown hue of purest cacao, hair glossy black, eyes golden and almost Asian, although he was clearly of native Latin American heritage. He had a slight Spanish accent and his wiry frame was bent in tension.
The man listened for a beat, then said, too loudly, “Just get the fuck out and take your shit, but you can’t have Plata!” He snapped the phone shut and stood, breathing heavily.
After a few seconds he glanced up, saw Ben, and smiled apologetically. “Hey, sorry, man. Didn’t mean to entertain the whole line, but…just broke up with my boyfriend.”
Ben was wound too tightly in his own agony to offer much comfort, but he answered by rote, “Sorry to hear that.”
The young man nodded. “Asshole wanted to take my cat, can you fuckin’ believe that? I’ve had Plata for two years, he moves in for six months, falls as much in love with her as with me, then wants to dump me and keep her. No fuckin’ way. Pendejo.” He shook his head, and Ben mirrored the movement.
“Jesus.”
Then, out of almost nowhere, the young man turned a grin on him, and his teeth were so lustrous in the dark skin of his face that Ben almost flinched. It was the same kind of easy rapport that Nicky had offered –
Nicky, the first time he’d smiled, and Ben’s knees had nearly buckled from how much he wanted this man he’d just met, wanted him just on the strength of a single smile.
“Hey, you okay?”
Ben realized the young man was looking at him, offering him companionship when his own had just been taken from him, and he forced himself to nod. “Yeah, just…a bad day.” Then he gestured around them. “Do you know what’s going on here?”
The man laughed. “You don’t know? Dia de los Muertos.”
Ben had heard the term, of course, but thought it was basically a Mexican version of Halloween. “I’m just here…visiting a loved one.” He waved a hand back towards Nicky’s grave.
“Today’s November 2nd – Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead. All these people here, they’re all visiting their loved ones, too. But see, they believe that tonight’s the night the dead come back to visit, so they make sure the graves are nice and clean, and there’s food for them. The little altars set up at the graves are called ofrendas, and they honor the dead. And the flowers? Zempaschuitl – goes all the way back to my people – the Aztecs.”
“LUIS!”
A voice called through the crowd, and the young man’s gaze shot up until he spotted a man twenty feet away, waving at him in irritation and then pointing at a watch. “Aw shit, I gotta run…”
“You’re leaving?” Ben was surprised by the disappointment in his own voice.
Luis clapped a hand on his shoulder and offered Ben that illuminated smile again. “No, just gotta run – we’re doing a performance.”
“A performance?”
“Just follow the drums.”
“Okay. Hey – I’m Ben.”
Luis waved, although Ben wasn’t sure he’d been heard. Then the young man was gone, swallowed up in the lines for the food.
A few moments later Ben staggered away from the mob, juggling two margaritas in plastic cups and foil-wrapped packages of tamales. He had thirteen dollars left, and as he walked past the flower seller, he spent another five on the last bundle of zempaschuitl.
At Nicky’s grave, he put the food and flowers down, then reached for his wallet. He removed his favorite portrait of Nicky, the one he’d taken with their digital camera a year ago at a New Year’s party. Nicky was lifting a glass, and his grin looked a little drunken, happy…a man in love.
Ben placed the portrait carefully at the foot of the headstone, beneath the etched words DOMINIC CRISCONE and the dates 1976-2010.
Thirty-four. Too fucking young.
He set one of the margaritas next to the picture, with a tamale on the other side. He thought about a night they’d gone to a Mexican restaurant, with three friends, and they’d shared margaritas and green corn tamales until the restaurant had closed. At the time it had been a pleasant outing; now it held such meaning that Ben thought the power of it might destroy him.
Fingers trembling, he laid some of the golden petals along the sides of the grave, as he’d seen all the families do (what did he call it? Ofrenda), then he placed the last of the bouquet next to the food, gulped down the remaining drink…
And wept.
*
Drums.
The sun had set as the air began to throb with them. He’d stopped crying, but it still took Ben a few minutes to realize the new sound was drums, and to connect that to the handsome young man named Luis.
He rose, left the grave, and made his way towards the sound and a ring of rapt onlookers. The drums – huge, standing instruments that looked old and well-used – were played by half-a-dozen men, and even from a hundred feet away Ben felt their thunder vibrate in his chest. He circled the audience until he found an opening, and then gaped:
Nearly twenty dancers whirled and leapt in the center space. They all wore elaborate costumes of gold, feathers, and bones, with legs and chests bare and faces painted in skull white. Bells jingled from ankles and wrists, and they all bore a look of distant concentration, nearly trance-like. Ben understood the expressions: There was something in this ritual that went beyond mere exoticism; it was frenzied and wild, and Ben let it take him over, making his body – already energized and raw from the meth – jump and twitch to its own rhythms.
He watched the dancers, a blur of flash and motion, until one face coalesced near him, pale skull features peering out from under a square headdress of metal and long brown feathers.
Luis.
He didn’t grin at Ben – that would have intruded on the dance – but he saw Ben, and the recognition left Ben warmed. Luis was magnificent, his lithe body twisting and stomping and gyrating, naked torso impossibly smooth and perfect, and Ben abruptly realized that he was hard; for the first time since Nicky had died, he wanted something other than a drug, or a dream. The audience had grown in size now, and Ben felt as if they were all linked in some ancient, universal desire, driven by drumbeats and flesh –
On the far side of the circle, past Luis and the other dancers, stood Jason. He spotted Ben when Ben saw him.
Jason’s eyes widened and then he bared his teeth and pointed at Ben, accusatory. Ben saw two men, burly men with tattoos and dirty clothes, pushing through the crowd.
He turned and fled, Luis forgotten.
He ran, heading nowhere. He thought back: Fuck, I’m an idiot – I had him meet me here two months ago. Except then he was here to make a drop-off; doubt if he’ll leave much behind this time.
Ben leapt over tombstones and swerved around startled families, heading away from the main entrance. Ahead, he saw a procession of some kind; he heard more music, a cacophony played by dozens of tinny horns and drums. Huge papier-mâché heads bobbed over the crowd, held up on sticks by those who led the parade. The heads, each at least four feet tall, showed a mustachioed man, a woman with limpid eyes…and a bony image of Death, with black eye sockets and carefully outlined teeth.
Without stopping to consider, Ben pushed his way into the dancing, writhing celebrants, trying to lose himself in the crowd. Faces and shoulders bobbed around him, obscuring his vision. He saw nothing but the backs of heads in front of him; he dared to hope he’d lost them, that this procession would be his shield until he reached an exit out of the cemetery. He looked around frantically – did that tattooed arm belong to one of his pursuers? He tried to nudge forward, but the procession moved at its own, strange pace. He bounced on his feet, eyes darting. There – thirty feet to the right, ugly man with a denim jacket, squinting -
Ben’s side exploded in pain. He looked down just in time to see the short knife blade slide out of his mid-section, covered in his blood. He never even saw the man who’d wielded the knife. He
knew only that there were a few seconds of blinding agony, he clutched his side and felt the hot blood gushing through his fingers, spreading over his shirt, and the crowd around him was buffeting him, elbowing him, he knew if he fell they’d trample him and never notice, and he pushed against them, ignoring curses and angry looks. Overhead, the huge white skull twisted and seemed to stare down at him, uncaring, mocking…
He broke free from the parade and fell against a desolate headstone, gasping. The procession was heading away from him, the music fading. There was no sign of Jason, or his two men; they must have been satisfied with their night’s work.
The pain abruptly vanished, replaced by cold and leaden inertia. Ben’s mind was still active enough to tell him his body had gone into shock. He knew he had to find help, quickly, but this area of the cemetery was dark, deserted. He tried to reach for his cell phone, but remembered – it’d been turned off for non-payment weeks ago.
Fuck. Dying in a graveyard, on Day of the Dead.
But he wasn’t going to die here, like this. He willed his legs to move, and whether it was determination or the meth, he found they would, albeit stiffly. He started staggering, hoping he could find it in this dim light, with his vision clouding, and everything so cold –
There. Nicky’s grave.
Ben let himself collapse, trying not to knock over the ofrenda he’d created. He landed resting with his back against the side of Nicky’s tombstone, both hands pressing now against his oozing wound. He laid his head back, felt the marble under a cheek, and thought:
This is where I’ll die. With Nicky.
He waited to bleed out.
*
Some time later, Ben opened his eyes. He had no memory of having closed them, and wasn’t sure if he’d passed out, fallen asleep, or simply rested. He was vaguely surprised to find he was still alive, and he could even move…slightly.
He turned his head, and saw that the graveyard had emptied out. The moon had risen, time had passed. He thought he heard a few voices in the far distance, maybe the last visitors or vendors packing up to leave. Otherwise it was quiet, dark, cold. At least there was no pain. The worst part was the terrible loneliness.
Then he saw them.
At first it was a single slight glimmer, like the reflection of headlights, against a tree trunk. Then the wan light moved, and Ben could still see it – even though there was nothing behind it, nothing to reflect any distant light source. His breath caught as he watched it materialize into the shape of a man, walking with translucent feet that never quite touched earth. When it reached a particular grave, it stopped and knelt down, reaching for the offerings left there.
More light caught his eyes, and he turned left, then right…
God, they’re everywhere.
Ghosts. He could only call them that. Their faint forms were scattered throughout the cemetery; Ben could make out the broader forms of men, the skirted, slender forms of women, even small children. They moved without movement, drifting towards graves. They paused before ofrendas, their insubstantial hands reaching for food and drink left by those who loved them.
Ben knew he should be frightened, even terrified, but instead he felt a strange sense of peace. These visitors intended no harm; they had no chains to rattle, no grudges to settle. He found no dread at the thought that he’d be joining them soon. He welcomed the idea.
Then he saw one ten yards away that seemed different from the others; it was vague, featureless, searching. After a few seconds it vanished, and Ben knew that it had been forgotten, that no one had come this year to clean its grave and lead the way with zempaschuitl.
Suddenly Ben didn’t want to die. No one would remember him on Dia de los Muertos, there would be no gifts of love, remembrances, shared memories. He didn’t want to spend eternity neglected, little more than a flickering shadow searching for something he could no longer name. He only wanted to die if he could be sure it would give him…
Nicky.
Ben felt an adrenaline rush then and twisted his useless body as the air around him changed, the temperature dropping, the slight scent of cologne – Nicky’s cologne – wafting. And he was there, suddenly, his form shading up from nothing to luminescence. His side was to Ben, but he was easily recognizable; he was more defined than the others, and Ben thought it had less to do with his death having been more recent than simply the undeniable force of Nicky.
“Nicky…” Ben’s voice was hoarse, and when he heard how weak it was, he tried to reach out one shaking hand.
But Nicky paid no attention. He walked the short length of his grave, then reached down for the drink. He wrapped his fingers around the cup, and when he lifted his hand, he carried a glowing imitation, while the real drink remained untouched on the grass. Moving slowly, as if not quite used to controlling his limbs, Nicky raised the cup and tilted it up. He seemed to drain it, then the cup vanished from his hand.
He turned.
Ben’s heart was nearly pounding out of his chest as Nicky’s eyes lowered, searching. “Nicky, I’m here -!”
He gestured again, and the spectre’s eyes settled on him at last…but they didn’t connect. Ben stared into them for interminable seconds, and almost felt himself spinning, falling into a vast nothingness, with no end.
“Nicky…” he cried out again, but there was no answer.
The ghost vanished.
Ben was panting, heart still hammering, as he fell back on the grass, exhausted, stunned.
It wasn’t Nicky. It didn’t even see me.
Then he understood, and he laughed.
Of course it didn’t see me. Because Nicky’s dead. He’s really dead.
Ben laughed again, sprawled in the cemetery grass, and he felt life beginning to seep back into him. He wanted to sit up, but he didn’t have the strength; still, it didn’t matter, because he knew what he would see:
They’d be gone, all of them. All the dead ones, the spirits. They’d come, on this one night, only because someone remembered them; they were nothing without the memory, just reflections, with no mind or soul. They’d come not because they wanted to, but because the living desired it.
The living. Like Ben.
Even as he began to doubt what he’d seen (a hallucination, brought on by blood loss, by stress, by riding the end of a meth binge), he felt a burden fall away; weightless, free of gravity. He’d die here, he’d be one of the forgotten ones, but at least he’d die with a clear mind and heart. His only regret was that no one would remember Nicky next November. Beautiful, beloved Nicky, resting in peace…
“Ben?”
A voice, a human voice. Ben turned his head, and saw a figure heading towards him. It was too dark to make out features, but he knew that voice, that slight accent: Luis.
“Are you…?”
Ben cleared his throat, didn’t try to rise. “Hey, Luis, do you think you could call 911? I’ve been stabbed.”
“Oh fuck…”
Luis didn’t hesitate; he reached into a pocket, pulled out the phone, and punched in the emergency number.
Ten minutes later, the EMTs had Ben on a stretcher and were lifting it into the back of an ambulance. Luis had stayed with him, leaving only long enough to guide the EMTs. During that time, Luis had taken his hand and kept it warm, and had talked to him: Of his life, his family, his heritage. His ghosts.
“Luis,” Ben asked once, “how did you find me?”
“I saw my grandfather – I mean, my grandfather’s spirit. I followed him. He vanished about the time I heard you.”
Ben smiled, realizing without bitterness how wrong he’d been. “I guess Nicky knows your granddad.”
“What?” Luis asked, squeezing Ben’s hand.
“Nothing.”
Luis told the ambulance he’d follow them to the hospital. As the ambulance doors closed and the EMTs bustled around him, taking instrument readings and calling out findings, Ben wondered if he’d make it. He wanted to see Luis again; he wanted to be remembered.
> He wanted to be clean. He wanted to finally say goodbye to Nicky.
In the distance, beyond the cemetery walls, Ben heard music spilling from a moving car; it was all brass and rhythm and lilting vocal. He listened for a few seconds, then the car passed and the music faded.
But Ben wanted to live.
Clearing Clutter
Michael Hacker
As she washed her hands in the shared restroom on the sixth floor of Seattle’s historic Pioneer Building, Lauren Keene’s muscles spasmed and a moment later she lost all sensation in her legs. Her knees buckled and she collapsed. The impact knocked her glasses off her face and Lauren’s world became a cloud of blurry light.
“Goddamn! Not again!”
Dazed, she struggled to sit. She touched the back of her scalp to make sure there was no blood. Wincing, she cried out, “Is anyone there? Can anyone hear me? Hello?” The pathetic weakness in her voice infuriated her. An involuntary urge to laugh gurgled in her throat. Lauren banged the back of her head hard against the floor to banish the impulse.
No one came. It was late. Most of the other therapists who kept offices near Lauren’s didn’t see clients past 6:00 when the front doors to the Victorian-era building were locked, and it was almost 7:00 now – and Friday. No matter. She’d wait for the fit to pass. She remembered with some relief the cell phone in her front pocket. She could call 911 if she absolutely had to. But not just yet.
Lauren rose on her elbows and leaned back against the wall of the restroom to sit on the chlorine-scented marble floor between the sink and the wastebasket. The stink of urine from around the bowl of the unisex toilet was revolting. After running her palms across the floor and finding the frames with her fingertips, she put her glasses back on and attempted to concentrate and calm her breathing.
A long howl of laughter burst from her as paresthesias, like the tiny stings of innumerable bees, swarmed over her legs. Her legs were waking up. Painful, but good. Her laughter abated. Thank god. Of all the symptoms of her disease, this was the absolute worst.
Abominations of Desire Page 4
