Forests of the Heart (41 page)

Hunter picked the cell phone up from the dash and punched in Fiona’s number.

“Miki,” he said as he waited for the connection to go through. “I should tell her about what happened at her apartment. That guy might have come by because the Gentry knew I was there, but what if he was looking for her? She could still be in danger.”

Ellie only half-listened to his side of the conversation until she heard him talking about the mask.

“I don’t think you should be telling her that,” she said.

“Hang on a sec’,” Hunter told Miki. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Ellie. “Why not?”

“Well, she’s Donal’s sister …”

“Didn’t you hear what they did to her apartment?”

“I guess. It’s just, we thought we knew Donal and look where that got us.”

“This is different. I’ve known Miki forever. I’d trust her with my life.”

“Like we trusted Donal?”

Hunter gave her a sympathetic look. “I never did,” he said.

Of course not, Ellie realized. Most people took him at face value. To them he was just this morose man whose basic moods were cranky and bitter. She should have done the same.

Hunter finished his conversation and pressed the “End” button.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel worse than you’re probably already feeling.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “I need these reality checks to remind me of how things really are.”

Tommy chuckled.

“What?” she said.

He shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just funny hearing you talk about how things really are when they’re so far from anything you’d even talk about before.”

“Ha, ha,” she said. She slumped in her seat, but her seatbelt made the position too uncomfortable. “Did I mention how I was hoping you’d keep bringing up these thinly veiled I-told-you-sos?” she asked as she straightened up once more.

She looked at Tommy, but it was Hunter who replied.

“Look at that,” he said, pointing alongside the road on his side of the truck.

“What is it?” Tommy asked, not wanting to take his attention from the highway.

“A dog,” Ellie said. “Pacing us.”

“There’s more than one,” Hunter said. “I can see a couple more a little farther back.”

Ellie nodded. “And they’re on the other side of the road, too. They don’t seem to be having any trouble keeping their balance on the ice …”

She and Hunter exchanged worried glances.

“Oh, shit,” she said. “It’s the Gentry, isn’t it?”

“Don’t weird out,” Tommy told her.

“No, no. Of course not. Let’s not think about how that guy just flipped over a car like it was made of cardboard.”

“She’s got a point,” Hunter said.

“How many of them are there?” Tommy asked.

“It’s hard to tell. Six or seven.”

“And all they’re doing is pacing us?”

“So far,” Ellie said. “Maybe they’re just waiting for a really desolate stretch of road.”

“They’ve had plenty of that,” Tommy said. “My guess is they want to know where we’re going. Look,” he added, shooting Ellie a quick glance. “If they’d wanted to hurt us, they could have jumped us back in the city.”

“Except now they know we’re taking off on them. Reneging on this stupid bargain I didn’t even know I was making.”

“They can’t know that for sure,” Tommy said. “Which is why they’re following us.”

“Not anymore,” Hunter said. “They’re falling back.”

Ellie twisted in her seat to see for herself. It was true. The dogs now stood across the middle of the road, motionless, staring at them, growing smaller as the pickup continued to pull away from them.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why are they giving up all of a sudden?”

Hunter pointed out the window. At first Ellie didn’t know what he meant. But then she saw them, too. Strange figures standing in amongst the ice-coated trees. They were driving slow enough that she could pick out details but they didn’t quite register. Tall naked men, dark against the snow, swallowed by the trees where the shadows lay deeper. Their dark skin glistened, like statues coated by a fine sheen of frozen rain. Their hair hung in long braids, or matted dreadlocks; it was hard to tell. The headlights of the pickup flashed on small objects that had been woven into their twisted hair.

“My god,” she said in a low voice. “They’ve got horns.”

“Antlers,” Tommy corrected.

There was something strained about his voice, but Ellie didn’t pick up on it immediately.

“They’re just headdresses of some sort, right?” she said.

When she looked at him for confirmation, he was shaking his head. She slumped in her seat.

“More spirits,” she said.

Tommy nodded. “You got it.”

“How come all of a sudden we’re all seeing these things … and seeing them everywhere ?”

“Aunt Nancy says that once you get a glimpse into
manidó-ak
í—the spiritworld—you’re always open to it.”

“And these would be?”

“I’m guessing they’re the
manitou”
Tommy told her. “The ones that belong here.”

She looked at him, finally registering the odd catch in his voice.

“You’ve never seen them before, either, have you?” she said.

Tommy didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The wonder in his eyes said it all.

Caras vemos, coazones no sabemos.

Faces we see, hearts we know not.

—S
PANISH
PROVERB

N
OGALES,
S
ONORA,
O
CTOBER /
N
OVEMBER,
1990

At the end of October, when
Anglo children were preparing for Halloween, the San Miguel household readied itself for
el Festival de Communión con los Muertos,
more commonly known as
los Días de Muertos,
the Days of the Dead.

Mama would pack the family into Abuela’s pickup and they would go to stay with her brother’s family in Nogales on the Mexican side of the border. Papa would come, too, walking into the desert to find his own way south from Tucson. Mama would pretend ignorance as to how he traveled, but Abuela and Bettina knew. Bettina would watch the skies the whole drive down to the border, looking for hawks. She knew better than to talk to her sister about it. Adelita remained forever embarrassed by a father who had never ridden in any sort of vehicle powered by an internal combustion engine, who wouldn’t even sleep under a roof if the floor underfoot wasn’t dirt.

They left home early on October 27th, reaching Tío Raphael’s house outside of Nogales in plenty of time to help hang water and bread outside as offerings for the spirits of those with no survivors to greet them and no home to visit—meager offerings, perhaps, but at least the visiting souls found something. On October 28th more food and drink were placed outside the house, this time for spirits of those who died by accident, murder, or other violent means. On the night of the 31st, when Anglo children went trick-or-treating door to door, the spirits of dead children came to visit, staying no later than midday of November 1st when the church bells began to ring to welcome the adult spirits, the Faithful Dead.

This was the time that the family formally greeted the most recently deceased adult, acknowledging through him or her all of their ancestors. In Tío Raphael’s home, the candles and copal incense were burned for Gerardo Muñoz, Mama’s oldest brother. Afterwards, To Raphael led the family to the homes of his neighbors who had lost a family member during the past year. Food was offered to these spirits as well, but also treasured belongings from times past. A familiar guitar. A holy image. A favorite brand of cigarettes. A bottle of soda. Anything to make the visiting spirits feel at home.

The days were busy, as there was always something to do, some errand to run. A child to comfort, a baby to hold. Sauces needed stirring, nuts had to be ground, fruits sliced. There was always someone being fed, someone hurrying to the market for more peppers or squash, tortillas being heated and spread with chile sauce, a baby bottle being refilled. With each passing day the altar for Tío Gerardo filled with added fruit and candies, flowers, a bottle of tequila, a hot mug of
atole,
pink and blue colored
pan de muerto,
fresh from the bakery.

At sundown of the 1st, everyone went to the public cemetery for the all-night vigil of communication with the dead.

They came by the thousands. Outside the Panteon Nacional, the traffic was bumper to bumper, with countless others arriving on foot, climbing down from the hills above, walking along the dirt road in groups of three and four and more. Inside the cemetery it was impossible not to step on a grave. There were people everywhere, of all ages. They sat on the stones or drew up chairs, stood in clusters. All the graves had been repaired, the area about them swept and cleaned, the stones bedecked with new coats of paint. Tombs, gravestones, slabs, crosses.

It wasn’t quiet. There was talking and laughter and gossip, recorded music from radios and cassette players, live music from the small
mariachi
bands who strolled through the crowds playing for a fee. Commerce was everywhere, with vendors selling flowers, balloons, blankets, food and drink, calling from their booths, even using loudspeakers. Many brought their own food as the San Miguel and Muñoz families did. Spicy
mole,
corn-wrapped
tamales,
tortillas, autumn fruits,
pan de muerto,
sugar skulls.

The graves were covered with carpets of colorful marigolds, baby’s breath, and purple cockscomb. Copal incense burned, filling the air with its pungent scent. Candles were lit and placed on the gravestones, one for each lost soul, until by midnight the acres of graves in the Panteon Nacional were filled with thousands of candles flickering in the windy autumn darkness. It was at once an eerie and a magical sight. Wrapped in blankets as the night cooled, the crowd thinned, but many stayed through dawn and into the following day.

By the evening of the 2nd, the party was over. The ghosts returned to the world of the dead, encouraged to leave by masked mummers whose job it was to scare away any of the stubborn spirits who tried to linger too long.

“They are brave behind their masks,” Papa remarked one year.

“Claro,”
Tío Raphael told him.
“Los espíritus
can’t see their true faces.”

“Aquí estamos,”
Mama put in.
“Encuéntrenos si puedes.”
We are here … find us if you can.

Tío Raphael tried to hand him a skeleton mask but Papa smiled and shook his head.

“At this point in my life,” he said, “it would take more than a mask to make me invisible.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence until Abuela said, “Then perhaps you should bathe more often.”

“Sí,”
Papá told her with a grin. “I could put on a dress and wear perfume as well.”

The tension broke with laughter and the moment was forgotten, but it reminded Bettina once again of how differently they saw the world from the others. Abuela, her
papá,
she herself. The others left offerings for the dead, spoke to them, but Bettina could see them, from the sad little dead children on the night of the 31st, to the crowds of ghosts who gathered in the cemetery two days later.

This year was no different. When they had their picnic on Gerardo’s grave, candles dripping wax onto the newly painted gravestone, Gerardo’s spirit was there, smiling conspiratorially at her as he inhaled the odors of the food and drink they had brought, breathed deep the incense and the scent of the candles. He was already gone when the family began to pack up to leave.

Abuela remained behind when the others left, ostensibly to clean up the mess they had left and commune a little longer with the dead. This was the third year that Bettina stayed to help her. There was little to pick up, and no family spirits left to commune with, but that wasn’t why they stayed. It was to do what the mummers in their skeleton masks did, scaring away the stubborn spirits, but Abuela was so much more effective at the task. She sent them on with affection and reasoning.

While Bettina finished gathering their trash, Abuela knelt by her son’s gravestone and laid a kiss on the white-washed stone.

“Vaya manso, mi muerto dulce”
she said, bidding farewell to Gerardo’s ghost, then she rose to her feet.

“You loved him very much,” Bettina said.

Her
abuela
smiled.
“Si.
I love all my children.
Soy madre.
How could I not?”

“Even Mama?” Bettina asked slyly, knowing how much they argued.

“Perhaps especially her,” Abuela said. “She is my only daughter.”

“Tío Gerardo was the oldest, wasn’t he?”

Bettina had known Tío Gerardo when he was alive, but only briefly. He’d died when she was very young and the memory of those long-ago days was dusty and veiled with cobwebs. She knew him better as a ghost.

“The oldest in this family,” Abuela said.

Bettina frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I had another family before. A husband and two beautiful boys.”

“What happened to them?”

“Mexican soldiers killed them. They killed everyone in our village. They thought we were Apache.”

Bettina frowned. When had the Mexican army fought the Apache? She tried to recall the history lessons in school that she never really paid much attention to.

“But that must have been …”

“A very long time ago,
si.
I am much older than I look,
nieta.
I escaped only because I was in the bajada when they came, gathering medicines. When I returned to our village…” She looked out across the Panteon Nacional, away to the mountains, her dark eyes unreadable. “I had many graves to dig that day.”

“That’s so horrible.”

Abuela nodded. “It was a terrible time.”

“Do you ever …” Bettina hesitated, then went on. “At this time of year, do you ever want to go back … to be there for when their spirits return …”

Abuela touched a hand to Bettina’s cheek. “I go every year,” she said. She moved her hand and laid it between her breasts. “Here. In my heart.”

“Next year I will burn candles for them,” Bettina said.

“They would like that,” Abuela told her. “But now, come,
chica.
We have work to do.”

They were not alone in their task. Other
curanderas
walked in the immense acreage of the Panteon Nacional as they did, following a winding path through the graves, pausing wherever a spirit still lingered.

“Es el hora de ir, mi encantó uno,”
they would say. It is time to go, my loved one.

And they would wait until the spirit understood and drifted away, then move on themselves. It was close to dusk when Abuela and Bettina started back for the gates of the cemetery. As they drew near to Tío Gerardo’s grave once more, Bettina spotted a little black dog with a white patch over his left eye, sitting on the grave. It was looking at them, expectant, tongue lolling.

“Look,” Bettina said. “What a funny-looking dog, with that patch on his eye.”

She turned to find Abuela standing still, regarding the dog with an expression Bettina had never seen before, a strange mix of sadness, surprise, and fear. That last emotion woke a shiver up Bettina’s spine. She had never seen her grandmother show fear of anything.

“What is it, Abuela?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“His name is Pedrito,” Abuela replied. “He was my dog when I was a little girl.”

Bettina couldn’t imagine her
abuela
as a little girl. Then she realized what Abuela had just said. If the dog had been hers when she was a little girl…

“You mean he looks like your Pedrito,” she said.

Because that dog on Tío Gerardo’s grave was no spirit animal, no ghost. It was a living, breathing creature, of that she was sure.

“No,” Abuela said. “It is him. I would know him anywhere. We were inseparable for years. He went away when I was only a little younger than you are now.”

“Went away. You mean he died?”

Bettina couldn’t take her gaze from the dog. He reminded her a little of her
cadejos,
without their outrageous coloring and goat’s feet. But he had their lolling smile and obvious good nature.

“No, he didn’t die,” Abuela said. “He simply ran off one day and we never saw him again.”

As if that had been his cue, the dog jumped to his feet. He barked at them, once, twice, a third time, then scampered off through the graves until he was lost to their view.

“What… what does it mean, Abuela?” Bettina asked. “You seemed almost frightened…”

Abuela smiled. “Frightened? Of Pedrito?
¡No probable!
But seeing him there on Gerardo’s grave certainly startled me.”

“Papa says we must be careful of dogs,” Bettina said. As she spoke, she could feel
los cadejos
stir inside her. “That they can open doors into other worlds.”

“Sí,”
Abuela agreed. “But they can close them as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Come, we should join the others. Your
mama
will be thinking that we have wandered off into the mountains.”

Bettina let herself be led out of the Panteon Nacional, back to her
tío’s
house. Once they were outside the cemetery, she kept an eye out for the little black dog with the white patch over his eye, but he didn’t make a reappearance. By the time she did see him again, it was too late to undo the damage he had done.

S
ONORAN
D
ESERT,
N
OVEMBER
/ D
ECEMBER

The next night, Bettina was home in her own bed. Tomorrow was Sunday and she’d promised Mama that she would go with her to early mass, so she hadn’t stayed up as late as she normally did. But it was now close to midnight and she still couldn’t sleep. She wasn’t sure why, since she was tired enough. Perhaps it was having stayed up so late the past few nights in Nogales, or the stirring of
los cadejos
who sometimes woke an inexplicable restlessness in her. Perhaps it was only the change in the air pressure. The skies had been heavily overcast all day, the air thick with the promise of a thunderstorm that had yet to come. So far it remained on the horizon, lightning flickering above the mountains accompanied by the faint rumble of distant thunder. Occasionally, the clouds above released a scattering of fat raindrops that were quickly absorbed into the ground. So far, that was all.