If anyone had ever accused Héctor Rivera of just ignoring the fact that his wife (His dear, sweet Imelda!) was here, because she ignored him, they would have been sorely mistaken! In fact, he'd heard through the grapevine exactly when she did arrive. Already on the fading end, nonetheless he'd polished and dusted himself as best he could and paced anxiously in the Department of Family Reunion's lobby as she spoke with a case-worker to get settled and over the shock of being here.

Héctor already knew His Imelda was hiding her shock well, just nodding, and putting her focus to what she now had to be used to and do. She...was so very good at that...ever since he'd taught her how...

Héctor's guts he no longer had clenched and he almost lost his nerve but no...he had to try...

When she came out, his hat had whipped off, and he'd lost all of his previously practiced words, some where he tried to explain, some where he knew he shouldn't. It was alright, neither version, or their many versions within, were given the chance to get out. "Ime-", the first few syllables of her name, that was as far as he got, before a shoe made his head spin. He hardly heard whatever she spat at him, and by the time he had his vision clear and straight, she was marching off.

Imelda...no...please!

Not that he didn't understand. It was all his fault, he'd left her with the impression his and Ernesto's touring was more important. It wasn't even remotely true, even before Ernesto stole his songs, but...decades of being gone, even through no fault of his own, a death he couldn't control-but to have chosen better food along the road-gave a hammer of truth to them.

Actually that made that his fault too.

Héctor had just placed his hat back on his head, and shambled off back towards the wasteland he now called home. He was actually surprised to find he'd faded a bit more as Imelda had passed, he'd have thought all the damage there that could be done was. Coco was the main thing keeping him there and together now, and he knew it.

Years later even, it continued to be true. But Héctor had a new plan. A new plan that had him going back to the musicians he'd stopped talking to ever since Ernesto stealing his songs, and their mockery, put a bad taste in his mouth.

"I...I still don't get it...", the fiddle for a mariachi band here frowned and glanced from the shabby skeleton to the phone.

Héctor held in his sigh, "You are calling Rivera Shoes", he said, a few more family members following her, and Imelda now had back up what she had in life. Héctor had never gotten the chance to tell her of how proud he was of her, both then and now, but maybe if this worked...

"Your name is Señor Alberto Alonzo...".

"Oh, that sounds made up", the fiddler criticized.

Héctor clenched his fists, not in rage, but utter frustration. This was a very important plan, and yet the one part to get it off the ground was refusing to comprehend...!

"Of course it's made up, I made it up!", he rushed, "But you're going to call and...".

"No I just mean no one will believe it's a real name", the other argued.

Héctor counted to ten, "If they don't we'll try again...".

"and they won't recognize my voice", the other scoffed.

"I will figure that part of it, alright!", Héctor said, fully annoyed, "just pick up the phone!".

With another sigh, the fiddle player did, dialing. Héctor handed the script and stood by while it was read. He could do a lot with disguises, but Imelda knew his voice straight off. That was why he was hiring another one.

"Hello, Rivera Shoes?", the fiddle player asked as he got an answer, "My name is...Alberto Alonzo...and I was wondering...".

"Don't sound like you're dead!", Héctor whispered, "Sound like you're actually asking!".

"I am dead!", the other argued back. Héctor made all sorts of impatient motions. "Yes", the other went on with the act, speaking into the phone, "I need shoes. For, uh, my client, my very important client". Héctor gripped at his hair, that was not what was on the paper! He would have grabbed the phone back, but a sudden ending of the call would look suspicious and they might not take again from this number. Maybe they would, but Héctor felt he couldn't risk it.

"Uh, shoe size?", the fiddler glanced to Héctor, who grimaced and pointed to his sheet he, as a performer, was not using! "Twelve", the fiddler answered. Héctor could also not change his actual shoe size, and would just have to pray Imelda didn't smell a rat at that one fact alone and refuse the sale. This was also why, though they were at a pay phone outside the rehearsal building they often used, Héctor didn't have the fiddler be himself either.

Imelda would refuse making shoes for musicians. Off principle.

"Yes Ma'am" the other went on. Dios Mio! Was it Imelda herself on the line? Héctor wished with all his fiber (or the fiber left in bone) that he could pull better voices. To hear even her Annoyed-at-Customers-but-still-being-Polite Voice!

"Just one dance?", a younger him had asked, "to see if you don't hate me", and even the annoyed insults she threw at him had been beautiful.

Héctor snapped to when the other hung up the receiver. "Well?!", he asked anxiously.

"The Señora on the phone agreed to meet here tomorrow, inside the rehearsal hall", the fiddler reported. She had? Héctor was surprised by this last bit of information, but all but spun in his joy at the first, an enthused grito spilling out as he threw his hat off, and scaring some older women into hurrying down the street. "She's coming tomorrow, oh thank-you Amigo! A dozen times over!", the poor fiddler was gifted an unexpected hug. Héctor then letting him go, "I must go! I must plan up my disguise to perfection so that she doesn't recognize me but I may possibly just...ah!", Héctor cut off his sentimental ramblings to a stranger and rushed on down the street, picking up his hat along the way and doing more than a few leaps up in the air more.

The fiddler just shook his head before moving off, glad his part of whatever that was for was done. "Mama begged me to find a better job and company...I probably should have just let Papa put me to work in the fields", he lamented his life, and death, path as he moved on.