The following morning, the shoemakers were as productive as any Rivera could hope to be. Everyone was diligent—and silent—wrapped up in their own thoughts. Music had been pushed out of their minds, replaced by the excitement of Mamá Imelda's suitor—or, rather, soon-to-be suitor. For the first time in most of their memories Mamá Imelda had un pretendiente, a gentleman caller.
"No silly jokes today?" Imelda eyed her oddly stoic brothers as she passed the workbench, carrying a basket of orders to deliver. She stood at the head of the table, her mouth pursed as she eyeballed them. "You're being very quiet this morning. Is something the matter?" If they'd had flesh, they might have given themselves away with nervous sweat. As it was, they all managed to shake their heads.
"Well…" she stared at them another moment before turning to the door. "I'm going to be gone most of the morning, and perhaps part of the afternoon."
"But you'll miss—" Julio quickly pinched his sister beneath the table. "I-I-I mean, you'll miss lunch!" she corrected herself quickly.
"¿Y qué?" Imelda narrowed her eyes, fingers tightening around the handle of the basket. "Is there any reason I should stay?" Rosita opened her mouth, but saw the twins' heads shaking in the corner of her eye.
"…No, Mamá."
"You can take care of yourselves for one day, can't you?"
"Yes, Mamá." Imelda clicked her tongue in clear disapproval, shaking her head as she left. She practically stomped out of the gate, startling a gentleman walking his poodle alebrije. The man shakily tipped his hat to her before peering into their open door, wondering what on earth could have caused a woman to be so angry, and in such a hurry.
"¡Ay!" Victoria copied her grandmother's movements down to the head shake. "Did you ever hear such a thing? 'Perhaps part of the afternoon,'" she grumbled, changing the thread in her needle. "Why lie? Just say "I'll be out until Héctor leaves"."
"Mija," Julio reproached her gently. "That's not a nice thing to say about your Mamá Imelda." Victoria eyed him over the tops of her glasses, her expression unrepentant. "Even if it was right," he added, knowing full well what his daughter was thinking.
"There's no harm in seeing him," Rosita sighed, not fully taking either side.
"If she sees him, she'll give in," Felipe explained. Oscar looked at him in surprise, and then they both began to laugh.
"I was just thinking the same thing!" He grinned widely at his twin. "Do you remember when—?
"Oh, yes!" Felipe laughed even harder. "And when—?"
"How could I forget?! What about the time—" They both dropped their hammers, grabbing for their sides as they bent over in near hysterics.
"The look on Mamá's face when she saw the garden!" Oscar hooted.
"And don't forget Papá! Remember how he threw the shoehorn and dented the gate?"
"Oh! Stop, I can't take it! I'm going to fall apart!"
"What on earth are you two talking about?" Victoria put down her needle, eyeing the two men in shock. They were nearly on the floor now, crying as they held each other and laughing so hard that they couldn't get their feet back underneath them. It took a few minutes for them to answer, as they kept falling back into rounds of laughter every time their eyes met.
"W-when we were young," Felipe started shakily, wiping at his eye sockets as he climbed to his feet, "Imelda did the same thing she does now when Héctor tried to call on her. She'd find some errand for Mamá, or suddenly have a stomachache, or—"
"Running off to the market," Oscar continued, leaning against the workbench for support. "Or to the river. Anything to get away from him. One time, she even climbed out the window when Mamá insisted that he come inside."
"The second floor window!"
"Whatever for?!" Rosita laughed. Oscar and Felipe looked at one another a long moment, nonexistent brows furrowed.
"We don't know!" they finally admitted, shrugging. "After all, it was just silly old Héctor."
"¡Qué payaso! That's what she always said when she saw him coming." Felipe grinned. "He was a little chistoso, eh?"
"He still is."
"Always was." Felipe rubbed his mustache. "But he finally got to her. He climbed up Mamá's rose trellis and pecked on the window. Well, he got the wrong window at first, didn't he?" he snorted.
"We had to tell him to go two over," Oscar agreed. "Poor guy."
"What happened?"
"We don't know," they said again, less hesitantly this time.
"There was a big crash. We looked out the window and Héctor had fallen—"
"Or Imelda might have pushed him, who knows—"
"Either way, the trellis was broken in half, and he was hanging by his pants a good, hmm—" Oscar measured with his hand, holding it far above his head to show how far the poor suitor was from freedom. "That's how Papá found him."
"No, it was Mamá who found him." Felipe corrected. "She had him on the ground by the time Papá came."
"I thought Imelda shoved him off the end."
"No, that was Mamá, and she'd grabbed his ear so she could beat him with her shoe."
"No she didn't! Mamá told him to run!"
"That was Imelda! Remember? She leaned out the window and said "Hey, payaso, you'd better run!"" He mimicked the young Imelda, stretched out over the workbench with his hands cupped around his mouth. "Because Papá had the shoehorn."
"Oh, you're right!" Oscar scratched his skull, upsetting his hat. They looked over, coming out of their memories to see the rest of the family staring at them as if they'd suddenly sprouted two extra heads. "In any case, they were married soon after that."
"I wonder if Héctor remembers that the same way we do," Felipe mused aloud, picking up his hammer after making sure it was indeed his. "Imelda was in a lot of trouble, wasn't she?"
"I'm surprised Héctor dared to show his face after that," Victoria muttered. Felipe shook his head.
"Papá liked him! He just threw the shoehorn because he had to. The neighbors would have talked otherwise." He laughed again when Victoria could do nothing other than gape. "Well, you know Imelda… do you really think Papá would have chased away the one man brave enough to fall in love with her?"
"Crazy enough, more like."
"Un poco loco." Oscar made a cuckoo sign, skeleton finger twirling in the air.
"Well I think it's nice." Rosita let out an excited little breath. "Who knew Mamá Imelda had such a romantic husband?" Julio let out a little humph as he went back to carving designs into leather. "It's a shame that she won't see him."
Lunchtime passed, with no sign of Mamá Imelda. Victoria's words were coming true, and they all agreed that they wouldn't see much of her until Héctor had left for the day.
"Perhaps it's best," Julio had said when they cleared the table. "Now we won't have to make up a lie."
Work slowed to a crawl as the noon hour passed, sunlight entering through the western window as it began its afternoon descent. Everyone fell back into silence, on pins and needles as they waited for their 'customer' to arrive. It only made it worse that he arrived at the same time each day; if he'd been sporadic, they might have rested easier. But now, they had to wait for the clock. Each tick was like a tiny hammer beating against their skulls as they waited, thinking about their unofficial-yet-official patriarch.
Oscar and Felipe, being the ones who'd known Héctor as a living man and had been on front row seats for the odd courtship, were also the only ones with memories of the brief marriage that had followed. They liked their cuñado just fine; the married years had been the happy ones, with Héctor's guitar and Imelda's singing, and their little sobrina dancing for them all. Music had filled the house from corner to corner, bringing life and happiness to an otherwise subdued existence.
It had been such a long time ago, but they still remembered the glow that had followed Imelda during those short, wonderful years. She'd radiated with an aura of love and joy, one that seemed to constantly surround her whenever Héctor was home. She'd smiled and, if she'd ever had reason to complain—well, it was far easier to take a scolding from her back then.
They also remembered that aura fading. Dimming a little more with each day that passed, each month that there was no letter, no visit, no anything, until one day the light was gone from her expression entirely. No one could understand why he would just… go away like that. How could they have all been so fooled by his amicable smiles and beautiful songs?
Imelda was dry-eyed. She held her grief-stricken daughter, she convinced a widowed shoemaker to teach her the craft, she bargained prices with the grocer and she managed to extend the family credit until they could get some money.
No: a woman like that, in charge of a household, had no tears to waste over a no-good, walk away musician. If there was tearstained leather in the morning's garbage, if her eyes were bloodshot and mouth trembling, well—Oscar and Felipe pretended not to see. Besides, the walls were thin; pillows and hands were never enough to stifle the sounds of true heartbreak. Their hermana's pride was at stake, and they weren't going to be the ones to ruin it for her.
When she announced that Riveras were now shoemakers, they remained silent. When she banished music from the household, they weren't surprised.
Standing side by side at the workbench, the same way they had since the first strike of their hammers against a heel, they eyed each other. They were gemelos—from the womb, they'd been closer than anyone else they knew. They didn't need lips or skin to read the other's thoughts; they only needed their eyes. And their eyes told them that they were considering the same thing, even now.
On Día de Los Muertos, when Imelda sang before the crowd, when she ran to embrace Héctor, when she smiled at him and was happy again—in that brief moment, the glow had returned. Not fully but a spark, flint on steel. That spark burned inside her, able to bring back the happiness she'd once felt. But her steel could only spark if struck against Héctor's flint. They had to be together for it to work; alone, they weren't worth half as much.
Rosita had seen that spark too. Or, at least, enough of it to realize the stories she'd been told weren't as honest towards emotion as she'd once thought. She'd heard of the basics from Julio, and then from Coco. They'd never spoken of it in Imelda's presence, whispering instead from behind their hands whenever Rosita was scolded for singing, or even humming, in the workshop.
Coco had been far more generous to her papá, painting him as a good, gentle man who had gone away and simply never returned. Even as an adult, knowing the ways of adults, she never seemed to consider that the 'no good musician' had ever done anything immoral. She admitted that she didn't know why he'd left, but she always reiterated about how good a papá he had been, and how she remembered his playing, her mother's singing, and her dancing.
She recalled the time Coco fell and hurt herself, how the niñas had cried, and how Imelda had seemed more panicked than angry when she'd realized the culprit had been dancing. Coco had sprained her ankle, nothing too serious, but she still remembered the determined look she'd worn when caressing her crying daughters. Coco never danced again; Imelda breathed easier.
When Héctor was playing the guitar, Imelda had sung a beautiful rendition of La Llorona. She'd danced, albeit unwillingly. She hadn't seemed panicked, only adamant that Ernesto was not going to get her husband's photo from her. Perhaps, Rosita thought, if Héctor plays again, Imelda will sing and dance. She seemed different when she was singing. Better, somehow.
Julio had been no less curious than his sister about Imelda's past, but he'd known from the get-go about the 'no music' rule. He'd accepted without too much of a struggle, if only for the love of his beautiful Coco. And his life had been a happy enough one, even without music. His daughters had never wanted what they couldn't have, not like Miguel. They weren't quite as headstrong—well, Elena was, but she was headstrong in different ways from his great-grandson.
Julio had first learned of Héctor in the form of a threat, Imelda brandishing a half-finished shoe at him while she laid out exactly what would happen to him if he dared to treat his Coco the way a certain 'no-good tonto inútil' had treated her. Even if Coco thought her papá was good, he couldn't think of the man without thinking of uncut leather flopping ominously in his face.
It wasn't too hard to figure out what had happened (or so he'd thought at the time). It wasn't unheard of for a man to find himself far away from his family, in a lonely city, in a cold bed, and start to get… urges. And a musician besides? ¡Ay! The women would be all over him!
So when Rosita had come, he'd upheld Mamá Imelda's rule of no music. It was simple; Mamá had opened her home to him, and so he ought to be grateful. Besides, whoever Coco's father was, he was long gone and clearly not going to come back. There was no loyalty there. In fact, he'd often thought that the first thing he'd do if he met her papá in the afterlife was hit him… perhaps with a shoe, perhaps with his fists.
But Héctor hadn't been a cruel, abandoning sort of man at all. He'd had a valid excuse; being dead was enough to make even the most faithful of men unable to return home. And he'd been murdered at that, so of course Imelda had never heard the sad, sad truth. It was the sort of ballad romance Rosita liked to sing about when they were children, long before he'd ever known Coco or her family.
Meeting Héctor had changed his outlook on things, to say the least. No longer was he ready to pick a fight with him—the slippery man would probably just disassemble himself and trip him up—and he was actually starting to take his side over his own mother-in-law's!
Perhaps it was being in love with Coco, and her still in the Land of the Living, that gave him sympathy for Héctor. He still loved his wife with all the passion of a budding romance, no matter how many years they had been apart. He anxiously waited for the day when she would cross over and they could be together in the Land of the Dead for, hopefully, many years to come.
It was clear that Héctor was still very much enamored with his wife, too. But whereas Coco was Coco, Imelda was… Imelda. He'd never known her when she wasn't everyone's boss, whether they were a Rivera or not. But Héctor didn't seem at all bothered by it, or even all that afraid of her. It did make him wonder if the man wasn't a little touched. But then again, Imelda was most definitely not his type.
Victoria thought of such things as well, but in a far more practical sense. Mamá Imelda was a fastidious woman, and not one to be swept off her feet. Especially not by an espantapájaros flaco with unpolished bones and overstretched suspenders. She hadn't seen Héctor as a living man but she couldn't help but think him muy feo, at least from what she'd seen so far.
He was uncoordinated, goofy, poorly dressed, one misstep away from being thrown into jail for his various schemes, he frequented Shantytown and the lower reaches of the city, barefoot… and yet? Those same clumsy fingers played the guitar with such magic; and when he smiled at Mamá Imelda, well—perhaps he was not quite so ugly then. And she had really seemed to warm to him, after he'd faced the Final Death, coming back from the brink at the last possible second.
He'd leapt to his feet and belted out a full bellied grito, an elongated "Trrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiii Ayyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" that had sent shivers up her spine. It was a musician's cry, through and through; they'd all immediately turned to Mamá Imelda to see her reaction and act accordingly.
Victoria had been surprised at the expression on her grandmother's face, part old hurt and part fond remembrance, as if the sound had brought back mixed memories. It was certainly not the angry mask the Imelda of her childhood had worn when chasing away mariachi men, a shoe firmly in her grasp as she picked up her skirts and sprinted after the terrified band.
This man, Héctor—he had a power over Mamá that she'd never seen anyone else wield. He had the power to make her love music. With him, she could sing as she threaded her needle, she could even dance if she wanted. He made Mamá Imelda smile and sing too; that was something she hadn't done before, in Victoria's memory at least. She hadn't thought about it, but after hearing that song, she had realized that Mamá Imelda needed to sing. That it fulfilled something she denied herself. That it was important.
If an ugly, skinny scarecrow of a skeleton was the key to make her sing, well… no hay más remedio.
"Hello!" They all jumped in place, too lost in their own thoughts to realize that it was time for Héctor's daily appearance. He stepped into the workshop a little more confidently, only for it to vanish when he looked around the room and found it minus one person. He hid the pain well, though, clearing his throat and looking around at them while he swung his gangly arms to and fro.
"Mamá Imelda really is out today," Rosita said quickly as she ushered him in, slamming the door shut behind him—a surefire sign that the store was closed for the afternoon. Julio made to open it again, only to pause and change his mind at the last moment. "She went to deliver orders."
"That sounds familiar," he mumbled under his breath, but seemed to lighten up all the same. "Oh well." He shrugged, tossing his hat onto the table like a Frisbee. "That's life." Rosita picked up the hat, dusting it off and trying to fix one of the frayed edges before placing it neatly by the door.
""I'm sorry, Héctor," she said after a moment, turning around and putting a hand to her cheek. "I don't know what you're going to do if you can't see her to talk to her."
"She's set on avoiding you," Felipe added, wagging his hammer in Héctor's direction.
"And you know how she is."
"Oye, no te preocupes; I told you to leave that to me." He had that sly look in his eye again. "I have more than enough experience dealing with Imelda."
"Yes," Victoria drawled, arching her brows as she looked him over. "We heard all about the shoehorn."
"The—" After a momentary confusion, he burst into laughter. "Oh right!" He slipped sideways, grabbing onto the wall for support. "Those were the days, all right." "It wasn't entirely my fault, though; every time I came by she was gone." He waved his hands at the workshop. "Nothing changes, no?"
"Only that we have no trellis for you to climb."
"Oh, don't worry about that." He took a running start, leaping onto the workbench. Julio barely managed to yank his work out of the way, his stool tipping backwards until Rosita reached across, using his mustache as a handle to grab him and help him regain his balance. "I'm muy atlético, especially since I can't get hurt." He did a little dance down the table, leaping over their tools. Victoria grabbed a pair of scissors, standing up in order to better intercept him.
"So we see," she muttered, snipping at his pants as he passed and expertly cutting some stray threads off the bottom. "It seems to me that you're a little tooenergetic; it's liable to get you into trouble."
"Ay, you have no idea, the things I tried in order to cross that bridge." He reached the end of the table and doubled back, his head twisting around on his spine to look at her. "I've become very adept at climbing, far more than I ever was as a living person. Let me tell you about the time I—"
He broke off as the door slammed open, revealing a very irate Mamá Imelda. The family gasped, dropping their tools in shock; Héctor paused, hands reaching up to twist his skull the proper way. His grinned sheepishly, standing in the center of the table with shoe bits scattered all around him. She looked at the scene, mouth open in amazement, and then narrowed in on him like a hawk sizing up prey.
"Héctor." He looked around at the faces of the family, frozen in expressions of terror, and then back at his wife.
"Imelda!" he greeted, arms open. "I—ah—" He didn't seem to know whether he should jump down, or stay where there was at least a good length of table between them.
"Mamá Imelda," Rosita began timidly, unfreezing and rushing to take the basket from her arms. "W-We can explain!"
"Why is the door closed?" She didn't seem to notice Rosita in the slightest, her arms crossing over her ribcage as she glowered at them all. "I don't remember the shop being closed today."
"Well, you see—" Julio waved his hands in circles, trying to think of an excuse. "We were just—"
"They were working." They all turned back to the man standing on their table; his eyes darted about the shop before landing back on Imelda, his jaw set in a surprisingly determined expression. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, stepping inside and closing the door. Everyone shrank back, the twins nearly sliding beneath the table as they nervously clutched each other's arm; when Imelda shut the door, it was only because she didn't want anyone outside to hear what was about to happen.
"No me mientas, Héctor," she warned, starting towards him. He took a few steps back, hands going up defensively.
"I'm not!" he assured her quickly. "They were, ah… they were working on my boots!"
"¿Me tomas por tonta?" In one easy movement, her left shoe was off her foot and in her hand. He dismounted the table on the side opposite her, backing away quickly as she stalked towards him. The twins scrambled out of the way, nearly knocking Rosita off her feet as they fled to the landing. Julio hauled his sister to the side as the two began another trek around the table, Victoria freezing in place on her stool and praying that she wasn't in the direct path of any projectiles.
"What?! Of course not, mi amada; I'm telling the truth!" He ducked as the shoe was thrown; it missed him by a hair, flying over his head to bang against the far wall, knocking his hat sideways. He looked over his shoulder at it, one eye still watching for any sign of a second attack. The gears turned in his mind and then he smiled fetchingly, leaning his upper weight on his hands as they splayed over the workbench, his spine coming apart and legs sliding under the table to stand before her.
"Listen, cariñito." Imelda made an audible sound of disgust, her eyes locked on his legs as she blindly grabbed for something else on the workbench to hit him with. "I was just showing your lovely family about how much I run and jump around all day," he explained in a syrupy tone, his legs a visual example as they jumped in place. "All day long I'm moving, up and over and—" He leapfrogged over the workbench, landing expertly on his lower half before grabbing the startled woman and twirling her in a series of dance steps. "I can't have blisters on my feet, after all."
That was the kicker. While he'd effectively twirled her into silence, her anger forgotten in the wake of being spun about like a child, the very mention of ill-fitting boots brought it all back again. She reared back, slapping him hard enough that his eyes still rolled after he managed to stop his skull from spinning.
"In all my years of working, no one has worn Rivera shoes and complained of something like blisters!" she shouted, hands on her hips. He blinked, making sure his eyes were sticking in their sockets, and then frowned down at her.
"I believe it; they'd be too afraid of being beaten otherwise." He muttered a curse, cracking his neck. The rest of the family watched in amazement, Victoria still on her stool, Julio and Rosita in the corner, the twins on the stairs. Who on earth was this fool, who got a taste of Mamá Imelda's wrath and still spoke out of turn to her?
"Loco," Oscar whispered to Felipe.
"Always was," his brother whispered back.
"Riveras do not make shoes that have blisters. They fit perfectly, each and every time. That is why we are the best!"
"Prove it." Imelda held a finger in his face, mouth open, before closing her hand into a fist and turning to the table. She jerked the measuring tape from Julio's space, pointed at him to stand in the middle of the room, and bent down to one knee with a scowl.
"I will prove it," she snapped as she began on his left foot. "I will make your shoes myself, and you'll see; they will be the best boots you ever put on these big feet of yours." She muttered to herself as she measured, mixed swears and mumbles about her 'customer'. "Look at these bones," she clucked, thumping at his tarsal. "It looks like you've never worn shoes in your life."
"Ah, mi vida, you do care!" The expression he got in return would have turned milk sour, but he didn't seem to notice.
"I care… about my reputation as a shoemaker." She stood up on her own, smacking aside his outstretched hand. "Now go."
"Now?" Imelda threw down the measuring tape, grabbing one of the twin's hammers and brandishing it. "Ah, I see." He inched towards the exit, reaching for his hat. "Can I at least have a kiss goodbye?"
"Héctor!" The hammer fell far too short of its mark; she hadn't even tried to hit him with it. Still, it spurred him into action, jamming the hat on his head and throwing the door open. Even a crazy man knew when to stop pushing.
"I'll be back!" he called from the threshold, his torso spinning on his spin to blow her a kiss. She started out after him and he broke into a run, leaping over the closed gate and cutting through an alley.
"Payaso." Imelda picked up the hammer, rubbing out a scuff on the floor with the heel of her shoe. She looked around to see that she was the center of attention. "¿¡Qué!?" She waved her hands at them. "Get back to work; what are you looking at?!"
"Oh, Mamá Imelda!" Rosita had stars in her eyes, hands clasped below her chin. The twins crept out from the landing, eyeing the hammer left on the workbench and fighting silently amongst themselves over which one Imelda still held in her hand.
"What?! What?" She had no blood to blush with, but it was clear that she was embarrassed.
"That Héctor…"
"What about him?!"
"He's such a sweetheart, ¿no?" Victoria blew a breath out between her teeth as she picked up her needle. Imelda looked at Rosita, then the door.
"N—get back to work."
