Chapter 2: The Son of Santa Cecilia

Coco had never seen Santa Cecilia in such an uproar before.

It took nearly a month to deliver de la Cruz's body back to his hometown, as it had been on a tour of its own around Mexico, and when the hearse finally came rolling in, surrounded by a police escort, it seemed that everyone in that normally sleepy little Oaxaca town was there to greet it, wailing loudly at the loss of their greatest cultural icon.

Everyone, that is, except clan Rivera.

Every business in Santa Cecilia was closed, but the Rivera zapateria was closed for a very different reason from everyone else. Inside the hacienda, the Rivera family was experiencing a mixture of emotions. But sadness was decidedly not one of them.

"Oye, the monster is really dead!" Oscar whooped.

"He'll never threaten harm to our family again!" Felipe added.

Elena sat on her mother's lap, clapping and squealing with delight as her tios danced around the common room. She had no idea what everyone was so happy about, but she was content to be happy right along with them. Coco laughed as Elena joined the tios in their cheering.

Rosita, Júlio's sister, joined the family, carrying a tray with steaming mugs. "Who wants hot cocoa with cinnamon?" she invited. Four Rivera hands reached for the mugs.

Victória tried to take a cup as well, but Júlio grabbed it first and held it away from her.

"Ah, not just yet, Vicita, these mugs are still way too hot. Give them a chance to cool down. Then you can have some."

Victória gave an impatient sigh, but nodded in compliance.

Rosita sat down next to Coco and listened in on the excited chattering over the demise of the family enemy.

"I'm so happy that the threat to our family doesn't exist anymore," Rosita began. "But it still seems a bit...irreverent to me that we're celebrating a man's death."

"That man was the reason we lost Papá," Coco said defensively. "And every time we tried to bring him to justice, he found a way to silence us. He's a fraud, a thief, a kidnapper and a murderer. And he got what was coming to him."

"Si, maybe. But...I don't know that I'd wish being crushed by a giant bell even on my worst enemy."

Coco's expression darkened. "I'm only sorry his death was so quick."

Rosita gaped at her in shock. "Coco! How...how could you say that? That's not like you! You're always the one saying we should give people the benefit of the doubt; that we should hear their side of the story before jumping to conclusions, and we should never wish ill on anyone."

"There is an exception to every rule," Coco said simply. She set her drink aside and passed Elena to Rosita. "Could you watch Elena for a moment? I need to find Mamá."

Rosita accepted her niece and watched, confused, as Coco got up and left the room. She'd never seen her sister-in-law behave or speak in a truly spiteful manner. Coco was the epitome of compassion. Yet clearly there was no love lost over de la Cruz.


Coco found her mother in the workshop, straightening stacks of leather as the family cat, Pepita, lay on a nearby shelf, watching the family matriarch intently. Imelda had a tendency to busy herself when she was feeling distressed in any way, and today was certainly a distressing day for both her and her daughter. The man who had made Imelda a widow at only 22 years old was being celebrated and mourned loudly in the streets, and no amount of barricading the windows could stop the sounds of de la Cruz's stolen songs from drifting into the hacienda. Chief among them was a bombastic version of the lullaby that had been written just for Coco. It put a bitter taste in Coco's mouth to hear how de la Cruz had butchered the song. It felt to her like he was intentionally disrespecting her father's memory just by singing it. That it was de la Cruz's most popular song only made it all worse.

"How are you doing, Mamá?" Coco asked.

Imelda barely looked up from her work. "I'll manage," she said dully.

"Rosita made hot cocoa. Everyone's in the common room, talking about how great it is that de la Cruz is finally dead."

Imelda didn't respond. So Coco pressed further.

"Of course, now that he's gone and not a threat to us, there's no one to stop us from making the truth known about what he did to Papá."

With a sigh, Imelda paused in her work and turned to face her daughter. "Give it time, mija," she said. "De la Cruz's body is barely cold yet. People will be far too focused on upholding his memory. They won't tolerate any slander against him."

"But Mamá, if not now, then when?"

"Soon, mija, soon. We just have to be patient."

Coco gave a frustrated huff. "Mamá, you've been saying that for years! We finally have an opportunity to strike back at de la Cruz, unopposed! We should take it!"

"That opportunity has not arisen yet," Imelda said firmly.

"Then when will it? They've already depleted the town's coffers on that ridiculous mausoleum they intend to bury him in. He's stone dead, and he's still costing us more than we can bear!"

"These things take time and planning, Coco. When the moment is right, when we have all the pieces we need, we will make our move."

"And what piece are we missing?"

Imelda didn't answer for a moment.

"Mamá?" Coco prodded. When her mother answered, it was slow and deliberate.

"When we know what he did to your papá, where he did it, and how to bring your papá home."

"So that's it? When we somehow miraculously find Papá's body, when the only one who knows where it is is dead, then we can bring de la Cruz to justice?"

"And not just his body," Imelda continued. "I want his guitar back as well. On our ofrenda, where it belongs. If we can just get those two things back, I will be satisfied." She gave a very small smirk. "I may even do something loco, like allow music in the house again."

Pepita bounded down from her perch and rubbed up against Imelda's arm, asking to be pet. Coco shot the cat an annoyed glance, as it seemed Pepita was approving of the "plan."

"So that's it, then," Coco griped. "As long as Papá's whereabouts remain unknown—and they will, now that the only witness is a corpse himself—we won't get justice, and we won't get music."

"As I said, mija, we must have patience," Imelda said as she scratched behind Pepita's ears.

Coco groaned, exasperated. "I need to clear my head," she said, turning on her heel and walking out of the workshop.

Imelda shook her head as Coco left. "That one is far too much like her papá," she told Pepita. The cat gave a gentle mew in agreement.


Coco wandered out of the hacienda and into the streets. Most of the mourners had long since passed by the hacienda, and the ones who were well familiar with the infamous Rivera music ban had, wisely, lowered their voices so as not to disturb the people inside. More than a few nervous glances had been cast at the doors and windows, waiting for an irate Imelda to appear, swinging a sandal or boot. With the crowds gone, Coco could enjoy a peaceful walk as she contemplated the demise of her father's enemy and what her mother had told her about patience and waiting for the right moment to strike back.

Coco found the whole idea of waiting incredibly frustrating. She had grown up hearing plans of revenge and justice being passed between her mother and tios, and every time they thought they could put a plan into action, another threat arrived from de la Cruz's estate or lawyers, and the family would be forced to back off. To Coco, it felt like giving up, and it was as confusing as it was infuriating. Her mother was not the type to be cowed by anything. So why did she hesitate to avenge the love of her life?

Even more frustrating was the fact that Coco would never get the pleasure of seeing that smug grin wiped off of de la Cruz's face as he was called to account for his crimes. Her family would be vindicated, and everyone, especially their neighbors who claimed to know them, would be sorry they ever doubted the Riveras. The mockery would cease. Papá would be home, buried in their town's small, intimate graveyard. Singing and dancing would return to the Rivera hacienda, and Coco wouldn't have to go to the plaza to enjoy music. Her father's songs would be properly accredited, and she might actually enjoy hearing them played repeatedly in the plaza, as they had been non-stop since the announcement of de la Cruz's death. But now all that seemed an impossible hope, now that de la Cruz was safe in his grave, impervious to the curses the living hurled at him. As impossible as the hope that Coco would ever discover what her father's true fate had been.

Coco's wandering brought her near the graveyard, where the crowd had paused as pallbearers unloaded de la Cruz's ornate casket from the hearse and bore it along a candlelit marigold path to the splendorous new mausoleum that was now the centerpiece of the graveyard. This would be de la Cruz's resting place, and Coco found it ironic that a man who was never quick to mention his humble origins would choose to be buried in a tiny hometown that, prior to his rise to fame, was entirely unknown; barely a dot on a map.

Coco despised the fact that her town was known entirely for producing a murderer who had duped all of Mexico into venerating him. Of all the sons of Santa Cecilia, he had to be the one the world remembered. It should have been her father, not him.

The longer Coco lingered, the angrier she became. She started to head back home when one of the townsfolk recognized her.

"Oye, Coco Rivera!"

Coco rolled her eyes as she recognized the drunken, slurred voice. It was the town lush, a professional heckler by the name of Raul. She tried to ignore him and keep walking, but he'd already drawn attention to her.

"Come to celebrate ol' Ernesto's death, have you?" Raul baited. "Bet your family put some kind of curse on him so's he'd be smashed in by that bell!"

If we'd thought of it first, we would have, Coco thought.

"Hey, everyone, look!" Raul continued. "It's the music hater's daughter! She's come to tell everyone her crazy conspiracy theories about how Ernesto de la Cruz summoned a music demon to eat her papi!"

Coco was used to the mockery by now, but was certainly not in the mood for it at the moment. Her temper boiled as she willed herself forward, not wanting to lose control and do or say something she'd regret.

Pity Raul, drunk as he was, was still just a bit faster than she. He appeared in front of her, his breath reeking of alcohol.

"Come on, chica, come celebrate ol' Ernesto's trip to hell with us."

Coco tried to dodge around him, but he managed to stay in front of her. Coco caught a glimpse of Pepita in an alleyway, watching the scene with concern. The cat turned and darted into the alley.

"Out of my way, Raul," Coco demanded. "I need to get home. My daughters will be wanting their supper."

By now, Raul had been joined by a handful of others; irritating neighbors who had no love for the Riveras.

"Come to cause trouble, señora?"

"Why can't you and your conspiracy-happy family just leave this great man in peace?"

"Your family has no respect for Santa Cecilia!"

The group of hecklers had Coco surrounded, and fear began to rise in her gut, competing with the anger that was dominating.

"I have no intention of causing trouble," she stated. "I just want to go home."

The group was closing in on her, shouting insults at her and her family. She began to feel genuinely threatened. She reached down for her shoe, but the slightest hesitation told the unruly crowd all they needed to know; she did not wield the chancla with anywhere near the confidence and ferocity of her mother.

"Leave me be!" she pleaded.

Raul leaned into her face. "No. You won't leave de la Cruz alone, so why should we leave you alone?"

Coco swiped her huarache at Raul's head, but he intercepted, grabbing her wrist and holding tight, causing her to yelp.

No sooner had the sound left her mouth than Raul was yanked backward by a rough hand on his shoulder. He let go of Coco's wrist as he was spun around to meet the fist of whoever had grabbed him. Knuckles connected to nose and mouth with an audible crunch, and Raul stumbled back, hand over his bleeding nose, spitting out a few teeth.

Standing before the drunkard, to Coco's eternal relief, was a seething Júlio.

Júlio was a man of very short stature, being inflicted with a mild yet still quite apparent form of dwarfism. He was a couple inches shorter than Coco, and would likely lose still more height once he reached old age. With or without the condition, he would have always been a very gentle, shy man, with a tendency to show his embarrassment by ducking his head into the collar of his shirt and pulling his hat (if he was wearing one) down over his face. That he'd stood his ground when Imelda had first interrogated him regarding his intentions toward her daughter was enough to shock everyone in town. But more surprising than that was the fact that he was a powerhouse, being skilled in martial arts and boxing, and never afraid to defend his family and friends. Despite his stature and general demeanor, he was the only member of the Rivera family that people feared anywhere near as much as they did Imelda.

"Keep your grimy paws off my wife!" Júlio barked, eyes still boring into Raul.

The group backed off, Raul slinking away to nurse his injuries, cursing under his breath. As everyone dispersed, Pepita appeared at Júlio's side, hissing fiercely at the retreating hecklers.

Once they were gone, Júlio turned his worried gaze to Coco. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

"Are you alright, mi amor?"

"Si, I'm fine," Coco replied. "I'm sorry, Júlio, I never meant to concern anyone. I just started wandering and somehow ended up out here."

"It's alright," Júlio soothed. "Let's just get home before anything else happens."

"Yes, let's."

The couple made their way back to the zapateria, Pepita trotting happily alongside them.