Liquor always helped Héctor to sleep better.
He never tried to get blackout drunk, of course; he wasn't a kid. He knew his limits. He just liked to take the edge off, to have a good time while forgetting the ache in his ribs, in his leg, in his heart. The latter hurt the worst of them all, and he'd discovered early on that a temporary cure could be found at the bottom of an empty glass. One bottle, maybe two—just enough to dull his senses and send him into a dreamless sleep without the fuzzy phantom hangover lingering in his empty stomach cavity the next day.
Of course, that didn't help if he wasn't left alone.
"Oye." Who? Who was trying to bother him at this hour? Didn't they understand that he was happiest this way, with no emotions to weigh him down and make life miserable? What was the point of unconscious, thoughtless sleep if he wasn't allowed to enjoy it?
Five more minutes, Chich. Then I swear I'll get up.
Someone poked at his leg, prodding the bone. This wasn't Chich; he'd have been dragged out of the hammock by now if it was. Wait, he wasn't even in a hammock, was he? Whatever he sat against was solid and rough against his back, hard beneath his hipbones. A moan stirred deep in his chest and he tried to turn, though something told him turning wasn't the best idea. He barely opened one eye, seeing the faded green plaster of the Casa de Arquímedes. Wait… when did I get to the plaza? He closed his eyes against the color, garish in the early morning light.
"Oh, no you don't." The voice wasn't Chich, on second thought. Still gruff, still raspy with smoke and shouting, but too patient to ever belong to Chicharrón. Oh yeah… Chich is gone. A wave of bone-chilling sorrow washed over him. He ought to have been used to losing friends to the Final Death. How many had he sat vigil over, watching them fade out of existence as they were forgotten by the living world? Growing numbers didn't make it easier, though, and he had been close to the old grump. A fellow music lover, a stern voice of reason, someone who needed Héctor to be the cheerful clown to his straight-man routine.
"Nngh…." He kicked at the bothersome hand, which was now exploring the empty curve between his tibia and fibula. Ay, that's ticklish! His heel hit the edge of his guitar and it protested with a dull twang.
"Get up, Héctor; I know you're awake." A brisk, no-nonsense order that left no room for debate; the voice stirred his memory and he muffled a sigh, shoulders sinking against the wall. It was just the bartender. That made sense; if he was facing the green apartments, his back was to the bar. "Two bottles aren't enough to put you down for the count."
I just fell asleep on the wall again, that's all. It wasn't the first time something like that had happened; since there was no one looking out for him, it was easier to sleep wherever he pleased. What was the point in going home if no one cared whether or not he was there?
"Have a heart, Toño; es domingo." He stretched his legs subtly, toes wiggling as he crossed his arms and settled against the wall. "Por Dios, let a man get some rest." There was a choked laugh.
"I know what day it is. Come on." The hand was at his shoulder now, shaking roughly. "Open your eyes, dormilón." He scowled, shaking him off with a quick flick of his shoulders. "Hey! Listen, I'm just making sure you're okay." He cracked one eye to see Toño's skull hovering near his, looking oddly concerned.
"Huh?" He rubbed his eyes, sitting up and cracking his neck. "What do you mean?"
"You, uh… you didn't seem yourself last night, amigo." Toño scratched at the black ink dots near his chin. "You were a little—how should I put it—weird." Héctor thought back, trying to sort through the slurred memories.
He remembered Shantytown, the empty bungalow suddenly too big and too quiet. The silent walk to the bar, in search of something stout and sharp to cut through the bitterness bubbling inside of him. Staring blankly at Toño, he recalled shouting at him last night. Arguing over the price of tequila. Yanking the bottle out of his hands after calling him as good as a thief, the patrons at the bar laughing and making him angrier. He'd stomped outside to sit alone beneath the moon, raging at the world from his perch between stormy playing sessions. At the time he'd felt justified in his hurt, but now it just seemed… well, childish.
"Oh… last night." He cleared his throat, offering an embarrassed shrug and a large, fake smile. "Sorry about that. I guess I just wasn't feeling myself." He'd been feeling far from himself, or at least from the face he presented to the world. He'd been lonely and tired and miserable, his melodies had all fallen flat no matter how well he'd played, his friends were gone, his drinks outrageously expensive…. Nothing had seemed fair.
"Yeah, I noticed." Toño steadied himself, leaning on the ledge as though it were a bar counter. The golden triangles fringing his lower sockets seemed to glow in the light of their sunbeam counterparts. "I figured as much, the way you were arguing with that woman."
"Woman?" That was a new one; he must have had a good few drinks in him by then, if he'd openly traded words with a lady. Had he accidentally startled her, and then fought about it? He tried to think back, but after a few hours of guitar playing the world melted into a mix of half-remembered thoughts. Toño, growing tired of waiting, picked up his foot and rattled it to get his attention; his toes rattled like their musical bone counterparts. "Hey, stop it!"
"The woman, Héctor."
"I don't—what did she look like?" He rubbed his forehead, trying to think. What happened? "What did she say?"
"I never saw her face, and I couldn't hear either of you; the boys were getting rowdy after midnight. I had gone to get ready for last-call when I saw the two of you on that bench." He pointed as he spoke, singling out the bench in front of the bar. "Your backs were to me, but then you jumped up and started waving your arms around. You looked pretty pissed, and I wondered if I needed to come outside myself."
Héctor felt his face grow hot, appalled at what he was hearing. I was acting like that, and on just two bottles? Ay… that poor woman…. He fidgeted, wishing that Toño had come out to knock his skull around a little; at the very least, he could have put him in his place while making sure the lady was alright. He didn't think he'd ever strike a woman, but he never thought he would've yelled at one, either.
"Then why didn't you—"
"Because you settled down pretty quick after that. She didn't seem in a hurry to leave, either, and you weren't holding her back. You weren't even touching her, and…well, you're not a bad guy, not like some of these idiots." He nodded to the now-empty bar. "You've always paid your debts and never started a fight if you could help it; I trust you. It turned out okay, didn't it? I looked again later and you were asleep, with no sign of her. I just wondered who she might have been. You seemed to know each other."
"We did?" He stared down at his lap, trying hard to put events in order. The bar, the arguing, the anger, the guitar. Those were easy. What next? Moonlight. The plaza was empty. He was still angry, but the acrid liquor was fueling it rather than his own hurt pride. Toño, walking outside to slip him a second bottle on the house. The bench, metal cool and smooth beneath his finger. Talking, knowing he was drunk but not really caring, Imelda kissing his—
"Imelda!" Toño jumped, arms swinging as he tipped back with a cry of alarm. He managed to grab the ledge as Héctor sat ramrod straight, wig slipping over his eyes in his excitement. He pushed it back impatiently, eyes widening as something like a pulse began to shudder to life in his empty ribcage. Imelda had been here! He remembered now, her glowing form slipping from the shadows to stand before him. He'd been ashamed to sit in her presence, filthy and broken, while she looked so ethereal and beautiful.
Yes, she had most assuredly been here last night. She'd watched him play, and—had they argued? He remembered talking to her, but nothing that constituted a real fight.
"Imelda? I don't know that name." Toño shook his head, mouth twisting as he thought. "She must not live around here then, huh? She didn't look like one of your Shantytown friends, though. Did she come looking for you?"
"I—I don't think so." Why had she come? She'd said she'd been taking a walk, but she'd stayed to talk to him. He remembered her sadness, the way she'd apologized to him, her body sagging wearily against the bench. Why talk to him in the middle of the night like that? The last he'd seen of her, she'd begged him to not touch her, to leave her alone. He'd remembered that, even after drinking—he recalled saying as much to her, reminding her that he'd honored her request.
"Who is she? Do you owe her something?" Oh, did he ever.
"She's… my wife." Toño's mouth fell slack. He stared at him, trying to find any sign of deceit or joking.
"Your… your wife?!" He repeated, blinking as he processed the information. "I didn't know you—when did you get a wife, Héctor? Here I was, thinking you were just an old bachelor with too much time on your hands."
"No, I'm married." They sat a moment, the words sinking in. For the bartender, it was pure shock; for him, it was something else. I'm married. The words fell over and over in his mind like a wave, crashing against the very real memory of lips against his forehead. Her hands on his skull, fingers running over his cheekbones the way they used to when she—when he was— A tremor ran through him from head to foot, a wave of heat following in its wake. It left him tingling and alive, more alive than he'd felt in a century.
"I'm married!" He leapt to his feet, breathing heavily as the implication set in. "I'm—haha!" He hugged himself, torso twirling on his spine as he laughed loudly. "I'm really married!" he shouted, the sound echoing down through his body and building until he had no choice but to let it out. "A-y-y-y-y-e-e-e-e!" He howled one of his most exuberant gritos, the sound bouncing around the empty plaza.
"For God's sake, you're going to wake everyone up!" Toño scolded. He stared openmouthed at Héctor, hand raised against the sun. "What on earth has gotten into you!?"
"She wants me back, Toño! I'm married, and she wants me back!" He let out another, shorter grito. "A-y-y-e-h-e-h-e! She really wants me!"
"Héctor!" A window crashed open, a nightgown-clad woman leaning out of it to brandish a house slipper. "Keep it down!"
"Hey, Doña Eva!" he called back, a grin splitting his skull. "Guess what? I'm married!" The woman paused, narrowing her eyes, and then pointed the boot at Toño.
"Can't you make him go be drunk somewhere else!?" Toño shrugged, and she scoffed before slamming the window, glass rattling in the loose pane.
"Uh, look: can't this wait until midmorning, at least? Not everyone's so keen to hear you screaming at the top of your lungs on a Sunday."
"Wait? No! I have to tell the world; I can't believe it! She even—" His hand rose to his forehead, fingers brushing against the markings reverently. "She kissed me, Toño. She kissed me."
"Mazel tov." He rested his chin on his hand. "I'm real happy for you, Héctor."
"No, you don't understand." He slid down to sit on the ledge, overcome. "I never imagined… I mean, I hoped, but I never thought I'd actually see the day where she'd kiss me again." He clenched his hands, bouncing in excitement. "And we're going out this afternoon! Oh, I can't wait to—oh." The light vanished from his face in one fell swoop. "Oh, no!"
"What?"
"I can't go out with her, not like this!" He grabbed both ends of his bandana, yanking and effectively choking himself as it cinched his spine. "Look at me! I'm a wreck!"
"That you are." Toño winced, shaking his head. "In more ways than one."
"I don't have anything else to wear!" He covered his face, knees rising to his chest as he muffled a cry. "I can't let her be seen with me like this! She'll be a laughingstock!"
"Oh, it's not so bad," Toño lied. "A little polish, some water on that crazy hair, and you'll be ready to go." He tried to smile, his teeth bared in a grimace. "You know, they say grungy is the height of fashion, real cool with the teens."
"What? Eww, what are kids doing these days? Why would you want to look like this on purpose?" He made a face, wishing that he still had a nose to wrinkle. "Besides, Imelda's from my time. I have to look presentable, you know? Someone who might deserve to have a classy lady like her on his arm." He straightened up, holding out said arm with what he thought was a dapper smirk. He caught sight of his ragged sleeve and wilted, blowing the bangs out of his eyes. "Not… this."
"Well, I'd offer you some clean clothes, but—" Toño sucked in a breath through his teeth before laughing, skull disappearing over the ledge as he climbed down. Héctor grabbed his guitar before sliding down to join him on the ground. With the two of them on flat earth, the bartender barely cleared his third rib. "You're on your own with this one, I'm sorry to say." A moment of panic flashed over Héctor's features, and he succumbed to it with his usual fretfulness. "You need to be on one of those makeover shows, where they take you in and redo everything."
"Ha, makeover." He blinked, eyes widening. "No, no, no: wait. Wait… Yes! Makeover! Toño, you're a genius!" He clapped his hands once, panic forgotten in a wave of determination. "I know just who to call."
"Whatever you say."
The arts district was quiet.
Most artists seldom rose before 10:00, but Héctor wasn't worried. He knew their patterns just as easily as he did those of the plaza, and the other neighborhoods he frequented in his century-long roving. He knew who would be awake early, who hadn't gone to sleep at all the night before, and who would be thrown across the nearest flat surface in a drunken stupor. These people—patrons of all arts—lived like they were in college no matter how old they'd been when they died. It was something about the free spirit that didn't hold them to one age… that, or they had long stopped caring about their own health in a city where only the Forgotten were in danger of dying again.
"Hola, Ceci!" Nerves gnawed at his empty stomach cavity, but when the third-floor window opened he still managed a syrupy grin. "Your favorite guy's here to see you!"
"I don't see him," she replied dryly. "I only see you, Héctor."
"Haha! Always the jokester!" Ceci regarded him from on high, her mouth set in a thin line. She seemed back to normal, her bitterness mellowed now that the stress of the Sunrise Spectacular was over for another year—perhaps forever. He wondered, briefly, what she would do to make up the difference.
The show was the bread and butter for nearly everyone in the arts district. Performers weren't the only ones in danger of losing a big pay cut at the most crucial time of the year: makeup artists, choreographers, stage technicians, decorators, and so many more depended on the hefty payout to make their ends meet. Maybe they can have the show without Ernesto somehow. Tangled in his thoughts, he barely noticed that she was speaking again.
"Héctor!" She leaned out the window, brandishing his arm. "I said, what do you want?!"
"Let me in, Ceci!" He waved for her to toss down his arm. "Please?" She frowned, but obediently tossed his arm over the railing of the fire escape before banging the old hinge crank with her fist. The stairs dropped with a rusty shriek of metal, clanging to the ground and echoing up the narrow road. There were shouts from tenements and alley-sleepers, angry at being woken. He scurried up the stairs, more like a ladder than an actual staircase. He even took the time to wind the crank and raise them again, knowing that anything he could do to put Ceci in a good mood was well worth it for him in the end.
Ceci's studio was surprisingly tidy, even with it being the slow season. She had various buckets and bins for all her supplies, but normally they were still spread out over the floor along with skeins and empty bolts of cloth. She often became so focused on her work that the studio became a madhouse, the only clean area being the small circle of floor she stood on. Even the dressmaker's dummies were empty. Héctor paused at the window, looking around at the rare sight with trepidation. Either Ceci was having an artist's block, or she had no orders at all. Either way, that wasn't going to help him.
He drew closer to the worktable, looking down at scattered designs. It was for some dresses, and he was content to look at the highly skilled drawings like a child unable to read. He could make nothing of the elaborate equations that went into designing clothes, the detailed dimensions of pleats and tucks in one single section of skirt. It was a craft beyond his understanding, but he was fine with that. He had no more need of learning clothes than Ceci did learning music. They both appreciated the final product without any concrete knowledge of how it worked behind the scenes.
He snapped his arm back into place, still unused to the heavy magnetic tugged that all but ribbed the bones out of his hand and into the socket. The Forgotten had to take care of their bones; there wasn't enough memory to keep them together once they'd been split, and it was often a matter of forcing the bones together and hoping that they held just one more time. Now that the memory flowed through him, it was harder to separate than it was to be put back together.
Ceci ignored him as he rotated his shoulder, making sure the bone was snugly in the right place and wouldn't rub against him. She bent over her drawings, pencil stuck into her curls instead of behind an ear. Héctor was used to this, too; it didn't faze him in the slightest to see her more interested in her musings than in the bum frequenting her studio. What wasn't usual was the motheaten loveseat that had been shoved against what was once a bare stretch of cracked plaster, and the squat man spread out on its lumpy cushions with his hat over his eyes.
"Gustavo?" There was no answer, so Héctor walked over and plucked the hat off his face. He twisted his head, staring down at the sullen violinist. "What are you doing here?" This was highly unusual; Gustavo was one of those self-important jerks who didn't think it was fair to get out of bed before sundown.
"He got dumped," Ceci explained briskly, passing by the loveseat and dragging down two bolts of multicolored cloth from one of the shelves. They spilled across the floor in her wake, but she made no effort to check them; instead, she picked up the ends and held them to her designs with a frown, muttering under her breath as she chewed one of her curls.
"Ooo." Héctor winced in sympathy, cringing back from the loveseat as if heartbreak were a contagious disease. Gustavo was far from his favorite guy in the Land of the Dead, but he still felt bad for him. He'd feel bad for anyone who had their heart handed to them like that. He'd already had enough experience with Imelda to know that the pain was sometimes worse than dying. The musician didn't deserve that—well, unless he was being a complete jerk, which was highly probable.
But maybe he was just soft, since he still felt bad for him.
"I was not!" Gustavo ripped the hat back out of Héctor's hands, jamming it over his face and nearly stuffing the brim down his left socket in his haste to cover his eyes from the cruel morning. "It was a mutual parting of ways," he mumbled. Ceci rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she took her pencil and chewed it instead of her hair. She tapped the lead against her forehead absently as she thought, leaving little dots along the bone. She didn't offer her opinion on the matter; then again, she'd probably already given it while Héctor was still snoozing on the ledge.
Héctor shrugged down at him, even if he couldn't see it. If Gustavo wanted to live in denial, let him. He was kind of like the new arrivals to Shantytown, still clinging onto shreds of hope that it might have been a mistake, that they might be put on the ofrenda next year. Everyone understood the truth sooner or later; even he had made that awful realization, though he'd still been stubborn enough to try and cross the bridge without a photo. Most people just settled into their new, albeit sub-par, life and did the best they could. He'd come around too, eventually. Saying sorry only went so far, in matters of love and life alike.
"Uh, Ceci." He turned back to her, preparing to state his case and lose what little dignity he still had in her eyes. He wasn't above groveling to get what he wanted, and this was a reason worth groveling over. He cleared his throat, adopting his best, most pathetic tone for begging. "I need a little favor."
"Nope." She unstuck some pins from her wrist, driving them into the table to hold some of her designs higher than others. She didn't even look at him.
"No? You don't even know what it is yet!" he protested, hopping around to stand behind the table. He leaned over it with a smile, and she glanced up at him before jabbing a pin into one of his carpal bones. It couldn't do any damage, but the pressure of the sharpened tip didn't feel good. Pressure on bones was about as painful as things could get in the Land of the Dead, though the amount of pain did have to do with how far the other person was aiming to hurt you. He shook the sting from his hand, pouting at her. "Ceci!"
"You think I've forgotten Día de Los Muertos, you big dummy?!" Her curls bounced around her face as she put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. "I nearly gave myself an ulcer trying to throw together a costume to replace the one you lost!"
"You did not," he replied matter-of-factly, crossing his arms. "You don't have a stomach."
"Ugh." She slapped a palm onto her designs. "Can't you see I'm busy?" Behind her, Gustavo sat up and peered from beneath his hat curiously. "The answer is no. N-O no. Nada. Nothing. Not from me. Go find another seamstress to mooch off of."
"Ceci…"
"Go away, Héctor. I'm not in the mood for chisme, and you're only around whenever you want something."
"That's not true!" She gave him a look over the rims of her glasses, and he felt guilty enough to lose his smile. Maybe he did only come by when he needed her. He'd said to himself that he was trying not to bother her, and he didn't like seeing the other musicians who'd just make fun of him at his expense. But how many months had it been since he'd visited before asking to borrow the Frida dress? He couldn't remember, and suddenly felt a little ashamed. "Okay, maybe it is a little true. I apolo—" he stopped himself, hearing the old fake apology about to spill out of him. "I'm sorry."
"Well." She turned back to her diagrams, erasing a gusset with her pencil and redrawing it. "Apology accepted," she said, surprising him. He had never thought she particularly enjoyed his company, yet… why was she wanting him to visit more than once a year? "But the answer is still no."
"Look, Ceci: I don't have anywhere else to go." He stopped his pitiful act, taking off his hat and holding it over his ribcage. The woman's shoulders hunched over the table, hands fisting over the drawings. "I know I'm not the most reliable guy, but at least hear me out? I really need your help this time. No tricks, no plans."
"What," she asked, not looking up. "Are you in trouble with the law?"
"No, not this time." He wasn't going to put her—any friend, for that matter—through that again. She sighed, rubbing her forehead.
"Héctor." She took one look at him, standing forlornly on the other side of the table, and groaned before raising her hands to the heavens. "Dios ayúdame: why can't I bring myself to throw you idiots out?!" She motioned at Gustavo. "Psychiatric services, on-demand costumes? What next?!"
"Heh…" Héctor shrugged one shoulder. "It's not really a costume I need this time, to be fair."
"Then what?"
"The thing is… you see, I have a date." There was a pause, and then the sad lump on the loveseat began to howl with laughter. Ceci turned to him with a scowl, Héctor feeling the heat rush to his cheekbones. "What?! What's so funny?! Do you think I can't get a date?!" he huffed, throwing his hat onto one of Ceci's mannequin heads and preparing to fight.
"You?! A date!?" Gustavo managed to sputter, slapping his kneecaps. "Come on, Chorizo! That's the lamest excuse I've ever heard, even from you!"
"I do have a date!" he sputtered, his whole face burning with a phantom blush.
"Oh yeah?" Gustavo wiped at his sockets, barely managing to get his giggles under control. "With who?"
"With my wife!" His jaw trembled, and then he launched into a renewed, louder guffawing.
"Oh! Oho! Wi—With your—" He held onto his ribs, shaking on the seat. "Stop it! I can't take it!" Héctor rushed at him with a growl, but Ceci caught his middle and threw him back effortlessly. In the same movement she took Gustavo's hat and crammed it into his jaw, effectively muffling his laughter as he fought.
"Who is this woman, your wife?" She asked Héctor shrewdly, adjusting her glasses as she put herself between the two men. Héctor tried to lean around her, but Gustavo was too busy trying to unhinge his jaw and release his hat to bother with further mocking. He took a step back, arms falling limp at his sides.
"Her name is Imelda," he snapped, mostly at Gustavo. Ceci's eyes widened, staring intently at Héctor only to turn when Gustavo freed himself of the hat with a wrenched groan.
"Imelda?" she clarified. "Imelda… Rivera?"
"Huh?" Gustavo, finally catching up to the conversation, made a face as he looked at Héctor. "Wait a second…" His eyes narrowed, gears turning in his head before he held up his foot, boot heel emblazoned with the signature Rivera logo. "The shoemaker?"
"Yeah. What of it?" Héctor was on full defensive now, eyes darting between the two of them as he shrank back like a wounded, cornered animal. "That's my wife."
"No." Gustavo let his foot fall with a thump. He laughed, though it was less heartfelt and a little nervous. "No way," he repeated. "Her? And you?"
"So what?" He withered, but still tried to hold his ground. "I happened to be a good choice back in the day, you know." Gustavo shook his head, but Ceci spoke before he could get another word in edgewise.
"I heard that she'd been married," she said slowly, twisting a curl around her index finger as she thought. "But those brothers of hers said they were… estranged." She looked at Héctor as if seeing him for the first time, taking in his yellowed, aged bones and ragtag appearance. The pieces fell into place behind her eyes and her mouth fell open. "…You?"
"Me," he agreed quietly. "I left, and… I died before I could make things right." He shot a glare towards Gustavo, as if challenging him to make the first chorizo comment. To his credit, the musician stayed silent as he listened with wide eyes. "Ernesto—no one—ever told her what happened." He hung his head.
"I heard about that." Ceci looked away from him, leaving him to his remorse. "I had left with my brother to visit our family in the living world, but… the dancers, they told me when they got back from the stadium. About de la Cruz, how he p—" Her tongue faltered on the word. "I'm sorry."
"What for?" Héctor blurted out, before he could stop himself. "You didn't poison me." Gustavo winced, picking at the fabric of the loveseat. People spoke freely about how they died, but murder was still a sensitive subject. Especially when an entire orchestra had been teasing him with crude jokes about his 'food poisoning'. If they'd known the truth they would have never cracked the first smile, but it was too late to take any of it back now. It just made them all look like big jerks.
"Anyway," he continued, "that's why I need your help. I have a chance to make things right, Ceci. Imelda and me, well—we're going to try again." Even as serious as he was, he couldn't stop from injecting his lingering joy into the words. One of his most unobtainable dreams was coming true before his eyes! He wanted to say it out loud as much as possible, to scream it from the rooftop of the warehouse, but he didn't want to risk rousing anotherneighborhood's wrath.
"Entonces, you want to borrow some clothes. I don't blame you; you look like a buffoon."
"Actually…" He held up a finger, trying to smile. "I know I'm not really date material, but I need these clothes fixed. By two o' clock." He glanced at the small clock she kept over her desk. It was still well before noon, so she couldn't complain that he was putting her on a strict deadline. For something like this, surely it couldn't take more than a few hours, could it?
"But—" Ceci stopped, looking at the holes in his pants, the stains on his bandana, the sleeve literally hanging by a thread. "No, Héctor, you need new clothes. I think the orchestra has some suits in the back; go get one and I'll tailor it." So she did want to help him; all was not lost. But… He shook his head, pointing to his faded vest.
"No dice, Ceci. It's got to be these. That's why I came here; everyone knows you're the best seamstress in the Land of the Dead. There's no one else I'd trust to do the best job." The compliments didn't go unnoticed, judging by the ghost of a smile around her mouth. Still, she shook her head uncomprehendingly.
"Why?" Her mouth twisted, and he knew that if she had a nose, it would be wrinkled in distaste. "These are… rags."
"I know they are. But they're me." He looked down at his pelvis, at the frayed rope, the water stained money pouch, the tattered britches. "I swore to go slow this time. If I show up in a new suit and everything, that's about as good as breaking my word. I want to know that I'm really trying." He yanked nervously at the bandana. "I can't explain it, not in the way you'd understand. But I have to have these clothes, and if anyone can make them look halfway decent, I know it's you. So please, won't you at least try?"
"Well…" She sighed, but slowly circled him. She took her pencil, lifting up the hem to better see the hole in his back. "I'll have to take that sleeve, but I might be able to use the fabric to patch these rips. And your pants…" she bent, studying the pinstriped pattern. "It might not match exactly, you know."
"I trust you," he assured her. "Do your magic, Ceci."
"Even if she does manage to fix those old rags, it'll be like putting new clothes on an old scarecrow," Gustavo pointed out. He stood up, walking over to join them and ignoring Héctor's scowling disapproval. "I mean, look at you, you're—you're a little, um—" He grabbed Héctor's hand with his, holding them both in the light. He was no Ernesto de la Cruz, but compared to Héctor his bones seemed to glow with a brilliant inner light. Ceci nodded in agreement.
"You could stand a good polishing." She scratched at his ulna with one finger. "It probably won't get all the stains out, but it couldn't hurt. Gustavo, go and get some supplies from the makeup department."
"What?! No, I'm not polishing some dude's bones for him!" Gustavo complained, slumping. Ceci frowned at him without a word; the expression must have meant something to him, as he changed his tune on a dime. "Okay, Ceci."
"And take this with you." She yanked the wig off Héctor's head, holding it outstretched between her thumb and forefinger. "Take it to Mimi and tell her Ceci said give it the works."
"No!" Héctor leaped for his hair, hands held out desperately. "I don't want you to take that! I like my hair the way it is!" Ceci held him back with one hand, dropping the wig callously into Gustavo's hands. He muffled his disgust. "Please, give it back!"
"It needs a trim, Héctor, whether you like it or not. Not to mention a good washing and a comb ran through it. I've never seen a wig look more like a rat's nest."
"Give it back, Gustavo: have a heart!"
"Ay, sorry…." He grinned pathetically, shrugging his shoulders. "Ceci's orders…."
"C'mon, Héctor. I thought you said you trusted me."
"I trust you! I don't trust this 'Mimi'!"
"Well, I do. She does my hair. Isn't it nice?" She patted her perfect curls. "Now, she won't do anything drastic to it. Just shape it up a little, that's all. Don't you want to look your best for your wife?"
"I mean I do, but…." He collapsed onto the loveseat as Gustavo left, practically running out of the studio as fast as his stubby legs would carry him. He rubbed his bare skull, shivering. "I could've cut it myself."
"And ruined it, I'm sure. Wigs don't grow back, you know." She was right, and he didn't have a photo anymore to show the wigmakers if something were to happen to his hair. He'd have to have a whole new look… just the thought made him nauseous.
Ceci pulled a large curtain across the windows, throwing the room into a dim twilight. The overhead lights popped on with a sharp buzz when she flicked the switch, and she clicked on ever one of the many lamps around her workstation before pointing them all at an empty dummy. She then went to a small closet, dragging out a fabric/metal monstrosity that unfolded to be a doctor's privacy screen. She set it up in front of a shelf of rolled fabrics, motioning for him to step behind it.
"If you want me to do something with them, you'll have to take your clothes off." She shook her head with another sigh. "That woman must have put all her sense into shoes, to choose a fool like you for a husband."
"Maybe," he agreed quietly, following her orders to the letter. He draped his clothes over the top of the screen and she took them, leaving him stranded with the fabric. He peered around it curiously to see her put the shirt onto the dummy, staring at it from different angles before pulling scissors from her apron and severing the sleeve with one deft snip.
"Stop staring at me," she said without looking up. She put the sleeve on the table, measuring it before measuring the hole in the back of his shirt. "Make yourself useful and pick out a cloth; I'm going to make you a new kerchief instead of trying to work the stains out of this one. There should be red scraps in one of those bottom tubs." There was no room for argument in her voice, so he took the loss as a price to pay for getting his clothes back.
"I knew I could count on you," he called over his shoulder, dragging one of the tubs from the bottom shelf and lifting the corner. It was full of blue fabric. He put it back and went to the next one, trying to ignore the strange feeling of his nakedness. There wasn't anything to see, really, and yet… he was still naked. He didn't understand how some of the skeletons could pose for those popular nude drawings, letting so many artists stare at them for hours on end. Wasn't it… intrusive?
"Whatever." He found the red box with a triumphant grin, digging through the scraps with relish. He'd never seen so many shades of red before, all gathered in one place! He remembered his first night in Mexico City, looking at all the people dressed in ways he'd never seen before, in brighter colors than he'd ever imagined. Ernesto had loved it, and while Héctor had found himself intrigued, it was a far cry from the muted, hand-dyed colors of St. Cecelia.
He suddenly remembered a dress worn by a foreign woman in the city, surprisingly detailed despite how old the memory was. A deep, rich purple, with a floral design and intricate beading resting against her bare calves. He hadn't known what the fabric was, but looking back it had to have been some sort of silk, the way it had hung off the woman's body.
He'd wanted to buy that dress, or a similar one; the envious need had burned through him with a fervent passion. He'd wanted Imelda to have it, to wear it so that he could see the floral pattern twirling as she danced. To feel it slide through his hands. He'd wanted it so badly. He'd even vowed to buy one if they could actually make a profit this time.
"Ceci?"
"What now?" The red cloth was forgotten, for the moment. He stared up instead, at the bolts of cloth stretching high above him to the ceiling. He lifted his hand as far as it would go, feeling the textures of the different colors beneath his fingers.
"How much do you charge for a dress?"
"More than you can afford," she replied, words muffled by the straight pins in her mouth. "Why?"
"I want a dress for Imelda. A nice one."
"Define nice."
"Well, I know how you feel about store bought." Her answering sound of disgust was all he needed to hear. "I want to give her something like… something like I could have bought her when I was alive, if I'd had the money. Something pretty, to wear while she danced."
"Imelda Rivera, dancing?" Ceci scoffed. "When did you die?"
"1921." He turned back to the scrap box, looking for something woolen. He'd even settle for linen if she had it. "Definitely purple—her favorite color—and something that was popular, you know? Fashion of the time." He tried to fill the silence, prattling on to calm his nerves. "When I struck it rich, I was going to buy her and Coco a closet each, full of dresses."
"Coco?"
"My daughter." He heard Ceci stop moving, but didn't look up. "She's still in the living world. I haven't seen her since she was a little girl. I could still pick her up and hold her, she was so small. She was the cutest thing."
"I'm back." Gustavo sounded out of breath. "Where—"
"Behind the curtain." He clunked around the edge of the screen, a bucket in each hand.
"I gave your hair to—woah!" He averted his eyes, scowling. "At least have the decency to cover up, Chorizo!"
"Oh, get over it." Héctor stood, hands on his hips. "You act like you've never seen a naked guy before."
"You think I enjoyit?! I don't want to know any more about you than necessary."
"You're making a big deal about it," he pointed out. "What, it's not like I still have a d—" He paused, looking over the curtain at Ceci. "Never mind."
"Go ahead and say it; don't mind me." Ceci looked up from the varying skeins of purple thread she held in her hands. "I grew up in a family of men. There's nothing I haven't heard."
"It's not polite," Héctor argued. Gustavo turned his back without another word, trying to keep him out his direct sight as he fished in the bucket. He pulled out an orange extension cord and began to unravel the tangles, grumbling under his breath. Héctor looked warily at the tools in the bucket, scratching his chin. He knew that there were all sorts of bone polishing stuff out there, but even if he'd been able to afford it he had no clue how it worked. Soap and water had been Shantytown's preferred cleaning method, and it had done him well until his bones began yellowing.
One bucket was half full of clean, warm water, steam rising from the sloshing liquid. The other held jars, bottles, and tools he'd never seen before. Gustavo cursed openly at the cord, knotting it further as he yanked on the ends. Héctor picked up one of the tools, a heavy machine with a cloth pad and several metal parts; it looked like an instrument of torture, rather than a cleaning device.
"Fine, be that way!" The man snarled, giving the cord one last tug before jamming it in the socket. "See if I care!"
"Uh, what is this?" Gustavo looked up at him. He held up the machine by the rubber handle, looking more and more nervously at it.
"You never done this before?" Gustavo asked in reply, one hand on his hips and nudity forgotten for the moment. Héctor shook his head and he sighed, rubbing his temples. "It's a buffer." He took it from him, pressing a switch on the side. "Battery powered," he added, raising his voice to speak over the buzzing whir of the cloth pad. He flicked it back off, turning and missing the look of abject horror on Héctor's face. "Now, where's that damn burnisher? I know I got one from the closet…. Here." He stopped his search, tossing a jar in Héctor's direction. "Start putting this on your head."
"What…" He turned the jar over in his hands, reading the old-fashioned label glued to the front. "Medium Grain Bone Polishing Prophylactic Paste," he stammered, squinting at the large words. "Sandalwood. What is this?"
"It's like the stuff dentists use on your teeth in the real world." Gustavo had the burnisher, which turned out to be an even larger machine. Héctor paled, shrinking away from it instinctively. There was no way that thing was getting anywhere near him! But he had no clothing and nowhere to go…. He fought with the outlet, trying to fit the extension cord upside down. "It's good for getting stains off your bones. And it smells good, too. Smell it."
Héctor opened the jar, sniffing cautiously. He blinked, the light fragrance filling his nasal cavities. Definitely sandalwood, along with something mossy, earthy. And… oranges?
"Good, right?" Gustavo leaned over and took an appreciative sniff. "The ladies love it, they can't get enough. You'll thank me later," he added, winking. Héctor stared at him, vaguely aware that Gustavo was making some lewd comment about his wife, but unsure as to exactly how. He looked back at the jar with a shrug; if Imelda really wanted him to smell like the forest after a rain, he'd do it without complaint.
Almost without complaint.
"Ugh! It's gritty!" He rubbed his fingers, a shiver running down his spine.
"It's supposed to be!" He saw him hesitating and waved him on impatiently. "C'mon, smear it on. Just a thin layer." Héctor looked to Ceci, but she had already tuned them out. He gingerly dipped his fingers back into the paste, hating the feeling of the hard grit. He used both hands to spread it over his face like soap, over his cranium and behind his cheekbones. It was thick and goopy, hard to spread and cold to the touch. He didn't like it at all, and it was too easy to ignore the need to rub it in like some kind of lotion. He didn't want to touch that more than he had to.
"Is this right?" he asked. Gustavo looked at him, tilting his head.
"Get a little more under your jaw, right on the inside. There—that's right. That should be good enough to start with." He slapped on a pair of welder's goggles, adjusting them over his thick sideburns before picking up the burnisher. "You might want to take your eyes out, since this is your first time."
"What?! No, my eyes are staying where they are!"
"Suit yourself." Gustavo shrugged, adjusting his grip on the instrument.
"W-w-wait! What are those for, anyway?" He pointed to the goggles.
"I don't know what's going to come flying off you, bro. Eye protection is important." He tilted his head. "You really haven't done this before, huh?"
"No!"
"Well, stop looking at me like that." Gustavo sniffed before switching on the burnisher. It roared to life, the lights flickering as it sucked electricity out of the old building. "It won't hurt a bit!" he shouted, grinning devilishly as he advanced on the frozen, cowering man. Héctor could do nothing but press himself against the shelves, eyes scrunched shut and hands held up defensively, bones trembling.
Oh! O-oh? Ohhh….
It was buzzy, and loud, and… felt pretty darn good. He relaxed slowly, the rubber disc whirring against his skull and down the sides of his face. He could see now why Gustavo had recommended taking out his eyes despite the smothering panic of being sightless; the burnisher pressed against them as it polished his sockets, and they slipped so far back into his skull that he was afraid they'd fall right through his jawbone.
"Okay, open your eyes." The grinding whir choked back to a dull hum, and he opened them to see Gustavo take off one side of the goggles and peer at his skull. "That looks better already. Let me do the back, and then we'll wash it off and see."
"Alright." He turned, facing the wall as the whirring shuddered to life again. His teeth rattled as Gustavo worked on the back of the skull, all the way down to his first vertebrae and catching the underside of his jaw. He held his hands over his eyes, worried that they might pop out from the vibrations. Good grief… is this what they do in those fancy spas they advertise on the sides of the trolleys? It felt good, but not good enough to pay someone to do every few months!
"Okay," Gustavo said again. He dragged the water bucket over, pulling out a soft cloth and handing it to him. "Wipe the rest of that gunk off and let's see if it's worth doing the rest of you." Héctor obeyed, dipping the cloth in the warm water and rubbing it over his face. It felt good enough that he melted where he sat, a murmur of contentment deep in his throat. Even without skin, nothing beat a good hot cloth on the face. "Well, hurry it up!" He took the cloth off just to glare at him, running it over his cranium before swirling it in the water. It immediately grew cloudy from the remaining paste on his head, but he was shocked to see the dull stain to the once-clear liquid. Was I really all that dirty? Or… is that the stains coming off my bones? There was no mirror to see himself in, so he stood to look over the divider.
Ceci was putting the finishing touches on his shirt—a vest, now. She'd hemmed up the ragged edges, and he could see the faint gleam of new buttons on the front. Emotion swelled inside him at the sight; she'd done so well! It looked like something out of a second-hand shop, rather than a sad little rag that was supposed to pass for clothing.
"Hey, Ceci!" he called, getting her attention. "How do I look?" She took one look at him and her eyes went wide, needle falling from her hand and dangling in midair from the vest. That bad?!
"I never… I never knew they were so bright," she managed to say. Huh? A moment later, it hit him that she meant his markings. He put his fingers to his cheeks, feeling over the little divots where the dots and colors were. He turned to Gustavo, who nodded to him before picking up the jar.
"Here, sit down so I can get your spine." He began to slather the paste down each vertebra, making sure to get the back of his ribcage as well. Héctor helped him, rubbing the polish over his arms and sternum before sitting straight up, a shiver running up to his skull.
"Hey! Careful, that's sensitive back there!" He leaned away, frowning over his shoulder.
"Sorry, geez." Gustavo wiped his brow on the back of his hand, using Héctor's shoulders as a makeshift hand towel for the leftover before picking up the burnisher once more. "Do me a favor and hold still; I don't want to go chasing after your vertebrae every time I hit a 'sensitive spot'." He slapped the goggles over his eyes again, firing up the machine.
Héctor tried to obey, sitting ramrod straight as the rubber ran in-between and over his spinal column. It was better if he kept his mind off of it, tapping out new rhythms with his toes or fiddling with his thumbs as Gustavo worked. He looked down when it was time for his front ribs, watching in awe as he worked. Gustavo ran the polisher over his ribs in a certain way, turning proper angles and sliding it easily over the bone. The movements, practiced in their own way, jogged his memory. Where had he seen that before? The machine ran its way up his sternum in short strokes, smoothing out at the end.
Carpenter. Héctor jerked in surprise, earning him another frown. That was the way carpenters sanded down wood in the shops. He could see it in his mind's eye; there hadn't been electricity when he was a boy, but he'd seen handheld electric sanders in the Land of the Dead. He loved watching how they smoothed the rough wood in ways that would have taken hours by hand. How does Gustavo know…. He trailed off thoughtfully, wondering if he'd always been a violinist. Had he grown up in a carpenter's family, or was that the trade he'd chosen? Had he learned it in school, perhaps?
He had little time to think about that, his attention being drawn to the way his bones were lightening. They weren't snowy white by any means, but as the polisher moved up and down his arms he could see the stains being buffed away, leaving a streaky gleam behind. Gustavo stopped and he picked up the cloth from the water without being prompted, excitedly scrubbing at his ribs. He admired them in the overhead lights, grinning as he took in their new, clean state. They could pass for any old bones now, not just someone who had recently been on the path to their Final Death.
"Mira! I can almost see my reflection!" he laughed, running his thumb along his clavicle. He studied the backs of his hands; the porous bones had been healing, and now they looked even better after the shine. The duct tape on his arm was fraying from the friction, and he had to stop Gustavo from ripping it off. "Oh, hey—no. I want to keep that."
"It's tape." Gustavo reached for it again. "It's probably healed by now, anyway."
"No, this is… a good friend did this for me." He could still remember Chich's angry face as he complained about the loss of his minifridge, all the while wrapping Héctor's arms where the bone was cleanly snapped. "He's gone now and—well, I just want to remember him this way." Gustavo rolled his eyes, but nodded.
"Fine. Here, then: Ceci, you got any lacquer?"
"Yes." Her voice sounded closer, and they could hear her digging in her desk drawers. "Here." She rounded the corner unexpectedly; Héctor leapt to his feet with a shout, covering himself as best he could with his boney arms.
"Ceci!" he yelped, mortified. She let out a muffled breath, shaking her head as she slapped the tiny jar of lacquer into Gustavo's hands. She pointed to Héctor, holding up a roll of measuring tape.
"Stand up; I have to measure your legs."
"Right now?!"
"Yes, right now." She knelt, briskly measuring the length of his tibias with a frown. She muttered to herself, turning and heading back around the divider without another word. Gustavo dipped the tiny lacquer brush into the liquid, shaking the jar before applying a thin layer to the duct tape. He made the frayed edges lie flat against the rest of the tape, wrapping it up and adding a second coat to smooth it all out.
"There," he said in satisfaction, screwing the cap back on the jar. "Now it'll weather better."
"How do you know all this?"
"Just do." Gustavo shrugged. "I'm, uh—I'm gonna let you do the rest of that yourself." He pointed to Héctor's lower half. "I'm not getting that close to you." He fell into a sudden fit of coughing, waving the rest of his words away as he picked up another jar. "I'll be mixing up the buffer junk."
"Well, what do you think?" Ceci had brought out a floor mirror; he felt utterly vain as he stared at his reflection. He hadn't looked this good since… well, since he died! She stood alone at the side of the mirror, Gustavo having taken the first real chance to leave and booking it as far away from the room as he could. He'd already had to endure Héctor's helpless laughter; that buffer had tickled, even if it was worth the added shine to his bones.
His hair had been returned in grand shape. It was soft and fluffy, and it smelled kind of like fruit. Plus the split ends had been trimmed and it sat neatly on his skull, combed and neat and presentable. Along with the brighter markings and the glint of his gold filling, he looked muy guapo.
Imelda's sure to fall for me now!
His hat was as ragged as ever, but his repurposed vest was very nice. Unless he squinted very hard, he couldn't see the patch at all. Ceci's stiches were small, and she had used the thread nearest to the original color to skillfully match up the extra fabric. He'd let her keep the shreds of purple leftover for one of her scrap boxes.
His pants were looking sharp too; as she had warned, the new fabric in the patches and the leg wasn't exactly the same, but unless he looked hard he could ignore it. She'd taken the effort of matching up the pinstripes down to the stitching, and had hemmed the edges to sit neatly above his ankles. She'd even cuffed them so well that no one would even pay attention to the fact that the fabric was one shade off. And the fabric of his kerchief had been whip-stitched around the edges, looking crisp and new.
"Am I—do I look okay?" he asked, suddenly nervous. The clock showed a quarter to one: just enough time to get across town. "I mean…"
"I think you'll pass inspection," Ceci quipped, crossing her arms. "You look like a new man," she added reassuringly, when he still hesitated. "Now, you better go, or you'll be late. I'd hate for Imelda to think that you stood her up."
Afterword: "Let me polish your pelvis, bro; no homo, bro."
I based the bone polishing stuff off of actual bone polishing: aka dentistry! I had to watch lots of slightly gross videos about proper polishing techniques, and I know more about it than I ever wanted to, or ever will want to. At least I can make proper muffled conversation the next time I'm getting my teeth cleaned, right?
Sorry if this chapter seems to drag on. I just wanted to have an excuse to write Ceci helping Héctor by patching up his clothes. The movie makes it seem like she helps him, even when she knows he's going to make things hard for her in the end. After all, she gave him her dress—I wish we could have seen more of her!
Anyway the title of the chapter is a reference to one of my favorite Spongebob scenes.
