There was only one person who was daring enough to risk approaching Mamá Imelda. Only one person who ended up with more cracks, scrapes, and scratches in his bones than anyone else and still chose to leave gifts for her by the front door. Only one person who could make the coldness-- no, absolute loathing-- shine in her and my tíos' eyes that I never saw aimed at anyone else. There was only one person Mamá Imelda seemed to hate as much as she did.
I just didn't know it was him.
I didn't know that the man who got chased away from our house a couple times every week was part of our familia. Was Mamá Imelda's husband who left her and Mamá alone years ago.
I just assumed he was another foolish man who was trying to get Mamá Imelda to like him because he thought she was beautiful. Not because they used to be in love with each other. And, to be fair, it isn't my fault for not knowing these things at first.
Mamá and everyone else was forbidden from having photos of him in the house, so I never knew what he looked like. Music was banned from our household because of him, so I never got to experience what a great musician he was-- or is-- when I was younger. We were banned from bringing up his name, so I never heard any stories or memories from Mamá about her time with her father.
Even though there was always some feeling in the air that he'd lived with Mamá and Mamá Imelda at one point, it was as if he never existed at all.
I did try to find some clues about who he was. I always listened in on Mamá and Papá's conversations in case they revealed any thoughts about him. Elena and I went through his letters that were sent, finding some things that were disturbing, questionable, or, at one point, downright terrifying. We tried asking Mamá some questions, too, and she did give us a very broad answer about her father.
But other than that, we never found anything else. And a little while later we stopped searching completely. It became pointless and plus, it wasn't really our business anyway. Why look for something when you don't have to? It got to the pint where those letters and those questions swirling in my mind disappeared from thought, and I never so much as search for clues about or thought of Mamá's father again.
Until I saw him in the Land of the Dead, many years later. Until I heard him at the front door and saw him standing there with an unwrapped package and flowers in his hands and a timid smile on his face.
That's when I started wondering who he was, why he was going through all that trouble and the risk of being beaten just to see Mamá Imelda and give her his presents. That's when I noticed how there was this feeling, a sensation of strange recognition around whenever I saw him, as if I knew him from somewhere but couldn't place it.
And every time I saw him, even if I felt disgusted seeing how impulsive he was and conflicted at how my feelings always seemed to become more vivd whenever he knocked on our door, I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. It was obvious he'd been in some pretty rough times before, and Mamá Imelda yelling at and chasing him wasn't making anything better.
I watched and observed. I cringed at his tears and the crack of his bones when Mamá Imelda's shoe slapped him. I saw the unease and ice in everyone's faces and eyes.
I just couldn't place what made me feel connected to him. What made me feel like the reason behind his quirkiness and gifts and obvious love for Mamá Imelda shining in his eyes went deeper than he let on.
Went deeper than I-- and anyone else-- could see.
To me, he didn't look that attractive.
He had large, dark brown eyes, like a little kid's. His hair was short, straight and black, with many strands out of place. His grin always showed his crooked teeth, which were suprisingly white except for the gold tooth that replaced the left of his two front teeth. The designs that were painted on his skull were swirls of orange, yellow, purple, and green. His bones were gray and covered with dust, not vivd and white like mine or the rest of mi familia's. His clothes were torn and faded with color, and he wore no shoes. And he was unusually thin. At least in my mind.
As for the way he acted, well... he was strange from what I could see. He seemed optimistic, like he could make the dreariest of situations better. Definitely overdedicated, too. You can't deliver gifts to a woman and be chased away from her house nine times out of ten if you aren't the tiniest bit impulsive. There was a sort of energy about him: every time I saw him, some part of him was always in motion. He always looked at people in this undescribablely bold way that chilled me to the bone.
To me, he was the definition of loco. And it was obvious that Mamá Imelda for some reason saw him the same way as me.
But I still couldn't erase the pang of emotions that hit me whenever I saw him. I would look at him and hear his screams and see him running past the living room windows, and I would feel something that drew me to him. It seemed weird how some of his features resembled Mamá, like his grin or the size and color of his eyes or the round, skinny bulid of his cheekbones and chin. It was weird how there was this sort of fire in his eyes when he looked at Mamá Imelda, like he wanted to hit her and hold her in his arms at the same time.
It seemed weird how he kept coming back, like he hadn't been chased from our house and beaten just one or two days ago.
And though I tried to silence it, the sensation of recognition and kinship wouldn't leave. Every time I saw him at our door, it took an immense amount of effort not to run out to Mamá Imelda and tell her to let me deal with him I could get the answers I wanted and put an end to me being drawn to his strange, firey ways.
His gifts were either carried in a plastic bag or an unwrapped package. I always wondered why he never wrapped the boxes, but I guessed it was because he couldn't afford wrapping paper. Occasionally a boquet of flowers came on the side, always morning glories or marigolds or both in the same bundle.
Nine times out of ten Mamá Imelda's favorite chocolates were included in the gift. Actually, they were always included. I wondered how he knew what her favorite candies were, since it seemed like she chased him away before he could ask her. He included his own little touches, too, like notes with his suprisingly neat handwriting or a single vanilla sweet among all the other chocolates.
He never had a specific time for delivering his gift.
Sometimes late at night, if I were still awake I would hear the clang of something hitting the window in Mamá Imelda's bedroom before I went to sleep. I would see the banged up remains of his ptiful gift in the garbage in the morning when I woke up when I passed her room, and Mamá Imelda's eyes would always be blazing, her hands squeezed to tight fists as stared at something I couldn't see.
Other times, when we were just starting to head to the shop for work, we would hear the knock of the front door. And moments later, his shrieks and the cracking of his bones would fill the air. I often found myself supressing a cringe and wondering if anyone else in the family felt the tiniest bit of sympathy that I did beneath their hatred.
I tried getting a glimpse at the bags or the packages a few times, trying to see what he'd gotten for her, but Mamá Imelda would always crush them under her heel the first step in the door when she was done getting rid of him, chocolate and vanilla leaving a small stan on the floor where they'd been smashed. She would rip the flowers and the notes apart and toss them out the window, as if she hoped the hot weather would melt and evaporate the shreds or the wind would tear them up just a little more.
When he'd show up days later, there would be fresh cracks in his bones and scratches and dents in his face. There would sometimes be tears in his eyes. But he would still smile sheepishy and presnt his stupid gift to Mamá Imelda as if nothing had happend two or three days ago. As if he always hoped that she'd one day accept him without chasing him away.
But it was always the same result, and I often wondered when he was going to realize it would never work. Mamá Imelda would always run after him, beat him and smash his gift to pieces right in front of everyones's eyes.
When I heard his yelling I felt disgusted at myself for caring. I knew I wasn't supposed to. But I would think of his blazing eyes and anguished shouts and I couldn't help caring about him just a little.
It wasn't my fault that the feeling of strange connection became more vivd when I saw Mamá Imelda chasing him and I was too busy trying to get to the bottom of his determination to care that I wasn't allowed to feel any sympathy for him. And it certainly wasn't my fault that he was too idiotic to see that he would never win Mamá Imelda's heart with any of his stupid presnts
When he was daring (and stupid) enough, he serenaded Mamá Imelda. He would stand just below her balcony and be smiling up at her with those eyes and that crooked grin. He played a guitar that was in better condition than he was and played a different song almost every time, seemingly putting his own spin on each one.
He played the songs with so much passion in his voice that it would make me sick. His deep voice would be filled with so much love as he sang.
More often than the others, he would play this joyful, bouncy melody that I found myself drawn to. He'd sway from side to side as he played it, sometimes spinning and jumping in the air.
But his songs, especially that one, would be put to a stop thirty seconds after he started playing. Mamá Imelda would toss her shoe at him and he would clutch the guitar to him as he scurried away.
For some reason, she never chased him if he had his guitar with him. She'd just glare and shut the window, then cross her arms and stare down at the floor. Even more confusing, sometimes I saw tears in her eyes, the big gushing kinds that she'd never have in other situations.
When anyone would ask Mamá Imelda if she was okay, her face would harden and her tears would dry. She'd uncross her arms and take a deep breath, as if composing herself and trying to erase the memory of him from her mind. Then she'd walk upstairs in too fast of a pace and slam the door behind her. A silence would hang in the air as I tried not to think of how much I enjoyed the song he played and pretended not to hear Mamá Imelda's muffled cries through her closed door as the day continued.
On those days, the days he'd shown up to sing for her, we didn't see her until the next morning, and we all had to try not to mention the tear steaks on her face unless she'd start crying again or shout at us for caring. It was as if his music was the only way to soften Mamá Imelda's heart. It was, for some reason, the only way to make her cry like she did on those days.
I would try to comfort her sometimes, but those times it never worked. Every time he played his dumb music outside, Mamá Imelda's tears would last for two days afterward with nothing to stop them.
I only had one direct reaction with him that I can remember clearly.
If you could pick a time of day that you would least like to be disrupted, what would that be? I think I would pick the time where I'm sitting in the front yard, reading, on a Saturday evening.
It was warm, every ray of sunsine seemingly drawn to me, but I didn't care. Weekends were our only days off from work besides holidays, so I took whatever opportunity I could to relax, even in scalding hot weather that would have me sweating severely if I still could. There was no music in the air for once, which was a blessing since it meant that Mamá Imelda wouldn't have too chase anyone away and it was more enjoyable outside for me.
But of course, all good things come to an end, and this time, that end was him.
I heard before I saw: the repeated clack of someone's bones against the stone street. Then someone's panting and the sounds of objects being thrown around in their plastic bag. When I heard the loud bang of something hitting the gate and nearly dislodging the lock, I literally jumped, dropping my book on the ground and bolting up from the chair.
What I saw confused me at first: once I calmed down I saw a white plastic bag tied at the top and filled to the brim with what looked like candies from the outlines on the bag. A marigold was tied in the top of the bag, its stem bent from the pressure of the knot and its petals pushed forward by something on top of it: a piece of paper with what looked like at least half cursive wiriting.
Then I heard a sharp laugh and saw a very familiar figure come to a skidding stop at the gate, crashing into it and causing a resulting bang that had me shaking from the loudness of it.
When he recovered from shock and bent to pick the bag up, breathing heavily, I put two and two together, realizing who it was. I marched closer to him, crossed my arms, and glared, dropping my voice low like a threat.
"What are you doing here?"
At the sound of my question, he went still, clutching the bag to his chest. There was a slight fear in his eyes that made me supress a wince. I think he was expecting to see Mamá Imelda in front of him from the tenseness in his shoulders and the way his head dipped low as he stood to his full height, which was suprisingly tall. He was taller than me by at least three inches.
We stood there, staring at each other for a good moment, the glint of the sun making his eyes look larger than they already were. His mouth was hanging open. I stole a glance at the left sleeve of his torn jacket, noticing how it was missing from the clothing completely and exposed the thin band of tape wrapped around his bones to keep them together. I couldn't stop myself from cringing-- not from sympathy but from disgust-- as I swept my gaze from his arm to his right leg, which revealed dozens of scrapes and more thin tape wrapped around it.
I scowled at the sight. No wonder Mamá Imelda chased him away. He'd never have a chance with her if he keeps showing up looking like this.
He must've noticed me staring, because when I finally had strength to pry my eyes away, there was slight embarassment in his eyes. He waved his hand dismissively when we locked eyes again.
"Don't worry," he said airily. He smiled in a faintly joking way. "I've had worse accidents before."
I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms. "Why are you here?" I snapped with more harshness in my voice than I wanted.
His smile faded and he sighed, uncrossing his arms and gesturing to the present in his hands. "I was going to give this to Imelda," he explained.
I scoffed. "You really don't learn your lesson, do you?"
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
I pushed up my glasses, stepped closer to him and leaned on the gate, sneering. "When has Mamá Imelda ever accepted your presents? She rips them up all the time. You've seen her do it. I know you have."
His posture sagged as he gripped his right wrist, nodding. The emotion in his eyes dimmed to nothing. The setting sun bounced off the bars of the gate and made orange outlines on his messy hair and his body.
"I know," he said, his voice blank. "And it tears me apart every time."
I just gawked at him, my disgust growing. Before I realized what I was doing, my hand was through the bars, clutching the bag and waving it in his face, giving him a scowl. I dropped it to the ground, raised my foot, and smashed it on the bag and its candies, the stem and petals of the flower flattening and the chocolate inside splattering all over. The pathetic note that had been attached to the bag now had a boot print and cocolate drops stained on it, making it unreadable.
I heard his gasp and saw the flash of agony behind his empty eyes. His hands were curled to fists and he stared at me with barely disguised rage.
I shrugged, giving a dry laugh. "In a way, I just saved you." I pointed at him and smirked. "There is no way you are ever going to win Mamá Imelda over with gifts like that. She hates you."
"You think I can't see that?" he spat, the emotion returning to his voice and making it shrill with anger. He gripped the bars of the gate so hard I was suprised they didn't bend with his hard grasp.
I rolled my eyes, spreading my hands out in front of me. My glasses fell but I pushed them up as I glared and pointed at him again. "If you know how much she hates you, then why do you keep trying to get to her?"
"Because I love her!"
I went still, dropping my hands to my sides and peering at him with wide eyes. Now that the sun was fully set, it was dark all around us except for the city lights in the background. Even the darkness couldn't hide his firey expression, one that Mamá often made when arguing with Mamá Imelda. He looked beaten and pathetic standing there, and he looked tired, as if he could pass out at any moment.
"What did you say?" I asked.
He shifted his feet, staring down at the ground for a moment. His hands were clasped behind his back instead of sqeezing the gate bars. A good two seconds passed before he lifted his gaze to look at me. His eyes were empty but still heavy with sadness.
"I love her," he repeated in a low voice. "I always have."
"What do you mean?"
Beneath the blankness in his eyes, I saw a flash of something. Firmness, maybe, but it also looked like... guilt. Shame. He unclasped his hands and brought them to his sides as he heaved a sigh.
"I had promised I would never leave her," he explained. His eyes were watery as he continued. "We were friends once. More than that, actually. And I'd made a promise to her that I would never leave her for anything. Ever. But I still did."
Gaping at him, wringing my hands, I pieced things together in my mind. The two of them, as kids, and later as teenagers affirming that promise that must've kept him and Mamá Imelda together for years. "Why did you leave?"
He brought his hand to his right wrist as a tear fell. The lights made colorful streaks of it as it trailed down his cheek.
"I left to perform in other parts of Mexico with my Superhero." His voice was trembling. "I told her it would only be two months, at the most. She let me go, but I knew she didn't want to. I tried to get back to them many times, but the tour kept extending and I couldn't find it in me to end it." There were more tears steaming down his cheeks now.
I leaned on the gate, closer to him than I had been. "And you died before you could come back to her. That's why she's so upset."
He nodded, wiping his eyes with both hands. "I never meant to hurt her. I tried to get back, but then I ended up here." A sob escaped him in the dense quiet that followed. "She never knew I tried to come home." He kept wiping his eyes and taking in hoarse, quick breaths.
Leaning back, I was overcome with more sympathy than I knew how to manage. "That's why you try to talk to her and leave her your gifts."
"I have to keep trying." He stared at me. "Wouldn't you do the same thing?"
Against my wishes, I nodded. "Of course." Then, smirking, I added, "But I would make sure to run before I get hit with anything. And maybe I wouldn't be singing and playing an instrument so close to the window.
He dragged his arm over his face one last time and I saw a tiny smile appear on his face, the first one since we'd started talking. Then out of nowhere he laughed, the sound sharp and high like Mamá's giggling. Soon I was losing my battle not to laugh with him as we both doubled over, gripping the same gate bar for balance.
Once we calmed down, he touched my arm. "Will you do something for me?"
I crossed my arms again, seriousness returning. "Depends on what it is."
He let go of my arm and gave me a firm stare, taking in a deep breath as he leaned as close to me as the gate would let him, gripping the bars again. "Tell Imelda how much I love her. Please. She won't listen to me, so it has to be you."
I scoffed. "Coward."
"Just do it." His eyes were flashing in the darkness.
After a few moments of peering at him, I sighed. "Okay. I'll tell her."
He gave a small smile. "Gracias, uh..." He trailed off, frowning at me.
"Victoria," I finished for him.
He grinned, the city lights making his crooked teeth the slightest bit more pronnounced. Then he stood straight up again and turned to leave without a look back. I caught a hint of the lingering smile on his face as I watched him walk away.
Images of what him and Mamá Imelda's life might've been like when they were younger kept flashing through my mind as I picked up the smashed present and the book I was reading and looked back over my shoulder, though he'd disappeared from view a few minutes ago. I thought of his terrified face every time Mamá Imelda charged at him, the cracks in his bones and the blazing of his big eyes.
It amazed me how even if Mamá Imelda hated him more than anything, even if she charged at him and threw things at him, even if she ripped up his packages right in his face, he still came back to her every day.
I found myself staring at the bright lights of the city a little longer, leaning up against the doorframe and thinking of the talk we'd had and the tears in his eyes. Then, after a few seconds of unusually blissful silence, I finally found the energy to open up the front door and disappear inside.
I never did tell Mamá Imelda what he'd wanted me to tell her. I didn't have the heart and I didn't think she'd believe me anyway.
Instead I kept an eye out for him or for any packages or bags that had notes with his handwriting on them and tried not cringe whenever Mamá Imelda attacked him or threw his gifts away. If he was running and our eyes met, I always looked away first just because I had to.
Most days I wondered if, just like he still loved her, she still had at least a little love left for him. The images of what their past life as friends might've looked like would flash before my eyes again and again as I went about my days.
And the more I thought about it, the more I kind of understood both sides of the story: Mamá Imelda, hearing him promise not to leave and then losing him to the lure of fame, and him, wanting to perform for the world with his "Superhero" (whoever that is) and trying to get back to her even after all these years, even when she shouted at him to stay away.
Every time I saw him, I felt hurt that I hadn't told Mamá Imelda about him, but I also felt my heart warm thinking about him with his stupid gifts and undying determination.
I knew it was kind of wrong to like him, but I found myself slightly in awe of him and his impulsive behavior. It always got me how he could try to approach Mamá Imelda even though he knew the risks. It was as if he didn't care what she did to him as long as she had his gift in her hands, as long as he was well enough to approach the next day and try tell her what he told me: that he still loved her, and that he was still trying to come home.
