I am thankful to my readers who are so supportive and seem to be enjoying this story immensely. I appreciate it a lot.
But regarding the anonymous reader who keeps leaving reviews listed as "Diana Lynn Lauer," apparently I wasn't clear enough in the last chapter. Stop it. Stop trying to give me suggestions or prompts or whatever it is that you are trying to do. Stop begging for the ending right this moment (and now apparently requesting comic pages for the ending as well, which is an even more bizarre request). And definitely stop trying to give me your home address. That is completely inappropriate. There is a reason that I've started deleting your reviews. And I will continue to do so until you straighten up. Your behavior is the sort of thing that causes some writers on this site to actually abandon their stories. Thankfully, I plan to continue writing despite your entitled, pushy, and annoying reviews, but you need to learn some boundaries.
I will not address this issue again. If those reviews continue to cross the line, they will be deleted and ignored. And the only reason why I don't consider blocking anonymous reviews is because the rest of the people who read my works know how to behave themselves and it wouldn't be fair to punish them.
Julio had long since come to terms with being a relatively nervous man in a family of strong-willed women. His sister was sweet, but she could also be a force of nature when it came to taking care of people. Coco was kind and loving, but had a rebellious streak and more spirit when he met her than seemed possible. Elena was fiery and passionate while Victoria was sturdy and dependable, both his daughters wonderful people that could not be swayed. And Mamá Imelda…
He loved and respected his mother-in-law. Julio was also mildly afraid of her. Mamá Imelda was a strong, independent, and forceful woman. She would never bend or break, no matter the obstacle or challenge. And she could tell him to do something and he would do it without hesitation or question. Because she was very, very intimidating. A single stern look and his willpower crumbled. And in death, she gained a giant alebrije who was as fierce as her.
And even if it wasn't for her personality, Julio would still be nervous around her. Because at the end of the day, she was Coco's mamá. And just as he wanted his wife's love and happiness, he wanted her parent's approval.
He'd earned both. It wasn't easy to gain Imelda's approval, the woman determined to prevent her daughter from suffering the same heartbreak as she, but Coco offered her heart without fear. And with Coco's love and Mamá Imelda's acceptance, he married into the family and never regretted a second of it.
But now he was facing another relative of hers. Her father. The man that didn't mean to abandon his family, just like Coco always believed. The man who should have been there for her entire life, for her wedding day, but was struck down by cruel fate.
Shifting his hat between his hands and staring down at his lap, Julio said, "You would have loved the wedding. Coco was the most beautiful bride that you would have ever imagined. She completely took my breath away. I almost passed out before the end. Partially because of how lovely she looked and partially just plain nerves." He chuckled softly before glancing up at the motionless figure on the bed. "She would have loved to have you there. Once, when I was still a tongue-tied boy dancing with her in the plaza, she told me that you used to play at wedding sometimes when she was a little girl. I think she would have liked to hear your music that day."
Héctor didn't react to his words. There was nothing to indicate that he could hear anything that Julio said. He was too silent and too still. He looked too much like a lifeless corpse. And the glowing from his bones, the way the Final Death clung to him so tightly and refused to release him, sent a shiver down Julio's spine.
But since he couldn't think of anything else that he could do, Julio decided that it was better to assume that Héctor could hear them wherever he was. Maybe it would help him to hear about his daughter, to hear about what he'd missed out on. Or maybe even just hearing a friendly voice would help guide him back.
"I don't suppose you know that Coco was a bit of a rebel," he continued. "That's how we met. She wasn't quite happy about the music ban, especially since she loved dancing. So she would sneak out whenever she had the chance, running off to the plaza and dancing to the songs that the mariachi played." He smiled at the memory. "One day while I was at the plaza, I saw the most amazing and talented señorita dancing there with all her heart and soul."
The way she moved, as if she knew that any dance could be her final one, was truly hypnotizing. She loved dancing. The rhythm flowed through her body while the beat of the music became her heartbeat. Coco always looked impossibly bright, her expression filled with bliss and her movements graceful. The only time that she seemed happier was when she was with Julio and their girls.
But Coco eventually chose to leave dancing behind. She stopped sneaking off because their daughters needed her. Family comes first. But sometimes Julio wished that his Coco could have kept dancing, that she didn't have to choose between her passion and her love for her family. She lost a part of herself when she stopped. She lost some of that spark of life and fire.
He knew she would have always made that decision. She would always pick her loved ones over dancing and the music that went with it. But perhaps she shouldn't have needed to choose.
He loved Coco. Always had and always would. And because Julio loved her, he wanted her to be happy. Fully and completely happy.
Miguel would hopefully find a way to bring music back to her, even if she could no longer dance like she did in her youth. And now, maybe she would even have a chance to see her papá again.
"Someday Coco will join us here," Julio said. "She'll finally be told what happened so long ago. She'll know that you tried to come home." Once again, he shifted his hat between his hands anxiously. "And I hope that you'll be there to greet her. She'll want to see you as much as you've wanted to see Coco."
Biting back another snarl of frustration, Imelda started ripping out the stitches that she'd just finished. She knew better. She knew how to make these shoes; she could do this in her sleep. And yet she kept making dumb and amateurish mistakes. The shoe in her hand looked pitiful at this point. At this rate, she would have to start over completely.
"Imelda?" said Oscar cautiously.
"What?" she snapped and immediately regretted her sharp tone, not meaning to take her foul mood out on them.
Both of her brothers cringed back slightly. She could tell from their expressions and how they were avoiding her eyes that the two of them had been watching her pathetic attempts for a while. It didn't make her feel any better. It just left her frustrated and irritated with herself.
She'd hoped that this would help. If there was anywhere in the Land of the Dead where she felt in control and focused, it was their workshop. Positioned in front of the courtyard, the building had a front door for customers and a back door that led to the rest of their property. A long and worn-smooth counter divided the space into its two separate roles. All the tools of their craft and the raw materials were carefully organized within the back half of the building, the front half offering space for customers to be sized properly and to discuss what types of shoes they desire. The workshop was familiar and comforting, the scent of leather lingering in the air. Everything about it felt normal, secure, and safe.
But no matter what she tried to do, she couldn't focus on her work. She couldn't stop her mind from drifting back to the limp and lifeless figure in her bedroom and the way her entire worldview shattered a couple nights ago. Not even her attempts at distracting herself with work could still those thoughts.
"Perhaps it is time you take a short break," suggested Oscar slowly. "You know, maybe—"
"—stretch your legs?" Felipe continued. "Get some fresh air? A change of surroundings or something? It—"
"—might help." They both shrugged apologetically as Oscar said, "It certainly couldn't hurt."
Looking back at the pitiful scrap of leather in her hands that any Rivera would be embarrassed to call a shoe, Imelda couldn't bring herself to argue. She wasn't making any progress. She was only making a mess.
Imelda set aside her work and stood up from her stool. Perhaps her brothers were right. A short walk might help straighten out her head. Obviously work itself wasn't enough to quiet her mind. A piece of normality wasn't enough to help her.
"I'll be back shortly," said Imelda evenly. "Please resist the urge to experiment while I'm gone."
The brief flicker of guilt on both their faces told her that was exactly what they had in mind. Oscar and Felipe loved to invent and create new types of shoes, regardless of how practical or functional that they turned out to be. It was the type of distraction from current events that they would love to indulge in. But now was not the time for one of their "unique" creations, especially without supervision. And hopefully they would have enough sense to realize it.
She slipped out the back door of the workshop and stepped into the courtyard. Even with it right in front of her, she couldn't head into their house. She refused. Imelda suspected that if she set foot inside, she wouldn't be able to resist the pull to check on Héctor. And she already knew how hard it was to pull herself away.
He would be fine. Héctor would be all right, even without her watching over him. Julio would take care of him. Coco's memory would hold and Miguel probably managed to coax out some stories, even if she was barely responsive when Imelda glimpsed her last year. Everything would be fine. Imelda silently reassured herself a few times as she walked slowly, letting the sun warm her bones.
A flap of wings and a shadow passing overhead brought a brief smile to her face. Abandoning her perch on the balcony, Pepita landed lightly on the ground next to her. Imelda reached over to rub where her horns grew out of her alebrije's head, earning a gentle purr. Only as Pepita nuzzled her did Imelda notice that her alebrije was carrying something in her mouth.
"What do you have there, Pepita?" she asked quietly.
She wasn't certain what she expected. Mice were a little too small for Pepita to hunt down and bring home as gifts, though a vindictive part of the woman pointed out Ernesto's skull could serve as a decent substitute. But what Imelda received was far less impressive. Pepita gently dropped a ragged and worn straw hat into her waiting hands.
Imelda nearly dropped it, startled by the innocent-seeming object's presence. She knew this hat. She remembered seeing it before. That night, Héctor was wearing it. The straw hat was as frayed and weathered as the rest of his clothes and the man himself. She hadn't noticed when they'd lost track of it and she didn't know when Pepita found it. All she knew was that her alebrije gave it to her and was now staring at her expectantly.
She stared at the ragged straw thing for a moment, running her fingers across the rough texture where the edges were coming apart. Then Imelda closed her eyes and gently hugged the hat to her chest, producing a faint crinkle.
She still wasn't certain if she could completely forgive him and she would never forget what the last ninety-six years were like, but Imelda couldn't deny the truth any longer. She'd denied it and buried it for too many years, trying to hide it away because anger would always be easier to bear than grief.
She missed Héctor. Imelda missed the man in life and in death. Even when she drove him away, she still missed him. When he left, Héctor left a gaping emptiness in her heart that nothing could ever fill. Or rather, a ragged wound that never healed properly and where spite festered like an infection.
But it was more than that. She didn't just miss Héctor. Despite all the time that passed and the countless wrong assumptions about why he never came home, despite all her fury and heartache at the perceived betrayal and abandonment, and despite her active attempts to forget about the man who caused her so much pain, a part of Imelda continued to love Héctor the way she did when they first met. No matter what she tried, she never completely stopped loving him. And when she learned the truth and realized that at least some of that anger was groundless, that meant it wasn't wrong to still love him. She didn't have to feel disappointed in herself for holding onto those emotions after so long.
She loved him. Even when so much had changed, that remained constant. She spoke the truth when she yelled at Ernesto for what he'd done; even if she tried to pretend that she didn't say it out loud, she wasn't lying when she called Héctor the love of her life. Imelda still loved him.
Hugging his hat close and remembering the fragile skeleton, Imelda forced herself to admit that she still loved Héctor and always would. Everything else was still uncertain and confusing, but that much was a fact.
And she knew he remained on the brink. She knew that she had no guarantees that Coco's memory would hold out or that she managed to pass it on to Miguel. She knew the Final Death could still take him. And Imelda knew it was her doing.
He didn't blame her. At least, that's what he said that night. Héctor said that it was his fault that he was fading, not hers for lashing out in pain and grief for decades. He didn't blame her for trying to forget, for how the Final Death tried to pull him away. Héctor assured her that what was happening was his fault and even apologized in that moment, something that meant more to her than she would have expected.
He claimed that he didn't blame her, but Imelda knew that he should have.
Maybe he did. Maybe that was why he didn't plan to try and see her one last time… Maybe that was why he never intended to tell her how close the Final Death was…
She rubbed at the straw surface again, listening to the rumble of Pepita's purr as she pressed against the woman's back supportively. Imelda wished that she could at least see some improvement in him. She wished that there was some sign that Héctor was getting better, that he would survive. After almost a century apart and finally learning the truth and getting a chance to see what could be salvaged from what Ernesto shattered, it wasn't fair that it could all end without warning. The waiting and hoping left her on edge. If only there was a sign one way or another…
Imelda didn't know if she could forgive him for leaving, but it didn't break her. She cracked and chipped, but came out stronger. Harder. Like a diamond. She endured and so did her family. But while a diamond was harder than any other stone, it came at the cost of being brittle. Nothing could scratch the surface, but a hammer could shatter it. And she wasn't certain she could endure losing him a second time, especially when she had a hand in his fate.
"I suppose I'm not doing a very good job at taking my mind off things," she murmured. "But I don't know what will happen if you don't survive. Two days back and you've turned everything upside down."
She glanced up towards the balcony. It was too bright outside, but she could almost convince herself that she could see some of the glow through the glass up there. And even if that unnatural golden-orange light meant he remained on the verge of the Final Death, it also meant that Héctor hadn't completely faded away yet.
The same quiet words that she used to whisper as a young woman echoed through her skull even if they didn't reach her mouth. Almost like a familiar song with a similarly familiar and gentle refrain weaving through it.
I want you. I miss you. I love you. Please come home.
"Please come back, Héctor," she said softly. "Please come back."
But it wasn't up to him. It had never been up to him. Héctor was as powerless as she was.
The rickety and rotting walkway wobbled with each step. Victoria fully expected it to collapse into splinters at any second. The creak and groan of the straining wood covered up the sounds of far-too-distant pedestrian traffic. They were far from where they belonged. Even the buildings they passed on the way were in serious disrepair. They were so far off the beaten trail that they were about to walk off the edge. Literally.
The walkway ended suddenly, causing her to almost think there was nothing but a sheer drop before they eventually spotted the way down. Victoria and Rosita exchanged looks at the sight. The way to the ground didn't look any more stable than the walkway itself. But it was either that or taking their chances by jumping. After all, it wasn't like the fall would kill them. But the rocks and dark water below didn't look like a particularly comfortable landing.
Nothing about this felt comfortable. Even as Victoria followed Tía Rosita down, she could tell how far away they were from the more populated corners of the city. Chatting voices, the calls of alebrijes, and even the trolley were muffled by the distance. They just kept wandering deeper and deeper into the depths. No one came this way if they had the choice.
As soon as her well-crafted Rivera shoes stepped on solid ground once more, Victoria glanced around and tried to take in their gloomy surroundings. Only a little sunlight streamed down to reach them, the tall buildings blocking it and casting everything into shadows. Ancient rough stone of the older foundation marked the entrance, bearing the graffiti of a skeletal figure with bright wings falling from the sky. Further ahead, past wooden planks serving as bridges and paths across the water, she could make out sooty buildings slapped together by bits and pieces. Rubbish like crushed soda cans, shattered tequila bottles, shredded candy wrappers, and random scraps she couldn't identify were all too common. And the smell of wood smoke and dust hung in the air.
It was a place for the discarded and unwanted. Being here sent a chill down Victoria's spine. And yet this was where Héctor probably spent the last few years.
"This was your idea, Tía Rosita. What do we do next?" she asked, keeping her voice quiet for some reason.
Hesitating briefly, Rosita's expression turned stubborn and she said, "We start looking."
At first, the quiet and shadowy place seemed abandoned. The closest of the ramshackle houses looked empty; the broken windows were dark and ominous. But as they stepped further and further into Shantytown, Victoria started catching glimpses of other skeletons in the gloom.
They wore old clothes, the colors washed out and the edges fraying. And most of them were barefoot or their feet were wrapped in rags if they were apparently feeling ambitious. Their movements were reminiscent of a marionette, their joints both too loose and too jerky. They lacked the fluidity of motion that people normally possessed. And their bones were dulled from the white they should have been.
The traits were similar to what she'd witnessed with Héctor, though the symptoms weren't quite as severe. They weren't fading quite as much. Not yet. But they were gradually being forgotten too. And all of them were staring at Rosita and Victoria; they could see that the pair didn't quite belong.
"Looks like we have a few visitors," called one of the skeletons. "Hola."
Victoria glanced at the first person to speak to them in this place. Perched on the edge of a porch for one of the shacks, he held what looked like a violin cobbled together with part of a cabinet door, twine, coffee cans, and what might be barbed wire. She couldn't even guess what he used for the bow. Even if she spent her whole life avoiding music, she could still recognize what instrument that it was meant to be.
But even if he looked as chaotically-put-together as his violin, he wasn't a particularly bad looking man. He probably died close to Victoria's age and his bones were only a little dulled in color. And the swirling blue facial markings near his hairline and the clusters of purple dots below his eye sockets like freckles made him appear just as friendly as his greeting. It was only the unraveling gray shirt and bare feet that revealed his background as someone with no family to visit in the living world.
"What's a couple of pretty señoritas like you doing here?" he continued, tilting his head. Then he gave them a sympathetic look. "Was it the marigold bridge? Were you unable to cross this year? That's never an easy thing to face."
"No, that's not why we're here," Victoria said, shifting uneasily.
"Then what can Tío Carlos do for you?" asked the musician, drawing the bow across the so-called strings and producing a squawk.
Wincing slightly at the jarring sound, Rosita said, "We're here about Héctor."
That produced an immediate reaction. The calm and curious mood shifted. The various skeletons scattered around exchanged looks, a hint of sadness creeping into their expressions that wasn't there before. They all clearly recognized the name. Carlos closed his eyes and shook his head slightly as he tuned his improvised instrument.
"Cousin Héctor?" another man said, though Victoria couldn't spot who. "You're here about…"
"I'll talk to them," said another skeleton, an older woman wrapped in a threadbare green dress to match the vine-like facial markings along her cheekbones. She gestured towards a collection of wooden crates. "Come along then. Come sit with Tía Gabriela for a while. We don't get much company here."
Not knowing what else to do, Victoria and Rosita let her guide them over. The smaller crates quickly served as improvised chairs while the larger one was treated as a table. Gabriela set a trio of shot glasses on the wooden surface and pulled out a nearly-empty tequila bottle. She poured out the last few dribbled of liquid and passed the glasses around.
Uncertain what to make of the show of hospitality, Victoria said, "I didn't know Héctor had any cousins."
"He does in a way. When you have no one else, we have to be each other's family. Down here, everyone is a primo or a tía or so on. We all called him Cousin Héctor and they call me Tía Gabriela because everyone deserves family, even when we're all being forgotten by those who are still alive."
There was something both heart-warming and heart-breaking about the sentiment. But Victoria could at least admit that it was nice that he wasn't completely alone all this time. Even if she wasn't certain what she thought of the man, he deserved some type of companionship. A makeshift family of those with no one else was better than spending all those decades with no one.
But Gabriela wasn't finished speaking. She rolled the shot glass between her hands as she continued.
"But if you're looking for him, I'm afraid that you won't find him. No one has seen him since Día de Muertos. That's a rough time of the year for us. A time where the living purposefully try to remember the dead, digging through memory and reminiscing with each other about those who have died. And if they don't recall us when they specifically try, they usually give up any attempt to hold onto that memory." Gabriela went ahead and drank her portion of the tequila in one swift motion. "We knew. Just like with Chicharrón, Chelo, and the girls the other night. We knew what happened. He didn't come back yesterday or today because it finally happened."
Realizing what Gabriela must have meant, Rosita interrupted, "Oh, no, I'm so sorry. We've given you the wrong impression. We're not looking for Héctor. And he isn't gone. He's just unconscious. We have him back at our house right now."
That seemed to stun Gabriela to silence and set off the eavesdropping skeletons whispering. They stared at Victoria and Rosita with increased curiosity, but couldn't hide their relief from the news. Even if their surroundings remained just as shadowy as before, the mood felt far lighter. They'd know how close he was to the Final Death that night. How could they have missed the signs? But hearing the news of his continued survival cheered them up instantly.
Cackling quietly, Gabriela shook her head and muttered, "That boy. He's always been good at wiggling out of trouble. And into it. No matter what happens, Cousin Héctor keeps trying and keeps holding on. I should have known he'd find a way to slip out of the Final Death for a little longer."
"He's already hung on longer than anyone would have guessed," called Carlos, trying his makeshift instrument again and producing a smoother sound. He stood up from his perch and started walking closer to them. "Most of us don't immediately end up here our first year. And those that do rarely survive long."
"You're still playing a bit sharp, Tío Carlos," another skeleton said.
"What do you expect from barbed wire, primo?" shouted back Carlos, setting off a round of laughter from most of the growing group of curious bystanders.
There was a jovial feeling to the conversation, even with the darker undercurrent. It wasn't what Victoria expected. Even with the brief glimpse of Shantytown she caught that night when Pepita was tracking Miguel, leading them towards this place before she caught a fresher trail taking them back towards the city, she'd imagined the people here as being so different. Somehow it both made Victoria feel more comfortable with these people and left her sad.
They seemed like such nice people. Friendly, welcoming, and even teasing each other like a family would. They deserved better than this. They deserved better than dwelling in this dim and abandoned place, scrabbling for whatever belongings they could and waiting for the Final Death.
"Once the living no longer bother putting our fotos on the ofrendas, it is only a matter of time before we're forgotten. Usually within a generation," said Gabriela. "Most of us are gone within twenty years of coming down here. Tío Chicharrón somehow managed to hold on for fifty or sixty years, not counting his time when he was properly remembered. But Cousin Héctor… He's been here almost since his death, over ninety years ago. Longer than any of us." She set her shot glass down on the crate, no longer toying with it in her hands. "And when we last saw him… I didn't expect him to make it through the night."
"He almost didn't," Rosita said quietly, staring down at her own glass in her hands.
Glancing at the pair, Gabriela said, "Well, that was foolish of me. I forgot to ask for your names and why Cousin Héctor is at your home in the first place."
"Oh, how silly of me. Where are my manners? My name is Rosita Rivera," she said without hesitation.
Following her tía's example, Victoria said, "And I am her niece, Victoria Rivera. As for why Héctor is staying with us, that's a bit more complicated."
"Almost a century's worth of complicated," Rosita said.
"You see, neither of us ever met the man before Día de Muertos," continued Victoria, still uncomfortable with the topic, "but there's a connection between us and Héctor… He is my grandfather."
The words made Victoria pause thoughtfully. This was the first time she'd said it out loud, that the man was her grandfather. She'd known it since that night when he tumbled off Pepita's back with Miguel and Mamá Imelda. But she never actually said it. Victoria didn't even know what she was supposed to call him. Abuelito? Papá Héctor?
The others were not quite as subtle in their reactions. Gabriela's face split into a bright grin as she reached across the makeshift table, grabbing Victoria and Rosita's hands. Excited cheers and cries rang out, practically echoing across the still water. The skeletons crowded closer, patting on shoulders and arms. Victoria stiffened, not certain how to react to what was happening. It made her feel like her head was nearly spinning. It was too abrupt, overwhelming, and… welcoming.
"Does that mean you're Coco's little girl?" asked Carlos.
"You know about her?" Rosita asked.
Chuckling good-naturedly, Gabriela said, "That boy is many things, but subtle isn't one of them. And we all know why he spends every Día de Muertos at the Marigold Grand Central Station, trying everything possible to cross the bridge and never giving up. At one point or another, we've all heard about his Coco."
"Especially around the Día de Muertos," added Carlos. "A little before that night or after another failure, it's easy to get him talking about his daughter. Because around then, she's the only thing on his mind."
A small smile twitched on Victoria's face. She couldn't help it. After a lifetime believing that he didn't care enough about his family, it was surprising and nice hearing that Héctor kept thinking about his daughter after so long. And that he talked about her enough that everyone knew about Coco.
"Look at that. The pretty señorita is smiling," teased Carlos gently. "Luckily, you don't take after Cousin Héctor's looks. Your grandmother must be as lovely as he always said."
And that made Rosita chuckle and give Victoria a meaningful look, prompting her to roll her eyes. Her tía was probably already imaging the two of them dating. She was such a romantic and tried to set up Victoria a few times when they were both still alive. But very few young men were interested in courting such a serious señorita with a vaguely intimidating grandmother ready with her chancla. And while some people might be willing to sacrifice music for a life with Mamá or Elena, Victoria wasn't enough of a catch to be worth it.
But that never stopped Rosita from trying. The woman might not have any interest in any of the men in Santa Cecilia for herself, but she wanted everyone else to find someone to love. But now she was just getting ridiculous. Only Tía Rosita would think that a músico from Shantytown would be a good idea for a Rivera woman.
Smacking his arm, a young lady in a faded yellow dress scolded, "Don't be like that, Tío Carlos. You'll scare them off before we get to know Cousin Héctor's girls."
"Ow," he complained, not even trying to sound serious about it. "Prima, why are you so cruel to your poor Tío Carlos like that? And do you think that anyone related to Cousin Héctor would run off that easily?"
"Oh, hush," said Gabriela. "Both of you behave yourselves. Stop teasing, Tío Carlos. And don't hit the foolish músico, Prima Verónica. You're going to give these two a bad impression of us."
Quiet apologies were muttered, reminding Victoria so much of Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe when Mamá Imelda had to rein in their inventions a little. Carlos went back to tuning his improvised violin with a smile. This time, the sound produced was smooth and sweet. And beautiful. The sound was beautiful enough that Victoria wanted to hear more and yet she resisted, a lifetime of avoiding music causing guilt for even considering it.
"We came down here because we thought that since Héctor is staying at our house for a while, it might be nice to pick up a few of his things," said Rosita, finally steering the conversation back to their entire reason for coming down here.
"Don't know if you'll find much, but it's a kind thought," said Gabriela. She gestured at one of the clustered skeletons, the movement shifting her dress enough for Victoria to notice that part of her collarbone was taped together. "Primo Juan, you were acting pretty spry this morning. Show your Prima Victoria where Cousin Héctor stays." When she noticed her surprised expression, Gabriela explained, "If you're related to Cousin Héctor, then you're family."
Juan, a creaky skeleton with yellow and orange swirls that went across his forehead, gave her a smile and pulled Victoria back to her feet. Rosita seemed perfectly content to remain with the rest of the inhabitants of Shantytown. Victoria wouldn't be surprised if she planned to interrogate Carlos a bit more to see if her romantic matchmaking ideas had any merit. Or maybe she was just still tired from sitting up all night with Héctor.
Across the plank walkways, Victoria followed her guide past the various ramshackle houses. His gait wobbled as his joints seemed to pop in and out of place. He didn't seem to have any obvious injuries like Héctor did with his arm and leg, but he didn't seem completely stable with his movements either. His bones were just held together by weak and fading memories, leaving them loosely connected.
"So Cousin Héctor is really all right?" he asked quietly after a few moments of walking.
Not wanting to lie, Victoria said, "He isn't all right, but he hasn't experienced the Final Death. He's still with us."
"That's more than any of us expected," he said. "He's been fading a long time. For longer than I've been down here. I didn't think Tía Chelo would go before him." Juan gestured with a wobbly arm. "If he had anything other than the clothes on his back, it'll be in there. But anything he managed to get a hold of was either used in one of his attempts to cross the bridge or used to trade for favors for those attempts."
Victoria stared at the tiny shack for a moment, unable to believe that anyone would have called the place home. A slight shove could probably send it tumbling to the ground in pieces. And rather than a door, there was a blanket draped over the entrance. At first, she couldn't wrap her mind around the idea that Héctor could have been here for decades. Then she realized it wasn't really meant as a home; it was merely a place to sleep whenever he wasn't working on a way to cross the bridge.
She slipped inside and it was somehow more depressing. Other than a worn hammock and a blanket in the middle of unraveling, the only thing inside the small space was crumbled paper. Victoria unfolded a few of them and learned that they seemed to be dozens of half-finished schemes on how to get past security and across the marigold bridge. Some were clever, some were farfetched, and all of them were desperate. All in all, it painted a very different picture of the man than what she grew up with.
Even with a makeshift family in Shantytown, Héctor's thoughts always remained on those that he'd been separated from. Seeing his daughter was all that mattered to him. Mamá Imelda might have refused to let him near, but he wanted to at least see his little girl. Victoria could see the evidence of that all around her. Even if he thought she would never see him again and wouldn't remember her papá, Héctor wanted one final glimpse of Coco before the end.
This lonely and empty shack, filled with the desperate plans of a man with nothing else left, told her more about how much Héctor loved and missed his family than any words ever could.
Staring at the depressing little room a moment longer, Victoria had to admit that Juan was right. There was nothing here that she could spot that would be worth bring back.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" asked Juan as she slipped back out.
Hesitating a moment, Victoria admitted, "Not really. Honestly, I thought he would have a guitar in there."
"He used to play. They say that for decades, he would play a song quietly every night without fail. And if he couldn't play, he would at least sing the words. But that was a long time ago," said Juan. "He's mostly stopped the last several decades. Sometimes, when you get him just drunk enough and catch him in the right emotional state, you can almost coax a song or two out of him. But mostly he's given up. It's about the only thing he's ever given up on. Music was important to him once. We've all noticed that. But I think it just reminds him too much of… I think it hurts him too much now."
They fell into silence for a few moments as they meandered their way back along the plank pathways. But the more solemn mood couldn't last long down here. Victoria was quickly learning that the people in Shantytown refused to dwell on the darkness.
"I hope Tío Carlos didn't bother you too much. He means well," said Juan. "And if you ask him to stop, he'll leave you alone. Promise."
"He wasn't that bad," she said evenly.
A bit of a smile tugging at his mouth, he continued, "Of course, if someone ever was interested in him, Tío Carlos is actually a very nice person. And currently unattached to anyone."
"What? Not planning to ask me for yourself?" said Victoria dryly.
"While you're very lovely, I'm not interested in chasing any señoritas," he said as they drew near the gathered crowd again. "Not even one of Cousin Héctor's girls."
Victoria could hear a warm and infectious sound that seemed to weave around them, making her breath catch in her ribcage. Even as a lifetime of habit ordered her to ignore and block it out, her head turned to follow it back to its source. Somehow the makeshift violin in Carlos' hands produced something beautiful and melodic. Something that left her instinctively swaying slightly on her feet.
She wasn't supposed to listen. This was music and the Rivera family wanted nothing to do with it. But Mamá Imelda sang. She sang that night on stage and it was beautiful and breathtaking. And if Mamá Imelda could sing, then maybe Victoria could let the song wash over her for the moment. Maybe she could listen without a lifetime of guilt over a small act of rebellion.
Clearly unconcerned about the músico performing close by, Rosita had apparently succumbed to her nurturing nature while Victoria was gone. She was currently tugging and rearranging the rags wrapped around Gabriela's feet, the efforts earning a bemused look from Gabriela.
"This really doesn't help you much," said Rosita. "No support, no protection, no warmth…"
"It keeps me from misplacing my metatarsals again," Gabriela said "That's better than nothing."
No. This wouldn't do. Something in Victoria refused to accept this situation. All these friendly and welcoming people just trying to scrape by, waiting for the Final Death while having absolutely nothing and yet willing to share with complete strangers, deserved better. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. But there wasn't anything they could do to change it.
Actually, that wasn't true. She was a Rivera. And she liked practical courses of action, even if they were rather small in the grand scheme of things.
Digging into the pockets of her leather apron, Victoria pulled out a tape measurer, a small notepad, and a pencil. It wouldn't be the most accurate method, but it would give them a starting point.
"Tía Rosita," she said, catching her attention. "Let's get everyone lined up and start taking measurements. We have a lot of work to do."
There was a brief flicker of confusion, but Rosita figured out her intentions quickly. Her face erupted into a bright smile as she started digging into her own leather apron.
"And what are you two señoritas up to now?" asked Carlos, his music not even pausing.
"Taking measurements," Rosita said cheerfully, already working on Gabriela's foot since she already had a hold of it.
Somehow looking even more bemused than before, Gabriela asked, "Oh? And what sort of measurements are you interested in?"
"We want the shoes to fit," said Victoria, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "No Rivera shoemaker would ever put a pair on someone that didn't fit them perfectly. That's almost as much of a disgrace as letting our family run around barefoot for so long." She gave them a stern look, making certain that the increasingly-confused skeletons knew that there would be no arguing the point. "You wouldn't want someone saying that we aren't proper shoemakers. Right, Tía Gabriela?"
"Family comes first," Rosita added. "And family always takes care of each other."
It took a moment, but Gabriela gave Victoria a smile and a nod.
"Gracias, my sweet primas," she said in a voice that only wavered a little. "Though I wouldn't want you to spend too much time working on shoes that may only be worn for a short time…"
"Everyone needs a pair of good and sturdy shoes. Everyone," said Victoria firmly. Then, turning back towards the rest of the inhabitants of Shantytown, she added, "And I was serious when I said we need everyone to line up. Don't you try and make us guess on your sizes. All of you are getting proper Rivera shoes even if we have to yank your leg off to get the measurements."
"Battuto" is a term used specifically when playing a string instrument, like a violin. It indicates to strike the strings with the bow. Obviously it'll produce a different sound than just pulling the bow along the strings like normal.