I don't know if I say it enough, but I appreciate all the feedback and comments that my loyal readers leave me for this story. It is absolutely heartwarming to know that people truly enjoy what I'm writing. Now let's continue onwards with this story.
Ever since his first visit to the workshop, a rather embarrassing trip in hindsight, Héctor found himself down there more often. Every morning, the twins or Rosita would show up to help him down the stairs and across the courtyard. Once inside, Héctor would park himself on his stool and watch the family at work.
He liked it, spending time with all of them. From his central vantage point, he could see everything. He watched every step of the shoe-making process carefully, listening to their chatter and the rhythmic work. Occasionally the customers who came in would notice him, staring at his still-discolored bones and sometimes whispering, but he was normally tucked away enough to avoid attention. Héctor mostly appreciated spending time outside of that room and among other people.
But it was more than that. The entire Rivera family fit so harmoniously together as they worked on the shoe orders. Like puzzle pieces slotting together. They even had a bit of a motto about how well their skills fit together.
A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.
Héctor occasionally stared at their interactions with awe and longing. He'd wanted to be with them for decades, to belong and to be part of the family again. He wanted to fit together with them.
He knew it would take work though. They had decades together and in many ways, he was the newcomer. An outsider. He barely counted as a Rivera.
After all, a Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.
He wanted to belong with his family and he knew that there was only a limited window of opportunity before this fragile arrangement shattered like glass. Nothing good ever lasted. He always ruined it. But this time, he would find a way to hold on. He would do whatever he could to make it work.
He waited, watching how they worked. Every small act was carefully observed. He asked subtle questions. Héctor kept collecting the thin threads of information.
And eventually, opportunity struck. Imelda left early one afternoon to run a few errands for the business. She would see right through him if he tried anything, so that was essential. And when the end of the work day rolled around and everyone started preparing to retire to the house to prepare for dinner, Héctor stayed behind with the excuse that he wanted to rest a little before heading inside. He was doing better but his energy levels still varied enough for them to believe it.
But that… that was a lie. And he would apologize for that later.
Taking a few discarded scraps of leather, Héctor knew he wouldn't be able to make an actual shoe yet. But he could try out the different techniques. He could experiment and figure this out. He'd watched the others work and he could do some basic repairs to clothes. How hard could it be?
Apparently very hard.
Héctor scowled at the tangled and uneven thing in his hands. He couldn't figure out what he was doing wrong. He was doing what he'd seen the various family members doing. He didn't expect perfection, but it should have been better than what he was producing.
It should have been better. He needed to be better.
A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.
How long could he depend on pity to let him stay? How long until everything began to unravel and he lost it all again? He needed to find a way so he could stay. He needed a way to make certain they would still want him.
He couldn't lose all of them. He couldn't go back to having Imelda hate him. He needed to keep at least a little acceptance.
Héctor would be fine even if it was only tiny fragments of contact, even if it would hurt initially to go back after spending so much time with everyone. He would accept it. But he couldn't go back to nothing.
A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.
He needed to figure this out. He needed to make this work. He needed to fit in with them and belong, which meant getting these two pieces of leather together in a way that actually worked. Everyone in the family made shoes and if he couldn't even do what appeared to be pretty basic, then how long would they put up with him? He needed to learn.
A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.
He was healing. His energy was returning. He could walk most of the way from the upstairs bedroom to the workshop only using his cane by now, the twins or Rosita mostly there just in case. The pity and feeling of obligation wouldn't be enough to let him stay much longer. He needed to give them a reason to let him stay.
Good things didn't last. Anything good in his existence would always fade, would be snatched away, or would end up ruined. And it was usually his fault.
Or apparently Ernesto's.
Héctor wouldn't let this chance slip through his fingers. He was going to work hard.
A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.
He wouldn't lose this. He couldn't. He needed this to work. It would work. It would. It would.
Needle slipping off the thick leather completely, the sharp point jammed unexpectedly between the two bones of his phalange. And even without flesh, the rough scratch against calcium sent pain jolting through his finger. Yelping in pain, Héctor dropped the entire mess on the counter and waved the injured hand in the air.
Then, as the sharp pain quickly faded, Héctor glared down at the tangled leather disaster and couldn't see anything worth salvaging. Dumb, dumb, dumb—
"Gah!" he yelled in frustration, grabbing the disaster and throwing it against the far wall. "Why isn't this working?"
"Because working with leather is different than working with cloth."
Héctor jolted in surprise, his head nearly spinning completely around on his vertebrae and probably would have a few months ago. Standing behind him with her arms politely folded, Victoria stared at him through her glasses. His shoulders hunched up as it began to sink in what she'd witnessed.
"Lo siento," he said, his eyes dropping.
"Don't be," said Victoria, stepping a little closer. "I was beginning to think you didn't have any temper. Every time that one of us talks to you, you act like we'll knock your skull off if you say the wrong thing. Let alone show a single negative emotion. You've practically been walking on eggshells. But I knew that Mamá Imelda wouldn't have married someone without a spine."
Chuckling uneasily, Héctor said, "Well, you've seen me without a shirt, so you know I have a spine."
Victoria continued to stare at him with an unimpressed expression. After a moment, she walked over and sat down on the edge of the workstation.
"You know that you are allowed to be angry sometimes, right?"
"I'm fine," he said. "I'm just… a little frustrated."
"As I gathered from you throwing around leather scraps a moment ago," said Victoria dryly. "But you are allowed to be angry. None of us would blame you for it."
Gesturing at his surroundings, Héctor said, "I get to know all of you. I got to meet Miguel. Imelda doesn't seem to hate me completely. I'm not being forgotten anymore. Why should I be angry?"
"Because your best friend murdered you," she said bluntly, the unexpected response knocking the wind out of him. "Someone that you trusted betrayed you and you have only recently learned about it. Ernesto de la Cruz murdered you because you tried to go home to your family. You didn't get to see your daughter grow up. I didn't get to have you as an abuelo in life. He took you away from everyone who loved you or could have loved you someday because he was selfish. It was cruel and unfair. It hurt everyone for generations. He murdered you, allowed your family to believe that you abandoned them, and it is perfectly understandable for you to be upset about it. And with everything that's happened since Día de Muertos, I don't think you've had the time to deal with how you feel about all of that."
With each calm and even word from Victoria, carefully laying out every thought that he'd been trying to avoid, Héctor felt himself being dragged back to that night in Ernesto's mansion. That night when he realized that everything that he assumed to be bad luck and poor choices were actually the result of malicious forethought. The result of a betrayal. And as he remembered that moment of horrified realization, Héctor's breathing began to speed up and his hands began to subconsciously curl into fists.
"It wasn't fair," he said quietly, his eyes locked on the floor. "He was my best friend. We were practically brothers."
"And you're allowed to be angry about it. If you want to vent or yell, now would be the time. We're alone and I won't judge you."
He shouldn't. He should just calm down and head into the house with Victoria. It wouldn't do him any good. It wasn't like he could change what happened.
But when he opened his mouth to make the suggestion, different words started spilling out.
"He was my best friend. We grew up together. And he poisoned me? Ernesto poisoned me and stole my songs. Coco's song. And he didn't tell Imelda anything. He could have told them I was dead. He could have done that much. But he didn't." His fists shook slightly as he spoke, his voice tense and strained. "How could he? How could he do that to me? After everything that we went through together, how could Ernesto do that? How could he turn against me so easily? Did our friendship mean nothing?"
Héctor shook slightly, his breathing fast and ragged. He wasn't shouting, but there was a sharp edge. The poison was long since gone, but part of him could still feel the burning hurt.
"I just wanted to go home. I never should have left and I've paid for that mistake every single day since. But why? Why did he have to kill me? He didn't need me or my songs. I know he could have been successful. And if he asked, I would have given him songs. I would have written a hundred songs for him if I could have stayed with my family. He just needed to ask. He didn't have to… to kill me. Or try to kill Miguel. Or any of those things. Ernesto didn't have to do any of it. It wasn't fair. He took everything from me. It wasn't fair."
How long had it been since he admitted the unfairness of it all? Decades? Not since those early days of death, when he still struggled to accept what happened and that his wife and daughter were completely out of his reach.
"It wasn't fair. Ernesto killed me and then I spent my entire afterlife trying to see my family. I just wanted to see my wife and daughter. I just wanted to cross that dumb bridge and go home. But it never worked. It never…"
Both hands reached up to grab his head roughly, dragging his hat down his face before he just tossed it to the floor in frustration. Almost a century's worth of frustration.
"And what did I do? What did I do to make her think— to make her think that I would abandon my girls? What did I say or do to make my wife not trust me? To make her think that I didn't love them? What did I do…?"
He trailed off, eyes widening. He shouldn't have said that. He shouldn't have said any of it.
"Lo siento," he said, his voice a horrified whisper. "I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did," said Victoria. "You're allowed to be angry at Ernesto. You're allowed to be upset about what happened. You're even allowed to be hurt by what Mamá Imelda did. I love and respect her, but Mamá Imelda isn't perfect. We won't blame you for being angry, upset, or hurt for very good reasons."
He didn't say a word, his head bowed. He couldn't look at her. Not after what just came tumbling out of his mouth. He shouldn't have said that. He messed up. He left Imelda and Coco alone. He didn't have any right to be upset. It was his mistake.
Victoria quietly stood back up and reached down to retrieve his hat from the floor. She handed it back to him, acting like he didn't throw it like a toddler having a tantrum. Or like he didn't say any of those things about Imelda that he shouldn't have.
"You don't have to make shoes to be part of this family. Franco didn't know how to make shoes when he met Elena," continued Victoria calmly. "His first few attempts were bad enough that I honestly thought that he would never learn. And if he didn't, we would have managed somehow because he loved Elena. But we taught him and he got better." Placing a hand on his shoulder, she said, "You don't have to make shoes. But if you want to learn, we would be happy to teach you. You need only ask, Papá Héctor."
He stiffened, unable to breathe for a moment as her words sank in. Papá Héctor. She called him "Papá Héctor."
When he heard it from Miguel, dawn nearly upon them and his strength slipping away, he couldn't appreciate the term of affection properly. But the words from the boy still managed to warm part of him even then. And hearing it from Victoria now, and knowing what it meant for her to call him that after a lifetime of hating him…
Héctor smiled at her.
"I think I would like that… Míja."
It was a rather atypical family meeting.
Rosa and Abel had taken charge of the twins at their parents' suggestion. They took their younger brothers down to the plaza as a distraction, sibling responsibility winning out over their immense curiosity.
Miguel, on the other hand, couldn't be dissuaded and Coco asked for him to stay. She knew that he deserved to be there after everything. He'd done so much. Only she knew how much.
He and Coco were positioned under the tree in the courtyard. The rest of the Rivera adults were spread out a bit more, listening carefully to the man with his notepad and a recorder. They'd welcomed the man in, the librarian having directed him to the right home just in case he'd forgotten the way since he moved.
Though Coco wished that her daughter would stop being so hostile to the man.
"Are you accusing us of faking my mamá's collection of letters?"
"No, Doña," said Martín. He was sitting on the old covered well, pencil in hand. "I believe you and your family. My prima wouldn't have contacted me if she didn't believe your story was true. And there will be others who believe your words. But when this story breaks there will be those who will try to discredit you. They won't want to accept the truth. Especially those who might lose money with the destruction of Ernesto de la Cruz's legacy. Authenticating the age of those letters is merely a way of getting ahead of their possible arguments. Having proof they aren't forgeries will prevent later problems."
"If it keeps people from calling our family liars, surely it isn't that great of an inconvenience," Franco said.
Crossing her arms stubbornly, Elena said, "Fine. It'll save me some trouble of knocking sense into all of them."
"I wish we could stay out of this completely," said Gloria.
"I know. And I am trying to keep you away from the spotlight as much as possible," said Martín. "But I need to make certain that I have all the sources properly cited and proven as reliable. That means authenticating the letters. And it would make the story stronger if I can get at least a small quote from the family. Nothing major and certainly not the focus of the piece, but it would look more suspicious if I didn't contact you. It might give the impression that there is something to hide."
Raising a hand, Miguel said, "I could talk to you."
Shouts of protest rose up from around the courtyard. Coco watched her daughter, her son-in-law, and her grandchildren descend on the boy and inform him in no uncertain terms that Miguel would not be allowed to put himself in the line of fire like that. Honestly, Coco had to agree. She knew that Ernesto de la Cruz's fans would try to defend the man's name and she didn't want Miguel to earn their ire.
"I know that you want to help, Míjo," said Enrique. "But I really don't think that having you give a quote to the magazine or newspaper or whoever will be publishing this would be a good idea. You've done enough. You're the one who brought us to this point."
"I'll talk to him," Coco said.
Her words abruptly silenced everyone. Her entire family stared at her. Elena even stepped over and patted her hand gently.
"Mamá," she said softly.
"Señor Campos," continued Coco. "Would the story of Ernesto de la Cruz and Papá be better if you spoke to someone who knew them in life?"
He nodded slowly and said, "Sí. And there are not many people left who could give a first-hand account."
"Mamá Coco, are you certain that's a good idea?" Berto asked. "It sounds a little stressful."
"And you were just a little girl back then and your memory isn't always the best anymore," said Elena.
Coco smiled and patted Elena's hand reassuringly. Her family wanted to take care of her and she certainly understood their concerns. But she knew what she was doing. She was the only one who could do this.
Besides, if those Ernesto de la Cruz fans got upset, what was the worst they could do to an old woman like her? She would be out of their reach soon enough.
"I want to do this, Míja. I need to do this," said Coco firmly. "I will talk to Señor Martín Pérez-López Campos. I give him a proper interview for his article. I will tell him the story of Papá, Mamá, and the rest of my family."
"If you're willing to do this, Señora Rivera," Martín said slowly, "I think the article will be all the stronger for it. A first-hand account and these other primary sources will make a compelling argument and your recollection will provide an emotional anchor at the center of the story. It'll help win the hearts and minds of the readers."
Nodding, Coco said, "And then the people will know and remember the truth. They'll remember Papá as a great musician, a wonderful papá and husband, and a good man."
Staring at Coco for a few moments, Elena's wary expression slowly relaxed. She eventually gave a small smile.
"If this is what you want, then so be it. We'll support you, Mamá." She gave a sharp look at Martín. "But if you upset her with this interview, the two of us will have words, Señor."
"Mamá," said Enrique.
"What? I said 'words.' Only words, Míjo."
"Has the jury reached a verdict?"
"We have, Your Honor. For the crimes of Assault on a Minor, Assault on the Living, Attempted Murder of the Living, and Murder in Life Without Conviction, we find the defendant, Señor Ernesto de la Cruz, guilty on all charges. We would also recommend that the severity of these crimes and the defendant's continued contempt in court should warrant the maximum sentence possible for his crimes."
"This is an outrage! How dare you? Do you know who I am?"
"Silence, Señor de la Cruz. I will have order in my court. You have not made it difficult to reach a decision on your sentencing during these proceedings. I sentence you to pay restitution for your crimes in the form of all your property, personal belongings, and all ofrenda offerings both past and future, which will be distributed as a form of charity at the request of the Rivera family. Furthermore, you are also sentenced to four centuries imprisonment, with parole possible in two hundred fifty years."
The term "bellicoso" means "warlike" or "aggressive." And this chapter has our sweet Héctor finally express some of his frustration and anger with everything that happened to him. He finally gets to vent a little. So while it isn't quite warlike or aggressive, Héctor at least admits that he's upset.