1933, San Diego
The room did not exist until, in an instant, it returned into view like the burst of a bubble. The light and color of the world rushed upon her, Abigaíl didn’t realize she had fallen into the parlor chair.
Her mother sat calmly across from her, with a look of sadness that was certainly not
meant, her eyes tinged in a glow of triumph. She would say that this was
what was expected of a shiftless musician. She would say that they shouldn't have gone down to Mexico, seeking unsubstantiated fortune. She
would say Martín's name as if she were spitting a rich illness from her throat. Her mother's lips moved like pantomime, as if a moving picture reel had been slowed. She had seen such a thing at the cinema house on the main street. The projectionist was embarrassed at the mistake, but it lit the theatre with laughter.
Her brother, Earnesto, so much younger, sat bored in another chair,
staring out the windows that lined the ceiling.
Where the angle of the ceiling sloped toward the front of the house, her
father felt that stain glass was perfect there.
The only problem in the design is that the colored light was never
struck by the sun. It never floated its
way across the room the way he expected.
Earnesto should have had the stereographs in his hand, but he was probably told not to. He did not understand death. Nor should he yet.
Earnesto should have had the stereographs in his hand, but he was probably told not to. He did not understand death. Nor should he yet.
Rosa was crying and shaking in her chair, Abigaíl knew it
would take weeks for her to regain her composure. It was not as if Martín was her fiancée. Abigaíl now knew Rosa had thought much more
about them then she realized. Seeing the
poor maid and the terrible face she made: it struck her heart. There will be physical pain with Martín’s
passing. Abuelo Cassius was missing from the scene.
Abigaíl could not moved, the telegram in her hand. What of his mother? Does Lucia know?
Abigaíl could not moved, the telegram in her hand. What of his mother? Does Lucia know?
Her mother put a hand on hers. It was cold. Abigaíl did not blink in her gaze, "He is not
dead.” Her mother leaned back in her chair, an amused glow on her face.
“What?” She almost
wanted to laugh and Abigaíl caught it and would hate her for it.
“Was there a body? I
won’t believe it until I see a body.”
“Dear…the telegram comes from the Mayor’s Office of San
Simeon. They sent his affects to his
mother.”
“You spoke with her?”
“Yes.”
“What affects?”
Her mother shivered.
She shivered in a way that showed she, at least, felt for a maternal spirit. “His papers. In fact, all the papers of all the men came back here. They followed the telegram. Lucia also spoke, brokenly, about
a story in the newspapers down there.” Her
mother made a sound on the verge of a chortle, “You know it was the first time
her and I ever spoke.” Her mother let
that go, continuing to pace the room. She
cut the shaft of lighted dust, cast by the large bay window, of the setting sun, across her waist.
“Your father called some of his people.
The story from the papers is that one cartel fought another. The mariachi were playing and were killed
along with them. It is a sensation and a
scandal. Those men are American. I don’t think the cartel realized that.”
“What good is it now?”
“There will be an official inquest. The federal government will get involved.” Her mother sat back down.
The dying light of day reflect warm colors on her permanent. She smiled in a way that Abigaíl had not seen
since she was a child. Her hands fell up
on hers again. “I’m so sorry, Abigaíl. I truly am.”
It almost sounded as if she meant it. “Where is abuelo?”
“He didn’t…”
“I don’t want to see him ever again.”
“Abigaíl.”
“He hated Martín. He
told him he wanted him to die.
There: he is dead!”
…
