Guajolote que se sale del corral, termina en mole.

Chapter 1: April 13, 1984

“Wetback? Hey, wetback!” A voice calls out, echoing in the alley, as footsteps draw closer, “You think you can hide from me?”

“No. No. No.” I whisper, crouching behind a large metal dumpster.

The footsteps stop.

“What’s this? You dropped your bag, chicken-shit.”

I wince as I hear him unzip my backpack and throw the contents onto the asphalt.

“You don’t need this.”

Pencils fly, zinging in front of me, clinking on the metal walls of the large bin between us. The sound of tearing paper.

“What did I do to you?” I whisper, hoping that Ron doesn’t hear me.

“Who needs textbooks, right? You sure don’t.” A ripping sound. My textbook hits the dumpster’s edge in front of me, breaking in two. When it lands, I see he has torn out half the pages. “I never even open mine,” he says with a laugh.

“Oh yeah! What is this?!” Ron says with a howl.

“Ron no. Please don’t. Not that, please,” I whisper.

“Holy shit, really… you keep a diary, like a girl.”

No. No. No.

“Let’s see what’s behind door number one,” Ron says.

The sound of pages turning, then tearing. A sheet of paper falls to the ground.

“Oh, my mommy’s sick… I miss her so much… ariba, ariba,” he says, mocking me with a fake Mexican accent.

Another page turns.

My head spins. I press my palms into my eyes.

“Haha, is it cancer? Is she bald? What a baby! ‘I want my mommy.’ Grow a pair, you stupid… scared of the dark too… holy shit, what a wuss!”

As I open my eyes, a shadow moves across the wall in front of me. Wide, wild-black eyes stare back from the dark mass, looking at me, jetting to the alley and then to me, angry. A wide mouth-like gap opens under them, and I hear a distant woman’s scream, then my name echoes through the alley, first from far away then bouncing off the walls, getting louder and louder…

“Diego!” The woman’s voice rings in my ears, pounding in my head, as a shadow extends from the gap, and five fingers form at the end. The black shadow hand extends toward me, grabbing violently at the air in front of me.

My feet push hard, slipping against the ground, as if trying to force my body into the wall behind me, tears, snot running down my face. I press my hand against my mouth to keep from screaming. The shadow’s eyes sink into the mist.

“Please stop!” I shout as I squeeze my eyes shut and throw my hands over my ears.

“Nah, this is too good,” Ron says, tearing out another page, wadding it up and throwing it in my direction. “Ooh, a story. Is this guy supposed to be you? What a fag!”

I bring my hands down and listen for her. Nothing. I open my eyes, and the shadow’s gone. My body shakes uncontrollably as I try to make sense of what I saw.

Another rip. Ron balls this one up and throws it over the dumpster, hitting me in the head.

“‘The gassy bully with his long red hair…’ Is this…me?” He pauses and turns the page. “Oh, man.”

“Diego,” the voice calls again, but from far away.

“No. No. No.”

Another page turns.

“Oh, man…” Ron’s voice serious.

“Diego,” that voice still further away. My teeth chatter.

Another page turns.

“Shithead, do you want to do this to me?” The voice says, then pounds on the dumpster wall. “You think you can write about me and get away with it, you little shit?”

“Please stop.” I say in a whimper.

Footsteps start toward me, my face red with fear, tears streaming down.

From behind the dumpster, a red-faced Ron Grady steps in front of me, my creased journal dangling at the end of a long, farm-honed arm, flexing beneath the sleeves of a Van Halen t-shirt. The wind ruffles his orange blow-dried hair. His face unusually wrinkled like an old man’s, eyes glowing bright red, melting down his face.

“A La Tumba,” his mouth utters in a grizzled old man’s voice.

My arms fly up over my head as he throws my journal at my face, scraping a gash into my forearm. Feels like I’m about to black out.

“What the hell you doing, boy?” An angry man’s voice echoes from behind the dumpster, suddenly shaking me out of my stupor.

“Nothin’, Pa.”

“Get the hell over here.”

“Yes, sir,” Ron says toward the other voice. “You wait right here, wetback. We’re not finished,” he whispers to me.

The footsteps fade down the alley, and a slapping sound cracks.

“I told you to stay put, you lousy no-good piece of shit.”

“Sorry, sir,” Ron says.

My eyes huge, I listen for his voice. Shaking, I look past the dumpster into the alley in their direction. Seeing nothing, I grab my bag, stuff what I can into it, and run across the street, hoping he doesn’t see me.

I run up Commercial Street, wiping my face, and head for the library, putting distance between Ron and I, just in case he slips away from that man, and comes looking for me.

Far away, a voice called my name.

When I reach the library, I hurry through the doors and head upstairs to hide in the fiction section.

I stare out the window, out of breath, scanning for that red face, hoping not to see him coming up the hill. I step back from the window, and into someone, then the sound of books hitting the ground.

“Sorry.” I say, still trying to catch my breath, still keeping a worried eye on the window.

“Cuidado, muchacho.” A pleasant voice startles me, and I turn toward it. An old man dressed in a dark gray suit smiles at me, a few teeth missing from his grin. His eyes, deeply set and dark, are smiling and kind. The hair on his head, sparse and disheveled. Wrinkles on his thin, dark skin flow like water as his smile shifts and grows.

“Me puedes ayudar, por favor?” the old man says, adjusting his tie, pointing at the books on the floor.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak…”

“Oh. You don’t speak Spanish, young man?”

“No…I don’t.” I say, my voice wavering, my eyes darting everywhere.

“Well, you should remedy that,” he says, taking a seat by the window. “Would you be so kind as to help me with these books? I seem to have had an accident.”

I hesitate. His voice somehow calms me.

“You have had some trouble?” He points to his forearm as he motions at my arm with his eyes, and hands me a handkerchief. “Are you all right, young man?”

Slowly nodding my head, a wipe my arm and bend down to help him with his books.

I read the titles as I stack them on a chair: Chronicle of a Death Foretold, A Grief Observed, Heart of Darkness, On a Pale Horse, Macario, A Death in the Family.

“Death in the Family,” I whisper under my breath, and shiver.

The man smiles, pulls out a pocket watch, looks at its face and then nods his head.

“Sorry about that,” I say again as I place the last book on the stack.

He smiles, his eyes scanning the shelves of books around him.

“It looks like I have less time than I thought, son,” he says, putting the watch back into a breast pocket. “Always think I have more time than I do.”

I suddenly remember the face I saw in the alley as the shadow comes back to me, and I turn quickly to look outside.

“Son,” the old man calls to me, and I turn to look at him. “Sit,” he motions for me to sit next to him. He stares at me and gently grabs my arm and looks at the red scrape across it. His hands, ice cold, with a strong but gentle grip. “It hurts, I know, but this one will heal.” He lets go and pats my knee. “Sometimes injuries are so deep, people pass them along to the next generation.”

The confusion on my face makes the old man’s face turn serious.

“Family is complicated. Sometimes things are said, things are done, that leave scars deeper than this,” he shakes my injured forearm, “Sometimes those scars just don’t… cannot go away, so they reach out… reach out to be heard, to be remembered.”

My arm in his hand quakes, and he glances at it, then peers into my eyes.

“Death is seldom expected and often unwelcome.” He says, his eyes squinting, studying me. “Death takes without thought, and without considering who is left behind, because that is not Death’s job,” his voice soothing, but boring into my brain, “Those left behind are left to make right that which was made wrong,” the old man’s head shoots up and he looks around as though something caught his attention elsewhere, “time’s up.”

I look in the direction he was focused on and see nothing.

“It hurts, I know, but in this life you only have a finite number of days to enjoy your memories, your truth, these are yours, truly yours and nothing else can come with you,” he turns his head to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. His touch is so cold.

“The shadow… my mother…” I say, unthinking, regretting my slip.

The old man sighs, looks over his stack of books, then at me.

“You, Diego, have your own story,” he squeezes my shoulder, rises and walks away, waving his hand as he walks. “Susana’s story is at an end,” he says as he turns the corner.

“I never told you my mother’s name,” I say, looking down at the stack of books lying on the bench. “I never told him my name!”

“Hey!” I call out. “Hey, who are you?” I run to the end of the shelf. I run across the aisles. There’s no trace of him. I turn and look down. A book lays in front of me: a Spanish-English dictionary.

Chapter 2: April 13, 1984

It stared at me with its black eyes, beak parted as though mid-caw. Its movements were not like a bird but of a person, watching me with intent, with a purpose. It didn’t squawk or cackle; it just observed.

I’m in a room. The light, unsteady and orange. Four earthen walls meet at the raw ceiling above me. A crypt with no tomb, no place for a body, instead a table, large metal boxes, file cabinets, and words. Words I can’t make out, not English.

The bird sits on a desk. Slowly shuffling its feet, bowing its head as though pointing to something, a photo. I move closer to it, with no stride, no legs to carry me. On the desk is a single photo covered in dirt. The bird lays its beak on the photo, now unmoving as though a feathered statue, pointing to a young woman with dark wavy hair, a sad expression on her face. I have an uncontrollable urge to cry.

She stands in front of me, covered in dirt. Her face looks at me with concern and heavy regret. I am shaken by her gaze. She reaches out her arms; Trembling and yet something inside me wants to leap into her arms as though she is death itself, and in her embrace I would find comfort, delivery. An escape from my troubles. Escape from Ron. Escape from what’s happening to my mother.

Her face loses its form. Like a candle, it melts. Her features fell away, revealing muscle and bone. She looks at her hands, her skin sagging off her fingers. Her eyes meet mine as she shakes her head. The skin on her hands disintegrates, bone reaching out. She’s trying to grab me. The concern, and her eyes, liquefy, slipping down, leaving only a dirty, gray skull. Filthy-wavy hair rising into the air, catching an unfelt wind. Can’t move. Can’t look away. My eyes won’t close. Mouth opens to scream, but nothing. Lungs take in a breath. Stomach pushes to force the sound out, but nothing. I struggle to tear myself away. Nearer and nearer she comes. My heart racing, beating hard, tearing itself out of my body. Her hand gripped at air in front of me. My mouth still working, but still no sound. Its hand wraps around my jaw and tightens. “Go away! Go away! Go away!” I shout in my head. Then she’s gone. Emptiness. Nothing. I’m alone.

“You need not fear,” a deep hollow voice, a man’s voice clothed in shadow, pulsing, turns out of the void and stands in front of me. An old man’s face with pale-gray skin materializes from the living darkness, his eyeballs black like the crow’s, looking through me. Deep rings formed around them, under them, setting his eyes further back than what seemed possible. His gaze is guilt and rest. Images flood my mind. My mother, on a gurney, tubes in her mouth and nose. Ron laughed at me from above, with the taste of blood in my mouth. People stare at me, watch me, point at me as I walk on the sidewalk downtown. Then, each memory disappears in a haze. Everything in me relaxes. The old man studies me.

“Be strong, fear not, for fear only leads to death.” He smiled, his eyes deep black pools, a world of death hiding behind them.

A pounding sound echoes in the darkness.

I stare into his eyes and watch them get swallowed into his head. His skin dries and cracks. Dirty, tangled hair slithers over his forehead. Over his eyes. Over his smile. Two bony hands pull it apart. A brown-toothed grin, each tooth copper, metal. Its jaw drops. Two glowing red eyes stare back at me from inside. A set of bright red teeth sneers below them.

“She waits for you,” they whisper.

I spring up in bed. My eyes darted, trying to focus. My sheet soaked in sweat.

Breathe. Breathe.

A figure stands in a corner of my room. I shake. Tears run down my face.

“Espera!,” a deep voice rasps from the figure.

“Stop!” I scream, pressing my eyes closed tight, my fists to my ears.

Muffled pounding.

“Diego?” I hear far away.

I slowly open my eyes…nothing, it’s gone.

A knock on my door startles me.

“Diego, are you okay?” a familiar voice calls out.

Chapter 3: April 14, 1984  

“Are you all right, Diego?” Richard says, looking into the rear-view mirror at me, as Mrs. Landry turns to me from the passenger seat. Charlie, their six-year-old, sleeps on the floorboard behind her.

“I’m okay.” I turn away from Mrs. Landry’s gaze. “My mom isn’t getting better.”

“Man, I’m so sorry, Diego,” Richard says.

Richard Landry is a friendly man with a modest smile, for “Folks deserving of my hospitality,” he once told me with a Louisiana drawl. Once you get into his circle of trust, his warmth, his strength, is earnestly given. A thin man, with a sadness around his eyes, and a fierce protective nature, always in one of his many brown velour, short-sleeve, button-up shirts and maroon corduroy pants, “my signature color, son,” he once said to me.

I raise my hand and run it through my hair.

“What’s that on your arm?” Richard says, his eyes wide in the rearview mirror.

I lower my arm, placing my hand over the bruise.

“I fell.”

“Arm? Diego?” Mrs. Landry says, worry on her brow.

“I fell yesterday; it’s fine,” I say, rubbing it to block the bruise from her vision.

Mrs. Landry reaches over her seat and grabs my arm, pulling it up and away from my grip.

“Oh Lord! What is this?”

“Nothing. Just a little bruise. I fell yesterday on my way to the library.”

Richard narrows his eyes in the mirror.

“Did you ice it? Boy, this looks awful!” Mrs. Landry says.

“No, it’s fine, doesn’t hurt at all.”

“We’re here for you, you know that, right?” Richard says.

“I know.” I pause, hesitating, looking away from Richard’s eyes staring back from the mirror.

Mrs. Landry lets go of my arm and screws up her face, her eyes trying to force me to tell her what happened.

“Really. I’m good.”

“M-hm,” Mrs. Landry says, her eyes boring into me, expecting an answer.

I nod my head as I glance at Richard, still measuring me up in the mirror.

“Have the doctor check that.” Mrs. Landry says.

“I will.”

Mrs Landry sits back in her seat and puts her hand on Richard’s leg. Richard drops his hand from the steering wheel and places it on hers.

“You know, Diego, my mother’s been really sick for a while too,” Mrs. Landry says, as Richard squeezes her hand. “I feel horrible about telling you this, but I… we need to go back and take care of her.”

“I understand.” I look out my window and sigh.

“If we could, we would take you with us, but we don’t have the legal power to do it, or the money to fight for it, if… If your momma dies, Diego.”

If mom dies. The thought rings in my mind. If mom dies.

“How soon do you plan on leaving?” I ask.

“Not sure.” Richard replies. “We legally have one more month to take care of you, then your social worker says she will have to take and put you into foster care. This is all so shitty.”

“Richard! Language,” Mrs. Landry says.

“Well, it is.” Richard says.

“It is.” I say under my breath.

“I don’t mean to pry, Diego, but what happened with your meeting with the social worker?” Mrs. Landry asks.

“She told me what will happen after the power of attorney expires, that I will have to ‘go to a home, and wait for the outcome of your mother’s condition.’” I say in a mocking tone.

“She said that… like that?” Richard says, looking at me through the rearview mirror, and I nod. “Shit.” He shakes his head, and Mrs. Landry lightly slaps him on the shoulder.

After a long silence, Mrs. Landry bends to look at her son.

“I’m so sorry, Diego,” Mrs. Landry says, placing her hand on my knee. “In a few years, you can come to Louisiana and live with us. You always have a home with us, you know that.”

“I know.” I say as my eyes well up.

Mrs. Landry gently squeezes my knee and turns around in her seat. I see her raise her hand to her face, and Richard reaches out and puts his hand on her cheek.

Chapter 4: April 14, 1984

“I’m sorry, son,” the doctor says as he tightens his grip on my shoulder. Richard’s strong hand clamps around my arm, Mrs. Landry walks out of the room with a sleeping Charlie in her arms. “She is comfortable, I promise, but the inevitable is coming, son. Nothing more we can do for her but wait.”

I am empty; I am nothing.

He paused and cleared his throat.

“As a doctor, I usually love my work, but not this part, not today. This is never easy…,” he says, clearing his throat. “She will not regain consciousness before… before her passing. The brain swelling is just too much, and we just can’t get it under control. Her system is failing quickly.”

I am empty. I am nothing.

“As a father of two boys, I hurt for you, Diego,” the doctor said, and he sat me in a chair in the hallway, then sat next to me. “No one can say what she hears, what she understands. Let her know you will fight on, that you will not give up. Give her that, give her your assurance that, no matter what, you will carry her memory with you for the rest of your long life, that you will share her story with your kids, your grandkids.”

I am empty… nothing.

“I, I will.” I say, not grasping the severity of his suggestion.

“Your social worker is downstairs and would like to speak to you when you have a moment, Diego. They need to make sure you are taken care of after… you know,” the doctor says, squeezes my shoulder, and walks away.

I nod.

As I walked toward my mother’s room, the Landrys stepped away. Richard says he needed to get a snack for Charlie and walked toward the elevator. They always have snacks in Mrs. Landry’s purse, but I say nothing. I need to speak to Mom alone.

As I walk into the room, a nurse removes the thin hospital blankets and another checks Mom’s vitals on the machines.

“Mom?” I call to her.

My mother is lying in a hospital bed, her open eyes set deep into her face. Dark rings under her eyes age her far past her true age. The hair on her head is thinning. Her skin is pale and looks paper thin, a network of blue veins protrudes from her arms and legs. Her mouth, the lightest pink.

“Mom?”

My mother was always optimistic about our lives, about her dreams, about my future. She would always say, “Get good grades, go to college and get a good job.” Her expectation was that, right out of college, I would magically have my career all lined up. All her dreams would come true for me: president of a company, a big house, a beautiful, caring wife, the six kids she always wanted but never had.

“Son, what do you want in life?” she once asked me while we were reading in the living room together.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“It’s not something I think about.”

“You must want something. How about becoming a doctor?”

“I’ve told you I’m not too good around blood, Mom. How can I be a doctor when blood makes me queasy?” I replied with a serious expression on my face.

“You had a bloody nose last week, and you handled that just fine.”

“Mom, that was my blood. I can’t stand other people’s blood.”

She looked me up and down. “Maybe all good doctors have to learn to be around other people’s blood, Diego.”

“Drop it, Mom. Even if blood wasn’t a problem, we can’t afford what... eight years of schooling, not to mention getting into a good school for the doctorate.” I said with a serious face, but with a soft smile to let my mother down easily. Even if we had the money. Even if I had a full scholarship, I wouldn’t want to waste money trying to find out what I want to do with my life.

Why can’t I just know what I want to do with my life? Just an idea so that I can reassure my mom. Let her know that I have a plan… that I will be okay? I feel like I’m letting her down, and now that she...

Breathe. Breathe.1, 2, 3…

We had our entire lives ahead of us. She would see me walk at graduation, meet my first girlfriend and embarrass me by telling her all the silly things I did growing up. She would cry at my wedding, be there for her grandchildren, be there for it all. Now… I’m empty. I am nothing. She is dying. She will die.

“Son, we need to have a serious conversation.” My mother once said as she sat at the dining room table. Her hand reached out, asking me to sit. “I want to talk to you about something important. I hope that this is still a long way from now,” she looked into my eyes, “but in less than two years you will be out of school. You will begin your own life, without me, and you and I need to be clear with what my wishes are in case... in case something happens to me.” Her face serious.

“What do you mean?”

“Diego, you need to know what I want done if I were to die.”

“Mom, do we need to talk about this now?”

“Yes... yes, we should. No one knows when something bad will happen. It would be good for you to be prepared with… with what I want.”

I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t want to imagine her dead. Who wants to think of their mother dead?

“Don’t bury me. Don’t put me in a coffin, don’t put me in the ground.”

“Mom, I don’t think we need…”

“Diego, listen. I want to be… burned. What do you call it?”

“Cremated?”

“Yes, cremated. I want you to cremate me. I don’t want a resting place. When we die, that body is no longer us; it’s just a container. I don’t want to be someplace where you have to come visit me. It won’t be me. Do you understand?”

“I... I.” What does one say to this?

My mother gently grabbed my chin and looked at me, trying to see if what she said stuck. As though she could see it by looking in my eyes.

“Remember my wishes, whatever happens. You don’t need to visit me; I will not be there anymore.”

Still holding my chin, her other hand points between my eyes.

“I will be here,” she points to my chest, “and here. I will be with you wherever you go, my beautiful boy. Do you understand?”

What can I say? What can I do? I nodded yes.

I can’t handle this right now.

The nurses place fresh linens on my mother, and then one opens the curtains. A ray of sunlight falls on my mother’s forearm, reflecting brightly on her skin, making it seem paler than it was before. The tubes in her mouth whooshed, and the instruments in her room beeped. They tuck in the blankets below the mattress and look over to me with a sympathetic smile. I nod back.

“Mom, I love you.”