Burying Ben (15 page)

Later that evening, I concoct a plan that h
a
s
an
appealing
econo
m
y of
e
ff
i
ciency.
I’m going to invite Frank to the Viva Mexico Festival.
W
ith any luck, I
’
ll run into Ben
’
s grandparents. It will be a chance to extend
m
yself to the
m
without putting any of us on the spot.
I decide not to tell
Gary because he
’
s made it cle
a
r that he thinks it’s the wrong thing to do. But
m
y gut tells
m
e, even if I can
’
t explain it logically to him
or to anyone else, that it’s the
right
wrong thing.

Chapter Se
v
enteen

So far, so good, as far as first dates are concerned. Frank is handso
m
e.

Not like Mark who always looked like he stepped out of GQ, but shaggy with a full beard flecked with gray and short
w
hite hair that curls at his neck. I like how he
’
s dress
e
d – jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, a leather vest, boots and a cowboy hat. He fits right in with the festival crowd, except that he
’
s a head taller than
m
o
s
t and has very blue eyes. Our conversation on the ride over is easy, nothing
personal and no probing.

By the ti
m
e we reach Little
M
exico, fi
r
ecrackers and rockets are shatteri
n
g the late afternoon air, spooking dogs into a chorus of frightened yelps.
W
e begin at the church. The interior is glowing with light from
hundreds of flickering votive candles.
Mila
g
ros
, tiny pieces of
m
etal shaped li
k
e body parts,
g
li
n
t in the can
d
lelight, a shim
m
ering iconography of affliction. The air is heavy with incense. A stream
of people moves noiselessly forward, fanning out to pews on the right and the l
e
ft. Every third or fourth person drops to their knees and inches d
o
wn the cent
e
r ai
s
l
e toward the altar.

Outside, a procession of people is snaking slowly around the square following a horse drawn cart.
A phalanx of altar boys carry a statue of the Virgin Mary on a s
m
all flower-draped platfor
m
. People are throwing roses into the
st
reet.

“That
’
s
so the Vir
g
in doesn’t have to walk on the hard pave
m
ent,” Frank explains while rolling his eyes at
m
e and laughing.

A pale yellow sun lights
the dusty air. Rockets are
exploding, and a brass band is playing
m
usic that sounds
m
ore Ge
r
m
an
than Mexican. Frank buys two glasses of tequila, speaking Spanish to the bartender. Its
grassy flavor is strong and bitter. A small group of
m
e
n gather around an open fire, poking at a huge copper pan with long wooden paddles. Inside the pan a whole pig,
snout up, sizzles in its o
w
n fat.

Frank clinks my glass and says, “To Mexico. My Mexican friends invite
m
e to the festival every year. I’d have been here even if you hadn
’
t called, only I’d have drunk a lot more tequila and wouldn’t be having such a good ti
m
e
.
”

W
e
finish our drinks and he puts his hands on
m
y
shoulders and propels
m
e t
h
rough the crush of
m
erry
m
akers towards a wo
m
an selling fried sticks of dough sprinkled with powdered sugar. I
’
m
feeling light headed from the tequila.

“I take it you’ve never been here bef
o
re.” He has to bend over to
m
ake hi
m
self heard.

“So
m
e people I know are getting an award today. I don’t know exactly
w
here or when.”

There is a burst of
m
usic from a rov
i
ng group of
m
ariachis
dr
e
ssed in big hats and black s
u
its
r
esplende
n
t with
braid and
m
etal decorations.

“This way,” Frank says.

We pass a large circle of teenagers.
The boys are walking arm in arm
in one direction, the girls, arm
in ar
m
, in the opposite.

“That’s the
peregrinacion
,” he says. “Just like in Mexico.
W
h
en a boy sees a girl he likes, he
thr
o
ws confetti at her or squirts her with liquid goo. If she likes him back, she lets him
wa
l
k with her.”

There is a loud squeal followed by giggles as a spray of
white finds its
m
ark on a girl in a purple dress. I want to tell her that the business of picking a
m
ate is a lot more co
m
plicated.

The sky is growing dark. In front of us
a f
a
m
ily of four is grilling corn on a charcoal st
o
ve, then
s
t
ripping the kernels into plastic cups.
T
hey greet Frank by na
m
e
and shove two cups of corn into his hands.

“Their son works for
m
e. Wonderful people. Here, have a taste
.
” He feeds
m
e from
a
c
up of corn with li
m
ejuice. “Now, try this one.” He tips a spoon full of corn with cream
to my
m
outh. Our quick and easy inti
m
acy astonishes
m
e. A volley of popping explosions racks t
h
e air. The crowd around us shrieks.

“
Pirotecnica
,” Frank shouts, pointing to a whirling pinwheel on top of a wooden tower.
“
W
e can’t miss this. It’s the best part. Takes a
m
i
nute.”

He grabs
m
y hand and pulls
m
e toward an open field. Fireworks explode in all directions cascading sparks on the square. One explosion trig
g
ers two
m
ore that t
r
igger
f
our
m
ore until dozens of
pinwheels a
r
e spinning wildly, spraying the crowd with whooshing ribbons of flickering colored e
m
bers. Children run screa
m
ing and laughing
as a wooden bull bursts into streaking sparklers t
h
at chase them across the field. O
n
e final ignition and an i
m
age of the Virgin of Guadalupe spins ab
o
ut in t
h
e fla
m
e
s
, her halo bedazzled
with glittering phosphorescent fizz. R
o
und and ro
u
nd she spin
s
, illu
m
i
nati
n
g the nig
h
t with her
o
t
h
erworldli
n
ess, shim
m
ering and blin
k
ing
until s
h
e
f
ades into
d
a
r
kness.

Frank bends down and kisses
m
e on the cheek. “That’s
m
y f
a
vorite part. Gets
m
e every ti
m
e.” He strikes his fist over his heart.
His eyes are
m
o
i
st. “Jesus, I hope I haven
’
t
m
ade you miss your friends.”

“That
’
s okay. They don
’
t know I’m co
m
i
ng.”

“Are you sure
?
” I nod, surprised at h
o
w sure I feel.

“Good. Do you like to dance
?
”

I nod again. He takes
m
y a
r
m and guides
m
e through the s
m
oky air toward the bandstand.

The Go
m
ezes and five
s
m
all children are sit
t
ing at a picnic table in front of the bandstand. Balloons are tied to the slats on the
b
enches, bo
b
bing in t
h
e
b
reeze. The chil
d
ren are so absorbed in eating ca
k
e they take no notice of the
m
usicians unpacking their in
s
tr
u
m
ents. A marble figurine of a child holding han
d
s with two adults
s
its
o
n a pedestal in the center of the table.

Mrs. Go
m
ez is wearing the sa
m
e dress she had worn to Ben
’
s funeral. Her glossy black
hair is twisted into a casca
d
e of corkscrew curls as though she was going to a pro
m
. Tiny diamond crosses dangle from
her ears. She sees
m
e as soon as I c
o
m
e around the corner a
n
d freezes. Only her e
y
es move, tracking
m
e as I walk past their table.

“Stop, please,” she calls to
m
e. “I know
you. You were at
m
y grandson
’
s funeral. You were sitting with the police chie
f
.”

The chi
l
dren stare at
m
e, for
k
s in the air, frosting beards t
h
eir chins.

“Are you a police officer
?
”

“No,”

“
W
hat are you?”

“I’m
Dr. Dot
Meyerhoff, the department psychologist.”

Her
e
y
ebrows lift.
She throws her legs over the picnic bench and scra
m
bles to her feet. There is a run in her stocking. She
m
oves around the table and stands
so close to
m
e that I can s
m
ell perfu
m
e in her hair. She is barely an inch taller than I a
m
.

“I am
Lupe Go
m
ez. That is
m
y hu
s
band, Ra
m
on.
W
e are Benja
m
in Go
m
e
z’ grandparents.” She pronounces his na
m
e Ben-ha-
m
een.

Mr. Go
m
ez slaps t
h
e ta
b
le with the flat
of his hand. The noise of it, the sudden violence, s
h
akes the children from
their seats,
and like a flock of startled birds, they fly to his side, cr
ow
ding hi
m
, patting him
on his face and back.