The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (28)

Silvery spiderwebs glistened, entire arachnid cities stretching along the banister, up the stairs, and across the ceiling. Marimar ran the broom along those surfaces, and the spiders crawled out in quick succession. She shivered when she thought she heard them speak. But then she realized she was hearing loud chatter and laughter that came from the kitchen.

Rey returned then, with two glasses in hand. “I brought two just in case you decided to give my things away again.”

Marimar traded her broom for his cocktail. When she sipped the rum, the air carried with it the smell of burned sugar. It was strong and sweet on her tongue. “What did Orquídea want with Tatinelly?”

“I’d never eavesdrop.”

She hummed her incredulity and took another sip. “Sure.”

“I truly stopped paying attention after I realized they were going through baby names.”

“I hope she doesn’t name the kid Orquídea.”

“If grandma is handing out fortunes, I’d change my name to Orquídea.”

Marimar rolled her eyes and carried her drink and broom back down the hall. Rey followed her into the parlor where Orquídea would listen to old records. Martin would sing along to Billie Holiday or the Buena Vista Social Club, and Marimar would play with her dolls while Rey complained that the music was old, and tried to pick the lock to the closet no one could get open.

Marimar bent down in front of the wooden chest that contained all the records. The paper was worn, but the shiny vinyl was still intact. She blew on the surface and set the needle. The record player warbled and scratched, like it was remembering that it still worked after all these years. The sounds of El Gran Combo de Puerto Rico filled the room, down the halls. Orquídea never danced—not in front of Marimar, at least—but she used to wag her foot to the beat, the congas, the brass.

Now, they cleaned and sang along, putting all the weirdness of the day into the cathartic rhythm of a song whose words they only understood tangentially. It felt like a ritual, preparing the body of the house for burial. When the record reached the crackling end, they sat on the floor and finished lukewarm drinks.

“How long do you think it’s been like this?” Rey whispered.

“A long time,” she said with certainty.

“Don’t you start feeling guilty.” Rey rested his head against the wall, slurring his words a bit. “We didn’t do this. We didn’t make her do this. She came this way. In fact, she’s the reason we’re like this.”

“Like what?” she asked, but she knew.

“Broken, Marimar. Missing pieces.”

“Maybe you should ease up on the rum.”

“Maybe you should learn to sweep. You missed a spot.”

She shoved him and he fell over laughing. A sound reverberated in the room. They looked at the record player, but the needle was raised. They looked out into the hall, but there was no one there. They were used to the strange noises of the house, the metal joints that needed to be greased, the crickets and birds that liked to gather too close. But this sound was a heavy thump. A fist against a door. It seemed to come from the locked closet in the music parlor.

They listened, just to be sure.

The sound in the room was hollow, like negative space. Like the end of the vinyl record searching for more music to play.

And the fist thumped again.

“One time she caught me trying to pick the lock,” Rey said. “Orquídea told me that was where her monster lived and if I kept bothering it, the thing would use its nails to poke my brain through the keyhole.”

“Charming.” Marimar took a deep breath, got up, and went to the closet door. It was locked, just as it had always been.

“I know there’s a key. I just never found it.” Rey started opening drawers, rummaging through tiny ceramic bowls containing everything from bits of yarn to a coyote skull and dried husks of purple corn. Marimar couldn’t recall a time her grandmother had ever knitted anything, so yarn, out of everything in the entire house, was the strangest thing they’d found so far.

“Actually,” Rey said, pointing at a blue vase in the dusty cabinet. “This thing is supposed to contain a duende who liked to steal our dreams at night.”

As a little girl, Marimar believed that the house had duendes living in the closets, making all of the sweets disappear. In her mind, the mischievous spirits had been the sworn enemies of the good fairies that lived in the tall grass of the valley.

Marimar grabbed the blue vase and stuck her hand in. She wiggled her fingers and felt nothing. Then, something metal and cold rattled against the ceramic. She fished out a skeleton key and brandished it to her cousin.

“Look at that,” she marveled.

“I’m personally hoping whatever is behind that door is a beautiful man with a never-ending supply of booze.”

Marimar considered it. “You have to be specific. Is he holding the booze or is it coming from him?”

Rey was stumped. “I actually don’t know what I’d prefer.”

Marimar laughed nervously, turning the key between her fingers. What did Marimar hope was behind that door? A tunnel to another world? They were too old for stories like that now, but belief in the impossible never truly went away. Did it? She remembered wishing on Orquídea’s altar. Shutting her eyes so tightly she saw pinpricks of light behind her lids. She’d wished for good grades. She’d wished to meet the father that had abandoned them. She’d wished to be as magical and impossible as her grandmother.