The Last Karankawas(17)
Luis glances down at José’s fingers, flashing signs; then his eyes dart back up to me. See me, I tell him. Look at me, existing here, in a place you’ve said I don’t belong. You forgot que soy una mojada. Give me lines to cross, why don’t you.
OPHELIA OF THE SAINTS
Ofelia
Her first thought as she gazes upon the image of the Grim Reaper is this: Childish. Ofelia de los Santos almost laughs, looking at him. A bright cartoon figure, not at all in line with the professional, serious look she assumes the Society would want to achieve. For one, the Grim Reaper is grinning. Yes, El Muerte, whom Ofelia de los Santos has feared since girlhood, sports a cheerful, gap-toothed smile on the flyer, next to several exclamation points.
That is her second thought—the exclamation points. Demasiados. The capital letters hurt her eyes.
As she studies the flyer, taped up to one of the Victorian columns surrounding Old City Cemetery, Ofelia de los Santos begins to sweat. The night air is warm, humid against the windbreaker her grandson insists she wear despite the fact that it is August and 85 degrees. But she is safely, finally, alone now. Ofelia removes the windbreaker and ties it around her hips.
When she first told Magdalena she was attending a meeting of the Spiritualistic and Supernatural Society, her friend laughed so hard she choked on her coffee. En serio, comadre, Magdalena scoffed, signaling the long-haired waiter for a refill. Not that nonsense. You know better. You are better. Hector’s reaction that evening was the complete opposite—her grandson wanted badly to come, had even offered to drive. Come on, Abuelita, he said with an enthusiasm that made her laugh. It’ll be fun! But by the time he came home from the construction site, reeking of sweat and dust, he was so tired he had to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright. Shower and bed, Ofelia ordered, and he was too exhausted to argue. He was asleep when she walked out the door.
Ofelia de los Santos adjusts her glasses on the end of her nose, hoping that will help her read the flyer. She is not sure exactly where the meeting is being held, and the cemetery spans six blocks. But the smudged paper gives no specific location:
MEETING!!!
THE SPIRITUALISTIC AND SUPERNATURAL SOCIETY OF THE GREATER GALVESTON AREA—
Just ahead!
10 p.m.–11 p.m., “The Witching Hour”*
COME ONE, COME ALL, BUT COME QUIETLY!**
*The Witching Hour starts at midnight, but we reserve the right to use this term loosely.
**This is a place of eternal rest for bodies of those who have passed into the afterlife peacefully. Please be quiet out of respect to those souls. The ones who haven’t passed will make themselves known—KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN!
Ever the rule follower, Ofelia de los Santos keeps her eyes open as she walks along the sidewalk parallel to 43rd Street. She sees her sedan beyond the boundaries of the Old City Cemetery. It is parked across from the corner bodega that she decided, yes, she likes after all. The bodega has bars on the windows, but that comforts her—back home in Brownsville, lots of buildings have those. Back home in Brownsville, everything, even bars on the windows, is a comfort to her.
“Excuse me? Ma’am?”
Ofelia de los Santos turns—doesn’t jump or jolt, despite the darkness of the cemetery, hasn’t she always prided herself on her unflappability?—and faces a woman smaller and browner than she. The newcomer wears a short-sleeved dress, galoshes, and a knit cap over her short dark hair. She lowers the flashlight in her hand so the beam hits Ofelia at chest level; the woman grins at her.
“Are you coming to the meeting?” Ofelia hears the woman’s accent, the way the Ts became hard Ds, the rise and fall of the vowels that sound to her like the clucking of a chicken. A Filipino voice. She recognizes them now. In Brownsville, she never needed to, was required only to know the way bolillos spoke versus mexicanos, because everyone spoke Spanglish, kept the same mother tongue in their mouths.
“Yes, I am.”
The woman grins, a smile that splits her face into creases and teeth. “Oh, good! Someone new. I’m Beeb! Genebeeb”—it takes a moment for Ofelia to translate that as Genevieve—“but you can call me Beeb!” Unlike the flyer, her tone seems made for exclamation points.
She shakes the hand that is offered. “Ofelia.”
“Come with me, I’ll show you where to go. Your first time here?” Beeb asks. She takes Ofelia’s elbow; Ofelia pretends she doesn’t mind.
They walk together. And Beeb begins to talk, a fluid, unceasing current of words.
“I love this cemetery. So old and with such big white stones. Beautiful! Look!”
Ofelia de los Santos peels away from her thoughts. She is not quite sure what she should be looking at. Beeb gestures with a wide scoop of her hand. Everything, apparently.
“Do you know this was once seven cemeteries? And it got so big they began to bleed together. They built a newer one, a few blocks away, but this is the heart of the island. These are nice ones, these headstones here. You can tell they are new, though.”
Yes, thinks Ofelia de los Santos as she looks at the graves Beeb means. The gleaming and unchipped look of them. She admires the way they sprout from the ground in symmetrical rows, neat as false teeth. Ofelia approaches one that is clearly ancient, lying flat against the dirt and grass. She has to stand over it to read the words, the white marble streaked with the darkness of age. A medallion of a crucifix emblazoned at the top. CHRISTOPHORUS EDUARDUS BYRNE. She squints at the Latin beneath, words like natus, ordenatus, consecratus. A priest.