The Dead don't Remember

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I was disappointed to see Rachael at my door, but I hugged her and helped take her bags. Dinner supplies and one full of Duct Tape, bleach and plastic sheeting. We set everything in the kitchen before either of us said a word.

"So, do you think she's coming?" I asked after staring for a minute at Rachael's shoes. Her long kindergarten-teacher skirt folded over the buckles. She always looked the same. Hair always pulled back into a tight bun, every hair accounted for and forced into place. The only hint of disorder was a tiny drop of brown, dried blood in the corner of her collar. Leftover's from last year's Thanksgiving.

"You even wonder anymore?"

"I wondered if you'd even come."

"Yeah, well..." she trailed off, looking at the picture of all of us together, I had my arms around Maria, and Rachael had hers around me. A faded Polaroid that I kept stuck to the fridge. "Do you have...the thing?"

"Yeah, it's in the basement. You think she'll ever get bored of doing it?"

"If she hasn't by now, I don't think she ever will," Rachael said with a sigh. She looked out the kitchen window. I followed her eyes to the dirt road. A rooster tail of dust told me exactly where Maria's car was. We watched the whirlwind heading our way in silence until it crossed the gate. Rachael checked her hair for any loose strands and then led the way to the front door. When I opened the door, Maria was parked, the passenger front tire on the edge of the top porch step. She was drunk already and it was time to begin dinner.

---

After pouring grave dirt and sheep blood in concentric circles and lighting candles with saints painted on the outside, we brought the man up from the basement and taped his arms down to the wooden chair.

"Who was he?" Maria slurred as she taped his ankles to the chair legs.

"A cop, I think. From the city."

"Oh, that's good," Maria said, tracing the veins running down the inside of his elbow.

It was good. The closer the man was to Papa, the easier it was to fuse them together. The security guard from last year had taken over an hour to bind. Papa was a cop, so cops were best. Drunken, child abusing, single-father cops were damn near spot on. This guy even had the same anchor tattoo on his forearm.

Rachael and Maria walked barefoot upon a dirt circle, around and around the man. They spat on the top of his head as I read the evocation from Grandma's journal, tripping on the Spanish words I only spoke once a year. When the candles flared, popped, and then went out we knew Papa was there.

"Hijito?"

"Si, Papa," I answered.

---

Papa sat next to Maria, just like he did every Thanksgiving. He drank half a bottle of Jack while Rachael finished roasting the turkey. He was too drunk to carve, so I did it, just like then. It was about this point of the night that the lights would lose their shine, and every smile looked like a snarl. Maria's shadow seemed to swallow the room, and all of us inside it. She demanded this of us.

Every time his hand slipped beneath the table and ran up her knee, Maria gave a little jump and the menace in her grin grew more beastly. Blood trickled down her lip and off her chin and he didn't notice. He thought he was taking advantage of her, but Maria was in control.

Deja Vu was too weak a word. We all fell into echoes of that day. For some reason, the dead don't remember. It was all new to him, again.

"What do you guys say, time for pie?" he said, the magic words that began winding down the spell. Maria grew darker.

I snuck into the living room and unrolled the plastic over the dirt and blood. I laid it across the furniture and taped it to the walls and ceiling. Rachael came in with an apron over her dress. Maria followed behind, pumpkin pie balanced in one hand, Papa's surrogate lead by the other. Football played on the television across from his easy chair. Maria dropped the pie and gave him a push and he fell into the chair with a drunken, inelegant ease.

"What the fuck, mi hita?" he asked. Rachael handed Maria Papa's hunting knife. Maria never answered him. He was slow to raise his hands as she plunged forward and drove the knife down into his chest until the blade hit his spine. She fought to pull the knife back, but his body held it tight. She began clawing at his face and biting at his throat.

"I hate you, you sick fuck!" she shouted at him. Maria screamed screams that had no words, only emotion. She pounded on him, kicked him, and tore away at him long after he quit fighting back and stared blankly, silently at the ceiling. Rachael and I had tears in our eyes. I couldn't tell if it was because Papa was dead, or because Maria wasn't.

"Maria," Rachael said and tried to put an arm around Maria once she slowed, but Maria clung tight to the cooling body.

"Maria, it's done. He's done."

Maria cried like the little girl she had been that Thanksgiving and tucked her head into Rachael's chest. Once the two of them had stripped Maria of her bloodied clothes, I began rolling everything into the plastic sheets.

---

As we watched the plastic melt and drip into the ashes of the bonfire, Maria put her arms around Rachael and me and pulled us close.

"I can’t wait for next year," she said and leaned her head against mine. I looked over at Rachael on the other side of Maria, and she was shaking her head, but I couldn't say no to Maria.