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For a while, Hèctor believed Ernesto waited.
After waking in the Land of the Dead, he had imagined the scene following his death. Ernesto would have frozen. Stared in shock for a few seconds until rising panic sent him off down the street, calling for help.
It would have arrived too late, of course. That much had been obvious the moment Hèctor saw his fingers stripped to the bone. But Ernesto would have made them try to save him. He would have stood in the darkness, tearing at his hair until the crowd dispersed and he was left with the body of his friend lying on the cobblestone.
He took the guitar, the songs. Hèctor knew as much when later arrivals began singing them, even if some of the words weren’t quite right and “Remember Me” was a gaudy shell of itself. But he always imagined Ernesto sitting on a bed somewhere, gazing solemnly at the guitar case from across the room, wondering if it was really his to play, if the songs were his to sing. If anyone was meant to sing them again.
Over the years, cracks appeared in that story. A lack of songwriting credit. Ernesto holding himself aloof, never so much as mentioning the old friend whose songs had catapulted him to fame. The epilogue where Ernesto brought Imelda the news and held her as they both wept was shattered the moment she dismissed the truth as an insulting lie, but the idea that Ernesto meant no harm remained in place. Hèctor had needed to reinforce that crumbling structure with fresh excuses and justifications daily, but he could never quite leave it to fall.
He didn’t remember most of the journey back to Imelda’s—back home. He remembered her hand on his, her arm around his shoulders. She didn’t say a word that he could recall, but he knew she’d stayed with him. She hadn’t left his side until he was safe in his room once more.
He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, staring at the opposite wall without really seeing it. He only knew he should have gotten up a long time ago.
Premeditated.
He should have seen it coming. He should have known. At the word murder, every question he’d carried for ninety-six years had been answered in an instant. Now that premeditated had been poured on top of that, he remembered things.
A fight, with a cause so trivial he couldn’t recall it, that had led to shouting and ended in silence that stretched on for hours.
Incredulity, muted though it was, when Hector mentioned wanting to see Coco and Imelda again.
Anger turning to warmth on that last night, moments before he put that poisoned glass to use.
When had he poisoned it? How many shows did they play while Ernesto had it tucked into a pocket or hidden among his things? How many ordinary conversations and smiles and private jokes had been exchanged with that glass sitting between them?
Hèctor should have had a guess.
No—he should have known. Not just now. Back before that night, back when knowing would have mattered.
Imelda walked in on him still staring at the wall, though he managed to look up when he saw her. No good. Concern was written all over her face, as clear as the markings on her skull.
He expected questions—kind ones, maybe, but questions nonetheless—but got silence instead. She sat down beside him and said nothing. She simply waited.
Hèctor wanted to tell her. About what he’d ignored, what he’d thought, what he should have known. What he knew now and why he should have known it years ago. But all he could think of was Ernesto, swirling formaldehyde in a shot glass.
“I should have let him keep the songs.”
It was so obvious he couldn’t believe it only occurred to him just then. He put a hand to his head, eyes closed.
“He—he wanted them. He said he couldn’t do it without them, on that night. I should’ve let him keep them. Should’ve just left the book and walked away….”
Again, Imelda said nothing. She simply put a hand on his shoulder and let it slide off as she stood, left the room, and closed the door quietly behind her.
******
She hadn’t returned when Hèctor finally got up off the bed and left his room, and the main living area appeared empty. Everyone else was probably out at the workshop—out where he could have been, if he knew how to make shoes.
It was strange, he thought, how quickly Imelda had changed her tune. From denying forgiveness one moment to singing No dejaré de quererte right at him; from I want nothing to do with you on Dìa de Muertos to You did not deserve to die at the police station. From enemy to ally in a matter of hours. But that was Imelda for you: her decisions were quick, and she stuck to them despite all arguments. If one of them turned out in your favor, only a fool would question it.
A shuffle at the front door drew his attention. He paused, and Imelda’s voice floated through, cursing softly amid a handful of scraping noises. Hèctor hurried to the door, flung it open, and came face-to-face with Imelda, her hands on something just out of sight. Her face quickly settled into a mask of mock annoyance.
“You were supposed to let me surprise you.”
You should’ve told me that sprang to mind immediately, but he pushed it back in favor of something else. “I am surprised.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I’m surprised you’re surprising me?”
Now she smiled. “Go inside.”
“Do…you want me to hide or something? Since I’m supposed to be surprised.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t disappear. The last time she’d done that had been a lifetime ago. “Just go in.”
He stepped inside, and although she hadn’t said as much, he turned his back. There were more scraping noises, a soft and muffled thunk, and then Imelda’s voice.
“You can look.”
Hèctor froze. There on the floor, Imelda kneeling beside, was a guitar case. She smiled encouragement, but he could only stare.
“Ven, mira. Tell me if you like it.”
Every bit of evidence told him he was awake, and yet he still had to wonder if he’d been plunged into a dream as he knelt across from her and ran a hand over the case. It felt real enough, as real as anything else, but maybe there wasn’t a guitar inside. Maybe she had stuffed it with materials to make a few pairs of boots.
He wanted to open the case, and he didn’t, but in the end, he undid the latches and lifted the lid. Sure enough, there was a guitar, reddish-brown wood gleaming in the light. It was far plainer than the white one Ernesto had taken, lacking even the slight ornamentation of Cheech’s guitar, but there it was. A guitar. In Imelda’s house.
“I….” She’d had to travel to get it. She had walked, and probably taken a few streetcars to end up at the correct shop. She had bought it there and retraced her steps, allowing hundreds or thousands of eyes to see the woman who had banned music for four generations carrying a guitar back to her home. And he knew exactly why she spent all that money and time on a single gift.
“Is something wrong?”
“Those songs, Imelda.” It came out a whisper. “They’re why I never made it home. You know that.”
“He is why you never made it home.”
“Because of the songs.”
“They’re yours, Hèctor.” Her hand covered his, prompting him to meet her gaze. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen so much gentleness and reassurance turned on him since rejoining the family, but after a century of abandonment and withering glares and angry shouts, it still surprised him. “They’ve always been yours. He can’t keep them.”
Reluctantly, after a moment, he pulled his hand away and ran it over the strings. I don’t play anymore had been a lie even before Dìa de Muertos. He’d played for people like Cheech over the years, people desperate for some small comfort before fading away. But he’d never kept the guitar. Never picked it up and played simply to follow the music wherever it led him.
A soft noise called his attention to the other side of the room. The rest of the family had all piled into the same doorway, all watching him with the guitar. No one seemed angry, no one seemed surprised; Rosita wore a smile and the twins seemed close to getting them. Victoria and Julio watched him with interest.
They knew. They’d learned about Imelda’s plan and they wanted to hear him play. They knew what music had done to their family, to him while it was there, and they still wanted him to play another song.
Hèctor lifted the guitar, a familiar weight in his arms, and shifted to hold it properly. For a moment, just a moment, he wanted to set it back in the case and walk away. He’d lived without music for decades. He could keep away from it for however long he had left.
He plucked one of the strings, then another. Warm notes filled the room.
He had been drowning, he realized. He’d been carried along by a current he couldn’t fight and Imelda had tossed him a rope and he’d been a fool to think he didn’t need to hold on. An idiot to think it wouldn’t lead him back to shore.
Notes and chords tumbled out over one another. Hèctor didn’t have a song in mind. He just started playing.