Day of the Dead

‘Sorry. I’m …’ He lifted his hand to his forehead, winced. His head was shaved where he’d been cut, a patch between crown and temple covered with a square of gauze. ‘Fucking Gary.’ He attempted a smile. ‘This is probably his idea of a joke.’

‘A joke?’ The buzzing of the flies, the smell of rot, the close, shut-in heat of the apartment made her suddenly dizzy. ‘I need some air.’

She pushed past Daniel and sat down on one of the chairs on the balcony, let her head fall into her hands.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine.’ She raised her head. ‘What kind of joke is that?’

‘A stupid one.’ Daniel sat down in the chair next to her. ‘He knew I checked into a hotel for a few days. Air conditioner’s busted here, and I felt pretty lousy. Figured I’d let somebody bring me food and make my bed.’

There was something he wasn’t saying, something that didn’t fit, but Michelle couldn’t think of what it was.

‘You want a beer? I think there’s a couple cold ones in the fridge.’

He sounded friendly enough, but the way he looked at her, studying her face – was that concern or something else?

‘That’s okay. I think I’d better go.’

‘No, listen, stay a minute. You had a shock. Let me get you a beer.’

He got up before she could object.

By the time Daniel had returned with the beers, bottles already sweating in the heat, she’d figured it out. ‘Why me?’

‘Huh?’ Daniel handed her a bottle. Bohemia. She’d had that a few times in Los Angeles.

‘If he was playing a joke on you, why did he send me up here to find it?’

‘He’s an asshole.’

‘He doesn’t even know me.’

‘Guess he thought it would be funny,’ Daniel muttered.

The sun was striking the balcony now, the light glaring. He squinted for a moment and put on his sunglasses, which had been propped up on his head. Serengetis, she thought.

Michelle rested the beer on her cheek for a moment. The chill felt even better than drinking it.

‘So the pictures,’ Daniel said. He was smiling, trying to keep his voice friendly. ‘Why were you taking pictures of that thing?’

‘I thought there should be a record of it. In case someone threw it away.’

‘Are you a photographer or something?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s just a hobby.’

They sat in silence for a while. What else was there to say?

‘I should go,’ Michelle said. She reached into her purse and got out his phone. He retrieved hers from his pocket.

‘Let me get you a cab.’

‘You don’t need to.’

‘I want to.’ He smiled again. Maybe it was genuine this time. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about how I acted just now. It was just … kind of a shock, finding you and that in my place, and … I’m still a little jumpy over everything. You know?’

She supposed she did. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

He walked her through the apartment, past the pig’s head.

‘Let me buy you dinner,’ he said suddenly. ‘You went to a lot of trouble, and I didn’t exactly thank you for it.’

‘Thanks, but … I’m leaving tomorrow, and I need some time to pack.’

It was a lame excuse, and he had to know it, but he couldn’t really want to have dinner with her after everything that had happened, could he? It was probably just a belated courtesy on his part, and she wasn’t interested.

He was a nice-looking man, and maybe none of this was his fault, but she’d had enough. Enough of him, enough of his creepy friends and their sick jokes. Enough of this place.

It was time to go home.

‘Well, if you change your mind …’ He stared at her, eyes hidden by his sunglasses.

‘I have your number,’ she said.

She didn’t, but he didn’t need to know that.

He still looked pale, she thought. Behind him the pig’s head pulsed with flies. ‘Do you … need some help with that?’ she asked reluctantly.

‘Thanks. That’s … Thanks.’ He smiled again, a real one. ‘If you could, maybe just hold the bag?’

Daniel put on a pair of rubber gloves he had stashed under the kitchen sink, and Michelle held the garbage bag. He picked up the pig’s head, holding it as far away from his body as possible. Michelle did the same with the garbage bag.

Even after they twisted the bag shut, she could hear the buzzing of trapped flies.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘I’m all packed,’ she told the woman behind the front desk the next morning. ‘If I could leave my bags in the room, I’d like to go down to the beach for a while.’

‘Certainly. Please, enjoy the rest of your time here.’

Though it was already 11:00 A.M., there were still plenty of empty palapas. The tourist season was over. ‘This time of year, no business,’ the waiter said, the nut-brown man who had served her before. ‘Very hard on the family.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe I take the job down the beach at this new restaurant. Make Caesar salads. The money is a little better.’

‘I’m sorry you’re having a tough time,’ she said, and she was. Maybe she wasn’t a Mexican waiter hustling for tips on the beach, but the idea that she might not have enough, might not be able to make enough to support herself, seemed all too relatable.

She’d gotten an e-mail from her lawyer saying that things weren’t looking good, that Tom had been behind in the life insurance payments and he hadn’t been able to get it reinstated. She’d been counting on the life insurance. The house was gone, foreclosed, and she’d had no clue until Tom wasn’t around anymore to intercept the communications. His kids laid claim to everything else that was left. Whatever that might be.

She had nothing.