Free The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize by Stephanie Fetta Page B

noses covered, till the women retreated into the yard, till the men stopped driving by for a glance from the street, till at last only Mrs. Rentería was left to witness the end.
    Happily this was a solitary business. For several days she had not gone to the hospital, her work was forgotten, and she passed the daylight hours at David’s feet, listening, speaking, giving up her secrets. And not once did he notice her wrinkled, splotchy hands, the graying hair nor the plain, uninspired face. During the warm afternoons David would take her out, arm in arm, strolling idly through the lush gardens of his home, somewhere far away to the south. He gave her candies and flowers, kissed her hands and spoke of eternity, the endless pulse of time, two leaves in the wind. At night she would come to him dressed as some exotic vision, a sprig of jasmine in her hair, and lay by his side till dawn, awake to his every whisper and touch.
    On the third day, Fausto knew the honeymoon was over. “Señora,” he called at the door, “it is time David left.”
    Mrs. Rentería hurried out from the kitchen. Her hair was down in a carefree tangle and wore only a bathrobe. “You’re too late,” she said with a smile. “He died this morning… about an hour ago.”
    Fausto examined her eyes, quite dry and obviously sparkling with something more than grief.
    â€œHe died?”
    â€œYes,” she stated proudly. “I think it was too much love.”
    The odor of death was so strong Fausto had to back down the steps. “Señora, I’d be more than happy to take him away for you. Leave it to me, I’ll be right back.” He turned quickly and shuffled toward the sidewalk.
    â€œWait!” she shouted. “David’s already gone.”
    â€œI know, but I’ll take him away.”
    â€œThat’s what I mean. The boy, that greñudo friend of yours, carried him off, just before you came.”
    â€œMario?”
    â€œI think so … he’s got pelitos on his chin?”
    â€œEstá bien, Señora, your David will get the best burial possible.”
    Mrs. Rentería said she insisted on going with him, but Mario refused.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Fausto said, “we’ll take care of him. The body goes, but the soul …”
    â€œI know, his soul is right here … in my heart.”
    â€œSeñora, keep him there, because if you ever lose him, watch out for the other women.”
    â€œHe’ll never leave. You’ll see, I have his word.” She pulled a folded scrap of paper from between her breasts and studied the scribbled words.
    Fausto asked if he should say something special at the burial. “Some prayer… a poem?”
    Mrs. Rentería answered with a toss of her head, and for a moment the glassy eyes were lost in the distance. Then she closed the heavy wooden door, clicked both locks, dropped the blinds behind the big bay window and drew them shut.
    But David was not buried. He left the valley as fresh and appealing as he had arrived. A man so perfect should not be buried, Fausto told Mario, and with the boy’s help and using a skill more ancient than the first Tarahumara Indian, the old man painstakingly restored David to his former self. Even the missing toe was replaced.
    By late evening the restoration was complete. Only one chore remained. Carmela brought the pitcher of water into the yard and wet the dead man’s clothes, the same shabby clothes he wore when he arrived.
    â€œMore water,” Fausto said. Mario took the pitcher and skipped into the house. David was about his own age, and ever since Mrs. Rentería had taken him home, Mario’s admiration for the dead man’s quiet sense of confidence had grown. The vato is cool, Mario thought.
    After the second pitcher of water was poured, Fausto asked for the egg—a dried quetzal egg Mario had plucked from the Exposition Park Ornithology