Free Doll of Mine (A Dia de los Muertos Story) by Lila Felix Page A

before. They’d scraped by. Now, with her father, who was a decently paid bus driver, gone, they barely hung on for dear life. Pinches of pesos here and there were stashed in a tiny handmade wooden box that was once used for her father’s tobacco, were now used for the only day of the year where their loved ones were supposed to come for a visit.
    Santiago Sanchez had taken one last shot of tequila at Alma’s Quinceañera and never woken up again, suffering from a stroke that choked him in his drunken sleep.
    Putting all the pots on low to simmer, Carmelita glanced at the clock, hung on the rust-colored stucco wall and slapped her hands on her hips. “ Mija, es hora !” It was time for Alma to get going. Orders for dulces , sugar skulls and other sweets had to be picked up from the dulcero promptly during the Dias de los Muertos.
    Tearing the apron from around her waist and shoving it into her mother’s waiting hands, Alma dried her hands and prepared to leave the only place she’d ever called home, but not before placing a loving peck on her mother’s cheek.
    “Be careful mija . There are spirits, pure and evil, everywhere.”
    “I will, Mamá .”
    After striding down the dirt road lined with rows of miniscule shacks, she hopped on a bus and transferred onto two peceras that would take her to her destination. At last she reached Xochimilco . Alma stopped and took in the sights and sounds of the city on the cusp of the biggest celebration of the year. A sweet aroma of freshly baked dough filled her lungs. She could taste the vanilla on her tongue and hear the laughter from the patrons. Shrill cries of salesmen calling out for customers pierced her ears. Along the outskirts of the city, the trees swayed with the wind, a little cooler than Alma expected at that time of year.
    “I have to hurry.” She told herself, speeding her pace and bee-lining for the booth marked Dulces de Diego . The candymaker had been her father’s friend since they were children and though he knew Alma, he wouldn’t hesitate to sell her order to the next hungry patron had she failed to be there on time.
    “ Señor Diego !” Alma announced her arrival, causing the man behind the counter to leave his post and give her a quick squeeze around her shoulders accompanied by a wink.
    “Your order is right here, Alma. And I included some special ones just for Chago.”
    Chago was the name her father’s friends called him by. Her mother never had. She had always called him Santiago.
    She clapped in praise of the attention the order received by the candy maker and her father’s friend. After paying for the order and looking around the city more, Alma decided to pick up more papel picado , paper of all bright colors with sugar skulls, marigolds and hearts lovingly cut by local women who only sold them during the festival days. While paying for her lot, someone knocked into her back almost causing her to destroy the lovely displayed papers.
    “ Ladrón !” A man yelled as he followed the path of the boy with a machete in hand waving it around. Several men and some women joined in the pursuit of the thief, but Alma stood still watching it all. In the colonias , most crimes were taken care of by the citizens. A thief or a murderer prayed that the police got to them before the people. The people delivered far worse punishments than prison or hard labor—their punishments dated back to the old days, sometimes even so far as biblical times.
    The people had no mercy and held on tightly to old fashioned punishment means.
    “There are thieves all around. Even the most innocent of characters have a heart filled with thoughts of taking what is not theirs.”
    A gasp broke from Alma’s mouth. Looking toward the owner of the male voice’s owner. His face could not be seen, but from the tautness of his skin and the lack of wrinkles on the outstretched hand where he held a fragile piece of paper, she could tell that he was young—maybe not much older