NO SOONER HAD Uncle’s tail-lights disappeared than I scoured Zorrillo’s dirt line with my heel until it was utterly obliterated. I peppered the vultures with rocks, scattering them like skittles. I strode to the shed and returned with a kerosene lamp and shovel.
Papá’s body was stiff as I dragged him to his favourite oak tree. The earth beneath was hard and rocky. Perspiring profusely despite the cool night air, I stabbed and punched the shovel repeatedly through roots. Sweat trickled into my eyes and stung so much I had to close them.
As I dug, my father’s execution replayed in my mind. I saw his killers’ faces in minute detail and I heard their voices as clearly as gunshots.
I saw Caraquemada circling Papá, pausing to swat a fly before studying the place into which he’d fire his bullet. I heard Santiago’s radio operator order: ‘¡Ajustícialo!’ I saw Ratón’s sinister nod to Caraquemada and suffered his indifference as he relayed the order like a weather forecast: ‘Execute him.’ I felt the blond boy’s knee on my head as I flailed like a fish on dirt. I remembered Zorrillo’s rifle digging into my teeth, and the taste of blood in my mouth before he banned us from our farm.
With anger searing through my veins, I dug furiously, driving the shovel in harder and harder. I barely noticed the blisters forming on my palms, or the hot tears streaming down my face. By the time the grave was deep enough, my shorts were drenched in sweat. I climbed in and slid Papá gently down.
As I took his pocket Bible and crucifix necklace, I heard a small motorbike engine struggling up the hill and a silhouette darkened the corner of my eye. Palillo. I saw a shovel across his lap and a pack over his shoulder.
‘You should have waited,’ he said when he reached me.
‘Whose motorbike?’
He lit two cigarettes and held up the panda keychain. ‘It’s Little Red Riding Hood. The mulata was coming to find you.’
‘Carrying a shovel?’
Palillo shook his head. ‘Lights were off at Old Man Domino’s. A shovel was leaning on the porch with a candle lit beneath so you couldn’t miss it.’
I dragged hard on the cigarette. I was so touched by the actions of the mulata maid and Old Man Domino that my head spun. And then it was Palillo’s turn; his proposal was the bravest of the day.
‘Cemetery?’ He pointed at Papá. ‘There’s only space for two on the bike. I’ll take him down pillion passenger and do some laps of the plaza.’
It took several seconds for me to comprehend that Palillo was proposing to transport and bury Papá on his own. He’d take all the risks by making sure he was seen publicly. For a moment, I felt relieved. I wouldn’t have to do it myself. But only for a moment. What had Papá muttered while digging at 2 am? Cowards!
Papá was my father; I had to bury him. Although I’d felt rejected at the time, I now understood why he wouldn’t let me help dig Humberto Díaz’s grave. He wanted to shield me. Just as I should shield my best friend.
‘I’ll take him down myself and get the priest to do the burial.’
‘No point. He got called away somewhere.’
If the new priest was hiding, there was little point going to the cemetery. By then I didn’t want Padre Guzmán to bury my father anyway. He wasn’t worthy of consecrating a vegetable patch. I would be better off burying Papá where he was.
‘Return the shovel and Little Red Riding Hood,’ I said, scooping dirt into the grave. ‘It’s better if you’re not here for this.’
Palillo blew three concentric smoke rings then spat defiantly through their centre. ‘Your father was the best boss I ever had.’
‘The only boss you almost had.’
‘Same thing.’ Palillo began ladling dirt too. ‘Either way, I’m unemployed. Temporarily.’
‘You phoned Don Jerónimo?’
Glad I’d taken the hint, Palillo lifted his backpack with the tent poles.
‘Dawn pick-up. He has one seat left.’
Palillo looked at me questioningly, but I continued scooping dirt.
Wordlessly, we finished my father’s new home, patting the earth tight with the flats of the shovels. Papá could be at rest now. One day, I’d have the ground consecrated and the rites performed by a proper priest. The only thing missing was a headstone.
‘You coming?’ Palillo asked, his eyes locked on mine.
I answered indirectly by pointing at the shabby skeleton of the scarecrow. ‘Hand me that cross.’
Both hands at its neck, I lifted the wooden cross high in the air and drove it down into the ground at the head of my father’s grave. However, it was not a cross I was thrusting into the earth, but a stake I was plunging into the hearts of my blood enemies.