El Nicho—The Grave

El Nicho

(The Grave)

The old man took the long way home, and passed by the run-down church. The steps poked out from the curb and invaded the street. The edges had crumbled, and the last step hung off the sinking road. Los nichos—which was the graves—were built alongside the church, and were tall walls with graves stacked one on top of the other, and made a wall. The old man would not go inside but walk past it, and maybe glance if he had the courage to.

His house was at the top of the hill, and always he bought bread to eat, and the owner, Sandra never let the old man pay. She put a baguette and rolls in a bag, and he took them home. They called him Viejo, which meant old man, and he’d greet them politely.

He unlocked the door from the bottom, and slid it open. She was standing in the yard hanging wet clothes on the line. Her eyes shrunk behind the wrinkly skin, and she smiled.

“Did you get bread?”

“She gave me a baguette,” he said. “And threw in some rolls.”

She smiled, and put a hand on her hip. “Sandra likes you.”

“Hmph,” he said.

“I’ll go make coffee.”

“No let me,” he said, and she had already crossed the yard to the door without flinching. In her mind he knew she did not want to fail the old man. She did everything for him, and that made the old man sad, because he could not count the things he did for her, except love her.

She put the water to boil over the stove, and they sat at the long table in the foyer. The chairs were laid empty between them, and they sat facing each other on the ends.

“He called,” the old man said. “In the morning.”

“What did he say?”

“He said no.”

“He always says that.”

“He wants more money.”

She groaned, and turned away.

“I’ll speak with him, and we’ll see.”

“Arthur,” she shook her head. “How much has he asked us for? You can’t do it.”

“Of course I can. I’ll go to him—today.”

“He has that knife…who knows what he uses it for.”

“He has a tree in his home. I’ve seen them—Mangos, big red ones. He uses the knife to cut them down.”

“He isn’t eating those.”

“Don’t be foolish. Of course he does.”

“It’s just I haven’t seen him at church, and he doesn’t pray.”

“He must practice his prayer in private. Or he’s joined that new congregation on the corner. I hear them every morning—”

“You don’t know that.”

He scoffed, and threw a hand in her direction. The water over the stove foamed over the edge, and dripped on the iron, and it sizzled. She got up, and wafted the steam with a rag. The smoke cleared, and she leaned on the counter letting her head fall between her shoulders. “Just don’t let him have the house.”

“No.”

“Okay,” she said, and turned around.

“I won’t do that.”

“Okay,” she nodded, and he smiled.

The old man carried with him his phone, because she made him. He didn’t understand why it was so necessary but he didn’t bother arguing, and he brought it with him as he went out. The pale light of the moon colored the whole town in a ghostly blue, and at night the streets were quiet and unsafe. He let most of the day pass, because he knew that Mauricio was busiest during the day. Mauricio’s home was at the far end of the town, and the gate was made of several rusted panels. When he got to his house the dog barked behind the gate, and the screen door creaked open shortly afterward. He didn’t like much the dog, because she was half-wild. She grew up on the street, and would fight with most of the other dogs until Mauricio took her in, and then not only did she fight harder, but she became more wild. The gate hinges squealed softly, and the stakes at the bottom skid along the pavement.

Mauricio was a dark young man who wore a thin mustache over his lip, and he had cryptic hazel eyes. “Linda!” He shouted back at the dog, and she stopped barking. Mauricio looked up. “Viejo,” he said. “Come inside. Please come inside.” He followed him to the house. “There’s a fucking cold wind blowing, and I don’t want to get sick. That’s how death travels you know, in the cold,” he pointed at him, “you shouldn’t be outside, Viejo. You already have one foot in the grave,” he chuckled. Then he bent down, and picked up a mango near the dog, and tossed it into the black garbage bin. “Be careful with the mangos,” he said. “She’ll try and eat them.”

The old man nodded, and looked at the mango tree, which Mauricio had planted by the steps of his veranda. It had grown since the old man had been there. Rising to great heights, and the leaves flowered over the roof of Mauricio’s home. The bright red and orange mangos grinned with sharp teeth, and wobbled freely in the wind. He went up the steps, and pulled the screen door open. They sat at a small table in the dark as Mauricio lit a cigarette. “What can I do for you, Viejo?”

“The grave.”

“I had a feeling that’s what you wanted to talk about,” he puffed on the cigarette, and the smoke swelled up around him. “And I remember giving you an answer.”

“I don’t have any more money.”

“Well,” he said. “Then we have a problem.”

“Maybe there’s something else I can do?”

“Tell me something, Viejo, and I want the truth. I heard something interesting in the street the other day. I heard another man offered you a space for much cheaper, and you said no. Not even a maybe, or I’ll think about it. Just no. Between him and I, I think we might be the only people who own a space in los nichos still…all the other graves are full.”

“I’m old,” the old man said folding his arms on the table. “I get up surprised nowadays, got this feeling like I shouldn’t wake up anymore. But they open, my eyes, and I shrug because I guess that means I got another day ahead of me. I don’t know that I’m afraid but I don’t want to die during the day. I want to go to bed one day, and fall asleep, maybe I’ll be dreaming then.”

Mauricio laughed, “and if you have a nightmare?”

The old man shrugged.

Mauricio nodded, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a silver blade; the metal shimmered as he placed it on the table. He snorted, and leaned back in his chair. “What did Mary say about the knife?”

“She was worried.”

“Hmnn,” he said smiling. “She is very mistrustful your wife, but I guess with good reason. You know something…I bought this knife on the street off a bum—I liked the handle. You won’t find anything like this here. I offered the bum a fair price, and he said no. That bum pinched out a pretty penny from me before he finally agreed. I was angry with him, but I wanted it, and now it’s here.” He tapped the table with a finger.

“But I don’t blame the bum, because that’s business. Nothing personal. Don’t take this the wrong way Viejo but you will never buy that grave unless you have something I want. You have to start thinking about what I want.”

“I don’t have money.”

“Then give me your house.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then we don’t have a deal. You have nothing trade, and I have nothing to lose by not selling.”

The old man nodded, and stood up. “Okay,” he said.

Mauricio escorted him to the gate, and he paused there looking out at the dog as she napped. “She’s beautiful isn’t she?”

“Linda,” he said.

He opened the gate, and they shook hands, and the old man made back for his home. She called him halfway through his walk, and he didn’t answer the first time because he couldn’t figure it out. But then she called again, and he answered.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way home.”

“What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What did he say?” She said sounding more agitated.

“He wants the house.” She hung the phone up, and the receiver cut off with an echoed clap.

The lights were off when he got back, and Mary was not home. So he sat on the bed waiting for her, and he waited an hour before he turned in, and shut the light off but even then he could not sleep without her. He laid in bed until he heard the gate scuff the pavement, and Mary open the door, and then he felt tired enough to sleep.

The next morning he got up early to make breakfast but Mary was already stirring in the kitchen. Beans bubbled in the pot, and she sat at the table cutting a mango.
“Good morning,” he said and he sat down at the other end of the table. “Where were you?”

“Something happened in the night,” Mary said.

“What happened?”

“Mauricio called, he changed his mind about the grave. He said its yours.”

“How did that happen?”

“You were right,” she said. “He is a godly man, and he prays.”

“Mmm,” the old man mumbled. His eyes searched for hers but she didn’t look at him, she only looked at the mango.

“Will you see them now,” she asked.

“I’ll go.”

“Okay.”

“But I need you there with me,” he said, and she looked up startled.

He grabbed her coat from the side of the chair, and they went out the gate. Going down the hill toward the lake at the base of the hill. The orange glow of the sun was just coming over the mountains, and the smell of the sweet bread baking wandered in the streets. The people were out, buying goods in the market, and there was chatter that came with the morning buzz. They walked arm in arm, and the people said good morning to them as they passed. Sandra stood by the door of the bakery, and she waved at them.

“Good morning,” the old man said.

“Good morning,” she answered, and she leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “Did you hear what happened to Mauricio’s dog?”

“No,” they said in unison.

“She swallowed the pit of a mango…and choked in the night. He lost a lot of money…because…of the dog fights…he made too many bets.”

The old man squeezed his wife’s hand. “I didn’t know,” he said.

Sandra shrugged, and promised them bread to eat on their way back.

The cross of the church poked out from behind a tree, and then the whole church came into view. The rugged walls were cracked, and the white stone had faded into gray. Los Nichos were no better than that, and the graves were scarred, and some caved in. The names were scratched off or unmarked in places, and the paint had mostly withered away. He went down the walls searching the graves until he found his. Mary held him tightly by the arm, and he sobbed. He sobbed, and reached out his hand toward the grave next to his, and he let his fingers run over the rusted plaque. “Father,” he said. The old man fell to his knees, and Mary bent down next to him, holding him up. It was his father’s grave, and next to his father there was his father, and so forth, lined up along the wall. Their last name traced the wall until it came to the empty grave he had bought. El nicho that was waiting for him, and he would join them all one day in a dream.