Speculative fiction by Daniel A. Olivas
Rigoberto sat on the large, cold boulder. His eyes rested upon the lake’s calm surface discerning no more than a ripple at the base of the partially submerged tree twenty or so yards from where he sat. Probably a happy family of waterbugs enjoying the safety of the root, he thought. He noticed another ripple in the middle of the lake and imagined that a Loch Ness-type monster would languidly rise out of that small aquatic disturbance once Rigoberto had walked away, out of sight. But this was not the Highland region of northern Scotland
Rigoberto rubbed his hands together and then cupped them before blowing warm breath into his palms making an almost whistling sound. The lake made him remember Mrs. Lewis, his favorite English teacher in high school, who once lectured on Virginia Woolf. He recalled how he chuckled when she described how Woolf committed suicide, filling her pockets with heavy stones and then walking slowly into a lake. Which lake? Someplace in England
“Mi cielo,” were the words that pulled him from his reverie. “Mi cielo,” she said to Rigoberto. “What are you doing here?”
Rigoberto didn’t turn around. He blew into his hands again. She walked over to him making a crunching sound on the well-raked gravel.
“Sonia,” said Rigoberto still not turning in her direction. “Hola, mi amor.”
Sonia lowered herself onto the boulder, almost leaning into Rigoberto, but not quite. He could feel her warmth travel the quarter-inch of empty space to his shoulder and arm. Rigoberto took in Sonia’s scent, a whirling mix of cigarettes, coffee and lemon shampoo. He thought of Mrs. Lewis. Her face. White, perfect complexion. Six months pregnant at the end of the school year. Beautiful, peaceful face. Except for that one look of disappointment. A willet appeared out of the shrubs and walked gingerly to the lake’s edge. Its gray-brown feathers reminded Rigoberto of his favorite tweed jacket, the one he wore when he and Sonia first went out on a date. He couldn’t believe that this remarkable woman, this published poet – an award-winning poet – would agree to go out with him. Even for coffee. But she did. After a reading at the Barnes & Noble. After she’d read from her second book of poetry. He’d sat in the audience because his girlfriend asked him to go. Arlene. Poor Arlene! She had dragged her boyfriend to a poetry reading and he ended up asking the poet out for coffee afterwards. And the poet had said yes. And Arlene didn’t know what to do so she slinked away, into the New Releases section. Six years ago this September. And he couldn’t believe it when Sonia said yes to his marriage proposal a mere five months after their first date. This beautiful, brilliant woman. And he wondered if Mrs. Lewis were still alive. And whether the child she had carried was now a young man or woman, in college perhaps, falling in love, living a separate life from the lovely, disappointed Mrs. Lewis. And he wondered if he and Sonia would ever decide to have children.
“Catherine called,” said Sonia.
“My sister?”
“No,” she said. “Kabayashi.”
“Oh.”
“She needs you to come a bit early this morning.”
The willet pecked at something hidden under the water’s surface. Rigoberto finally turned to his wife. He caught his breath, forgetting how exquisite this woman, this poet was.
“Why?” he whispered.
Sonia leaned into him. “Several last minute bodies.”
“Oh,” he sighed. “Oh.”
“She said you’d be happy. The artist in you, and all.”
“You’re the only artist in this family,” he offered.
Another willet appeared from the shrub and approached the first willet. The morning’s sun began to warm Rigoberto.
“You should go,” said Sonia. “Catherine sounded a bit panicked.”
“Yes, of course,” he said.
Rigoberto stood and his movement startled the birds. They looked up suddenly, in unison, but didn’t fly away. Then Sonia stood. This time the willets could take no more and took flight.
“I’m surprised there aren’t more birds here,” she said.
Rigoberto reached for Sonia’s hand and kissed it. Without a word, he turned and headed toward their house.
* * *
“You should be able to finish them,” said Catherine as she scratched her left ear with long, gleaming, red nails. “So, don’t start panicking.”
“I never panic,” said Rigoberto.
“I know, I know.”
Rigoberto walked to the first table and lifted the sheet. Perfect, he thought. Wonderful job.
“Castro Brothers?”
“Of course,” said Catherine in a calmer voice. “They do beautiful work.”
“Makes my job easier.”
Rigoberto dropped the sheet and scanned the other three draped tables.
“Four in one day,” he said. “All Castro Brothers?”
“No.”
“Don’t tell me.”
Catherine sighed. “Sorry. One is from Gretsch Mortuary.”
She pointed to the table at the far end of the room. Rigoberto went over to inspect. He lifted the sheet.
“Damn!”
“I know,” said Catherine.
“No life at all.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Forces me to use too much imagination.” Rigoberto dropped the sheet. “Sam Gretsch embalms the way I cook.”
“Forces me to use too much imagination.” Rigoberto dropped the sheet. “Sam Gretsch embalms the way I cook.”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Do you know what I wish?” said Rigoberto.
“Wish?”
“I wish I could make a mold. Just in the hard cases, you know. Just once.”
Catherine walked over to him.
“Don’t even think of it,” she said.
“I know. I just….”
“We’d be prosecuted if anyone found out. That’s in the statute. This has to be a hands-off process. Artistic.”
“You don’t have to lecture me,” he said. “I helped write the damn law. Testified before Congress, you know.”
“I know, but you make me nervous when you talk about making molds.”
Rigoberto rubbed his hands together.
“Well, I guess I have to get started.” He looked around the room. “I’m in a grandmotherly mood. Any sweet abuelitas here?”
Catherine looked about the room. She pointed to a table. “I have a nice, old aunt for you. But no grandmother.”
“Good enough. Let me see the file.”
Catherine clicked over to a large, metal desk across the room and riffled through a pile of files. She said, “Ah!” and plucked out a manila folder. She brought it to Rigoberto who already perused the aunt. Without looking at Catherine, he took the file and flipped it open and scanned the several pages’ worth of information.
“Looks good,” he murmured.
“Yes. It’s an easy position.”
“Yes,” he said looking at Catherine. “Sitting.”
“On a living room couch.”
Rigoberto smiled.
“Dear, old Tía Raquel will never leave us,” he said.
“Yes. Never.”
“How much time to I have? Before they pick up the bodies?”
Catherine looked away.
“How much time?” asked Rigoberto, this time a bit louder, a little tenser.
“Well, they all have to be picked up tonight.”
“What?”
“That’s why I called you at home,” said Catherine trying to keep her voice from trembling. “We’ve never had this happen before. It must have been that interview you did.”
Rigoberto shook his head. “I told you we shouldn’t have let them in here and ask me questions. I told you.”
“But it’s a lot of money, getting four in one day, don’t you know? A lot of money.”
Rigoberto walked over to his workstation and grabbed a camera.
“Then you should hire another fabricator.”
“There aren’t enough to go around,” she said through a forced smile. “The state only gives ten licenses a year, you know?”
“I know,” he said as he took a few shots of the aunt. He removed the sheet completely and continued to take pictures. Catherine turned her head. “Remember, I help write the law.” He lowered the camera and admired the aunt. “Pretty good body for sixty-seven, eh?”
Catherine didn’t respond but she turned to look at the aunt. He was right. She did look pretty good. Rigoberto took a few more shots.
“That should do it,” he said. “Now for some sketches.”
He walked to his workstation, returned the camera, and searched for a sharp pencil and a new tablet. He found them, pulled a chair over to Tía Raquel, sat down, and started to draw.
“All of their personal effects here,” said Catherine pointing to a stack of labeled, plastic boxes by the desk. “Clothes, jewelry, everything.”
“Thanks.”
“You can start the fabrication tomorrow,” she said. “Just focus on the pictures, sketches and measurements today. The bodies will be picked up around 6:00 or so.”
“Who’s going to fabricate me when I die?” said Rigoberto as he penciled in more detail.
Catherine admired Rigoberto’s easy strokes. The aunt’s face already took shape.
“Sonia might not want such a reminder of you when you leave this world,” she said as she patted Rigoberto’s shoulder. Catherine could feel his muscles tighten under her touch but she didn’t remove her hand. “Memorial fabrication isn’t for everyone.”
Rigoberto stopped sketching and looked up at Catherine. He wondered why she got into the business in the first place. She had little stomach for the bodies, she possessed paltry compassion and even less artistic sensibility. But Catherine saw the opening. A way to make money once the memorial fabrication law passed. But was she only about making money? Didn’t she want to fall in love? Maybe get married? Anything romantic? Rigoberto never felt comfortable enough around Catherine to ask. So he’d probably never know.
“I need to work alone,” was all he said.
“Yes, I’m sorry. Yes.”
Catherine lifted her hand from his shoulder and stood there for a moment. Rigoberto turned back to the aunt. With that, Catherine clicked out of the room. When she closed the door behind her, Rigoberto stood with a crack of his knees. He walked to his workstation and turned on the ancient CD player, the one his father bought him when Rigoberto graduated from middle school. You can’t buy a new CD player anymore. But he refuses to give up his old CD collection. Sounds better than the new technology, he likes to say. Nothing beats the warmth, the depth of a CD. John Lee Hooker’s “Boom Boom” came on. Rigoberto smiled, got into the beat, and returned to his seat.
* * *
The hours passed. One, two and then three bodies were completed: photographed and sketched with measurements put into the computer for Sylvia to start designing the basic body structures to be refined later by Rigoberto. He stretched and rubbed his eyes. He noticed that the CD player was silent, for how long he didn’t know. Rigoberto wanted to push on. Finish well before the 6:00 deadline. He walked to the last body and pulled the sheet. A boy. No more than eight, maybe nine. What a shame, he thought. Rigoberto pulled the file and opened it. Fernando Torres. Age nine. In the personal information all that was written in a tight, controlled hand was the name of the boy’s favorite book: My Friend Fernando. Rigoberto opened the personal effects box. A red shirt, blue shorts, a pair of Nikes and white socks. And the book. Rigoberto picked up the book, pulled up a chair and sat down by the boy. On the cover was a smiling, playful, floppy-eared, brown and white puppy. The pages curled at the edges like the boy’s tousled hair; it had been read and re-read during his short life. He turned the first page and saw the copyright year: 2003. So long ago. Before the boy was born. Before Rigobertowas born. The pages were not quite brittle. He turned another page and read aloud: “My Friend Fernando by María Elena Menes.” Rigoberto touched the boy’s hair. It didn’t feel real: too soft, not of this earth. He sighed, looked at his watch, and sighed again. Rigoberto cleared his throat, turned the page and began to read the book in a soft bedtime voice: “This is the story of my friend Fernando who is the best friend anyone could ever have.”
The book was not long. It had bright pictures on each page. When he reached the end, Rigoberto closed the book and said, “The end.” He looked at the boy. Of course this was his favorite book. A book with his name in the title. A silly little story about a talking puppy who becomes friends with a butterfly. But it was his favorite. Rigoberto stood and walked over to his workstation. He plucked a fresh pencil out of a smudged, ceramic mug and picked up a drawing tablet. He walked back to the small body.
The book was not long. It had bright pictures on each page. When he reached the end, Rigoberto closed the book and said, “The end.” He looked at the boy. Of course this was his favorite book. A book with his name in the title. A silly little story about a talking puppy who becomes friends with a butterfly. But it was his favorite. Rigoberto stood and walked over to his workstation. He plucked a fresh pencil out of a smudged, ceramic mug and picked up a drawing tablet. He walked back to the small body.
“So,” said Rigoberto. “Let’s begin, my boy. Let’s begin.”
* * *
Rigoberto swirled the cream in his coffee slowly, with calculation, as Sonia read the newspaper. Yesterday had sucked his energy; he hurt and each movement took great effort. His eyes fluttered up to Sonia.
“Why?” he asked.
“¿Cómo?
“Why here?”
Sonia put down the paper. “What?”
“Why do we live here? This state? It’s not home. It’s not L.A.
“Well,” she ventured slowly, “you went to college here.”
“And?”
“And then you stayed.”
“And?”
“And then you met me.”
“Oh.”
“And I’m from here.”
“Oh.”
Sonia pulled her chair closer to the table with a squeak. “¿Por qué?”
“I mean, you know, this state. This state. It’s hot. Hot. Too hot.”
Sonia scratched her nose. “This is about weather?
Rigoberto put his spoon down on the napkin. He watched the cotton soak up the coffee creating a small but steady bronze stain. “Never mind.”
Rigoberto put his spoon down on the napkin. He watched the cotton soak up the coffee creating a small but steady bronze stain. “Never mind.”
Sonia looked at him for a few moments. Her eyelashes fluttered and she took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“I mean,” said Rigoberto, “I don’t have to be here. Wedon’t, I mean. You know?”
“But California
“I know.”
“My state has. This state. And Massachusetts Texas
“Yes,” he said. “I know. And New Hampshire
“Yes,” said Sonia. “Why?”
“California
“
“Almost.”
“Proposition 40859.”
Sonia frowned. “You remember the number?”
“Yes. It was easy.”
“Odd number,” she said. “I mean, strange. Hard to remember.”
“No,” said Rigoberto. “It’s my grandfather’s birthday. So I remember it.”
Sonia’s eyes widened. She coughed, a forced cough.
“What?” he asked.
“You,” she said.
“I what?”
“You never mentioned that to me. About your grandfather.”
“April 8, 1959. His birthday. I told you.”
Sonia stood up. “No. No you didn’t.”
Rigoberto wiped his forehead. “Yes I did.”
“No.” She walked to the sink and looked into it.
“I know I did.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s important to me. That’s why.”
Sonia turned on the water and rinsed a cup. “I know.”
“To me.”
“I know,” she said. “Forget it.”
“It?”
“Yes,” said Sonia. She turned off the water and looked out the window. She saw a bird, not a willet, by the lake. It pecked at something in the grass. “Forget it,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Rigoberto gazed at Sonia’s back, his eyes moving slowly from her short, black hair, to sharp shoulders, and then small waist, sliding around pleasant, wide hips, down long legs and finally resting at her small feet. He didn’t want to talk about yesterday. But he had no choice.
“One of the bodies was a boy,” he said. “Young.”
Sonia turned, not quickly, but she moved with a deliberation that startled Rigoberto.
“Boy?”
“Yes.”
She walked back to the table and sat down. “Who would want to have a child fabricated?”
“Actually, you’d think children would be the most common,” he said softly.
“I don’t know that.”
“But they’re not,” he said growing more animated as if he were lecturing. “Usually older people. People grown used to so that it would be hard not to have uncle so-and-so sitting on the couch with everyone else while the TV buzzes away.”
“Yes,” said Sonia. “I understand that.”
“Yes. Me too.”
They sat in near silence for a moment with the hum of the air conditioner offering a constant white noise.
“What position?”
He looked at her but didn’t answer.
“Position?” she asked again.
He cleared his throat. “Standing.”
“Where?”
He cleared his throat again. “In the backyard. With a ball.”
Sonia reached out and touched Rigoberto’s arm. “Outside?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
“Outside?” she said again as she moved her hand from Rigoberto’s arm to her lap. “More coffee?” she finally said, reaching for his cup.
“No,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow I begin the fabrication.”
“Oh.”
The air conditioner clicked off. They sat staring at his empty cup.
* * *
Though he missed L.A.
“Ready, mi cielo?” she asked.
Without turning away his gaze from the sky, he said, “Funny you call me that.”
“Why?”
“Am I really your heaven?”
Sonia pulled in deeper and leaned her cheek on his shoulder. “Cómo no.”
“¿Verdad?” Rigoberto said, now turning to her.
“Of course. Time to go in. Meet some of my friends.”
“But it’s so beautiful outside.”
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