Andres bit down on the cigar that dangled from the left corner of his mouth. A few ashes tumbled down his shirt from the sudden movement but he was too focused to notice. He took the small brush and dipped it into the white paint. Wiping the excess from the side of the can, he attempted to fill in the angry scratch marks embedded into the wood. This morning, not long after his wife and son left for Annapolis, he’d heard the sound. He’d stopped momentarily to look over his shoulder on both sides. It had been a loud bang followed the screech of something sharp dragging against the door. Even though it was probably some large dog, he couldn’t shake the chill in his gut that something was wrong. Standing behind the door, he’d heard something not long after the scraping had stopped; it was the sound of crying.
At fifty years old, Andres wasn’t one to be easily frightened so he’d swung the door open but no one was there. But now that he thought about it, it was Día de los Muertos. Could it have been his brother’s spirit and he didn’t let him in? For a few weeks he’d been having strange dreams that made him wake too early and toss and turn for the rest of the night. He never remembered them when he woke up but he knew that it was because they were too terrible to remember.
These thoughts chewed at him while he painted but he also envisioned the angry face of his wife should he not be able to cover the marks on the door they just bought last week. After several minutes of blotting and brushing, he stood back and examined his work. It was obvious that the pattern of the wood was disrupted; the swirl pattern of the rings dissected by five slightly curved slashes that were a little whiter than the rest of the door. It wasn’t perfect but it would do for now. He stood, his knees creaking like rusted hinges. He was getting too old for this. Despite the fall weather and the dread in his belly, he left the window open a crack.
Inside he breathed in the pleasant scent of freshly baked candied pumpkin and walked over to the altar in the corner of the dining room. Set atop three handmade shelves were candles, skeletal dolls, and dishes of food offerings for the family’s dead. He looked at the picture of the boy in the baseball cap and smiled through the welling tears. He wondered if Carlos and their parents could even see the beautiful things they worked so hard to create every year. He supposed it didn’t matter, his family would honor them and pass down the tradition to their children whether they believed in it or not. Anita, his wife,was a believer. She had gone to her mother’s to put flowers and cakes on her father’s grave. He would have gone with them but this year jobs were being cut down like wheat and he couldn’t afford to take off. Still, making the grinning skulls that adorned the shelves brought a much needed peace of mind, hinting that there was someplace beyond the cold darkness of death.
His teeth clenched. There was no fear when he heard the sound again, just a foreboding sense that his years were over. Death now knocked on the door of his new house whose walls had held so much hope for his family. As the door burst open, he silently thanked the saints that his wife and child were safe.
