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pengychan · 6 years

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[Coco] The Bedside Ghost, Ch.11

Title: The Bedside Ghost Summary: The bell falls but, instead of waking up in the Land of the Dead, Ernesto de la Cruz finds himself with a broken spine - and an unwanted guest at his bedside who claims he can let him have the sweet release of death, if he gives back what he took from him… Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Coco Rivera, Héctor Rivera, Julio Rivera, Imelda Rivera. Rating: T Status: in progress [This is the fic’s tag for all chapters up.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Well. It was about the real Héctor showed up. Keep in mind that this is set about 26 years after his death, so while he's not precisely living it up, he's not doing as badly as he is in the movie - he may not be talked about or able to cross the bridge, but there are several living people who still remember him well. I figure the real trouble for him started when they began to die out.

***

The day of Héctor Rivera’s long-due funeral, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky as far as the eye could see; a warm, bright day that seemed almost an hymn to life.

Coco didn’t know how to feel about it. The sun shone, life went on without him as it had all those years and there was a new life growing in her, another grandchild her papá would never meet. Because there would be another; the doctor had confirmed as much.

Julio, bless his soul, had been almost more shocked to be told he would become a father for the second time than by… anything else she had told him, really, which would have been a lot to take in for anyone. She and her mother had reunited the family in the workshop - after sending Victoria off to a friend’s house despite her protests, because she was still much too young to hear the full story - and told them everything.

There had been shock, and plenty. Julio had hardly let go of her hand for a moment, and Rosita had cried once or twice, but neither of them had looked quite as stunned as Tío Óscar and Tío Felipe. They had known both her papá and Ernesto, after all. “I cannot be,” Tío Felipe had blurted out, eyes wide. His twin had immediately echoed his thoughts.

“They grew up together, they were...”

“... Two peas in a pod since before we knew them…”

“Like Felipe and me!”

“Well, almost like the two of u--”

“No, nothing like the two of you,” their sister had cut them off, forcefully, and they’d immediately fallen quiet, an identical apologetic look on their faces.

They all had promised to say nothing for a time; first they’d bury and mourn him, and make sure everyone knew he’d died only months into his tour - that he hadn’t, after all, ever meant to abandon his family.

“First we clear his name and give him a decent burial,” her mother had said, putting away the business card that Armando Abascal had left them. “We can deal with the rest later.”

Despite the fact the town was still reeling from the news of Ernesto de la Cruz’s death, and wondering whether the body would return to Santa Cecilia at all - talk that was impossible to escape, and that never failed to make her mother scowl - there had been quite a few people at her papá’s funeral; not only family, but also people who had known him before.

“Should have known he wouldn’t have walked out on you just like that,” elderly Raimundo, who’d gifted Coco wood-carved figurines when he came to buy his shoes from them, had said while placing a hand on her arm. “I saw him growing up. Should have known better.”

We all should have known better, Coco had thought, but just nodded in silence.

The funeral had been a simple matter, with the priest reading out a very predictable passage - “Because this, my son, was dead, and he is alive; he was lost, and now he is found” - as the casket was lowered in the ground. The attendees had stayed for some time, and then left; Julio had wanted to stay, but Coco had convinced him to go home with Victoria.

“You should rest, too. The baby--”

“It won’t be long,” she’d promised, and her husband had nodded. A kiss on the lips and he was off to go home, their little girl on his shoulders. Coco watched them leave, a stab of envy in her gut - how low of her, being envious of her own daughter for having a father, but she couldn’t help it - and then walked up to her mother, the widow, who stood in silence over the grave. Her black dress was stark contrast to the colourful flowers all around the tomb.

They stayed quiet for several long minutes before her mamá broke the silence. “He’s home.”

“Yes, mamá. He’s home,” Coco said softly, eyes resting on the wooden cross that would soon be replaced with a proper headstone. Another silence, and it probably would have stretched if not for the shrill voice that rang out suddenly, causing both to recoil.

“Abuelita! Mamá!”

Coco turned to see Victoria running into the cemetery and up to them, and she had no time to call out and ask what was wrong before Victoria reached her, gripped her dress and tilted her head up. “There is a woman at home,” she panted. “She says she has Abuelito’s guitar.”

***

Héctor was almost at his front door when he realized he was being followed.

He was usually much more aware than that of his surroundings, if anything because he’d stepped over a good amount of toes - especially in his attempts to cross the bridge - but at the moment, he was too busy thinking about his latest crossing plan to bother.

This time he would succeed for sure, because he’d had the best idea and only needed the right kind of fluorescent paint, a blanket, some rope, maybe fake horns. No one would question an alebrije crossing the bridge, would they? Of course not. He’d saunter right past the checks and, once he did, nothing could stop him. The crossing guards could babble all they wanted on how the bridge itself wouldn’t let him cross: Héctor would power through the entire damn thing if need be, but he would make it to the other side.

It was easy to think he could actually push through it: it had been a good week, and he couldn’t remember last time he’d felt so full of energy. Even the guys from the band he played with from time to time had noticed as much earlier that day, when they’d met to play for the quince años of a girl who had died only weeks before her fifteenth birthday, and whose grandparents had still wanted her to celebrate it on the day.

“Someone’s talking about you,” old Chicharrón had muttered as they took a short break.

That had snapped Héctor - who had been looking at the celebrating family, faintly wondering what Coco’s quince años had been like - from his thoughts. “Huh?”

“They say that when you feel good all of a sudden, it’s because someone on the other side is talking about you a lot,” Cheech had muttered. “Hope they stop soon, if it makes you this insufferable. Quit jumping around like that while we play, will you?”

Héctor had laughed it off, of course - Cheech was grumpy but not a bad guy, or else he wouldn’t had put in a word with the others to let him play with them a couple of years back - and gone on with the performance, more determined than ever to cross the bridge that year.

Celebrations had gone on well into the night and now, as he walked back home through empty streets, he began weighing his options. Where could he find the right paint? He knew a few people he could ask, but truth be told he’d sort of pissed them off a while ago. But maybe, if he managed to pull the right ropes, he’d--

A skittering sound snapped Héctor from his thoughts, and he stopped in his tracks. There was that noise again, closer, and he turned to an empty street. Still, he wasn’t alone; he felt it in his marrow. “Who’s there?” Héctor called out, turning, the guitar held up in front of him just in case. He’d been jumped only once or twice, but both had been unpleasant experiences he’d rather not repeat. “Anita, if it’s about that gambling debt, I already told you--”

“Yip! Yip!”

Héctor blinked, then laughed and lowered the guitar when he saw four tiny alebrijes - chihuahuas, more accurately - scampering towards him, tails wagging. He crouched down, letting them jump up at him. Two of them rolled on their back for a belly rub, which he was all too willing to give. “Oh, so you have been following me! You gave me a scare, half-pints. If you’re hoping for a snack, sorry, but I ate all the chupalines and--”

“Heel,” a voice called out, very quietly, cutting him off. Héctor looked up, startled; there was a man standing maybe ten meters from him, wearing dark trousers and a white shirt. He hadn’t been there before - maybe he’d emerged from one of the side streets - and Héctor couldn’t see his features and markings clearly enough to tell if it was someone he knew.

But it was someone the alebrijes knew, clearly: they immediately scurried back to him… or at least, two of them did. The other two stayed on their back, clearly expecting more belly rubs, only joining the others when the man called out again. “Diablo, Zita - ven aquí.”

As the dogs ran to the man, Héctor stood again, warily. He picked up the guitar, if anything to have something in his hands to swing if needed. It was beginning to look uncomfortably like the guy, whoever he was, had set his alebrijes out specifically to find him.

“Who’s there?” he called out, taking a step back. The man uttered something - an order for hs alebrijes to stay behind, it seemed, because they all sat - and, after a moment of stillness, he stepped forward, close enough to a streetlight for his features to become visible.

It was… not a face he recognized, exactly. Those markings looked very distinctive, but he had never seen them before. And yet… yet, that voice...

“... Héctor?” he called out, his tone hesitant and shoulders hunched, and for a moment Héctor felt as though something had hit him in the face. He was looking at a skull rather than the face he remembered, of course, and something about his mannerism felt wrong - his friend had always carried himself so proudly, his head held high, his voice loud and impossible not to recognize even from a distance - but still, there could be no mistake.

“Ernesto,” he gasped, dropping the guitar. It clattered on the cobblestones, and he paid it no mind at all. “Dios mío, then… you actually died, there were rumors from new arrivals… but they said you never showed up, we assumed they were exaggerating, there were talks you had died so many times since your accident…” Héctor babbled, and then words failed him.

He suddenly felt incredibly stupid for talking and talking like that, with his best friend there after so many years, and he crossed the distance between them to throw his arms around him. He didn’t even fully register he way Ernesto had stiffened, without returning the hug; after all, he was still probably not used to being all bones just yet.

“Ay, Ernesto, it’s so good to see you! I… how did you-- when did you-- how are you holding up, amigo?” he exclaimed, and pulled back, both of his hands on Ernesto’s shoulders. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” he added. That caused Ernesto’s features to twist for a moment, something almost painful crossing them, and Héctor mentally kicked himself.

Right, he was just deceased. Not the right moment for death jokes, was it?

“Look at you - you’re better looking than me even as a skeleton, how unfair is that?” he asked, a whiny quality to his voice, and smiled broadly when Ernesto’s mouth twitched in a smile of his own. It was faint, but it was there. “Oh, that makes you happy, doesn’t it, cabrón? Is that gray in your hair?”

“... Is that a golden tooth?”

“I like to think it gives me a roguish kind of charm.”

“Ah.”

“The right answer would be ‘yes, absolutely’.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Héctor laughed. “That was awful, but I’ll pretend it was convincing. Ay, I’ve missed you. I heard all about your accident five years ago - that must have been horrifying, I’m so sorry! How does it feel to be a free man again?” he asked. Few details about Ernesto’s condition had made it to the Land of the Dead after the bell had fallen on him, but what little he’d heard - that it had left him bedbound, unable to move or feel anything from neck down - had made his chest cavity ache for him. It ached now, too, to even think about it.

That finally got an actual smile out of Ernesto. “Amazing,” he replied, and Héctor smiled back, patting his shoulder. It was awful to think that his life had become so unbearable death had been a relief, but now that relief had come they may as well celebrate it.

“This calls for a toast. Come over, my place is just around the corner! I should have some tequila left. There’s so much I’ve got to ask--” he trailed off with a yelp when Ernesto suddenly grasped him, holding onto him as tight as Héctor had before.

He blinked, taken aback, when Ernesto spoke quietly. “Lo siento, Héctor.”

“Oye, oye, it wasn’t your fault,” Héctor protested, pulling back and causing Ernesto to blink. “Look, I’m sorry too. About that argument, for deciding to leave with no warning. I thought about it for a long time. I know we made up, but a fight wasn’t one of the last memories I would have wanted to have of you, you know?”

“Héctor--”

“And then that chorizo, stopping to eat was my idea, not yours. A stupid idea, that place was definitely seedy, but performing always made me hungry, you know--”

“No, Héctor--”

“... I just went and croaked in the middle of the street, you had to watch me die, it must have been a rough night for you as well…”

“I--”

“And having to break the news to my family, I’m so sorry it fell on your to - oh, you have to tell me everything!” Héctor exclaimed, realization suddenly hitting him like a bolt of lighting. That was his chance to know what had become of his family in those twenty-six years! Ernesto would know, Ernesto would be able to tell him how they were faring! Of course he would know in a few weeks’ time, because this year he would cross the bridge, but the sooner he could have news, the better.

“Imelda and Coco, how are they? I could never cross the bridge, something must have happened to my photo, but I think about them every day! Coco must be a woman now - and Imelda, how is she? You’ve been in touch, right? I mean, if she gave you the songs and all...”

Any expression on Ernesto’s face seemed to fade into something unreadable. “You could say that. I… let’s go to your place. I believe we need to talk in private.”

Something about that caused a chill to run up Héctor’s spine. “What… is everything all right? Ernesto, are they all right?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to let panic show in his voice, but it must have, for Ernesto reached to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes. Yes, they are all right. I made sure of it, I promise. All is well, they…” a pause, then, “You’re a grandfather, you know.”

If he’d had a heart in his chest, Héctor was sure it would have skipped a beat or two or twenty there and then. “I am… what?”

“Her name is Victoria. She’s almost five.”

Héctor could feel the biggest, dumbest grin spreading on his face. “Abuelo Héctor,” he muttered, and laughed. “My little girl has a little girl! This really calls for a toast! Come with me, and… aren’t your alebrijes coming?”

“... No. They can wait for me here,” he replied. Something seemed off about Ernesto’s voice, but Héctor assumed he was still reeling from, well, dying. That was all right, he thought as he led the way to his apartment, explaining how he played on his own or with other musicians at events and stuff to make ends meet. He’d feel better once he got used to it, and Héctor was ready to help every step of the way.

That’s what amigos are for, after all.

***

When they arrived home Griselda López was sitting at the kitchen table, a small suitcase and a guitar case on the floor by her chair, talking with Rosita over a cup of coffee.

She looked tired, and yet Coco could tell a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. That, she supposed, was understandable: she had been watching over a man’s slow agony for five years, after all, and it had finally come to an end.

“... Tiring, yes, but overall pleasant,” she was saying. “Last time I was in this part of Mexico it was… oh, at the beginning of the Revolution, I believe. Not a time of my life I look upon very fondly, I’m afraid - I lost both of my brothers in the space of a year, in opposite factions.”

“Oh! That must have been dreadful, I am so sorry,” Rosita said, shuddering slightly. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Julio, or… oh, Coco! Mamá Imelda! Here you are!”

Her exclamation caused Griselda to look up at them, and smile. “Señora Rivera. Coco,” she greeted them with a slight nod, and moved as though to stand up. Coco opened her mouth to tell her not to worry, but her mother got there first and gestured for her to stay seated.

“Rosita, would you please give us a few minutes?” she asked, and Coco realized it was neither Rosita nor Griselda she was looking at: her eyes were fixed on the guitar case. “There are a few things I believe we should discuss in private.”

“Oh. Of course,” Rosita replied, standing up. There was some disappointment on her face - she was clearly very curious to know what the visit was all about - but she didn’t try to insist. As the door closed behind her, leaving only the three of them in the kitchen, Coco sat at the table across Griselda. Her mother kept standing, her expression unreadable.

“I don’t believe I had a chance to say I’m sorry for your loss,” Griselda spoke, breaking the silence. Coco opened her mouth to thank her, but her mother spoke first.

“Last I saw you, you stood between me and my husband’s murderer,” she said, very quietly.

Griselda looked back at her, unfazed. “Last you saw me, I was doing my duty.”

“Your duty to a murderer.”

“A duty of care towards a patient, and to keep you from doing something you’d regret.”

That caused her mother’s lips to curl into an odd smile. “I wouldn’t be that certain I’d have regretted it,” she said, and sat, the smile still on her lips. “Did you see him die?”

“I was with him until the very end, yes.”

“I wish it had been me in your place.”

“I wish it had been anyone but me.”

“Did he at least suffer?”

Griselda paused for a moment, and her gaze flickered towards Coco before she turned her attention back on he mother. “I have not come here to share details of his last moments in this world,” she said, very quietly, and reached to take the guitar case on the floor. She put it on the table, sliding it towards them; Coco heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath.

She says she has Abuelito’s guitar.

“One of el señor de la Cruz’s last requests to me was that I returned this to you.”

Slowly, as though moving underwater, Imelda Rivera reached for the guitar case and opened it. Inside was the beautiful white guitar Coco remembered in her father’s hands, the one Ernesto had stolen and played for the world - the one he’d stolen from him along with a songbook, and his life. The guitar her mother had gifted to him for their wedding.

There was a pang of something painful in Coco’s chest as she watched her fingers brushing over the decorated, polished wood in a caress, just as they had over her papá’s casket at the funeral, before it was lowered into the ground. Coco put a hand on her arm, and her mother let out a long breath, finally pulling her hand away from the guitar to place it on her own.

The faraway cast faded from her eyes, and she set her jaw before looking back at Griselda across the table, closing the guitar case with a clack. “My husband’s guitar. What was he hoping to gain by sending it back? Our forgiveness? Our silence?”

“He left instructions for it to be returned after he died, señora Rivera. He hoped for nothing,” was Griselda’s quiet reply, and she took something from her suitcase to place something on top of the guitar case - two reels of tape. “Not for your forgiveness, nor for your silence. I assume el señor Abascal has been in touch,” she added, and glanced at Coco, who nodded.

Armando Abascal and been in touch, yes - had even travelled to Santa Cecilia to speak to them personally, when they had both been in Mexico City. He’d left a business card, though, and Coco had called the number on it from a phone booth. She’d expected to talk with a cold, defensive businessman; the voice on the other hand had been hesitant at times, and even somewhat awkward, but he’d been surprisingly willing to listen.

“He told me he’s just learned that my father wrote the songs, and that he wants to put it right,” Coco said, and gave a small smile. “He talked about credit and royalties an awful lot. We will discuss those, I suppose, before we make it all public. We don’t care about royalties that much. All we care about is that my papá gets credit for his music.”

“That is good to know.”

Coco nodded. “He’s been nothing but helpful, for all that Erne-- de la Cruz said about the record company being a danger. I have to wonder if he made up the threat to keep me from--” she added, only to pause when, slowly, Griselda shook her head.

“Abascal has been nothing but helpful because he was left with no choice. El señor de la Cruz made sure that he’d stand to lose more if he worked against you,” she said, and Coco recoiled a little, suddenly reminded of Ernesto’s message at the hotel’s lobby.

Everything is sorted out. Worry of nothing but finding him.

Coco hadn’t wondered, then, how had he sorted it out; there simply hadn’t been enough time for her to. But now, she wanted to know. Slowly, Coco’s eyes shifted to the tapes. A thought hit her, almost too absurd to be possible. “Those recordings,” she said. “Did he…?”

Griselda nodded, and pushed a tape towards her. “He confessed to taking credit for your father’s songs, yes. He told Abascal that if anything happened to you, it would go to the press. I honestly do not know how much of a danger that man would have truly been, but de la Cruz decided to take... preventive measures.”

“Assuming everyone’s heart to be as black as his own,” her mother said coldly.

“Perhaps. He asked me to ensure you had it after his death, in case Abascal tried to back off. And here,” she added, handing her mamá the other tape, “he confessed to the murder.”

For a moment, neither Coco nor her mother spoke. They exchanged a quick, incredulous glance before turning back to Griselda. “Am I supposed to believe,” her mamá spoke, her voice tight, “that that monster’s dying wish was for us to be sent proof of what he did?”

“Not precisely his dying wish, but it was his wish nonetheless. He specifically asked me to ensure you received the guitar and the tapes. To give you leverage if you ever needed it, I suppose. And a choice.”

That caused her mother to fall quiet, and Coco found she didn’t know what to say either, an odd numbness taking her over. She could only stare at the guitar case, and the tapes - a full confession of all he had done, to be sent to them after his death, when it could no longer benefit him in any way - for several moments. Eventually, it was Griselda to speak again.

“I am glad to know your late husband will have all the due credit for his music. I know you have not made the truth on how he died public yet,” she said, very gently, and stood. “If you wish to, and lack of proof is what keeps you from doing so, that tape is all you need. He confessed to everything. What you decide to do with it is up to you alone.”

Her mother said nothing, gaze fixed on the tape in her hands, and Coco knew she needed a minute alone with her thoughts. So she stood, and accompanied Griselda outside.

“Thank you very much for coming, and for… for everything, really,” she said. “If you’d like to stay for the night…”

Griselda shook her head with a small chuckle. “Oh, no, not at all. I do believe it is best I leave you alone and go my way. I have a friend in San Luz; I was planning to get on the first bus there, and spend a couple of weeks with her. I do need some rest, I believe.”

“What are you going to do next?”

“I’ll probably retire. Age has crept up on me; in these past few months, every task has felt harder,” she said, and smiled faintly. “El señor de la Cruz has left me an exaggerated amount of money. I’ll donate most to the church, and the rest will still be more than enough for me.”

“I see. Have a safe journey to San Luz.”

“Thank you, dear. I wish you all the best,” Griselda replied, and turned from her as they reached the gate - only to stop after a couple of steps when Coco called out. There was something she had to ask, she had to know.

“Did he really ask you to give us the guitar and the tapes, or was it your doing?”

She looked back at her, and seemed slightly offended at the notion. “Of course he did. I would never lie over a such thing.”

“I apologize. It’s just… there are plenty of people who may still love him even after knowing he took credit for someone else’s songs. His last years were hellish enough for the public to be lenient on him. But a murder confession - we could destroy his reputation in minutes.”

“I am sure he was well aware, dear.”

“... I see,” Coco murmured. Thinking back of the red songbook, sent back to her at the hotel, she found the notion didn’t really surprise her after all. “Did he suffer, before he died?”

Griselda stared at her for a moment, as though debating whether to answer, then sighed.

“He did,” she replied. “Sepsis is… not a good way to go. But knowing of your blessing helped. He became unconscious minutes after hearing of it, and didn’t wake up again. He just let go there and then. If you hadn’t… I feel he may be still clinging to life, after all.”

Coco nodded. “I’m... glad I gave him that blessing, whether he deserved or not,” she said, and realized the truth of it only as it left her lips.

Griselda smiled. “You have a good heart.”

“Not as good as you think. I’m not happy he’s dead, I suppose. But I am glad that he’s gone.”

“I think anyone would be in your place,” Griselda replied. “Whatever you decide to do next, I do hope this gives you closure. Perhaps this is the reason why the Lord saw it fitting to spare his life, that day in 1942.”

Or maybe something above decided he simply deserved to suffer, Coco thought, but didn’t say as much. “Perhaps,” she murmured instead, and smiled a bit. “By the way - your hunch was right, you know. I’m twelve weeks in.”

Griselda López - who would go to sleep one night eighteen months later, and awaken to an afterlife that was quite different from how she’d always imagined it to be - blinked at her in confusion for a moment, and then smiled. “Ah, that is amazing news. My congratulations, dear. And you went through so much, too. I am certain your papá would be proud of you.”

Something in Coco’s chest ached, and yet she found herself smiling back.

“Never as much as we are of him.”

***

“A business of her own, really? I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised, it’s Imelda we’re talking about - of course she didn’t just get a job, no señor, she built a business! Isn’t she amazing?”

“Remarkable, yes,” Ernesto said, eyes wandering across the apartment - a small one, but better than plenty of places where they had slept in in their youth - before turning back to the glass of tequila in his hand. He’d drank with Héctor, of course, because he’d been expected to, but each glass had tasted more bitter than the previous, and soon enough he couldn’t force any down his non-existent throat anymore.

He’d busied himself talking instead, telling Héctor everything Coco had told him about her family - Imelda’s shoe-making business, Coco’s husband Julio and their daughter Victoria, a few anecdotes about her uncles and a sister-in-law whose name he’d already forgotten. Not a huge problem: unsurprisingly, most of Héctor’s questions were about his wife and daughter… and even so, he soon enough began running out of things to say.

Coco had told him a few things about her family when she was a guest in his mansion, but not that many. After he made him repeat everything twice, gushed over all of them some more and repeated over and over how he was going to cross the bridge that year, just watch him, he would see his granddaughter, there were a few moments of peaceful silence, a huge grin almost splitting Héctor’s face in two.

It was peculiar, how quickly Ernesto had grown used to seeing skulls everywhere he looked; it seemed more natural than the act of walking, of drinking on his own, of reaching up to brush back his hair. He could almost, almost believe it was all like it had been once, two old friends having a drink, still more boys than men and without the chasm of death and betrayal he’d opened up between them - like the past twenty-six years had never happened.

He found himself wishing more than anything that the moment - the one moment worth seizing, why had it taken him so long to see it? - would last. It did not.

“So, what about you? I know you got famous - the greatest, apparently! You really did it. I knew you would. How come your arrival isn’t on everyone’s mouth?”

Well, it was time. Ernesto kept his gaze on his glass for a moment, feeling the familiar lump where his throat should be, the voice in the back of his head crying out for him not to tell him, no one should know, no one must know. Just keep his mouth shut, pretend nothing had happened, try to pick up where they’d left off - take back what he’d thrown away.

Except that the Riveras knew and, perhaps, so did the world by now. It was only a matter of time before Héctor found out, whether from him or someone else.

It’s all done now. You moved Heaven and Earth, like you promised.

Except that he hadn’t. There was one last hurdle to move, now, even if it meant burning a bridge once again, and this time for good.

Lo siento.

Save it for the real Héctor, amigo.

“Ernesto?” Héctor called out, concern plain in his voice, and that made things worse. He hadn’t changed at all, had he?

“I didn’t tell them who I was. When I arrived,” he said. It wasn’t a reply Héctor had expected.

“Huh? Why? They’d have welcomed you like a king. You’re as famous here as you were in the Land of the Living, you know. They’d all have asked you to sign their ribs or something!”

Ernesto forced himself to swallow the tequila in one gulp, along with all of his fears. It tasted bitter as ash. He put down the glass, and forced himself to look back at Héctor.

“Your songs,” he said. “It was your songs that made me famous. But if you have heard about my career, you already know as much.”

He did; Ernesto could see it in the bitterness that crossed his features for a moment before he shrugged. “Sí. There was a song I’d rather you-- well. You couldn’t know it was private. But I didn’t mind you singing the others, really. I mean, music is meant to be heard, no?”

You know I would have given it to you if you’d asked, right?, the hallucination’s voice echoed in the back of Ernesto’s mind. You only had to ask.

His hand clenched on the glass, one of the involuntary movements he had yet to get used to again, but he kept his voice even when he spoke again. “You know I never gave you credit.”

Héctor made a face. “I do. That was kind of a bummer, yes. People kept saying I was loco when I told them we used to play together, let alone when I tried to tell them…” he paused, and the look on his face turned accusing… but only for a moment. Then he shook his head, and smiled again - that smile he remembered so well. “I figured it must have stung, thinking about me - let alone talking about it. I didn’t mean to die on you, amigo. I didn’t get a choice.”

“No,” Ernesto said, very quietly, glancing at the empty glass in front of Héctor. “You did not.”

“So well, really, it’s all right. After all that happened, and… now you’re here. I mean, we’re both dead - would be a dumb thing to fight over,” he added, and grinned. “So it’s a closed matter, amigo. I never cared to become famous, you know that. You just pay for my drinks for the rest of our after life, and we’re good. Or, better yet… ay, of course!” he exclaimed, jumping on his feet and causing Ernesto to recoil. “You can help me out with the bridge!”

Ernesto blinked. Héctor had mentioned crossing a bridge a few times, but to be honest he wasn’t entirely sure what it was exactly about. “Bridge?”

“Right, right, you’re new - didn’t explain you too much, did they?” Héctor muttered, running a hand through his hair before he began pacing back and forth. “The marigold bridge. It appears every year, on Día de los Muertos, to let us through and visit the living. But only people with photos or portraits on their ofrenda can cross - you can tell when your picture is up because the petals glow beneath you to show the path home. They never did for me, and I was never able to cross so far. But I did try, believe me. Every year, I tried everything to see my little girl again. They wouldn’t let me because my photo was never put up on the ofrenda. Something must have happened to it - my bad, should have had more pictures taken, even if it was expensive - but now you’re here! You can help me out!”

“... Héctor, about that--”

“I mean, you’re Ernesto de la Cruz! They won’t deny you a small request…”

“Héctor--”

“... And you wouldn’t deny a small favor to an amigo,” Héctor finished with a wide smile, and put a hand on his shoulder. It was meant to be a friendly gesture. It felt very, very heavy. “Amigos help other amigos! We’re going to cross together in a month’s time, how about that? Back in our hometown! It’s been so long, too long. I wonder if the old cantina is still where it stood - we can check that out on the way to my place! Remember how we used to…” Héctor paused when Ernesto looked away and shook his head.

I want to go home, he thought, but of course he already knew that he could not. He’d burned that bridge, struck the match and watched it go up in smoke and ashes. No amount of marigold petals could fix it. “No,” he said, and drew in a long breath. It was odd how the instinct to breathe was still there without lungs. “You won’t need me to cross the bridge.”

“Well, I do have a really good plan this year, so probably not, but it would be so much easier if you put in a good word,” Héctor said, hope plain in his voice. “You said you’d move--”

“... Heaven and Earth for you, mi amigo,” Ernesto finished, and he felt really, really tired. “I did. I moved Heaven, Earth, and everything inbetween. Just not for you. Lo siento, Héctor.”

“Wha-- Ernesto, listen. It would only take you a few words” Héctor insisted, now very close to pleading. “It would mean everything to me. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important, but my photos must have been lost and I see no other--”

“Your photo wasn’t lost.”

The grip on his shoulder suddenly went slack. “... Qué?”

With what felt like a terrible effort, Ernesto lifted his gaze from his empty glass to meet Héctor’s. He looked confused but, most of all, he looked worried. He must have known, Ernesto could guess, that perhaps his photo was neither lost nor damaged. He must have wondered, year after year, if the truth was different - if he’d simply been left off the ofrenda entirely, by the family he’d loved more than anything. More than anyone. More than him .

“They still have your picture, as far as I know. You could never cross the bridge because they never put it on any ofrenda.”

The hand on his shoulder was pulled back as though he’d suddenly caught fire, Héctor’s eyes widening as he took a step back. “What?” he muttered, hurt and surprise plain on his face. “Why… why would they keep me off the ofrenda?”

Ernesto closed his eyes, and swallowed. “Because they didn’t know it was needed.”

“But… all right, no one living knows for sure that the dead do return to visit ofrendas, but it’s tradition, I figure Imelda--”

“They didn’t know you were dead, Héctor.”

He spoke quietly, but his voice felt loud as a gunshot to his own ears, or lack thereof. Héctor’s arms fell by his sides like the limbs of a mannequin whose strings had been cut. He stared at him for several moments, mouth hanging open, as though battling to comprehend what he’d just heard.

“They didn’t-- but that can’t be! You… you were there, you saw me die, you would-- you must have--” Héctor sputtered, shaking his head, and then looked at him as though he’d just grown a second head, as though nothing of what he’d said made sense.

Looking back, Ernesto could only agree. Nothing of what he’d done made sense.

You know I would have given it to you if you’d asked, right? You only had to ask.

“Ernesto, answer to me! You told them I died! You must have! Look at me and tell me --!”

“I didn’t,” Ernesto choked out, causing him to fall silent for the second time in a minute. He kept his head low, hands gripping the edge of the table. Something in his chest cavity hurt, and each word was more difficult to force out than the next. He shut his eyes.

“No. No, it’s not true.”

“I never told them a thing. Lo siento, Héctor.”

“No. No, no, no,” Héctor was repeating like a broken disk. “That’s… all these years--”

Ernesto drew in a deep breath. “They thought you’d left them behind,” he heard himself saying, and opened his eyes. It took all of his willpower to look up, meeting Héctor’s horror-stricken gaze. “They do know now. I told them the truth. This year, they should--”

There was a cry of dismay and anger, drowning out his last words, and Héctor suddenly grasped the front of his shirt, pulling him up. He had never done that before, wouldn’t have been able to if he’d tried, thin as he was, but anger lent him strength. The next moment Ernesto’s back hit the wall, and he had a moment to panic at the sting - no not my spine please not the spine what will happen if it breaks again - before Héctor’s grip on the collar of his shirt tightened, and he gave him a violent shake, features distorted.

“How could you!” he screamed, shaking him. “You knew I was trying to go home to them! You knew I had died! You took the songs, took credit, and let them believe I had abandoned them? Why? Because I’d had enough of your stupid musical fantasy? Was that it?”

Ernesto reached to grasp Héctor’s wrists, but didn’t try to push him away. In some absurd way, he found his fury easier to deal with than his joy upon seeing him. That, at least, he knew how to respond to. “I couldn’t let them know how you’d died.”

Whatever answer Héctor had been expecting, that clearly wasn’t it. He blinked, some anger giving way to confusion. “Wha-- really? That’s it? You thought dying of food poisoning was too embarrassing to tell my wife and child? Dios mío, you can’t be seriously telling me--”

“It wasn’t food poisoning, Héctor. It was me,” Ernesto rasped, cutting him off.

Héctor fell silent to stare at him in silent disbelief. “Qué…?”

“I killed you,” Ernesto said. Once again, telling the truth felt like pulling out a rotten tooth with no anesthesia, and with no relief to follow: only a moment of stasis, waiting for the worst.

Héctor stared at him for a few more moments, then confusion turned into sorrow. “Oh. Oh, mi hermano, no,” he exclaimed, and let go of his shirt to put a hand on his shoulder. “Good God, was that why… did you really think they would blame you? It was never your fault.”

Wait, what?

“No, you don’t understand. It was. I--”

“You’re… you’re not well. Sit down. I’ll get you some water, sí?”

“Héctor--”

“You’re confused, happens to the recently deceased, you know?” Héctor was babbling, lifting up the chair that had been knocked over when he’d dragged Ernesto off it and gesturing for him to sit. “I should have realized, I’m so sorry I lost control. You’re not thinking straight, should have guessed. And I gave you alcohol on top of it.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. “Héctor. No. I killed you.”

“I really hope this is only a temporary thing, because I’d hate to think you blamed yourself all these years, mi amigo. Look, how about you eat something? No chorizo, bet you can imagine why I no longer eat that, but I should still have some--” he babbled on, only to trail off when Ernesto stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, holding tight.

“Héctor,” he called out, very quietly. His old friend slowly turned to look at him and there it was, Ernesto could see it in his eyes - the beginning of a gnawing doubt. “Do you remember when I called for a toast? Right before you stepped out?” he asked, drew in a deep breath when Héctor nodded. “I had rat poison on me. I slipped it in your drink.”

“No,” Héctor replied, almost matter-of-factly, but something in his voice shook. “You did not.”

“I did. I wasn’t certain it would be enough to kill you. For all I knew it may have only made you sick, but I was willing to face either outcome as long as you didn’t board that train. Not with your songbook. When you decided to leave with it, I… I couldn’t do it without your songs. You were taking all I had ever hoped and dreamed to achieve with you. I couldn't… I thought I couldn’t let it happen. I thought it was you or… or my dream.”

Héctor stared at him, transfixed, before shaking his head. “No, you can’t have done it,” he protested weakly. Ernesto looked down and let go of his shoulder, letting his arm drop.

“I was willing to do anything,” muttered. “Whatever it took.”

Héctor staggered back, shaking his head. He had to lean on the table for support. “No,” he repeated, but this time he sounded desperate - denying what he knew to be true. Ernesto would know: it was what he’d sounded like when he had tried to protest with doctors that he couldn’t be, he couldn't have been left paralyzed for good, it wasn’t possible.

“I poisoned you.”

“You’re lying. You would never. You were… you are my best friend, almost a brother, and--”

“And you were mine, and I still murdered you,” Ernesto cut him off, and sighed. It felt as though a weight had been lifted on his chest, only to be placed on his shoulders.

For several moments, Héctor said nothing: he only stared at him with wide eyes, the same way he’d look at him when they were kids and Ernesto had come up with an especially scary story - waiting for resolution so that it would be over with and he could laugh about his own fear, which would seem so foolish once his mind was back in a world where monsters didn’t lurk under the bed.

They lurked in a glass of tequila, and behind the smile of an old friend.

“Ernesto,” Héctor finally spoke, very slowly. Ernesto could almost see the gears turning in his head, the way he went through every moment of that night, every word, every gesture. “Tell me you didn’t do it. That it was just back luck. That you’re making this up,” he pleaded, and his voice broke up towards the end. “Tell me it’s some kind of sick joke and I’ll believe it.”

He would have, Ernesto was sure of it. If he denied everything there and then, he would choose to believe him. Somehow, it made it all even worse. He shook his head, ignoring the part of him that cried out for him to deny it, and shut his eyes.

“Perdóname,” was all he said.

He didn’t see Héctor lunging at him, but he heard his cry of anger and dismay, and felt the impact that sent them both tumbling on the ground, the weight on his ribcage, the blows that rained down on him. A fist cracked against his jaw, causing his skull to bounce against the floor, and his vision swam. He reached up to shield his head with a cry as Héctor kept hitting blindly.

“HOW COULD YOU! HOW COULD YOU! YOU TOOK EVERYTHING AWAY FROM ME!”

There were more blows, and he quickly lost count; all he could focus on was keeping his head shielded and teeth clenched. Trying to fight back, or get him off himself - he could do it, he was stronger, had always been - didn’t even cross his mind.

And then it was over. With one last cry and a punch that cracked one of the wooden boards next to Ernesto’s head, Héctor tore himself away from him and fell on his knees only a few steps away, cradling his right hand to his chest. As he sat up, if shakily, Ernesto could see cracks across the finger bones that hadn’t been there before.

“You rat,” Héctor choked out, eyes shut. “I just wanted to go back home.”

“You can now,” Ernesto found himself saying, his voice unsteady. His arms, ribs and jaw hurt, but he hardly noticed. “They… they know the truth now. The entire truth. You can cross--”

“Once a year,” Héctor cut him off, his voice hollow. “I should have had a lifetime with them.”

“Lo sien--”

“Do not finish that sentence,” he snapped, lifting his head to glare at him. There were fury and disgust to match Imelda’s, but far more hurt. “Some amigo. Get out of my sight, Ernesto. Now.”

“Héctor--”

“OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

The scream was more deafening than the final toll of the bell that had fallen on him, and it filled him with almost as much terror. Ernesto was out of the door the next instant, down the stairs and back into the road as though he had the devil at his heels - away from the man he'd killed, from the empty glasses, from the bridge he'd burned to ashes all over again. He kept running through dark streets until his legs failed him, and only then he stopped. He let himself drop on the ground against a wall, covering his face with both hands.

Nothing else I can do, he thought, and it was true; the only right thing for him to do now was leaving Héctor be, but where did it leave him? He stayed there, shaking, not knowing what to do, until he heard a whine. He tore his hands off his face to see his dogs staring up at him, eyes huge, tails wagging slowly. Zita - old Zita, the last of them to leave him behind in the Land of the Living, who'd died in her sleep by his side - stepped forward and nudged at his shin. Ernesto smiled weakly.

“Spirit guides,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, and stood slowly, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Very well. Guide me, then. Where do I go from here?”

His dogs - his alebrijes - yapped and, with a wag of their tail, they were off. He followed wherever they’d lead him, leaving behind what had been his best friend, and his own name, for the last time.

From that moment on, no one would see Ernesto de la Cruz ever again.

***

“You haven’t listened to it, have you?”

“I have no desire to hear that snake’s voice again. Also, we don’t have a player.”

“Heh. True. But we could get one. Not to hear this tape, but…” Coco let her voice fade away, and there were a few moments of silence as she and her mother sat side by side on her bed. The guitar was on the bed, too, in its case, but it her mother's attention was fixed on the tape in her hands, the one with the murder confession. She slowly put it down on the small table by the bed before she spoke.

“Music,” she murmured. “He was murdered for it.”

“He was murdered because he chose us over it, and because Ernesto wanted fame and glory,” Coco replied. “We can never have papá back. But music... that we can reclaim.”

“... Lo sé,” her mother said, and gave a long sigh before she spoke again, her voice harsher. “We are never going to listen to any of his recordings. Not in this household.”

Coco nodded. It still stung a bit, to think that she’d only heard most of her father’s songs through de la Cruz - and the fact those recordings would keep existing. She was rather sure they could have them taken off the market if they pressed for it, but she was reluctant to do it. Even if through his murderer, her papá’s music had struck a chord with so many and she, more than anyone, knew how important a song can be in hard times.

“That goes without saying,” she finally said, and leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder, a hand reaching to rest on her own stomach. “You know, there was a song papá always sang to me. Our secret song. I kept singing at night when I was little, and I sang it to Victoria when she was a baby. I would like to sing it openly now, to her and to the new baby.”

Her mother’s lips curled in a faint smile. “I never knew.”

“I also dance in secret. I can be sneaky. ”

“Just like your papá.”

Coco chuckled, then her gaze fell on the tape. “... What are we going to do about it?”

Her mother stiffened. “I’d love to have it broadcast on the radio,” she said, her voice tight. “To tell everyone how your father really died. To scream de la Cruz’s guilt from the rooftops.”

“But…?” Coco asked, though of course she already knew the answer. There was one reason only why her mother could possibly hold back from doing all that - their family.

“We will tell everyone it was Héctor to write those songs, once everything has been dealt with. He’s owed that much,” was the reply. “There will be some upheaval - nothing we cannot deal with. But this…” her voice faded, but Coco knew exactly what she was thinking.

Making the murder public would cause a storm, and their family would be caught right in the middle of it, their quiet lives and maybe even their business turned on its head, perhaps beyond repair. They had a taped confession, yes, but they would also need to exhume the poor remains they had just now put to rest. The public may accept someone else had written the songs once the record company admitted as much publicly, but she knew plenty of people would refuse to believe Mexico’s most beloved musician may be a murderer - no matter what proof they showed.

There would be rumors, doubts, slander. He’d been sick, his mental state deteriorating; they’d say they had manipulated him to confess something he’d never done. On her own, she knew, Imelda Rivera wouldn’t hesitate to fight all of it with her head held high, a bastion refusing to bend to the storm, but she wasn’t on her own. Her family came first, little Victoria and the child yet to come, and she wouldn’t drag them in it. Coco took her hand and squeezed.

“Whatever you decide to do, I’ll be on your side,” she finally murmured. Her mother smiled.

“Thank you, mija,” she said, and took the tape. She stared at it for a moment before she opened a drawer, put it in, and shut it. “We know what happened. So will Victoria when she'd old enough, and the child you're carrying, and their children. We're his family. It was us de la Cruz owed the truth. Not the world.”

Coco reached to hold her, her mother held her back, and for a long time they said nothing.

***

“YOU DENSE MOTHERFUCKER” -- Ernesto at some point, probably. (Okay seriously now, only the epilogue left! I'll be traveling, these days, but it should be rather short, so I might be able to post it by next Friday. If not, I'll aim for the following Friday.)

***

[Back to Chapter 10]

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #coco #bedside ghost

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