Day of the Dead

Every workday was the same. Maria boarded the bus to arrive at La Quinta at 5:45, wearing muted green slacks and print smock—her uniform. At work, she set out breakfast items: Bagels and muffin tops, wrapped and sealed. Cereal in square boxes. Spoons, knives, stirring sticks. Non-dairy creamer, sugar, tea bags. Small cartons of milk. Fresh fruit: apples, oranges, bananas.

After she checked the fruit juice machine and coffee pots, Maria reported to the laundry room, where she and others folded towels and cleaning rags until it was time to get instructions and pack the carts.

Packing the cart was always the same. White bath towels, hand towels, washcloths, floor mats, wrapped plastic cups, toilet paper, soap, tourist brochures, cleaning supplies, and a Gideon’s Bible, in case one disappeared. But that rarely happened.

After each of them cleaned six rooms they reported to Matilda, head of housekeeping. After a fifteen-minute break they stacked the cart again. After cleaning, they helped out in the laundry, with piles of white sheets and towels to wash, dry, and fold. An endless cycle.

Sometimes they worked in pairs. Maria liked to work with Sophie. Maria usually took the bathroom. From the other room she could hear the TV—Sophie said it helped her learn English—but Maria knew that Sophie was addicted to soap operas.

Maria would think about what was happening at home—Mama making tortillas and beans with kids underfoot and sometimes chickens if the screen door wasn’t closed properly, before she went to the market. Carlos eating fried eggs and salsa, prepared by one of her sisters. Then he would go to the gas station where his uniform got smudged and greasy. Maria hardly ever messed up her own uniform. She had to wash his every night. I am a good wife, she thought.

At the motel, the only thing that changed was the condition of the rooms when the guests left. Mostly, though, it was the same—bed unmade, piles of used towels, drawers left open, lamps on, newspapers scattered—as if the guests had been interrupted and hurried out.

In the eight months Maria worked there she had only missed two days. One because of her miscarriage and one because Mama was sick and there was no one to run her stand at the market. Mama sold fresh juices mixed with ice and sugar—watermelon, pineapple, cantaloupe, and lime. Unlike La Quinta, the market was lively. There was live music day and night, shops full of Mexican clothes and trinkets, food and pastries. Maria had grown up going to the market, watching the tourists buy things that were exotic to them but quite ordinary to her: embroidered dresses and blouses, sombrero hats, Mexican pottery, Day of the Dead figures, jewelry.

Some people thought Maria had lost the baby because she was working too hard. Carlos wanted her to quit her job and stay home, but they needed the money. One day she was on her knees cleaning the bathroom floor and the pains had come. Sophie had finished her rooms that day. That night and the next day Maria lay in bed saying “Hail Marys,” but the baby died anyway. Blood came in waves, until finally she saw it: the lump that was her child. Carlos buried it in the backyard. He cried, Mama cried, her sisters cried. They lit candles and prayed while Maria wondered what she had done wrong.

Mama and Carlos argued with her over whether she should keep working. But Maria went back, and every day went on like every other. Even if she were transferred to another La Quinta, there would be same plastic bougainvillea under the fountain in the lobby, same pictures, same architecture. Was this supposed to be a Mexican motel? There would never be such uniformity in Mexico. That was a word Sophie taught her. Sophie knew more English than Maria. Must be the soap operas, Maria thought.

Maria was thinking about the word “uniformity” when she knocked on the door to room 105. No answer. She knocked again. “Maid service.” Still, silence. Maria opened the door with her master key. A woman with blond hair sat at the desk facing the opposite wall.

“I don’t need anything,” said the woman.

“Clean towels?”

“No.” The woman did not turn around.

“I’ll come tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

The next day, the same. The woman sat at the desk, writing in a book.

“Can I do anything for you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Fresh towels?”

“No.”

“There’s a continental breakfast in the lobby.”

“I don’t care for breakfast.”

“I’ll check back tomorrow.”

“That will be fine. If I’m here tomorrow.”

Maria closed the door. She was puzzled. On the chart the room was booked for two weeks, with an arrow drawn showing that the guest might stay longer.

“There’s something strange with the lady in 105,” she told Sophie.

“Yes?”

“She’s so quiet, not doing anything, not wanting to go out—”

“Maybe she’s writing a romance novel. Maybe she has a secret life at nighttime.”

“I don’t think so,” said Maria. “She seems sad, tired.”

“She should turn on the TV,” said Sophie. “Anyway, it’s not your problem.”

The next day when Maria knocked the woman said, “Come in.”

“Good morning,” said Maria.

“Yes, it is morning,” said the woman, sitting at the desk. Then she turned to face Maria. Maria was startled by her thin, drawn face. The woman seemed more than tired. She seemed—sick.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“No.”

“More towels?”

“No thank you.”

“How do you like San Antonio?”

No answer. “Have you been to the Alamo?”

“No.”

“There are brochures in the drawers.”

“Thank you.”

Maria paused. “Can I bring you some coffee from the lobby—or a bagel?”

The woman turned to look at Maria. “Why should it matter to you if I live or die?”

“Why? You must be hungry. Perhaps you want some fruit? Coffee?”

“No. Well, juice, perhaps. Not coffee.”

“I’ll bring some juice.”

Maria waited until the desk clerk was busy before she filled up a tray with juice, muffin tops, a bagel, knife, napkins, and some fruit. She slipped out through the door feeling like a thief.

“Thank you,” said the woman, gesturing to the dresser. “You can leave it there.”

“If there’s anything else—”

“No.”

“Please ring me through housekeeping. I am Maria.”

“Thank you, Maria.” The woman put her head in her hands. Maria went out.

“What happened?” asked Sophie at break time.

“Nothing. But I took her some food.”

“We’re not supposed to do that!”

“Sophie—she’s sick. Don’t tell anyone. Let’s see what happens.”

“Ok but be careful.”

At home she told Mama and Carlos about the woman.

“What is her face like?” said Mama.

“Thin. And tired.”

“You take her some enchiladas.”

“Maria—you can’t take food to a hotel guest!” Carlos sat digging the dirt from his fingernails with a kitchen knife.

“She is sick,” said Mama firmly. “They may help her get better.”

It was quiet in the kitchen until Carlos asked, “Is she rich?”

“I don’t know,” said Maria.

“She can get her own food,” muttered Carlos.

“Tell her we’ll light a candle for her,” said Mama, glaring at Carlos.

“She might think that’s strange,” said Maria. Besides, she thought, it didn’t work for the baby.

The next morning, she took enchiladas Mama had prepared. When she knocked, the woman said, “Come in, Maria.” She was lying in bed.

“Did you sleep well?” asked Maria.

“Not really. But I slept.”

“I brought you some enchiladas, from Mama. She’s a good cook.”

“I’ve never had enchiladas for breakfast.”

“You can have them later if you want. I can get you some bagels.”

“So nice of you, Maria. Why are you kind to me?”

Maria shrugged. “You deserve kindness, like everyone.”

“Do I? I don’t feel as if I do. Tell me about yourself, Maria. How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“And you live at home?”

“Yes, with Mama, Carlos and two little sisters—”

“Is Carlos your brother?”

“No, ma’am. We’re married. Since I was eighteen.”

“Do you hope to have children?”

“My baby—he died.”

“How sad.”

“I was only four months pregnant. Do you have children?”

The woman sighed. “Do you like working here?” she asked.

“It’s a job. I wanted to go to college, but there was no money.”

“Could you—bring me some juice, Maria?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can call me Liz.”

“Yes, ma’am, Liz.” The woman smiled.

Maria went to get a tray of food. This time she didn’t feel guilty.

“Thank you, Maria. I will eat some of that. And later, the enchiladas.”

“Mama lit a candle for you,” said Maria.

“A candle? Why?”

“You seem to be sick.”

“And a candle will help?”

“It can heal or comfort the person you are thinking of.”

“Well, no one has done that for me. I hope it will help.”

“Have faith.”

“I have never had faith in anything except myself—and perhaps it’s too late for that.”

“It’s not too late.”

For the next four days Maria brought in breakfast for Liz and something from Mama. They talk for a while before Maria would have to go clean the next room. Liz wanted to hear all about life at home.

On Saturday Maria told Liz that she wouldn’t be working on Sunday.

“I won’t expect breakfast,” said Liz.

“Why don’t you come down to El Mercado.”

“Where?”

“El Mercado—the Mexican market.”

“It’s open on Sunday?”

“It’s open, all the time—day and night. There’s a mariachi band and things to buy. And Mama—she sells juices—watermelon and cantaloupe and—”

“I could take a taxi there?”

“I could come pick you up. We can ride the bus downtown and then take the trolley car. It’s only a quarter.”

“That’s very kind, Maria. But I couldn’t impose.”

“We go to Mass early. I could show you the market. And Mama wants to meet you.”

“I would like to meet her—to thank her.”

“Shall I come for you around eleven?”

“Yes, Maria.”

When she got home, they could hardly believe that Maria was going to bring a hotel guest to the market.

“All the tourists go,” said Maria.

“But they don’t go with their maids,” said Carlos.

“She’s different.”

Mama lit the candle and smiled. “You’re a good girl, Maria. Thinking of others. Something magic will come from it.”

“I don’t believe in magic,” said Carlos.

Mama frowned. “It is everywhere around us, but not everyone can see it.”

On Sunday Maria put on her bright yellow Mexican skirt, her embroidered blouse, and a multi-colored belt. After Mass she took the bus to the La Quinta, feeling strange and a little special. I am like a guest myself, she thought with a smile.

“What are you doing here, Maria?” James, the Sunday desk clerk, stared at her as she headed for room 105.

“I—I am meeting a guest to go to the market.”

“What?”

Maria felt dizzy. She was not a guest herself after all. Perhaps he would not let her go with Liz or even let her leave a message.

Liz came out of her room. “Maria, are you ready?” she called out enthusiastically.

“Yes, ma’am, Liz.”

“Young man, would you call us a cab?”

James’ cheeks turned red. “Of course,” he mumbled.

They waited in the lobby, Maria and Liz sitting together next to the plastic bougainvillea and the fountain.

Liz looked elegant, wearing grey slacks and a creamy silk blouse, a scarf with pale flowers on it, and sunglasses. The taxi came and Liz took Maria’s arm as they went out. James stared through the window.

Downtown, Maria pointed out to Liz the major sites—the Alamo, the Menger Hotel, the River Walk. “Let’s take the trolley car from here, only fourteen blocks—”

“And only a quarter,” laughed Liz.

They boarded the brightly painted trolley. Liz seemed to enjoy the ride, across the bridge to the market, crowded and full of life and color.

“Oh, my,” Liz said, gazing in amazement. “But I have to rest.” They stopped, and she sat on a bench. The music from the mariachi band was loud and joyous. Women and girls wearing crowns of flowers with streamers walked by. A beggar approached them, and Liz handed him five dollars.

“Gracias,” he murmured. Maria thought about what five dollars could buy.

They walked through the crowd, Liz’ eye caught by the colorful clothes and pots for sale.

“Can I buy you anything, Maria?”

“Oh, thank you—no.” Maria felt embarrassed. “Look—there’s Mama.”

Mama’s booth with the painted flowers was just past the band. They watched as she filled a plastic glass with ice and a bright pink liquid.

“That’s watermelon juice,” said Maria. “The most popular.”

“Let’s have some,” said Liz.

“Mama, meet Liz,” introduced Maria.

“Miss Liz, it is an honor.” Mama smiled, lowering her eyes in respect.

Liz took Mama’s hand. “Thank you for the food. For the candles. And for Maria.”

“Maria—she is treating you right?”

“Absolutely.”

“I brought you a candle for your room,” said Mama. “It will get rid of problems. Just light it and pray.”

Maria felt embarrassed again. Liz had told her that she didn’t believe in God.

“May I take you to lunch, Mrs. Hernandez?” asked Liz. “You and Maria.”

“When Carlos comes, we can go,” said Mama. She poured two glasses for them, refusing to take money. “Take her shopping, Maria.” A line had formed behind them.

While Liz looked around, Maria wondered how it would be in the restaurant. Mama never ate in restaurants.

“What are these, Maria?” Liz asked, looking at tiny sculptures of skeletons—skeleton brides and grooms, skeleton babies and children, skeleton cats and dogs and donkeys and monkeys, skeletons in boxes, skeletons with flowers on their heads.

“Those are for El Dia de los Muertos—the Day of the Dead.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a holiday we have in November, to honor the dead,” said Maria. “Lots of festivities—parties and parades and candles—”

“It’s not a sober event?”

“Oh, no. The dead want us to be happy. We celebrate them. Sometimes we have picnics on their graves.”

Liz came closer to the little figures. “I’ll buy some. Help me pick some out.”

Maria selected festive skeletons and a miniature mission.

They filled a basket with the figures. “I never thought skeletons were joyful, Maria, and here I am about to become one.”

“Pardon?”

“I have cancer.” Liz smiled, turned, and began to walk back to Mama’s cart. Carlos was there, making up more of the watermelon juice. They went to “Mi Tierra”—the most popular restaurant of the market. Maria only thought about what Liz had told her. Cancer. Was she going to die?

Liz looked tired but seemed to enjoy the meal. “This isn’t as tasty as your cooking, Mrs. Hernandez,” she said. Maria was grateful that Mama wasn’t talking about magic or candles or God.

“You are going to get better, Miss Liz.” Mama nodded vigorously.

“I am not sure,” said Liz. “But thank you for your confidence. I’m tired. I’ll take a taxi back.”

“I will go with you,” offered Maria. But Liz shook her head. As Liz got into the taxi with her basket of skeletons, Maria felt that Mama must be proud, as she was, to have a friend who would ride in a taxi rather than the bus. But after waving goodbye, Mama was frowning. “She’s not well.” Maria told her about the cancer. They lit more candles that night.

The next morning Mama insisted on preparing a jar of chicken soup for Liz, and Maria got to work later than usual.

“You won’t believe it,” said Sophie. “The lady in 105 left.”

“No,” gasped Maria.

Maria didn’t wait to stack her cart. She ran to 105, her heart beating like a wild bird trapped indoors. Maria knocked. No answer. Her hands shook as she opened the door.

It was dark inside, except for the light of a candle—Mama’s candle—sitting on the dresser in a circle of little skeletons. Skeletons adorned with flowers, wedding veils, top hats. Baby skeletons, animal skeletons. Skeletons in little boxes, smiling.

No Liz. Maria began to weep, covering her face with her hands. She didn’t notice when Sophie and Matilda came in, light falling into the room from the door.

“Maria?” Sophie’s voice brought her back.

“She was my friend,” sobbed Maria. “Where has she gone?”

“Look, Maria. There’s a letter,” said Sophie.

“Please leave me alone.” Even Matilda said nothing as the two left the room. I don’t care if I lose my job, thought Maria. I need to be here with my friend.

She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the letter. Some bills fluttered out, falling onto the floor.

“Dear Maria, I am feeling better and decided to go home. The candle must have worked. But I wanted to leave it here in honor of your child. If there is an afterlife, I am sure he is happy to have you as his mother. You will have another child. You have so much to give. I hope you will continue your education; mothers need it more than anyone. May God—if there is one—bless you and bring you happiness and peace. With love, Liz”

Maria glanced at the floor and picked up five one-hundred-dollar bills. Tears watered her cheeks.

In a little while Sophie came by with a cart. “I didn’t think you were in the mood for stacking,” she said.

“Do I still have my job?” asked Maria.

“Matilda isn’t angry. She just didn’t know what was going on.”

“I’d like to clean this room by myself.”

“Ok.”

It wasn’t a hard room to clean. Liz had barely left any trace that she had been there. Only one thing was different—the Bible was gone.