Skateboard

Skateboard

Bill VanPatten

Tito lay in bed, his ears tuned to every sound in and outside the family’s house, unable to shake La Llorona from his six-year-old mind. She had to be a rotting corpse, he thought, dragging herself around in tattered clothes like a chained ghost in a horror movie, a putrid smell clinging to her flesh like an invisible shroud. In his mind he could hear her plaintive wail in Spanish, asking where her children were.

¿Dónde están, mis hijos? 

It was his cousin’s fault he couldn’t sleep. After dinner, Antonio—who reveled in being three years older and four inches taller than Tito—had insisted their grandmother recount the tale of the Mexican mother who drowned her children. Setting the mood with candlelight that cast dark shadows across her face, Tito’s abuela had gathered the children around her in the dimly lit living room and spun a story of murder and punishment.

“So, María wanted very much to be with her man. But alas, he wanted no children—especially those of another man.” Tito’s abuela spoke slowly, stretching out the tale and breathing mystery into her words as she did. 

“At night, when the village was quiet, she snuck down to the river. One by one, she submerged her sleeping children into the dark waters, holding their small heads beneath the surface until they drowned. Without remorse, she watched their little bodies drift on the current of the river, bobbing as they disappeared into the night.”

Tito sat transfixed. His fertile and overly active imagination conjured the scene in a small Mexican village not too far from his family’s place of origin. He envisioned the children, asleep as their mother carted them down to the river. It would have been a full moon, he thought, casting shadows on the dark ground from the leafless trees that dotted the bank. He could see her hand, pushing their heads, one by one, under the murky water as small bubbles of air escaped from their nostrils—whatever dreams they’d been having snuffed out like a pinched candle wick. 

A chill settled on him. He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on his abuela—her face furrowed from the lines around her eyes and mouth that chronicled her age. Unconsciously, he reached for his neck.

“The next day,” she continued, “María died when a runaway horse and wagon bore down on her in the village plaza. Because of her great sin, her spirit became trapped on Earth. To this day she roams the banks of rivers looking for her dead children. People say they can hear a woman’s voice, faint and sorrowful, as she asks her children where they are. ‘¿Dónde están, mis hijos?’ She weeps as she wanders about, and that is why she is called La Llorona—the Weeping Woman.”

 Tito’s abuela paused, her gaze sweeping across the wide-eyed faces of the five grandchildren sitting cross-legged on the floor of the small living room. Seconds ticked away in the silence. It seemed to Tito the entire neighborhood had grown still as a thick tule fog crept in from the north on this early January night in 1986, snaking down the San Joaquin Valley of California before curling itself around the quiet town of Mañana. He had always been mesmerized by fog, but on this night, Tito was afraid of the mist. Who knew what prowled within that velvety thickness? He glanced at the window. Nothing. Something like relief escaped as a silent sigh from him. His abuela resumed the story. 

“But María never did find her children. This is why you must never go out alone at night. This is why you must be good children and never commit any sins. Never lie. Never steal. La Llorona will gather up any bad children and take them with her as she looks for her own. She can be anywhere—even right here in Mañana. And this, mis nietos, is why so many children are missing today.”

Slack-jawed, Tito contemplated the story as best he could. In his culture, ghosts were as real as God and Jesus, as real as the milk he poured over his cereal, as real as the sun, the moon, and the Sierras to the east. Ghosts preyed upon the living because of their own interminable suffering—at least that’s what he’d learned from his family’s stories. La Llorona existed, of that he was sure. She haunted the Earth, just like any other ghost. She could be lurking along the banks of the Mañana River, hidden by the fog as she called out.

¿Dónde están, mis hijos? 

And she stalked children. Bad children.

In bed, he thought about what had happened earlier in the day, about the dare he’d accepted from his cousins. They’d been hanging out at the downtown park—Tito, Antonio and two others, Ricky and Miguel. A teenager arrived on his skateboard, came to a stop at a picnic table, and propped his board against a bench. Dressed in a denim jacket with jeans tucked into high top sneakers, his blond hair was short on the top and long on the sides and back. He sat there, then checked his watch. Tito thought he must have been waiting for someone.

“Look at the skateboard,” Antonio said. “It looks new.” 

The other boys nodded. 

Antonio eyed the board. “Must’ve gotten it for Christmas.”

The teenager stood and sauntered to the restroom some ten feet away and ducked inside. He’d left his skateboard behind.

“He must be taking a leak,” Ricky said. “Pendejo gringo. He left his board there.”

“Hey,” Antonio said to Tito, “I dare you to go get it.”

Tito furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“No seas mamón,” Antonio said. “Go get it. We can take it home. Take turns with it.”

“But—but—”

Tito’s stammering was enough for the other three boys to break into teasing, calling him sissy and scaredy cat, calling him the runt. Tito hated that nickname, hated being the youngest and the smallest. He jutted his chin.

“I’m not afraid!”

“Then hurry up,” Miguel said. “He’s going to come back any minute.”

Tito cast his gaze toward the restroom, took a quick breath then dashed over to the bench, grabbed the skateboard, and tucked it under his arm. He bolted and his cousins joined him until they were four blocks from the park and had turned at least two corners.

“That cabrón will never find us!” Antonio said, bending over to catch his breath. 

They all laughed and patted Tito on the back. He smiled. He’d done it. He’d shown his cousins he was no sissy, no runt.

Now, as he stared at the ceiling above his bed, the story of la Llorona reverberated in his mind. What had his abuela said? That la Llorona roamed at night, looking for bad children to take away. She could be anywhere. Even in Mañana. Tito’s pulse quickened. He swallowed hard. The seventh commandment loomed large in his mind. Thou shalt not steal.He’d been bad. He’d sinned. He quickly made a sign of the cross.

I’ll take it back, he thought, I’ll find the boy and give it back to him. Then I’ll go to church. I’ll say ten—no, a hundred—Hail Mary’s.

But tomorrow seemed a long way off as Tito lay alone in the dark. Afraid to close his eyes, he turned to the Virgin Mary, perched on the small dresser in his room. A lone votive flicked amber-colored light onto a silent porcelain face. The Virgin’s shadow danced against the wall. 

“I’m sorry,” Tito whispered. “I’m sorry for what I did. Please protect me. I’ll make it all right tomorrow.”

His prayer was interrupted by a distant voice. He sat up, his brow furrowed. He couldn’t quite make it out. The voice repeated. It sounded like . . . could it be . . . ?

A woman?

Faint, the voice floated in the air, ethereal and sad, drifting through the mist that clung to his house. It seemed to come from the direction of the river that bordered the northern end of the barrio only a few blocks from his family’s home. Tito strained to hear the voice, to catch the words. When he did, his body stiffened, his eyes grew wide. 

¿Dónde están, mis hijos?

La Llorona! Oh, God in heaven! She was coming for him! He grasped the covers and pulled them over his head. His breath came in gasps. The call came again on a whisper of nighttime air.

¿Dónde están, mis hijos?

He ripped off the covers and hopped out of bed, then dashed to the bedroom door. The knob was cold to his touch. He backed away and stared, trembling. He heard the woman’s voice again. He lunged for the doorknob once more. His small hand twisted around it several times, but the knob didn’t move. What was happening? He pounded on the door.

“¡Mamá! ¡Abuela!” 

He pressed his ear to the door and heard nothing. Where was everyone? He tried the doorknob again. Still, it wouldn’t budge. He balled his fists and pounded again, this time screaming in an octave above his normal range. A runt scream. A sissy scream.

“¡Mamá! ¡Abuela! ¡Viene la Llorona! Save me, please!”

Nobody came.

He stepped away from the door as tears cascaded down his cheeks. The voice grew closer.

¿Dónde están, mis hijos?

Tito wheeled around, his attention falling on the Virgin Mary. He darted to the dresser and threw himself to his knees, clasping his hands. He cast his gaze upward, looking through watery eyes at the Holy Mother’s face—her expression indifferent, her features unmoving.

“Hail, Mary, full of grace,” he began, “the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women. . . .” He recited the prayer, then repeated it. He tightened his clasped hands, pressing them against his chin. The Virgin remained silent, and Tito prayed a little harder, the words pouring forth like a desperate plea.

“Please! Please! Hail, Mary, full of grace . . . .” 

He heard movement behind him. He stopped in mid-prayer and slowly craned his neck. The window slid up. The sheers that framed his window billowed, and a foul odor pierced his nostrils. He let out a whimper, then plopped onto his rear and wrapped his arms around himself, rocking.

“No!” he moaned. “Please, no!”

The voice slithered into his room.

¿Dónde están, mis hijos?

The votive’s flame bent sideways from the breeze—then blew out. Tito squeezed his eyes shut. A chill enveloped him. Then a pair of cold hands grab him by his sides, lifting him in a skeletal grip. He tried to call out to his family again, but only a soft choking noise passed between his lips. He opened his eyes and lashed out, clawing at his assailant. His curled fingers, however, sliced through nothing but air. Where was she? Why couldn’t he see her? Was he imagining the whole thing? The voice was in his ear now, low and whispering.

I’ve found you. At last I’ve found you.

Tito’s mind spun. His body turned slowly in the air and glided toward the window, his eyes watching the gradual retreat of his bedroom. He caught a glimpse of something jutting out from under his bed. 

The skateboard.

Then, a curtain of black closed off his vision.

* * *

The next morning, Tito’s abuela shuffled down the hallway, humming as she normally did. After finishing her bathroom routine, she stopped at Tito’s door and knocked.

“Despiértate, sleepy head. Time to get ready for school.” 

When she stepped into his room, Tito was nowhere in sight. Thinking he’d already gone into the kitchen, his abuela headed off to greet him and put on the morning pot of coffee. His mom entered.

“¿Dónde está Tito?” she asked.

His abuela furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure.”

His mom called his name out loud, but he didn’t answer. The two women searched the house and then looked in the backyard. Tito was nowhere in sight.

Later, the police arrived and conducted their own search of the house and grounds. They asked Tito’s mother and grandmother question after question about the missing boy—how he was doing in school, if they’d seen any strangers around, if he’d ever run away in the past, if Tito’s mom was having problems with her estranged husband. When the answers suggested all was normal in the household, the police said they’d wait the requisite twenty-four hours, then file a missing person report. Tito’s mother cried and his grandmother prayed to the Virgin Mary. 

At the end of the month, milk cartons appeared in the dairy section of grocery stores. On the back side was a black-and-white photo and above it large letters spelled out a question.

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

The six-year-old child in the photo sported a face-splitting grin, the twinkle in his dark eyes suggesting he didn’t believe in ghosts, that La Llorona was just a story told to kids.