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exkernal · 7 years ago

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Fanfic: The Life and Death of Hector Rivera, Chapter Two

Hector watched Coco grow. Coco began to crawl around on the floor, and Hector would pretend to chase her, as Coco’s delighted giggles echoed around him. She clutched tightly at his fingers as she took her first uncertain steps. He beamed with pride when she said her first word, “Papa,” and couldn’t resist teasing Imelda. She bounced up and down,, clapping her hands (her version of dancing) whenever Imelda sang or he played the guitar.

They were still poor. Life was hard. But Hector couldn’t find it in himself to complain, not when he came home every night to Imelda and Coco, when he could hold both tightly to his chest know that, finally, he had a family.

Imelda met him outside as he came home from work on his eighteenth birthday.

“What is it?” Hector asked, after twirling Coco around. Imelda was acting odd, like she was hiding something.

“A surprise,” she said vaguely. “You’ll love it—well, I hope you will. You need this. You’re old one is practically falling apart.”

“What is it?” he repeated, assuming she meant a new pair of shoes or jacket.

“Come and see."

There, perched against the stove, was a brand new guitar. This one was all white, but decorated much like his old one, with the same skull design at the handle. It even had a gold tooth to match his own (he had not been quick enough ducking out of the way of the Lopez brothers’ fists).

“Imelda,” he breathed out in awe, “it’s wonderful.” He turned to her. “How did you afford this?”

“I saved up,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. After all, I can’t have my husband going around the plaza looking like a bum.

“Thank you,” he said, embracing her, Coco caught in the middle of them. This was the best gift he’d ever been given. He knew that he would cherish it for the rest of his life.

As Coco grew, so did Ernesto and Hector’s reputation. They began accepting paid gigs at weddings and quinceañeras, not just within Santa Cecilia but in neighboring towns as well. The winning combo of Ernesto’s charismatic showmanship and Hector’s songwriting turned them into local celebrities. For the first time in their lives, they were earning decent money from their music. As a result, he didn’t need to work as many hours, allowing him to focus more of his time on writing music. He’d taken to writing everything down in a small, leather-bound journal. As his twentieth birthday approached, he’d already written dozens of songs for them to perform.

They performed all but one.

Nights in bed were the ideal time for Hector and Imelda to talk. Their daily lives were so busy between work, music, and a growing child, that it was difficult to find time during the day for a real heart to heart. Especially when so many of their daytime conversations involved bickering or playing music for Coco (Hector’s favorite way to relax after a day of work). After dark, while Coco was fast asleep in her room, the husband and wife could finally talk together as they lie in bed, just the two of them, unencumbered by the rest of the world. And although he would never say this out loud (he wasn’t suicidal), Hector valued those rare occasions that Imelda let her hair down, both literally and metaphorically, allowing her seldom seen gentler, softer side to shine through.

“I was thinking,” Imelda said, nuzzled against his chest, “that we might be able to start our own business.”

“Oh?” Hector asked in a teasing tone. “And what would we sell, querida? I don’t think there’s much demand in Santa Cecilia for guitar makers or singing instructors.”

“I know that,” she answered, a little brusquer, though it quickly vanished. “I was thinking something like…shoes.”

“Shoes?” Hector laughed, surprised.

“They’re practical,” she said, “everyone needs shoes, even scruffy musicians like you.”

“Fair enough, but there’s still one little problem: we don’t know how to make shoes.”

“We can learn,” she said. Hector squeezed her closer against his chest. “Senor Castillo hasn’t done much with work in his shop since his wife died, and his daughters have all moved away with their husbands. I might be able to persuade him to teach me.”

Hector knew firsthand how effective Imelda’s powers of persuasion could be.

“Perhaps, querida, but I have my music to think of. We’re starting to make some real money from it. Enough to provide us with a good life.”

“For now,” she said, “but we won’t be young forever. We need something dependable, to put down roots that we can pass down to Coco. She’s young now, but she’s growing fast.”

There was truth to this, he supposed, but for the life of him he couldn’t see himself as a shoemaker. He almost wanted to laugh at the very idea. Besides, no matter what she said, he knew his music career was booming. He couldn’t throw that away now.

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

“Hector, I’ve been thinking,” Ernesto said one evening, as they made their way home from a wedding in a nearby village. Hector was in good spirits, despite the cramps in his fingers and the weariness that nagged at his body. He was beat. He wanted nothing more to crawl into bed and cuddle up against his wife. Yet their performance had been a smashing success, which was really all that mattered. “Remember when we were boys and you told me that you wanted to be a musician?”

“How could I forget?” Hector said with a wistful smile. “And I’d say it came true, seeing where we are.”

To his surprise, Ernesto did not share his smile. His friend wore a serious expression, which was such a rarity for him that it forced Hector to pay attention.

“I wonder…are we really? Oh, sure, we perform for crowds, you write songs. We certainly are musicians of a sort. It’s just…Hector, I think we’ve hit a wall.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’ve reached as far as we can go in Santa Cecilia. Playing for fiestas, never going farther than a day’s journey. I can’t help but feel that we’re squandering our potential.”

“What are you suggesting?” Hector asked. His heart hammered in his chest. Part of him wanted to challenge Ernesto, to tell him that things were just fine, that he had never felt more complete in his life. But another part of him felt the truth in his friend’s words. In some ways, Hector was still the foolish little dreamer with his head in the clouds, the boy his abuelita always scolded. He knew there was more to be had.

“We have a gift. You have a gift, amigo. I could only dream of being as good a songwriter as you! We make an incredible duo. If we take a chance, if we seize our moment, we could become the most famous musicians in Mexico. Maybe even the world.”

“Oh, come now,” Hector laughed, “I won’t pretend that I’ve never dreamed about it, but the world? I think you’re getting carried away, Ernesto.”

“I’m telling you, you have a gift. And it’s being wasted while we’re stuck here.”

Hector ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Ernesto. I have a family to consider.”

“Ay, you do. Think of how much you’ll provide for them if we become famous. Imelda will never have to work again. Coco can go to the best schools and have the best clothing. Her future will be secure.”

It was tempting. Hector pictured himself playing for a packed auditorium, travelling the world with Imelda and Coco at his side. He saw a version of his daughter who would not have to leave school like he did, not have to work like a dog just to get by. He saw Coco happy and educated and secure.

“Think about it,” Ernesto said, throwing his arm around Hector’s shoulders, jostling the guitar strapped to his back. “An announcer bellows before a spellbound crowd, ‘Presenting—de la Cruz y Rivera!’”

Hector shook his head. “You mean Rivera y de la Cruz.”

“No, no, it’s in alphabetical order, you see.”

They laughed, eyes dancing with the possibilities.

Imelda, as even a child like Coco could have predicted, did not take it well.

“Let me get this straight,” she said. She wasn’t yelling—yet—but her body shook with barely suppressed anger, like a hurricane battering against a flood wall, moments before breaking through. “You’re telling me that you want to abandon your wife and child to becoming a travelling musician, and I’m supposed to, what, give you my blessing.”

“I’m not abandoning you,” Hector said, wounded. “And—keep your voice down,” he hissed, risking her wrath even further, but Coco was playing in the front yard, still within potential hearing distance. “This is only temporary, mi amor. A few months at the most. I could make enough money to keep us comfortable and happy forever. Don’t you want that for Coco?”

She was not swayed. “Of course, that’s why I suggested opening a business. To put down roots. Not for you to chase down your own glory and adventure with bigheaded Ernesto and then use your daughter as a convenient excuse. What happens if it doesn’t work out, eh, Hector? Where will we be then?”

“I have to try, Imelda,” he pleaded. “You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand!” she said, her lips twisted into a disgusted grimace. “I know what musicos are like; out all night, chasing girls—”

“Ay, querida, I can see it now: the girls won’t be able to resist this hombre muy guapo,” he teased, raising his eyebrows.

His joke didn’t land well, not that he really expected it to.

“Oh, yes,” she snarled, “you can make your stupid jokes, but I know what’s going to happen those long nights that you’re away.”

“Imelda,” he said softly, “you know that I’m not like that. You’re the only woman for me.”

“That changes nothing,” she said, as firmly as before, but he thought he saw her shoulders relax a little. “You’re still abandoning us.”

“Never,” Hector vowed. “You and Coco are my world. It’s just…I have to try, Imelda. Maybe I’ll fail miserably, but I won’t be able to live with myself if I’m always wondering ‘what if.’ At least this way I can say I tried.”

Her stern exterior started to slip.

“And,” he added, “if it doesn’t work out we’ll open your shoe store.”

“Senor Castillo seems agreeable,” Imelda said, “I think he’ll give me lessons. And you will write to us at least twice a week and telephone once a month.”

“We don’t have a telephone,” Hector said.

“The Guzmans do. We’ll arrange a time and day once a month. They owe me a favor.”

“Deal,” Hector said, feeling like a weight had been lifted.

“I still don’t like this,” Imelda said.

“I know, mi amor,” he said, taking her into his arms. “That’s why I’m eternally grateful to have the best wife in the world.”

If telling Imelda was difficult, than telling Coco was heartbreaking.

“But why?” the four-year-old asked turning her huge, luminous eyes on him. She was Imelda in miniature, but with a rounder face, and a few hints of Hector sprinkled in.

“Papa needs to travel to play his music,” Hector said, trying to explain it as best as he could. “Papa’s an okay musician, right?”

“The best,” Coco nodded fervently. Hector scooped her up into a tight hug, spinning her. She laughed directly into his ear. He wished he could hold this moment forever, the sheer joy of having a four-year-old daughter. He felt confident in his decision before; now, faced with the reality of leaving Coco, a part of him wanted to tell Ernesto that he changed his mind.

“I’ll write you letters every day,” Hector promised. “Mama can read them to you.”

“I’ll miss you,” she said against his chest.

“I know, mija, I’ll miss you too,” he said. He was suddenly struck by an idea. “Remember our song?”

“Remember me,” she answered.

“That’s right,” he said, dropping her down, lightly, onto the bed. “We’ll sing it every night at the same time, right before bed, no matter where we are. Got that, mija? Then we’ll still be connected, no matter how far apart me are.”

“I understand, Papa,” she said.

“Good.” He unclipped his guitar case. Coco beamed; she loved listening to him play. “We’ll sing it together tonight, but after that, you’ll remember to sing it on your own, right?”

She nodded solemnly. Coco was funny like that—in many ways such a bright and playful child, but she also had a mysterious air to her, like an old soul trapped in a child’s body.

“That’s my girl,” Hector said, and he began to strum the opening notes. As he leaned in closer to her, she placed her chubby little hands on his face. They were warm and welcoming, and he wanted this moment to last forever, the two of them together, connected by music.

He left the next morning, just after sunrise.

“Remember the song, Coco,” he whispered in her ear. She nodded against his chest.

“Goodbye, Papa,” she said.

Hector lifted the girl high in the air and gave her one last twirl, savoring her delighted laughter. Then he turned towards her mother.

“It won’t be long,” Hector said, pulling Imelda into a tight hug. “And who knows, you might like it better without me to pester and annoy you all the time. Enjoy the peace and quiet, eh?”

Imelda fought to keep her face stern and failed miserably.

“Don’t be stupid,” she told him, “that’s not an attractive look on you.”

“Ah, so you do find me attractive,” he smirked.

“You’re impossible,” Imelda shook her head. “Just remember to write.”

“I will.”

“And phone the Guzmans the days that I wrote down.”

“I will.”

“And don’t so much as look at another woman.”

“I won’t.”

“And Hector,” she said with a smile so sorrowful it could have broken his heart, “good luck.”

He met Ernesto on the road.

“Hector,” he boomed, giving his friend a slap on the back, “I almost thought you’d chicken out.”

“And deprive you of my wonderful company?” Hector said. “Not to mention my incredible talents.”

Ernesto grunted a laugh. His friend was the picture of boisterous energy, radiating excitement and confidence.

“You’re not nervous at all?” Hector asked as they walked. The train station was a town over, about an hour or two on foot. Perhaps if they made enough money Hector could purchase an automobile. He’d seen them before, though never driven one. He was itching to test it out for himself. He imagined sitting in the front seat with Coco on his lap, letting her steer.

“I told you, amigo, I have that much confidence in us,” Ernesto said. “We have the talent, the dashing good looks. All we need is to seize the right moment.”

“And you’re sure this is it?”

“Of course,” he replied. “This is the moment we’ve talked about since we were boys. We’re finally getting to share our music with the world outside of Santa Cecilia.”

Hector had never been on a train before. Ernesto had, once, to visit some far-flung cousins, but as Hector’s family was either dead or in Santa Cecilia, he’d never had the opportunity. He was embarrassed to admit it, but he acted more like a boy of ten than a grown man of twenty-one. He didn’t think he closed his mouth until at least fifteen minutes after the train started.

The seats were comfortable, facing back so that he could see the sights as they rushed by. On the journey they shared drinks, told stories punctuated by laughter, and Ernesto spent a good ten minutes trying to flirt with the waitress, but Hector’s favorite part was the view. He was mesmerized by the hills and pastures, towns and villages, that sped by. For the first time in his life, he truly appreciated that there was a wide world out there, so much larger and grander than he was. Men occasionally left Santa Cecilia, either to go off to war or travel for work, to Cuidad de Mexico or another city, some even venturing as far north as Estados Unidos. Otherwise, the village you were born in was more often than not the village you died in. A part of Hector was content with that life, content to play his music for locals and embrace the role of husband and father. But another part of him yearned for something more.

Ernesto had said that they would share their music with the world. It was a wonderful thought.

Wherever Hector and Ernesto went, success followed. They always drew a crowd, and after one appearance, word of mouth would bring in even more people, all curious about the two young, handsome musicos.

“You were right, amigo,” Hector shouted to Ernesto at the end of a performance, needing to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd, “we really are popular.”

“I told you! But do you ever listen to your friend?” Ernesto laughed. “We just need to see this through, Hector, it’s only going to get better from here.”

They fell into a comfortable routine. They spent about a week or two in one town, depending on its size, living in inns and making sure to perform almost every night. Ernesto lived for it; he seemed to feed off of the energy of the crowd, the bigger and louder the better. Hector, too, was enthralled by their new lifestyle, though from time to time he found himself nostalgic for the quieter moments when he was with his familia. He made a point singing “Remember Me,” under his breath every night before going to sleep, even those nights when he was out playing late or not quite sober.

He made sure to call the Guzmans once a month at the appointed time. First he talked to Imelda, who told him any little detail that struck her fancy (“Senor Castillo is going blind in his right eye, so you can imagine how long it takes for him to find the right materials”) or grilled him about his habits (“That’s what you consider an acceptable dinner? Ay Dios mio.”). Afterwards, she’d put Coco on. Hector tried to tell the little girl as many exciting things as possible, but mostly he just listened to the seemingly unimportant stories that meant the world to a four-year-old.

“I lost a tooth, Papa! I really did! Carlos Jimenez pushed me and it fell out!”

“I’m sorry you were hurt, mija, but it’s exciting all the same.”

“If my tooth doesn’t grow back can I get a gold one like you?”

“It’ll grow back, Coco,” he laughed.

Or:

“I found a cat in the alleyway, Papa, he’s been following me everywhere. I named him Rojo because his fur’s reddish. Mama won’t let me keep him, she says Pepita will fight with him and that he has diseases. Can we get a kitten, Papa?”

Or:

“I can braid my hair all by myself now! Well, kinda. They usually fall out when I start playing.”

Inevitably, the conversation would be cut off much sooner than he would have liked, by an impatient Guzman or Imelda wanting to remind him of something. Hector marveled at how much Coco was growing. Soon she would be ready for school, and not too long after that, her first communion. Hector wondered if he’d be able to teach her to play the guitar; perhaps in a year or two.

Two months away from Santa Cecilia, Ernesto got the bright idea to hire a photographer.

“If we get our photos taken, he can get more exposure,” he reasoned to a doubtful Hector. “We can print them in the newspaper to help get the word out.”

“I don’t know,” Hector said, “they always take so long setting up and by the time they’re ready I always scratch or blink and ruin it.”

He thought about the last photograph he posed for, one that he’d arranged as a present for Imelda. He probably fidgeted more than Coco, only two at the time, but the results were magnificent.

“Quit being such a baby,” Ernesto said. “It will take five minutes.”

It took fifteen, but who was counting? They took pictures of the two of them together, posing with their guitars, and a few individual photos, which the photographer dubbed “headshots.” Hector had to admit that they weren’t bad; he was especially fond of his headshot, since he’d never seen a picture of himself that really captured his personality before.

Ernesto was right, once again: the photos brought them even more attention, which led to more paid appearances. Hector kept his own headshot in his pocket, wanting to show it off to Imelda the next time he went home.

There were girls, of course. Girls were drawn to them like flies to honey, and Ernesto hadn’t changed his womanizing ways. Some nights he didn’t return to their room at all, and Hector would find him the next morning having breakfast at the inn, acting even more cheerful than usual.

A side effect of this was that Ernesto often tried to rope Hector along. One night, after yet another successful performance, Ernesto pulled him over to a side table, where they entertained the lovely Lupe and Renata.

“You were so good,” Renata (or so he thought) gushed with a hand placed lightly on his forearm.

“Where did you learn your songs?” asked Lupe (probably). “I’ve never heard them before.”

“Ah, well, that’s because I wrote them.”

“Ay, Dios mio, you wrote them?!” Renata exclaimed.

“You’re so talented” Lupe said. “And handsome.”

Ernesto gave him a knowing smirk. Hector felt honor bound to set the record straight, especially since Ernesto had most likely mislead these poor woman.

“Mucho gracias, you’re too kind,” he said. “but being a musico has its drawbacks. Being on the road makes me miss home, especially my wife and daughter.”

“Aw, you have a daughter? How old?”

“Four.”

“What’s her name?”

“Socorro.”

“This is so sweet!”

To Hector’s surprise, this only seemed to make them more interested in him, as if being a family man only added to his attractiveness.

“Pardon me, senoritas,” he said, standing, “I, uh, need to use the restroom.”

Ernesto frowned after him, but didn’t say anything.

Ernesto returned to their room just before midnight. Hector was still awake, lying in bed and writing in his leather-bound journal. Ernesto scowled at his friend.

“What were you doing back there? After you left, we were uneven. Lupe was feeling left out, so they both went off somewhere else.”

“Sorry for that,” Hector said, “I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. It’s just, you know, married,” he tapped the ring on his left hand for emphasis.

“Plenty of men are married but don’t act like they’re allergic to girls,” Ernesto grumbled.

Hector thought back to Imelda’s words: “I know what musicos are like.” He knew that a lot of men would not have a second thought about going to bed with Lupe or Renata, married or not. He knew that if Ernesto had a sweetheart or wife back home, he’d probably still chase girls at night. But Hector couldn’t be like that. He knew that Imelda’s anger towards “musicos” was a front to hide her pain and fear. But she didn’t need to be worried in that regard; he’d meant it, wholeheartedly, when he said he only had eyes for her.

“Well, I’m not like those men,” Hector said.

Ernesto shook his head. “What happened to you, mi amigo? You’ve changed in the last few years.”

Hector wanted to retort that he’d always been this way—he’d started his odd courtship with Imelda when they were fourteen, for God’s sake—and that it was kind of, sort of, shitty for Ernesto to put him in situations like that, knowing how Hector felt. But he didn’t say any of that; he valued their peaceful relationship too much to be petty. So he went back to his writing, allowing Ernesto to sulk in silence, letting him get it out of his system.

Before he knew it, they’d been away from home for five months. Hector was only a few weeks away from his twenty-second birthday, and two weeks after that, it would be Coco’s fifth.

Hector was almost scared of how popular they were becoming in such a short period of time. A small part of him had always expected to fail, despite Ernesto’s unwavering optimism. It had been Hector’s dream since he was a niño to share his music with the world, but he couldn’t shake the fear that he’d ruin it somehow, that he really was the daydreaming screw-up that everyone always called him.

However, success did not equal freedom. It seemed that the more popular they became, the more Ernesto insisted that they needed to do. They needed more performances, to travel even farther, to prolong their return home to the ever vague “just a few more weeks.” And while it was wonderful sharing his music, expanding his abilities, five months was an awfully long time to be away from a wife and growing child. While Ernesto basked in the glory, Hector found his thoughts turning more and more towards his family in Santa Cecilia.

It was a letter that sent him over the edge. Such a simple thing, really. Hector had been true to his word, sometimes sending letters twice a week, always making sure to keep Imelda updated on his travel plans. Letters still got lost, inevitably. They moved around so much that sometimes they were already gone by the time a letter arrived, but still, Hector got most of them (or some of them, he actually wasn’t entirely sure how many had been lost).

For the most part, the letter wasn’t remarkable. It contained Imelda’s usual updates on the goings on of Santa Cecilia, her progress with Senor Castillo, and Coco’s growth. There was one tiny difference: at the bottom of the letter, written in large, uncertain letters, was “CoCO”

She wrote her name. His baby could write her own name now. He brushed his fingers over the letters, noting how she capitalized every letter except, for some unknown reason, the first “o.” He imagined Imelda guiding Coco’s unsteady hand, forming each letter slowly. He pictured Coco’s excitement at getting to sign her name for her papa.

Where had all the time gone? How did he now have a child with missing teeth who could braid her own hair and write her own name? What else would he miss, if he stayed away any longer?

Enough was enough. He needed to see his family now. Then, perhaps, after spending time with his family, he could decide how to proceed, but for now, he couldn’t stand another day apart. Ernesto would be angry at first, but he’d understand. Hector began to pack, imagining the surprised looks on Imelda’s and Coco’s faces when he showed up at their casa the next morning, how he’d pick up Coco and spin her around…

“What are you doing, Hector? We’re not leaving for another two days,” came his friend’s voice. The grin slid off Ernesto’s face. “Hector? What’s going on?”

So he told him, and as predicted, Ernesto did not react well. Hector had prepared himself for anger, but he had no idea how to handle the pure devastation that came over his friend, like he’d been deflated. Ernesto pleaded with him even admitting how lost he’d be without Hector’s songs, how he couldn’t go on without his amigo at his side.

Hector felt the barest twinge of guilt to see his childhood friend so distressed, but it was not enough to sway him. Right now, Imelda and Coco were all that mattered.

“Hate me if you want,” he said firmly, “but my mind is made up.”

He turned to the door when Ernesto’s voice called him back.

“Oh, I could never hate you. If you must go then I’m sending you off with a toast.”

There was the Ernesto he knew, bouncing back already. He figured that he owed his friend that much, so paused to share a drink.

“I would move heaven and earth for you, mi amigo. Salut!” The glasses clinked together.

Hector downed his drink without a thought.

“Thank you, Ernesto,” he said, “but I need to catch the train.”

“Let me walk you,” Ernesto sprang to the door. “It’s the least I could do. Besides, I’m not going to be able to sleep any time soon.”

The cool night air hit Hector as soon as he stepped out of the door. He took a deep breath, savoring the knowledge that this was his last night away from home. From tomorrow on, he’d spend his evenings breathing in the smell of Imelda’s cooking, avoiding stepping on Coco’s dolls as he walked around the house, and playing music for his smallest audience yet.

As they walked, Ernesto filled the silence.

“Perhaps this is for the best. Seeing your family will do you good, and who knows, maybe it’ll inspire you to write more. But even if you don’t come back, Hector, I want you to know that it’s been a privilege playing with you. You’ve helped me more than you know…”

Hector barely heard a word. The more he walked, the more he noticed the pain in his stomach. It was gradual at first, barely distinguishable from the minor aches and pains that accompanied daily life, but with each footstep it grew worse. Hector tried to ignore it, but it became so intense that he couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

What the…? he thought. Did I eat something that had gone bad?

It was like he was being stabbed from the inside out. He hunched over, clutching his stomach, gritting out an anguished cry. He felt Ernesto’s arms around him, heard him say something about a chorizo, but he couldn’t focus on that. All he registered was the pain, and his desperate wish that it would end, for the love of God, please.

His legs were too weak to hold his weight. They buckled underneath him. He just needed to rest. Yes. He wouldn’t feel so weak if he could just rest for a bit, just until the pain went away. He closed his eyes, and felt everything else slip away.

#pixar coco #the life and death of hector rivera #hector rivera #imelda rivera #mama coco #ernesto de la cruz #fanfic

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