Chapter 36 #2
Dante was at the outer side of the rotunda railing, crammed between two kids peeking in to watch Tadeo perform his miracles.
With his arms crossed, the soldier was keeping watch of the streets, finding them too quiet.
‘Maybe my betrayal won’t ever come. Maybe the army doesn’t care about this anymore.
Maybe Tadeo will be safe from what I’ve done.
’ Then, Dante heard the crowd’s awed gasps and shouts, and he felt the children beside him jump in excitement.
And so Dante turned, already expecting a miracle; even still, he felt his breath hitch.
In Tadeo’s hands, where he’d taken two bowls of food, there were suddenly dozens, stacked over each other, wobbling, beginning to tip.
“Take it,” Tadeo was whispering harshly, weakly. “Please.” But Dante’s face cringed in sadness at the misery in the anti-Christ’s voice.
For hours after this, the stars above town watched the anti-Christ and gurgled; the dim sun had set again, and the blood moon had risen.
Tadeo remained in the plaza after his miracles this time, sitting on the grass beside his mother’s wheelchair.
He rested his head on her lap, listening faintly to the chatter of humans nearby.
‘I’m scared for all the places on the Earth without me.
Who will starve off their famines?’ He’d heard trumpets when he’d stared at Dina, his destroyer.
‘How long do we really have?’ How long could he protect his people?
Tadeo’s gaze flickered up to his mother’s peaceful face. “Survive,” he whispered. “You told me that’s all I had to do, ama, pero para que?” What for?
His rest of his family was off with crowds around smoking grills, searing the meats at highest risk of not surviving another day.
A final carne asada before the apocalypse.
Some bandas, musical groups of regional music, had appeared, had all joined together.
Some of those who’d been mariachis wore the traditional uniforms, others were in tejanas and jeans, others in sports jerseys.
Lifting trumpets to their mouths, strumming guitars, and beating drums — the bands played for their families who’d come to listen and for all the other survivors.
“It’s all my fault,” Tadeo whispered to her.
“I love you.” There was a stray dog, wandering nearby, and one of the grillers tossed her a piece of fajita.
“I love you and dad.” He nuzzled her lap.
“Everyone else too. Wela. Welo. Tío. Everyone. I know how this ends. I know I'm going to burn. But you’re going to go to Heaven.” Closer to the food, some people were starting to dance.
“Don't miss me, please. Just… tell dad that I loved and missed him. And I never wanted to do this, any of this. I really love you both—” Coughing up his tears, he watched his mother’s pants dampen.
“Neither of you deserved this. God doesn’t give us what we deserve.
God doesn’t give us anything at all. Don’t forgive him in Heaven.
Ama, don't forgive God for what He’s done. ”
The crunching of grass, over and over, approaching.
Sniffing, Tadeo wiped at his eyes, squeezed his mother’s knee, then turned to see a cousin walking over with curved, sad brows.
Behind her, Dante was wearing his sunglasses despite the darkness.
“Tadeo,” his cousin called softly. “I'll stay here with your mom for a bit. Go eat.” Far above, the stars still hung, glowing weak like timid lanterns.
“I'm not hungry.”
“Told you his depressed ass would say that,” Dante said, stepped over, grabbed the anti-Christ by the arm, then yanked him up. “Come on, you need to walk a little and stop crying.”
Tadeo snapped, “I wasn't crying,” then wrestled his arm free and stumbled over a rock. “Can you—” He regained his footing, glared at Dante, and stressed, “I already ate.” The two stared at each other for a moment, faces tense and serious, before the soldier gave him a big smile, as if he’d realized Tadeo was admiring him. “What?”
“Nothing, nothing. How about a cervecita then?” A little beer.
Tadeo snorted. “I don't know.”
“Well, you’re gonna keep me company since I still haven’t eaten.
” Dante took a few steps, brushing past Tadeo, as the anti-Christ debated returning to his mother.
But as Dante was walking away, Tadeo looked over his shoulder, saw all the people again.
It was late. His family would have to go home soon, were probably drinking and chattering with all the locals and migrants, as well, who he supposed were locals now too.
‘The music is nice. I could stay here forever, listening.’ Those sorts of thoughts embarrassed him, however, because it was absurd to feel his heart so warmed up by the sounds of a mariachi.
It was stereotypical; it was silly. ‘If I said it right now, to Dante, he’d probably laugh.
He would ask me what next? Do I get sentimental when I listen to Cielito Lindo too?
Well, maybe I do. It’s what I’m fighting for.
It’s what I thought I was fighting for. The sound of music here in the plaza again. ’
“Fine,” Tadeo surrendered, then he followed, trying to ignore Dante’s amused chuckle.
Once they’d approached, the cooks and their helping friends quickly went to stack three tacos, a sliced cactus pad, and a quesadilla, with a spoonful of salsa off a molcajete, onto a plate for the anti-Christ, and though Tadeo raised his hand to quickly deny the offering, the soldier swept in and said, “Very kind of you, thank you.” Tadeo furrowed his brow before they went to one of many coolers scattered throughout the park to take a few drinks. “Get one for me, papi.”
“Did you just ask me to come with you for the free food?” Tadeo grumbled, but did as told, taking five beer bottles between his two arms, then shutting the cooler with his foot, almost smashing the hand of the soldier that he’d healed so recently.
“Everything is free now,” Dante laughed.
“You’re here to help me cut the line.” Dante nudged him with the arm that also cradled his plate of food, and Tadeo grumbled that he was an asshole, but the soldier smiled.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s sit.” Toward a lonesome bench, Dante walked, and when he lowered his body onto it, it was with a sigh that seemed tired, much more tired that he was letting his face show.
More stiffly, he said, “Relax, will you? Things are calm for once.” Readjusting the beers in his arms, Tadeo bit down on the inside of his cheeks but supposed that he was, in fact, outrageously tense — in his neck, his shoulders — despite the relative peace.
So, he settled to sit beside Dante and watched as the soldier brought the quesadilla to his mouth first, took a bite, chewed.
“Mm.” He swallowed, then reached to take one of the beers from Tadeo’s hands.
To open it, Dante arched his back, brought the bottle to his groin, and snapped the cap off with his belt buckle.
Tadeo swallowed, quickly turned his gaze elsewhere; out of the blue, his lungs felt emptier and his cheeks warmer.
He moved to set the four other drinks on the ground, but Dante reached for another, opened it with his belt buckle as he’d done the other.
“I,” the anti-Christ said, “can open it myself.”
“Just take it.” Dante shoved it back into the other man’s hand with a sterner glint in his eyes. “Stop thinking about prophecies. Enjoy the drink. Enjoy that your family is here. We don’t all have that privilege.”
Grimacing, Tadeo said, “I’m sorry,” without thinking, grasping the cold, wet drink and listing it to his lips.
“If I can figure out a way to— To get you home to your mother. Another miracle.” Tepidly, Tadeo sipped.
Despite its coolness, the beer burned its way down to his stomach, and the relief was immediate, as if the mere promise of drunkenness was enough to do away with his nerves.
Not replying, Dante focused on eating, and Tadeo decided to focus on drinking.
An hour must’ve passed, in near silence between them.
Tadeo went for more drinks, glad to see that no one seemed protective over the supply, certainly imagining that Tadeo could will more beer into existence.
Maybe he could, but Tadeo didn’t know. Occasionally, a person or family would come to him, ask for the anti-Christ’s blessing and, without knowing what else to do, he’d touch their hand, squeeze it, and then watch them leave.
Tadeo had always considered himself the sort of drunk that could fool you.
He could walk in a perfect line several bottles in; he could even drive, though he knew he shouldn’t; he could hold a conversation without slurring, though he’d struggle to remember a word or two.
‘I wonder if Jesus ever drank to smother the terror he had for himself, of what he could do. When you’re drunk, you forget who you are, how you got here, and you’re just living for a second.
When you’re drunk, you’re not divine, and you realize there’s nothing worse than being like God. ’
Dante suddenly chuckled. “You wanna dance?”
Tadeo, only then, realized he’d been rocking in his seat to the rhythm of the music. “Ah.” He set his drink down, weirdly cognizant of how rocky the ground was below the bottom of the bottle. “No, no. I can’t dance.”
“What?” Dante’s laugh was breathy, giddy; he must be drunk as well. “You don’t know how to dance? How?”
Tadeo blurted: “No, I do know how to dance, actually— I used to dance a lot when I was younger.”
“I used to sing,” Dante seemingly also blurted. “I always wanted to be a singer. I’m good.”
“Aah!” Tadeo scoffed. “I don’t believe you.”