By Patrick Cabello Hansel
When Angel and Luz came back into Denny”'s, Mother Light and Ana had left. Such is the wisdom of love. The cards were put away, and the plates of food on the table were in their original uneaten state, growing cold. Angel stood before the remnant of that strange Guadalupe night and said, “I”'m sorry. I kind of destroyed the mood.” He and Luz sat down, next to each other, almost holding hands, almost leaning into each other.
If you had magical powers of listening to thoughts, here”'s what you would have heard inside each of our players:
Angel: “I know there is something in me that is broken. I need to keep searching””for it, and for whatever is out there that is meant for me. I can”'t do it alone. But I”'m afraid to ask.”
Luz: “I love this man so, but I don”'t really know him. I”'m not afraid of being hurt. I”'m afraid that I will hold back, give just a piece of my heart, pretend I don”'t care.”
Augusto, Angel”'s dad: “My son carries the weight of our heart scarred people. I never took the time to get to know him. I hope my words touch, but not tear.”
Dolores, Luz”' grandmother: “I didn”'t know Denny”'s had blueberry pancakes!”
Mr. Bussey, the social studies teacher on sabbatical: “It”'s way past my bedtime.”
And so, the little band of five souls ate their pancakes and sausage. They didn”'t notice that the clock had moved past midnight, changing from the Virgin of Guadalupe day to Santa Lucia. The patron saint of light. The woman who inspires thousands of girls in northern climates to place a crown of candles on their head each December 13.
Augusto finally spoke up.
“Angel, you asked me about my story, your story. If we were related to the Hidalgos. I think you”'re beginning to know that our history twists around the mention of that name.”
“I know”, Angel replied. “But I don”'t understand who or what was Mateo Hidalgo **, the boy who may have been murdered in the swale, the man who may have lived on, but almost as a shadow. Is he our ancestor, father? Is he part of me?”
“Yes, mi hijo. Whether Mateo lived or was killed while young doesn”'t really matter. Whether we are his descendants or not doesn”'t matter. What matters is that you have Mateo Kiley in you. You have blood that speaks of him.”
“What do I do with that? Where do I go?” Angel asked.
Augusto looked at Dolores and Luz, as if to ask their permission. He continued, slowly.
“I think you need to talk to your mother. About your birth.”
“About my birth? What about it?” Angel asked.
“Your mother will tell you,” is all Augusto would say.
Angel shook his head slowly, and then turned to Luz. She took his hand, and whether her lips spoke this, or only her eyes, Angel heard these words: I will go with you.
“Angel, why don”'t you come home tonight,” his father asked.
Angel fought back tears, and simply said, “I will”.
As the party got up from the table, Angel saw Luz”' mitten on the floor, picked it up, brushed it off and gave it to her. She patted his arm with her hand, a small touch of gratitude.
“Papi,” Angel said to his father. “Is it true the owl always means death?”
“Yes, mi hijo. But there”'s a death we should be afraid of and one we shouldn”'t.”
“Do you know which one I”'m searching for? Which one is pursuing me?”
“Both”, his father replied.
“Both”, Dolores nodded.
Luz turned toward Angel and looked into his eyes. “Go home. Go home and sleep.” she said. “I will come early in the morning.” They did not kiss as they stepped out into the night, but they saw each other, as they were.
The snow began again, softly. Like angels”' tears. Like light.
** See chapter nine. Mateo Kiley was one of the twin sons of Matthew Kiley and Guadalupe Hidalgo, born in 1867 the “swale”, the area now known as East Phillips. According to legend, he was murdered as a child, and his spirit still haunts the community. According to other legends, he was stolen by Guadalupe”'s family, taken back to Mexico, where he became the father of a line of outlaws, revolutionaries, singers and poets.
