"My family hides a dark secret. The lies are eating us alive. Time to come out of the broom closet."
On the anniversary of a tragic suicide, a diverse group of teenagers is drawn to the Simi Hills in Los Angeles. Others answer the call: Latino broth...
Sunday, August 9, 2009, 5:00 a.m. Los Angeles, California
The warm Santa Ana wind blasts me with dirt and leaves as I glare at Santa Muerte, Saint Death. She stands inside a sandstone alcove surrounded by black and red candles. Her life-sized skeletal body wears a velvet hooded black cloak.
Bitch came with a vengeance for Papá three days ago. A ten-ton truck blew a red light and pulverized him in his car.
Mamá scoops handfuls of sandy earth. With a scream, she hurls dirt at Saint Death's skull. "Hector and I built this shrine for you, and this is how you repay me?" The wind whips Mamá's waist-length brown hair and howls in our ears as the candle flames flicker.
Mamá lunges to attack Santa Muerte. Uncle Eddie pulls my sobbing Mamá backward, then turns her to face him. Meaty hands steady her swaying body. She buries her face in his broad chest and he strokes her hair. "I don't understand! Hector's your younger brother." She pushes Uncle Eddie away. "Why didn't she take you instead of him?"
Uncle shakes his head and turns, biker boots clomping as he heads into the house.
A lump forms in my throat, one I can't swallow. Sharp pain stabs my heart as my sixteen-year-old brother George pulls Mamá into his arms. Sniffling, he lowers his chin to kiss the top of her head.
Darkness swallows the feeble candlelight. Just four days ago, laughter filled our house. Papá was the eternal optimist, and funny as fuck.
My two middle brothers fidget, unsure about how to respond to Mamá's agony. Kendrick lowers his head as he rocks back and forth on his heels. Martin runs his left hand through his short brown hair. His rattlesnake tattoo's grey in the predawn gloom. Fuck me! Martin and George aren't even out of high school, and Ken's only just graduated.
We live by the code, "Keep the Reaper in front of you." To see death is to cheat death. Our time is short because no Salvia makes it to old age. Hell, Papá was 47, and Uncle Eddie's a legend at 48.
From the time a runaway carriage flattened a Salvia ancestor, our family learned to anticipate such danger. Awareness of the many ways to die is always present, like background static. Watching for speeding trucks is second nature. I ball my fists and kick the dirt. Why did you let your guard down, Papá?
Our front door slams open,and Uncle Eddie comes out of the house. He's carrying a leather-bound book. Ashe walks through the whirling leaves and dust, I taste dirt. When he reaches me,his oil-stained hands shove the book into my chest. "You're the eldest, Ben. Write every day. This is the Salvia tradition."
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AUTHOR NOTES:
Banner photo of Santa Muerte generated by Google's Gemini AI
Character illustration of Ben Salvia by Joshua Hurwitz
