EDITOR’S NOTE: This is chapter 2 of my on-again-off-again novel “Westenra Memorial.” You can read Stave I from last Halloween with this link.

Stave II

This photo of a spring peeper frog has nothing to do with this story. I’ve just been meaning to use it for years.

Shambling in through the front door of his simple ranch home, José was pale and trembling. Even though it was 5:30 in the morning, Rose was up and rushed to him.

“Is everything alright?,” she asked, concern heavy in her voice. “You look terrible.”

José held her tightly. “I think we’re in real trouble, and it is all my fault. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

He was practically in tears, and she had never in all of their years together seen him cry.

“It is going to be okay,” she tried to assure him. “What happened?”

“I can’t tell you,” he explained, barely able to make eye contact. “I promised on our children’s lives.”

“It’s not MS13, again, is it?”

“No. They think I’m dead, and we made it pretty convincing.”

“Is there something I can do to help?” she pleaded.

“I don’t think there is.” He looked gaunt, almost a little desperate, as his eyes flit from object to object in their house, as if he was taking one last look at their lives.

“Dr. Tepes really likes you,” she reminded him. “Perhaps he could help.”

José laughed a little nervously. “No, and I don’t think he is who you think he is.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “He’s only the nicest human ever to have lived. He saves lives all of the time. He speaks Spanish to all of his Spanish-speaking patients. Sometimes all he charges is a home-made tamale. There isn’t a racist or sexist bone in his body. He works with the homeless. He’s great with children. He might be white, but if he were to spout off ‘All lives matter,’ he’d be the only person I know who really means it without a trace of irony.”

“No,” José said sternly, holding his wife by her biceps, eyes resolute and looking deeply into her’s. Now she was scared, not of José, but of whatever was troubling him. “He is not who he pretends to be, and you and the kids are to go no where near him.”

José paused, his face quizzical. “Have you ever actually seen him eat a tamale…or anything for that matter?”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What did you see? Did he hurt somebody?”

“I cannot explain,” he said, embracing her, again, this time quite tenderly, as he whispered. “I am sworn to secrecy. And, no, I did not see him hurt anybody, but he has hurt a great many people. We cannot trust him, and, yet, we have no choice but to trust him.”

It was now after 6, and his sons came bounding into the living room to greet him. José hugged each of them as if he hadn’t seen either of them in a decade. It was his favorite time of day and theirs, as he came home from work and got them ready for school.

Still holding his sons, José looked at his wife, “You know I don’t really believe in that mumbo jumbo you do, but if ever there was a time to ask for protection, this is it.”

She folded her arms under her impossibly perky breasts and looked at him peevishly. “Do you really think I’d still look like I did the day we met, after two children and 25 years of marriage if it was just mumbo jumbo?”

He blew her a kiss, and she winked back and walked, hips swaying, to her hidden sanctuary behind French folding doors.

“Santa Muerta,” she called, lighting candles on the walls and altar, as José took the boys to the kitchen to make them breakfast and hear about their previous day in school.