Fake Funeral
by Lindsay Quintanilla
Erica Svec, Head Band, oil and acrylic on canvas, 68 x 54 inches. Courtesy of the artist.
FAKE FUNERAL
Lindsay Quintanilla | SEPT 2022 | Issue 18
We were late to Abuelo’s fake funeral because Cecilia couldn’t get the round curl on her forehead to stay stiff. She said it took time to look glorious while she drowned the curl in hairspray. My mother ran around the house as if she were one of the chickens in our backyard, plucking up different pieces of clothing off the floor to complete her outfit. I sat on our pleather couch reading a travel guide on Central America I found at the thrift store until everyone was ready. Truthfully, I didn’t know why Abuelo’s death was such a big deal since I never actually met the guy. Once we shuffled into the van we called “La Toyota,” my father realized he hadn’t filled the tank, so we stopped at the 7-Eleven around the corner. We knew my mother was too stingy to buy the good stuff for the reception, so Cecilia and I roamed the aisles in search of American snacks like Slim Jims, Vlasic pickles, and our favorite, Hot Cheetos. I felt the same giddiness I got on road trips.
“¿Que tanto hacen, pues?” my father yelled as he opened the door to the 7-Eleven. “Vámonos!” His square sunglasses were too small for his face. Sweat formed underneath the untidy strand of hair that hung over his forehead like a wannabe greaser. He wore a gold chain around his neck and a matching bracelet. Our shoes made squeaking noises against the floor where someone spilled a Slurpee and the fluorescent lights flickered over the cashier’s head as we paid. Inside La Toyota, we sat on the stained carpet since it didn’t have back seats. We bought the van from a family friend who said the bleach stains were part of the van’s identity. Cecilia and I liked to pretend they were The Galápagos Islands I read about in Geography. The van also required a screwdriver to start, so sometimes, we sat in parking lots for twenty minutes trying to get the engine to start.
We drove on Owens Avenue, away from all the casinos on Las Vegas Boulevard. We passed a billboard advertising free naked women and loose slots. Shade trees hung over tents from the nearby homeless encampment. The tents were lined up against the black metal fencing of the cemetery. Rancho High School was only a block away. We were zoned to Rancho, but Cecilia applied to VoTech after hearing that a freshman was stabbed multiple times. I followed her lead because it was the right thing to do.
We weren’t burying Abuelo’s body because it was already in its proper hole in El Salvador. This was for the better, my mother kept saying, because she wasn’t trying to see no corpse. My father bought a gravestone because he said we needed to honor Abuelo; to be in two places at once intrigued me. My father parked La Toyota. He didn’t wait for us. He slammed the door and walked towards the service, with a bottle of Guaro. My black dress was itchy in the sun; my hair was pinned up in a blob. It was Cecilia’s go-to hairdo, which I copied carefully—a messy bun with never-ending bobby pins. My neck was sticky from accidentally getting hairspray on it. I smelled of hairspray. Sweat droplets formed on my scalp. I wanted the funeral to be over. I heard my father’s coyote-like cries when we arrived at the gravestone. His back was so slouched I thought of a banana. The gravestone read:
Alfonso Arango de la Trinidad:
Husband, father, horse whisperer, machete expert and a pinche santo.
The words would’ve gone on if given more room. My mother hired a drunk priest to complete the ceremony. My father asked her why she hired a pinche borracho? She responded by shrugging, “pues si, he’s free.” He was a friend who owed her a favor. My mother said we should remind ourselves this wasn’t the real deal, and we should be grateful we didn’t get to see Abuelo’s corpse in real life.
We couldn’t attend the real funeral because my parents arrived in The States too late for amnesty. Immigration lawyers all said the same thing. The lawyers said happy endings for families like us only existed in fairytales. Citizenship was impossible because my parents got caught at the border three times. They weren’t clean. Whenever my mother brought up the subject of going to see another lawyer, my father always asked her if she thought money grew on trees? But I knew he no longer wanted to come out of the shadows.
The priest pulled out a rigid Bible from his pocket. It wasn’t used or worn with time. I imagined he stole it from a drawer at a Motel 8. He waved a wooden cross over himself. He glanced at the name he wrote on his palm and looked up towards the sky. “Don Alfonso was a great man. May the lord bless his soul.” He swayed on the balls of his feet.
“Too late for God!” My father fell all dramatically against the gravestone as if there was an actual dead body in there. He pounded the grass. The grass was so overgrown that I couldn’t see my own shoes. I imagined what it would be like to sink underneath the grass. My father was crying so much that he got the hiccups.
“Just be quiet.” My mother slapped his back. Her frizzy hair was cut to her shoulders, gold rings glinting in the sun. She liked to wear a gold ring on every finger of her left hand so that she could show off how well we were doing to her friends on FaceTime. I remember seeing Abuelo’s real funeral on Facebook. Men rode horses with blue neck sashes embroidered with Abuelo’s name. Other men followed carrying the casket over their shoulders. A large crowd sang along with a man playing an accordion. The drunk priest continued his speech and went on about repenting of our sins. My father took a gulp of Guaro. My mother crossed her arms. Her expression was shapeless. The priest instructed us to leave something personal for Abuelo. My father taped a scratched up photo of the house he grew up in at the top of the gravestone. The house was painted cornflower blue and the exterior window shutters were a honey color. My father said the photo didn’t show the view of the volcanic mountains from the porch. The porch was where Abuelo drank his black coffee and where my father polished Abuelo’s shoes before herding the cows. My mother dug a hole and placed one of her gold rings there. Cecilia left a handful of dandelions. I left one of my bobby pins because it seemed more personal at the time.
Lindsay Quintanilla is a writer from Las Vegas, Nevada. Lindsay is currently working on her first novel. She’s been invited to participate in ZYZZYVA Workshops and The Breadloaf Writers’ Conference. Lindsay’s work has appeared in PALABRITAS. She holds an MFA from The University of San Francisco. She is currently living in Houston, Texas where she spends her days trying to perfect gluten free pastries and find the perfect walking trail.
Erica Svec lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.