She Slept With My Husband, So Her Fiance Rides My Balloon novel · Chapter 22 of 24

Chapter 22: Dia de los Muertos

On the first night of November I put my father's ofrenda on the shelf above the radio.

I had marigolds from Eloy's field in a jar, a candle in a glass, a plate of pan de muerto and a photograph of my father in the basket of the pepper in 2001.

His flight jacket hung on the wall behind it.

Beside the photograph sat the old green thermos.

Nestor had left it on my step in August, and I had finally found a use for it.

At seven there was a knock, and I knew it.

I opened the door.

Eloy stood on my step in a clean shirt with his hat in one hand and a framed photograph in the other.

It was the one that had lain face down in his mother's hall.

Epifanio Armijo stood in it on a cold field in 1993, in his sheepskin coat, thirty years younger and laughing.

"My mother gave it to me this morning," Eloy said. "She said he should be somewhere people would say hello to him. I don't know where that is."

"Come in."

He stood in front of the shelf with the picture in his hands.

"Where can it go?" he asked.

I took it from him, and I stood it on the shelf next to my father's, so that the two men leaned a little toward each other.

"There," I said.

Eloy looked at them for a long time.

"They'd argue," he said.

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