The Undertaker's
304 Words
Chancho waited until the undertaker stepped out for dinner before slipping through the back door. The business end of the funeral parlor reeked of formaldehyde, but not from the embalming of the undertaker's most recent guests. Shielding his nose and mouth, it didn’t take Chancho long to find the four bodies dumped in a pile by the back door. It looked as though the proprietor doubted recompense for his labor and thus had decided to hold off preparations.
“Primitivo. For the first and last time, it is nice to see you.” Chancho’s voice reverberated louder than he had intended. After checking the hall into the parlor, he returned to the bodies. Rummaging in Primitivo’s pockets, he found what he’d come for—the gold coin. The undertaker had apparently been so late for lunch he hadn’t yet pillaged the bodies. Glancing at the other three faces, Chancho sighed with relief. At least Vicente was not among them.
On his way out, Chancho held the coin up to a swath of light slicing between two curtains. “The eagle clutching the snake. The cause of, and answer to, all my problems.” As he emerged back into the daylight, he breathed deeply. While this particular problem seemed to have resolved itself, the reminder from his past rattled him.
He had a record of deserting the people closest to him. Shoving aside a stack of pallets, he hefted his bundle of supplies and slung it over his shoulder. Primitivo couldn’t threaten the orphanage any more. Chancho patted the coin in his pocket. There was nothing else to do. Not yet. After the revolution, he could exhume the rare gold coins. Maybe then he could redeem some of his past actions, enough to sleep in peace.
For now, his life with Muddy and Nena, his life herding goats and growing m*******a, was all he wanted.
- Writer
