It was 1937 in La Lima, Cortés, Honduras. Luz blinked at an impossibly tiny Alice. She had to use all of her mental energy to focus on the jostling of the train and the calliope scream of the steam whistle as they passed through the crossroads in their slow progress to the grave site. Alice looked out of the dusty windows at the people standing along the tracks. Luz knew Alice, at four and a half years of age, had only a vague notion of what was happening. Two locomotives pulled a chain of cars that seemed to stretch for miles. Alice looked back with her head poking out of the window, “No termina! It goes on forever, Luz!” She was so small but full of strength.
“You know, Alicia," Luz used the Spanish version of her name although Alice's mother Victorina had legally changed it from Alicia to Alice for reasons no one would ever understand, "your brother is only sleeping.” Luz felt exhausted. She gurgled the words as if underwater.
Alice thought for a moment. “This happens every night when I go to sleep, too?” Alice, her eyebrows fully arched, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open, looked at Luz.
Luz nearly laughed and half-nodded her head. She gave Alice a sheepish smile that sufficed.
Little Alice loved her big, strong brother Stanton. Every day when he would come home from the train yard, she would run to greet him by jumping into his arms. Stanton would swoop her up onto his shoulders and barrel up the driveway as she shrieked with the thrill of being so high in the air. Their mother would swat at Stanton and warn him that one day Alice would be too big to toss around like he did. Stanton would always protest, “Nunca!”
Stanton lived only seventeen years. When he was old enough to work, he would go to work after school. Because he was the eldest male after their father died, he felt responsible for the family. He gave his pay from working for the Tela Railroad to his beloved mother Victorina to help support the family. He asked only to keep a few dollars so he could buy candy for the town’s children. Every Friday before dinner, children would rush to the town center where Stanton would toss them all the candies he had bought for them. On this day, stories of Stanton's good nature were told all over La Lima.
The doctor had given Victorina a sedative after the private funeral service that was held at their home. Everyone knew she would never make it through the public burial. They left her shuttered up at home with Tía Bluette who never left the house anymore because of her fear of bats. Anything that flew near her head was a bat--moths, birds, bees, leaves in the wind. People said that if the house were to burn down, Blu would burn down with it because she would refuse to step one foot outside the door to save herself.
At the funeral, Victorina had insisted that Alice walk up to the coffin with her, though Luz and all of the aunts had tried to stop her. When they had reached the coffin, Victorina had moaned from deep inside and had pulled Alice to her tightly as she stretched out her strong right hand to touch Stanton's face. Alice had known not to struggle against her mother's embrace but could not understand why Stanton was in that box. Afterwards, Alice had been led to the train by her Tía Braulia who wore the blackest lace Alice had ever seen. Braulia was a Peña and had never been outside of Honduras. The Peña ladies, as Alice and everyone else knew, all had auburn hair. Some had green eyes, too, like Braulia. Alice, with her brown eyes and coffee hair, always told Braulia that she wanted to have auburn hair when she grew up. Braulia would laugh and tell her that she should be glad she could be out in the sun longer than Braulia could. Alice agreed that, if having auburn hair meant you had to stay out of the sun, brown hair was better. She loved to go swimming in the ocean, and she would tease all of her Peña aunts hiding under their beach parasols. Alice would gather sea grapes while her skin would grow brown. She would show off her tan skin to her pale aunts. Her mother and brother would tell her that her aunts were vain. Alice hadn't known what that meant. But she had decided that if being vain meant that you had to stay out of the sun, she would never be vain.
The steel wheels screeched to a brutal halt. Luz whispered a prayer. The final procession would now begin. The wailing of the masses of townsfolk assaulted their ears. Alice clapped her hands over her own ears until Luz insisted that Alice hold her hand while they moved towards the exit. Luz had been Stanton's friend, the one he sang to when he drank a little too much of Victorina’s famous chicha, the one who made tortillas for him because he bragged to everyone that hers were the best in La Lima. Luz felt the wailing building up inside her but, for Alice's sake, held the wailing back as they descended from the train. Together, Luz and Alice trudged towards the awful keep in the earth that would embrace what had once been Stanton.
Alice felt safest with Luz, but she allowed Tío Cupertino to scoop her up to the head of the grave as the priest began his graveside liturgy. Alice's eyes were wide open, and she wondered that all this fanfare might happen for her while she slept. Luz slipped a handful of dirt into Alice’s tiny palm and whispered to her, “These are wishes you send to him so he’ll have something from you.” As her uncle placed her back onto the ground, Alice watched the grains that slipped through her fingers. She rushed to toss the remainder from her hand onto the black box that housed her sleeping brother. At that moment, Alice remembered the last time it rained. She and Stanton were in the yard, surrounded by Victorina’s roses and orchids. Stanton had carefully sculpted a smooth mud pie for Alice and had dared her to eat it. Alice had grabbed the pie and had chased Stanton around the yard while throwing small clumps of mud at him. Now, Tío Cupertino leaned close to Alice's ear and told her to say a prayer for her brother. Alice folded her small dirty fingers and shut her eyes tightly. She asked God to give Stanton beautiful dreams so he could describe them for her tomorrow.
[This is a retelling of a story my late mother, Alice, told me about the death of her beloved brother Stanton.]