Calvary Cemetery is in East Los Angeles, with the entrance on Whittier Blvd. A huge, sprawling place with hills, trees, several buildings, including the huge mausoleum, it is generally very busy on the weekends. On this Sunday, the parking lot was full. The day was overcast, but warm, with sunshine peeking in amongst large swaths of grey clouds. Banda music could be heard playing as Smiley, Dopey, and Ruben got out of Dopey’s ride and started to unpack the trunk. Smiley pulled out a blanket, flowers, a bottle of tequila, and her massive handbag that weighed a ton.
“Chingado! What the hell you have in here, mija?” Ruben asked as she handed it to him while she reached into the trunk for the little ice chest.
“Several cans of Aqua Net, chanclas, makeup, a few knives, and some other shit, of course,” she said.
Dopey shrugged.
“Is that banda I hear?” he asked.
“Sounds like it,” said Ruben.
Smiley had finished digging in the trunk and was now holding her heavy bag, while the guys carried the rest.
“The mausoleum is up that way towards the music,” she said. “Follow it.”
As they walked up the hill to the mausoleum, the sounds of a tuba got louder and they all looked at each other wonderingly. The road curved and they turned with it and there, in a patch of grass on the side of the mausoleum was a family with tables set up with tacos and fixings in plastic containers, cans of Modelo being handed out from a big ice chest, and yes, a guy with a tuba alongside another one playing an accordion. Dopey was about to ask for a taco and a Modelo, but Smiley slapped him on the arm, and pointed with her chin to the huge poster board on an easel. The poster board had the image of a little girl of about two years old and the family that sat in chairs or were standing near the table that was decorated with pink balloons were in tears.
Dopey swallowed hard, nodded to the mourners and kept walking towards the mausoleum. The mournful sound of the tuba followed them as they walked up the steps to the building.
“Never been up here,” Ruben said. “Look, you can see the whole city.”
“Lot of Italian names in these alcove rooms,” Dopey said.
“The stained glass is gorgeous,” Smiley said, peering in. “Guys, I don’t think we should be poking around in here. Let’s go back down and look for Mother of Mercy.”
They nodded, following her down the steps. It had seemed almost disrespectful to be peeking into the mausoleum, though Dopey had kind of wanted to go in and find Lou Costello’s tomb. All of them were in a somber mood after seeing the photo of the little girl. At the bottom of the steps, they turned right and there it was, neatly stamped on the curb. “Y Mother of Mercy.”
“Okay, there’s some trees up ahead, let’s go see if the Reinosos and Carbajals are over there,” Smiley said, taking the lead.
There on a small hill, under a twisty olive tree facing Downey Road, was a bunch of tombstones each with “Carbajal” on them. Smiley began reading aloud.
“Medical Corps WWI – Samuel Carbajal.”
“Eloisa Carbajal, beloved wife. Yeah, we’re in the right place. Babe, set down that blanket,” she ordered Ruben.
He spread it out and he and Dopey laid out the things they had brought, while Smiley took the bunches and flowers and began to divide them into small bunches, then reverently, she began to fill the small holders at each tombstone that read Carbajal or Reinoso.
“What’s the tequila for?” Dopey asked.
“For the spirits before we leave,” she said. “Give ‘em a little traguito.”
He nodded.
Finishing up with her flowers, she came back to the blanket and sat cross-legged on a corner of it, her blue-black hair blowing in the small breeze. It was quiet, but for birdsong and the faint sounds of the mourning tuba. Ruben sat down next to her, while Dopey crouched on the other end of the blanket.
“So what now?” He asked.
“We eat, cabron,” Smiley laughed, tossing him a foil-wrapped package.
He caught it mid-air and sniffed at it before pulling off the aluminum foil.
“Tortas!” he chortled. “You made us tortas.”
She grinned at him. “Cuz you fuckers are always hungry.”
Dopey was already wolfing it down. Smiley had buttered the bolillo, then covered it in mayonnaise before toasting it on a grill and filling it with refried beans, carne asada, cheese, some crispy bacon, thick slices of tomato, romaine lettuce, jalapenos and guacamole. Ruben was eating too, while Smiley nibbled at hers delicately. Dopey was on his second one before he decided to open the ice chest to see what she’d brought to drink. He smiled at the bottles of horcahta, agua de chia, and tamarindo.
“I would have brought beer,” she said. “But we’re driving and on a mission.”
As they finished eating, a security guard drove past them in his little golf cart. He barely noticed them. To him, they were just another Mexican family paying their respects and visiting with their dead.
Ruben got up and wandered amongst the Carbajal plots wondering what they were looking for. Smiley and Dopey came to join him.
“Hey, look over there,” Smiley said. “That olive tree root is totally pushing that tombstone up.”
They went over to take a look and noticed it was another Carbajal.
“Moctezuma Jose Carbajal, hijo del Templo. 1843 – 1920. Descanse en paz.” Smiley read.
“Do you think hijo del templo means Templar?” Ruben asked.
“Could be,” Dopey said.
“Dopey, go bring me some of those flowers. I’m going to fill his holder too,” Smiley ordered.
He brought her the flowers and she knelt down to fit them into the holder, which was off center because of the tree root that was pushing the tombstone up and over to the next grave. She felt a chill.
‘Poor guy,’ she thought. ‘Getting shoved over into the other vato’s grave.’
She noticed something then, in between the flower holder and the stone, glinting. Hunkering down closer to the ground, she made as if to put the flowers in the holder but swept away the dirt from the glinting bit of metal. It looked like some type of medallion piece that had once been attached to the tombstone. It was about the size of her palm and encrusted with dirt. She quickly pocketed it and then stood up, crossing herself as she did so. She’d seen the golf cart in the distance and whispered at the guys to bow their heads. Ruben poured out a little tequila onto the tilted black granite stone and let some dribble into the dirt.
“Descanse en paz,” he said.