Ghost of the Canal

The old lady shuffled through the door, greeting those closest to her with 'How's the hip?'s and 'You're looking younger!'s, then she grinned and waved at those deeper in the room. She was about as old as Maria but something about her, even when hunched over and shuffling was athletic, not quite electric but still warm. Yvette clasped the lady's arm to tell her the same story about her daughter 'the doctor', that everyone who passed by suffered. Maria tuned out Yvette's droning and found her eyes resting heavily on the point where her hand met the lady's arm. Yvette's skin was a similar olive tone, and against hers, a blind man could tell something was wrong with this lady. It wasn't a skin condition though, Maria knew that, and shivers crawled down her spine at the thought. The safety bulletins always said "If you encounter a ground worker, flee on sight", but here one was, one of the most terrifying at that, cozying up to these helpless abandoned fossils. 

Any minute now. Maria thought. 

She gripped the comforter even tighter and a curse for Martin squirmed between her clenched teeth. How could he yank her from all she knew and plonk her down amongst these dotish Canadians too ignorant to fear a ground worker!? Last year when she first came everyone was terrified, Jerry had a literal heart attack, but now? They called her 'Pamela' and pulled a chair for her to join spades games. Maria had seen what a ground worker could do first hand, that was about 40 years ago and the scene still vividly replayed in her sleep to this day. Maria didn't care how long ago 'Pamela' had retired as The Burning Hundred, Maria knew their kind intimately, she gave her heart to one cold blooded demon and gave birth to another. With them it was only a matter of time. 

Half way down the aisle now, 'Pamela' locked eyes with Maria floating towards her baring a warm grin. She felt a strong fire within like when Claudia brought home that trembling devil at 39 degrees or when Romero's arm flung by her face as those Commission dogs crucified the 'loudmouth silver rollers'. Maria wanted it to be the latter feeling but every week this woman came and each time the serenade of crickets, toads and delicate inquiries of cas-cás grew louder and louder. Maria grimaced as the woman came over to her, awaiting the '¿Que sopa?' to tear through her ears. This woman believed just because they were from the same place she could look past all her atrocities. She would sing folk songs with her mejorana, bring yucas fritas to share with everyone and even performed El Tamborito for the ward two weeks ago, it was embarrassing to watch Gerald and the boys stumble over themselves to join in, entranced by her swirling red pollera. Blatant pandering could never distract a strong minded woman like Maria but everytime Pamela left, she would curse Martin for ditching her in this dead building. Pamela asked her if she was homesick once, she spat 'no' while deep inside her body craved the massaging background hum of rain battering galvanize above her head. 

'¿Que sopa?' 

Maria's heart quivered. 

'I'm fine', she replied defiantly in English. She'd never voiced how she truly felt of 'Pamela', no matter how much she claimed to be a changed woman, Romero had taught her all she needed to know about speaking against those types. 

'I hope you like it', Pamela drew a large flat square from her multicolored satchel and gestured it towards Maria. 

She examined the object, as if she would see through it. Then Maria folded her lips and swallowed hard. She didn't take it. She couldn't.

'You were humming when-' Maria couldn't hear the rest of Pamela's sentence, her heart slammed against her ears. The tears gathering around her eyes made it so she could barely make out Pamela's figure and the rest leaning out of their beds to watch.

Trembling, Maria's hand reached out, taking the gift from Pamela. The world sounded like it was submerged underwater, and she clutched the record to her chest. She couldn't control herself, the crickets and toads were overbearing, this was her limit. 

Maria felt a warmth, it was inside, but it was also outside. She kept her eyes closed for fear the moment leave her. In any other context this was the stuff of nightmares, this was what killed Romero, but now, all Maria could think of was the nights in the boxcar when Clement would hold her, the warm bassline from his hardy chest vibrating into hers. A little different but he was like Pamela too, a witch instead. 'Ciempiés' or 'Sanpee' as he would call them. Maria savoured the memory, so vivid now, she prayed it would never leave, because after this was the pain. The pain of giving birth to Martin, the pain of watching the man you saved from yellow jack walk out the door, the pain of the empty chill that neither Steven nor Romero could have ever warmed. 

Turbulent sobs rocked her body and Pamela hummed harder almost singing as if to mask Maria's shame. After twenty years of holding it in it was almost funny to think a hug and a calypso tune could make Maria feel this way, but the thought of being in the jaws of death played a role as well. 

Back home was where the Chagres swept everything away but back home was where she had everything, the moments before the torrents came, Maria would spend eternity there. Pamela squeezed her tighter, everything one wouldn't want a ground worker do, yet the pain eased, maybe she was in the world of the dead already. In the world of the dead, she was at home in the fresh morning, love tingled on her lips where Clement kissed her, she watched the writhing sack of 'Sanpee's on his back wave her goodbye as he walked out the door. This time he wouldn't run off on her and unborn Martin to the hot bosom of the world war. In this world, Steven would leave his belongings with her before the sun woke, the pendant holding his wife and grandmother back home, his most prized possession. This time when he prayed on the way to the dig site and the dynamite charges went off later that day, one of his angels would sweep him out of harm's way so he could sweep her off her feet later that night. In this world, Romero took his silver quietly, went to dig and came home safely to treasure the golden passion between them. No marches, no protests, no strikes no executions. Martin was still alive the last she had heard from him, but he would be in this world too, so he could see how much his father loved him and her. He would stay away from those rascals waving around guns for the white men's gold and he'd never send her off to Canada never to be heard from again. 

Though her face lay buried in Pamela's chest, a smile blossomed from her lips. 

In the clutches of a mass murderer Maria found heaven.