To gangbangers and members of Mexico’s drug cartels, “Santisima Muerte” was a spiritual figure whose presence provided psychological strength. Prisoners prayed to her for protection against other inmates. Mexico’s poor, sick, and oppressed sought the salvation she offered, free of judgment.
Others prayed to the female Grim Reaper to strike their enemies dead.
The taxi motored north along the Avenue Paseo de la Reforma, the driver glancing every few minutes at his female passenger in the rearview mirror. Gold cross, no other jewels. Plain purse, no designer wear. Still, an American, and pregnant at that. The wedding ring is probably in the purse.
He flashed a false smile. “Senorita, you have been to the Mercado de Tepito before?”
The woman continued staring out the window, absentmindedly palpating her swollen abdomen with her right palm, her left hand twirling a strand of silky red hair.
“I love you Mary. I want to be there when you have our baby. I want us to be a family. Marry me, Mary, and make me the happiest guy in the world.”
If Andrew Bradosky’s proposal was a blessing from heaven, then the two-carat engagement ring was the icing on the cake. Her head in the clouds, all Mary could think about was making arrangements for a December wedding.
Andrew had other plans. “Mary, darling, a December wedding… it’s too soon. We’d have to rush out invitations, secure a banquet room, there are a million details. June is better for a wedding. The baby will be born, you’ll have your figure back. Plus, I can hire a wedding planner while you focus on finishing Scythe.”
Andrew’s sentimentality touched her to the core. And he was right. How could she possibly prepare for the best day of her life while her mind remained absorbed in untangling the genetic secrets of the Black Death? And so she threw herself into her work, intent on finishing the weaponization of Scythe a full week before Baby Jesus’s birth. After the blessed event, she’d take a six-month leave of absence, giving her time to bond with her child and plan out her wedding. She could not recall being so happy, feeling so alive.
Three weeks later, she began having doubts.
The cost of her diamond ring was beyond Andrew’s means, but she had dismissed it as an emotional buy. His new suits and plasma television were justified by his decision to sell his condo and move into Mary’s farmhouse, a recent investment in a down real-estate market. Then there was his new Mustang convertible. He had shrugged the purchase off a month earlier, explaining that his lease was expiring and he had gotten a good deal. When she decided to contact the salesman, another red flag popped up — he had paid cash for the new car.
Where was the sudden influx of money coming from? Could she risk allowing Baby Jesus to be raised under the same roof with a man she wasn’t sure she could trust?
Mary had met Rosario Martinez at the gym, the two women sometimes working out together. Her curiosity was piqued by the female Grim Reaper tattoos that covered the Mexican woman’s arms and back, one of which bore a six-inch scar across her left scapula.
“Saint Death watches over me. When I was younger, I was arrested for selling cocaine. The judge sentenced me to seven years’ hard time at Almoloya de Juárez, a maximum-security prison. My cellmate had painted the skinny girl on our cell wall. Many of the inmates had Santa Muerte tattoos. My cellmate told me the skinny girl watched over her flock, especially the women. One day, two gangbangers jumped me in the shower. One hit me in the throat, another stabbed me in the back, the blade slicing through my tattoo of Santa Muerte. I woke up in the hospital, having been in a coma for two weeks. My doctor said it was a miracle I survived. But I knew Saint Death had saved me, you see, I saw her in my dreams. She was standing over me, wearing a red satin dress, her hair as dark as midnight. I promised that if she saved me I would make something of myself when I left prison. And I did. I owe my life to her.”
“I’d rather be dead than worship Satan.”
“This is not Satan worship. I go to the same church and believe in the same God as you. But all of us are going to die, and I want my death to be sweet, not bitter. I’ve done things in my life I’m not proud of. Saint Death forgave my sins, now she takes care of me. One day you may need protection. One day you may wonder about your man’s intentions. There is a place in Mexico called Tepito. On the first of each month is a holy day, dedicated to the ‘skinny girl.’ Thousands of people go there to ask her blessings for the coming month. Go there, ask for her help. If you wish for money, she will grant you prosperity. If you are in danger, she will protect you from those who wish you harm. If you fear your man will leave you, pray to her, and she will punish him should his eye ever wander.”
It was dark by the time the taxi exited the Avenue Paseo de la Reforma thoroughfare onto Calle Matamorosa, one of the local roads into Tepito. The traffic was congested. The crowd spilled over the sidewalk into the streets. A local startled her by banging on her window. He held up a baggy of marijuana. Despite her objections, he continued to barter until the taxi moved on.
The driver stared at her in the rearview mirror. “Tepito can be a dangerous place, Señorita. Tell me what you seek, and I can take you where you need to go.”
She unfolded the paper given to her by her Mexican acquaintance, then read the address. “Twelve Alfareria Street.”
The driver’s eyes widened. “You are here to see the skinny girl?” He crossed himself, then surged through an opening in the traffic, vanquishing all prior thoughts.
He drove another half mile before pulling over. “The crowd is too large, Señorita, they’ve shut down Alfareria Street. You’ll have to walk from here.”
She paid the driver, then grabbed her tote bag and stepped out into a swarm of brown people, all moving toward one destination. Many locals were carrying Saint Death dolls, the four-foot skeleton figurines dolled up in long wigs and color-coded robes — white for protection, red for passion, gold for money, and black for bringing harm to another.
Somewhere up ahead, a mariachi band played.
Number 12 Alfareria Street was a brown brick apartment building with white trim, located across the street from a run-down laundromat. A small storefront featured a six-foot window display that had been converted into a shrine. Situated behind the glass was a life-size figure of La Santa Muerte—Saint Death, dressed in a bridal gown.
Mary followed a procession line, pushing in closer. The path leading to the shrine was adorned with fresh flowers, the ground made luminous from the flames of several hundred burning candles. Worshippers bearing color-coded candles knelt before the shrine, then rubbed themselves with the wax offerings before lighting them. Everyone brought gifts. Cigarettes and alcohol. Candies and apples. One of the owners of the shop placed the lit end of a cigar into his mouth and blew clouds of smoke out the other end at the doll, filling the shrine.
Mary moved closer, sensing the crowd staring at her. She assumed it was because she was an American. Then she heard the whispers, catching a few recognizable words in Spanish.
Pelirrojo? Rojo is red… they’re staring at my hair.
She waited for a Hispanic family to finish their prayer, then knelt before the window, looking up at the female Grim Reaper manikin. The doll’s long wavy hair was scarlet, the color matching her own.
From her bag she removed a stack of hundred-dollar bills, then turned to a short heavyset Mexican woman, her dark hair marked by a white “skunk’s tail.” “I have a request for the Saint. How do I go about asking it?”