Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (13 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Allison

BOOK: Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy
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Gilda walked down St. George Street and decided to investigate a small, rustic building called the Spanish Bakery. Inside, a woman wearing a traditional corseted dress and apron lifted a tray of empanadas from an old woodstove. The aroma of fresh bread, pastries, and meat pies filled the air.
“Those smell amazing,” said Gilda, eyeing the empanadas.
“Spanish meat pies,” said the woman. “Good choice.”
Gilda reflected that it would be convenient if more foods were available in pie form for on-the-go consumption. She made a mental note to share that idea with Mrs. Rabido in her next travelogue entry, since she had spied Pop-Tarts in her teacher's desk drawer on more than one occasion. As Gilda paid for her empanada, she noticed a tray of small pastries shaped like little skulls with bones attached.
“What are those?” Gilda asked, pointing.
“Those are
Huesos de Santo
: ‘Bones of the Holy' in Spanish. In Spain they sometimes make them especially for Halloween. Here: This one broke; you can try it for free.”
Gilda bit into the pastry, which tasted faintly of licorice.
“We make a special dough with anise seed and an orange glaze and then shape it into a skull with bones attached,” the woman explained. “I grew up in Spain, and when I was a little girl, sometimes we'd go put some of these on the graves of our dead relatives on Halloween night. For this one night, the living and the dead are reunited—breaking bread together.”
Gilda loved this idea and decided to buy a bag of “Bones of the Holy” pastries with the idea of taking some back to Michigan to place on her father's grave.
Although,
she thought,
if he were still alive he would probably say that giving food to dead people sounds like a ridiculous idea.
With her empanada and “Bones of the Holy” pastries in hand, Gilda sat down at one of the picnic tables outside the bakery. She opened her notebook, pulled a pen from her backpack, and sat, poised to receive inspiration to write a splendid wedding poem.
Gilda rarely suffered from writer's block, so it was unusual that she couldn't think of a single thing to say on the occasion of her mother's wedding.
At least not anything that Mom and Eugene would
want
to hear on their wedding day,
she thought.
But maybe I'm stuck because I'm trying too hard to please them.
Gilda decided to get started by writing a totally honest letter instead:
Dear Eugene and Mom:
Do you want to know the truth? I wish this wasn't even happening. The truth is, Mr. Pook, that I don't like you very much. I don't even like your mustache.
There, I said it. In fact, if I could get away with it, I would tiptoe into your bedroom during the night, shave off half of your mustache, then freak you out by leaving a ransom note from the kidnapped mustache.
Pretty mean, huh?
I know; you don't have to say it. You don't like me much either. I get that, okay?
But here's the problem: I don't mean to gross you out, but if you haven't noticed, WE'RE ACTUALLY GOING TO BE STUCK TOGETHER IN THE SAME FAMILY!!!
Maybe eventually, we'll find some common ground. For example, we both like vintage clothes (you like storing them; I like wearing them), and we both like cooking (you like making datil-pepper jelly; I like making peanut butter, banana, and chocolate sandwiches). Perhaps these are starting points, Mr. Pook. But until we find something to like about each other, I guess we'll just have to “agree to disagree,” “let sleeping dogs I lie,” and other peacekeeping clichés.
And Mom, I do want you to be happy. Even though I personally am not happy, I promise to “sacrifice myself to the table” as they say in prowrestling and will do my best to give Mr. Pook a chance.
With begrudging tolerance on your special day,
Gilda
Gilda felt a little better after putting her honest feelings down on paper. Still, time was dwindling, and she knew she had to come up with something that she could actually read in public at the wedding.
As she sat doodling on her paper, she watched an old man dressed in a colonial Spanish costume with ruffled sleeves read his newspaper at one of the nearby tables. His wife sat down across from him, dressed in ordinary shorts and a T-shirt. The two smiled at each other as they munched on a plate of Bones of the Holy pastries.
I wonder if Mom and Eugene will ever be like those two in their old age, Gilda mused. Would they still be together? For some reason, Gilda couldn't picture it, but the notion of an aging couple seeking companionship inspired her to scribble some verses. She spent the next few minutes quickly writing a draft of her wedding poem:
“THE HOUR OF EARTHLY NEED!”
A wedding poem by Gilda Joyce
 
It brings a tear of joy,
'Tis a sweet thing indeed!
When two older folks
In their hour of earthly need;
 
Can turn to each other
And stand hand in hand;
No feeble-brained woman!
No plump-bellied man!
 
Just a fab North-South duo—
(Let's hope they're a team!)
The St. Augustine King
And his Michigan Queen!
Gilda wasn't completely satisfied with the poem, which struck her as a tad insincere.
It will have to do for now,
she thought. With a deep sigh of resignation, Gilda stashed her notebook into her backpack and headed toward the waterfront for the wedding rehearsal.
23
The Secret Invitation
A
s she approached the Mission of Nombre de Dios on the waterfront, Gilda made her way down a curving, shaded path marked with small monuments devoted to the seven sorrows of the Virgin Mary—mounds of engraved stones topped with crosses. When she reached the rustic altar that marked the site of the first Catholic Mass on North American soil, Gilda looked around for evidence of the wedding rehearsal but found that she was the first person to arrive.
The day had suddenly turned gloomy, and a fine layer of mist now lay over the Matanzas Bay. As a small sailboat drifted toward the shore, Gilda watched a man who looked, from a distance, like a seafarer from an earlier time in history drop anchor and wade onto the shore.
As Gilda drew closer, she recognized Captain Jack's head scarf, gold earrings, tattoos, and scraggly beard.
What is he doing here?
Gilda wondered, observing the “ghost pirate” she had met the night before. He seemed to be looking for something on the ground.
If I didn't know better, I would think I'm seeing the ghost of a real pirate searching for his buried treasure,
Gilda thought, watching him with interest.
“Hey! Captain Jack!”
Captain Jack squinted at Gilda, not recognizing her at first in the long, vintage dress and hat she wore. “It's me—Gilda Joyce!”
Jack raised a hand in a greeting, but he put his finger to his lips, indicating that he didn't want to make any noise. He pointed at something on the ground.
“That's a gopher,” he whispered as Gilda approached him.
“A gopher?” Gilda pictured a small furry animal. At first, she didn't see anything on the ground where Jack was pointing. Then Gilda saw a round object that looked like an enormous, greenish-brown stone. Suddenly a head and legs emerged from the stone, and it began to move very slowly.
“It's a gopher tortoise,” said Captain Jack. “She's a big one, too. I bet she's fifty years if she's a day.”
The tortoise plodded forward, stopping to chew on some grass.
It's like a miniature dinosaur crossed with a tiny cow,
Gilda thought.
“Look at 'er grazing there. And see that big hole?” Captain Jack pointed to a sandy opening in the ground that was almost completely concealed by shrubs. “That's her burrow. It's probably about six feet deep down there. Sometimes snakes and other critters will move into those gopher burrows, too. That's why we call those tortoises ‘landlords.'”
“Did you come here to look for tortoises?” Gilda thought the Mission seemed an odd place to do wildlife research.
“No—I just happened to be out on my boat fishing when I picked up my binoculars to look at what I thought might be a great white egret up in that tree right there. The bird flew away, but then I spied something big moving here on the ground, and I thought, ‘I bet that's a gopher over there.' And lucky me—I was right. I like to keep my eye on these tortoises. They're endangered in Florida because their habitat has been all broken up by development.”
“Would it make a good pet?” Gilda couldn't help thinking how attractive and unique this particular tortoise might look in Eugene's house. Plus, there wasn't any fur to cause allergies.
Maybe when it's not grazing outside, it could be trained to function as a living coffee table for glasses of sweet tea,
Gilda thought.
Captain Jack was obviously appalled. “Don't even think about it! It is totally illegal to catch one of these gophers and keep it as a pet.”
“Oh, I wasn't
planning
on it. I just wondered.”
“It's illegal to kill and eat it, too, in case you were wondering about
that
.” Captain Jack glanced at Gilda's purse as if he wondered whether she might be concealing a tortoise-catching net or weapon of some kind.
“Do I look like the kind of person who goes around killing and eating endangered tortoises?”
“You'd be surprised at how many folks would eat one of these,” said Captain Jack. He regarded Gilda with a hint of suspicion. “So what
are
you doing here?”
“I'm supposed to meet my mom and Mr. Pook for their wedding rehearsal this morning, but so far, I'm the only one here.”
“Everyone else is late, huh?” Captain Jack chuckled. “Well, good for you for being on time.” Captain Jack shaded his eyes and looked out over the water. “I'd better get back out there before the mullet stop biting.”
“Mullet?”
“The fish.” Jack waded back out to his boat. Gilda saw him rearrange some rather dangerous-looking knives and other fishing tools in his boat as he drifted away from shore. “You should come out to
my
ghost tour sometime!” he shouted across the water. “Bring the whole family!”
“I will!” said Gilda, making a mental note to suggest this idea to her mother. “Oh, and you should come to my mom's wedding! Evelyn and Debbie are invited, too!”
Captain Jack waved as he sailed farther away. Gilda suddenly wished that she had remembered to ask if he knew any stories about the ghost of the woman in white.
“So you're inviting pirates to the wedding?”
Gilda jumped; she hadn't heard Eugene approaching; suddenly, he was standing right behind her. “You startled me, Mr. Pook!”
“Nice dress,” said Eugene, eyeing the dress Gilda had borrowed.
“Oh—thanks. I didn't mean to—” Gilda was about to explain that she hadn't originally intended to wear his vintage dress to the rehearsal, but Mr. Pook interrupted.
“So who was that man?” he asked.
“That was just Captain Jack. He leads one of the ghost tours on his boat.”
“And he's coming to the wedding?”
“Um—I figured he might be fun to have at the reception since he knows so many interesting stories, but I don't even think he heard my invitation.”
“I think it would be okay,” said Mrs. Joyce, who had overheard the last part of the conversation. “We don't mind, do we, Pooky?”
That's way too embarrassing,
Gilda thought to herself.
My stepfather must not be called “Pooky” in public!
“Okay, but listen,” said Eugene. “We're having a total of nine people at the wedding if you count the priest and two musicians. We are not planning a big reception.”
“Actually, it's more like fourteen guests,” said Gilda, counting on her fingers. “I might have neglected to tell you a teensy detail—that I invited a few other friends.”
“What friends?”
“I thought we should invite your neighbors, Mary Louise and Darla.”
“That's a good idea,” Mrs. Joyce interjected. “We probably should invite them.”
“Oh, and Evelyn Castle and her daughter, Debbie,” Gilda added.
“And now this scruffy-looking pirate character, too?!” said Eugene. “Anyone else?”
“I'm pretty sure that's all.”
“I'm confused, Eugene,” said Mrs. Joyce. “Who were the nine guests before the people Gilda invited?”
Eugene counted on his fingers: “Well, there's you, me, Gilda, Stephen, the priest, two musicians, and the Furbos.”
Mrs. Joyce looked perplexed. “Who are the Furbos?”

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