The Vanilla March

Barlow Crassmont

Louis Garcia found the silence worse than unwanted noise.

            The reticence rendered time a cumbersome nuisance, and turned reality trivial. In comparison, his heartbeat sounded boisterous. Thump-thump, thump-thump. It made the hair on his arm stand. He would’ve preferred the wailing of a tortured cat, even nails dragged across a chalkboard – anything but this. The ominous quiet reminded him of a concealed doom waiting to pounce from within the shadows.

Maybe they’ll stay away if I wish for them to.

 

As a child, he prayed for a set of pirinola toma todo set for his sixth birthday. He sat on the old, dusty rug in their home in the Mexican village of Patzcuaro, humming to the Macarena music video that played on their antiquated TV set. The song was slaying the billboards both north and south of the border. While most local adults thought it derivative and unimaginative, young Louis found himself repeating the silly repetitive lyrics during every waking moment – even at nighttime, when he struggled to fall asleep without counting this or that farm animal infinitum.

A few days later, when his father had returned from the fields, dirt and mud composing his figure more than clothes and flesh, he held his son’s desire in his left hand. Little Louis’ grin extended from ear to ear as he leapt at his old man in unabashed joy. So it was true what they said. Pray often enough, and God will eventually respond.

 

He hadn’t made such an invocation in decades. But if any occasion called for it, this was it. Excessive perspiration and a dry mouth always made Louis wish for that which he didn’t have.

            “They’re done for the day,” Isabella whispered, her muffled syllables echoing across the wooden floor. “We can relax.”
            “Like hell, we can,” Roberto said. His forehead was glossier than a waxed floor. The trio lay in a tight space no bigger than a slightly wider coffin, crafted in the kitchen’s floor.

            “Until tomorrow – I mean (whispering), until tomorrow.”

            “I heard they play music… uhm, I forgot the name of the artist… some one-hit wonder, back from thirty years ago… they play it over a loudspeaker,” Roberto said. “To put an extra scare in everyone.”

            “Wouldn’t the announcement of their arrival give everyone a chance to run and hide?”

            “They don’t think we got anywhere to go.”

 

            The ensuing days delivered heartbreaking news. Whispers, rumors, and gossip resonated down the building’s hallways, like echoes across a rugged mountain range. Adjacent walls produced cipher taps that recalled Morse Code of yesteryear. Several raids took place across the Pilsen neighborhood. Locals feared Belmont Cragin to be next. Parents separated from children, brothers from sisters, husbands from wives. Tears, agony and grief were all the armed, concealed brutes left in their wake.

Louis, Roberto and Isabella moved lightly within their tiny kitchen, like weightless apparitions. On most days, they didn’t use the stove. It was too noisy. The majority of their meals consisted of refrigerated food. Cold cuts, stale bread and an occasional spread. Mustard, mayonnaise, salsa. Whatever they still had.

“Beatriz was taken two days ago,” Isabella said.

“Her mother must be devastated,” Roberto said.

“Damn,” Louis said, staring into the empty freezer. “No ice.” In his hand was a bubbling soda, which his face judged with mouth twisted sideways. “It’s warm. There’s never ice when you need it.”

“Careful there,” Roberto chuckled.

“What?” Louis said. “I’m just sayin—”

“Both of you,” Isabella carelessly raised her voice. “Shhh!” Her finger was planted across her lips.

Louis’ heart sank to the pit of his stomach, like an overweight anchor. “Is… is that…?” Roberto’s bulging eyes and Isabella’s sudden paleness confirmed the worst. Subsequently, Louis’ grip on the soda loosened. The glass fell, shattering on the floor. Its crash echoed across time and space. The trio crawled back into the hiding space, covering themselves with the appropriate boards.

For the longest, they nearly held their breath. Eyes closed tighter than blinds, bodies still as graves. The faint sound of their heartbeats slowed, mimicking a clock running on a drained battery.

The first knock was raucous, the ensuing one more so. “DHS! Open up!” The clamor sent chills down their spines. Then a large black boot shattered the door without delay, sticking inwards like an infernal serpent. Several men with bulletproof vests stormed the unit. Batons, pistols, shotguns, tasers: they had it all. On their chests, a familiar acronym’s font burned the retina. Through the floor’s crack, Louis watched with an apprehension that was equal amounts disappointment.

“Not the kind I had in mind,” he whispered. His words were quieter than wind, hardly heard even by Isabella. Yet, their emittance was all the armed men needed. The utterance was smelled rather than heard by the humanoid hounds.

A bulky fellow smiled while looking down at the floor. He pointed his shotgun towards the concealed trio, then exclaimed, “Beaners in sight. There. Grayson, use the crowbar to pull that board.”

The plywood was peeled off quicker than a crusty scab over a healing wound. The three immigrants were exposed, resembling a trio of frightened children.

And rightfully so.

In lieu of faces commonly associated with the feared Department, the quartet towering over them possessed ghastly features. Monstrous countenances. Eyes glowing with red. Horns protruding from their oval shaped heads. Grimacing, they revealed sharp teeth from their slimy mouths. Their hands were composed of claws rather than fingers.

“Dios mio!” cried Isabella. Roberto crossed himself several times; yet little salvation was in sight. Louis uttered a muted prayer, just before the outdoor screams resonated. In a flash, the noises escalated tenfold. Bloodcurdling, ear piercing shrieks that crushed silence as easily as fingers crumble a plastic cup.

With eyes closed, Louis took a deep breath, and resigned to his fate. He embraced the vociferous outdoor wailing as a welcome change.

Good to know we’re not the only ones. And the silence is gone, at least. Silver lining in everything.