Hilary Fields - Bliss

Hortencia looked as if she might refuse to come forward. “Dear, are you sure you’ve got the hang of the rules?” she prevaricated. “I’m sure it says somewhere that you can only dare one person at a time, and—”

“Horse hockey, Hortencia!” shouted Lou-Ellen. “There’s nothing in the rules that says she can’t dare two for the price of one. You’re just chicken shit.”

“Bwock, bwock, bocka-bocka-bwwwwwock!”

The Back Room Babes were convulsed with laughter. Kombucha and margarita mix sloshed over the lips of cups, and howls of hilarity hit the rafters. Sera herself was bubbling over with mirth. “C’mon, Hortencia. Show a little spine. I know you’ve had a tough day, being raised from the dead and all, but I promise this won’t hurt.”

“Oh, very well, if it’ll stop you ladies from going any more loco than you already have…” Hortencia stepped forward. Sera took hold of her soft, crepe-skinned wrist, holding it close to Pauline’s with one hand.

And with the other, clamped pink, faux-fur-trimmed handcuffs around both of them.

Pauline and Hortencia sent up instant squawks of protest, tugging at their wrists but finding themselves unbreakably bound together.

“Serafina Bliss Wilde!” shouted Pauline. “Unlock us this instant!” She tried for a stern, authoritarian stance, but the sombrero and belly-dancing outfit rather undercut her efforts. With a pang, Sera read a trace of real panic in her aunt’s eyes. Yet even as she second-guessed herself for her impulsive act, Sera noticed Hortencia was biting back a reluctant smile, and she was reassured she was doing the right thing. The wink Hortencia sent sidelong in her direction further reassured her.

“These dares are supposed to be for the person’s own good, right? Help you with your hang-ups and whatnot? Well, it looks to me like you two ladies have got one hell of a hang-up you need to hash out, and you don’t show any signs of doing it on your own. Maybe this will give you the opportunity—and proximity—you need. Come see me for the key at the end of the night if you still want to be separated,” said Sera, grinning fit to crack her face.

“Now, who’s going to tell me about this Zozobra thing?”

Where are we going again?” Sera asked Aruni. The Back Room Babes formed a noisy procession, strolling, staggering, and skipping down Santa Fe’s sidewalks in the gathering gloom. They seemed to be heading north of the main tourist destinations, and as they walked, they slid into the slipstream of hundreds of other celebrants, citizens and tourists alike, festively dressed and visibly excited. Despite her request, no one had come forward with any information about the festival with the oddball name, and Sera wished she’d had the foresight to Google it before she came out tonight.

Aruni relented, but just a tad. “We’re headed up to Fort Marcy Park for the burning,” she said, chuckling at her own cryptic comment. “Then after he’s toast, we’ll be coming back to the plaza to eat and drink and dance the night away. Well, some of us will be drinking. Not me, though—pollutes the body, and besides, I want to save room for Frito pie!” She laughed at her own hypocrisy, and Sera spared a moment of gratitude that she wouldn’t be the only one abstaining from alcohol this evening. “You got back just in time, girl,” Aruni continued. “Tonight’s not only Zozobra, it’s also the first night of Fiesta. This town’s been throwing itself a weekend-long party every September since 1712, if you can believe it. I’m told it’s the oldest citywide celebration in North America. The whole city will be dancing and singing and stuffing their faces all night long!”

Aruni did a little jig, thrusting her arms skyward and twirling in a circle, unable to contain herself. But about this “burning” business, she would say no more, insisting Sera would have more fun if she waited until they got there to witness the event with unspoiled eyes. Jesus, Sera thought. This town is like dry tinder. I hope, whatever’s burning, it’s far away from any buildings or loose brush.

They’d started out heading down West Marcy Street, just a block from where their little placita nestled, first turning onto Washington Avenue, which was one of Santa Fe’s wider thoroughfares, then crossing Paseo de Peralta, where the hideous pink erection that was the Scottish Rite Temple (according to Aruni, owned and operated by a local Masonic sect) loomed over the neighborhood like a Pepto Bismol–colored cry for help. They soon passed the turnoff for Artist Road, where Pauline’s house stood, and past which the ski basin opened up, though Sera had yet to visit it. As they walked, more and more people joined the procession, some holding flashlights, others drinking surreptitiously from concealed containers. Many families carried blankets and picnic baskets. With the crowd swelling and spilling onto the streets, it was impossible to take one’s car out tonight, which pleased Sera’s Manhattan sensibilities. She loved to walk, even if the thin air here did steal her breath.

Or perhaps it was the enchantment of the evening that was making her light-headed. Along the adobe outer walls of big hotels, museums, fancy restaurants, and modest homes alike, little brown paper bags lit from within by tea candles— farolitas, according to Aruni—added atmosphere along with twinkling light. Chile ristras—mostly deep red, but some with yellow or green dried peppers mixed in—hung from the patios, door frames, and fences of many buildings, a ubiquitous decorative accent here in New Mexico, though still foreign to Sera’s eyes. Flags featuring Spanish heraldry from what must have been colonial days flapped in the light autumn breeze. Yet decked out as the city was in her festive best, her citizens shone brighter still.

Pauline was by no means the only one outrageously dressed. Bands of mariachis in tight toreador-style outfits competed with street vendors swinging glow sticks, their heads half-buried in bands of neon glo-tubes like Burmese women’s necklaces gone psychedelic. Buskers and performance artists were sporting everything from conquistador outfits to traditional Pueblo Indian attire, reminding Sera that Anglos were relative newcomers to a city that had been old before America was even a nation.

At last they reached Fort Marcy Recreational Complex, where, Aruni informed her, there was a very nice pool and a ball field if she were ever in the mood for some exercise. Sera, whose idea of a workout involved dead-lifting thirty-pound racks of steaming hot bread to and from her ovens, doubted she’d be seeking out softball leagues anytime soon, but she could appreciate the green space the park offered. At least, she assumed it’d be green. In the gathering darkness, surrounded by thousands of her fellow Santa Feans, it was difficult to tell what color the grass beneath all those shuffling feet might be.

At the gates, Pauline inadvertently yanked Hortencia’s arm up as she reached to pull a pile of tickets from underneath her sombrero. Guess belly-dancing costumes don’t come equipped with pockets, Sera thought. Hope Pauline doesn’t freeze her bits off later on, considering how much the temps drop at night around here in the autumn. Hortencia shot her lover the hairy eyeball and ostentatiously rubbed her wrist, but Pauline was all cold shoulder—at least toward Hortencia. She had a bit more love for the rest of the Back Room Babes.

“Women!” she shouted. “Gather round. I’ve got our tickets here.” The BRBs flocked to her side, taking their tickets and waiting their turns to funnel through the gate in the park’s chain-link fence along with what felt like—and probably was—half the city. “If we get separated,” Pauline called, “meet back at the plaza after the burn, ladies. And don’t forget—have a goddamn great time!”