Sequence Six: The San Francisco Lizard Cult

Mary Elena Gomez sat very still, a cigarette smouldering between her fingers, her eyes staring at nothing, her mind a whirl of despairing thoughts.

Voices from the booth next to hers murmured, barely audible. Mary Elena listened, expressionless, her mood growing bleaker by the moment.

"He's an energetic little cocksucker," a man's voice was saying in Spanish that carried a strong Colombian accent -- the same accent as Mary Elena's own mother, the language of the village she remembered from her girlhood, before her father sent her to San Francisco to like with her exiled mother. "and always so sweet, so delectable. His tight little pucker like butterscotch, his nipples like peppermint..."

Her mother, the curandera. Her mother, the bruja. Her mother, who had tried and failed to snare Mary Elena in her claws, blessed be the name of Jesus. That was years ago, Mary Elena was nearing 50, but still the old woman circled, looking for a weakness. Father Martinez counseled her to love her mother, but hate her sins -- sins of divination, sins of conjuring and witchcraft, sins of herbs and poultices and spells and hot hands laid over lesions and tumors...

"He fucks all night like a tiger!" the man was saying, pulling Mary Elena out of her reflections and memories. "He's so fierce one moment and the next -- the next, he's so gentle. Muy mas suave, como un gatito..."

I'll just bet he purrs and purrs, Mary Elena thought, sarcastically. She took a drag on her cigarette, the only movement she'd made in at least six minutes. Then she reached for the glass of red wine that sat before her, placid and inky, rich and dark, fragrant...

Mary Elena knew she would find no respite here in this rich velvet red. She'd sought it here before and been disappointed. She only drank her solitary glass tonight because it seemed the thing to do... like smoking the cigarette that burned ever closer to her gripping knuckles...

"And this tattoo?" a second male voice asked, also in Spanish, also with a Colombian accent "He asked you to pay for it? He demanded that Marcos del Marina should be the artist?"

"It cost a fortune!" the first man exclaimed -- Don Gustavo was his name. Mary Elena had known him for years, had known everyone in the old guard of the Colombian community for years. Don Gustavo was an old maricón, and his way of talking about this boy was nothing surprising. He had never been shy about his proclivities. He had always gotten away with everything. He was everyone's patron, everyone's uncle, everyone's friend in time of need. "But he's worth it, my young tigrito."

"And it's -- " the second man began to ask.

"It's gigantic! It covers his back, it wraps around his chest, its tail comes down his arm and nearly to his wrist. What he's going to do if he ever wants to work in an office I don't know... he's never going to be able to roll up those sleeves as an architect. But then, he only wants to be an architect this week. Next week -- who knows?"

"Ay, these young ones," the second man chuckled.

Ay, Virgin, such filthy old men, Mary Elena thought.

"And the colors!" Don Gustavo continued. "Green like a jungle parrot. Red like his long, hot prick. Blue like the sky over Lake Iguaque. Yellow like the mariclaire flower, orange like the milva..."

"And his prick? What was that about his prick?" the second man panted. Or maybe he simply asked. Mary Elena thought he must be panting. The dirty bastard, the pig, panting over some boy like that. Some boy he probably hadn't even met...

"He loves to shove it into me at either end and when he shoots, Mother of God! It's a tongue massage, an earthquake! So hot, such force, such throes, such ecstasy, so many spurts that fly so far. I am still scrubbing off my wall from last time...."

The voices faded away, the men were gone, and Mary Elena ground out her cigarette. She reached once more for her glass and took a sip, expressionless, weary of the world and everything in it, weary of voices such as these.

Later that evening, Mary Elena slammed into her front door and screamed out his name: "Antonio!"

Her son came rushing from the dining room where the light burned over the wooden table. His schoolbooks were scattered across the lace-lined tablecloth. "Mama, what's wrong?"

"You little son of a bitch!" she screamed. "You been going over to your grandmother's after I told you not to!"

"I -- "

"Don't you dare deny it, you little mother fucker!" Mary Elena raged, giving little heed to her choice of epithets until she saw him smile in the face of her fury.

"I wasn't going to deny it," he told her coolly. "I don't have to deny it. I'm sixteen. I can decide for myself."

"And that tattoo? That mark of Satan? That brand on your hide from your grandmother's degenerate cult?"

He looked at her, puzzled.

"You not going to deny that either?" she snapped.

"No," he said, and unbuttoned his shirt. "I just don't know how you found out. But I can guess." The shirt came sliding off, and the dragon swam into the room, seeming to hover millimeters off his skin, seeming to writhe and breathe fire. Its eyes glowed; its scales shone. Its underbelly was brilliant yellow like the sun. "You stopped by Milagro for a little glass, did you?"

"And I heard everything that cabrón don Gustavo had to tell his little friend about you!" she replied, her voice once more rising to a scream. "Do you know he talks about you? Do you know the sorts of things he has to say?"

"No, but I hope they are sexy and hot." Antonio gave her that insolent smile he'd been flashing lately. Where has this self-possession come from? Who told him he could have it, wield it, show it off, throw it around like that? He was still her baby! That playboy smile made her want to slap him, but she wanted a cigarette more. Her hands trembled and flailed, wrestling with her handbag.

"Here, Mama, take it easy. Let me..." Antonio took the bag, reached inside, retrieved the pack of cigarettes. He took one for himself and handed another to her. He held up a flame, this dragon-draped boy did, and she drew smoke into her body. She shuddered. The smoke reached up and caught her wild thoughts, put them in order at her feet, gave her time to think about what she wanted to say.

"Look, I know you are gay, mijo, and that's fine," she said. "But someone your own age..."

"The boys my own age are too stupid, too young, too..." Antonio shrugged. She knew what he meant. Yes, they were -- crude, blustering, unsure, addled with hormones and probably unskilled at sex all at the same time. It was unappetizing, and somehow indecent. She had once felt the same way about boys her own age. She had preferred older men, men with culture and sophistication, men who could teach her something.

It was different to see this same preference in her son, especially with someone as crude as Don Gustavo. Mary Elena chose a different tack. "Your grandmother, you don't understand. She's a bruja, she's a witch."

"She's a curandera, Mama. She's a healer."

"It's not Christian!"

He looked at her a long moment, then said, "Christian? Jesus healed the sick. Jesus was accused of black magic. He was the son of God. Right?"

"Ah, mijo, it's different -- "

He cut her off, easily, with the authority of a man, and she fell silent despite herself. "And speaking of witches, I know what you heard," he said. "I know how you heard it. Don Gustavo wasn't at Milagro tonight. He had an early flight to Bogotà this morning. He was there last night. So was I -- I hardly said a word, I was enjoying listening to him so much, all his drunk bragging to don Martino about the tattoo and our sex life. That was last night, Mama, that was in the past. You're listening again, aren't you? To the voices that echo in the walls, to the ghosts of conversations past? Even though Father Martinez told you it's evil to hear these things, you should block them out with prayer?"

She drew in another lung full, then drew herself upright and stared him down. Stared up at him to stare him down. He was so tall, so much taller than she. A young man, her young man, making choices she had feared for so many years.

"Don't you sass me," she said angrily, but in control. "I'm the adult. You are still the child." It was all she could think to say.

He was less than chastened. He didn't back down, exactly, but he did retreat back to his school work.

"Don't think this is the end of it, young man," she added. "And cover that thing up. It's disgusting."

He retrieved his shirt from the floor, drew it over his shoulders, and flashed her one more insolent smile as he started on the buttons.

Dios mio, where would this take them? This was el norte, the Cult of the Dragon didn't belong here. This was a place where the rational held sway, technology displaced the age-old struggle between magic and faith, and words were not supposed to dwell in walls for days after they were uttered. But now her son was one of them... and the voices she'd battled all her life were getting louder...

Mary Elena made her way to the kitchen, where she opened a fresh bottle of wine. Was this potion any less evil that the broths her mother conjured from herbs and vile animals? She hesitated, gazing into the wine, then dashed it down.