American Bruja: The Los Angeles Cauldron

Chapter 30. Betty Morton

After a few minutes, Mary helps me to my feet and into the nearest white folding chair. She squeezes my hand before moving on to allow others to pay their respects. Sharon's sitting to my right, and Aunt Margaret to my left.

Uncle Frank skipped this morning's service, and I hoped to avoid him, but a wave of disapproving murmurs crushes my hope. Uncle Frank shoves his way to the front of the line and stops when he reaches me. With a yank, he pulls me upright to a tight embrace. My face is pressed into his chest. Old Spice assaults my nostrils and I struggle to breathe.

Movement below his waist pokes my stomach. Feeling like I'm going to puke, I twist from his grasp to fall back into my seat. My mind's whirling with memories of things he's said over the summer. One comment jumps out.

You've developed into a beautiful young woman, Betty.

I'm frozen as the endless line of mourners passes. Everyone except the cheer squad throws dirt onto the coffins. Most tell me they're sorry for my loss. They pass in a tearful blur of perfume and cologne, and condolences.

Suddenly, it's over. Mourners shuffle back to their cars, and then I'm alone with Sharon, my aunt and uncle, and the rabbi.

Rabbi Schumer gives me and Sharon a warm hug. "Don't be a stranger."

I think this is for me, but something tells me he's reminding Aunt Margaret and Uncle Frank about their responsibilities.

We rise to stand and follow Rabbi Schumer down the grassy hill. When we reach the car, I turn to look at the gravesite. An orthodox man with long, curling sideburns hefts a shovel over his shoulder. He's wearing a crisp white shirt and black pants. White fringes stick out from underneath his black vest. Digging the shovel into the nearest mound, he hefts dirt into my sister's grave. His movements are graceful and rhythmic. Mesmerized, I watch him shovel the last of my sister's mound before he moves onto Mom.

Behind my back, Uncle Frank grumbles about needing to get back for lunch. A shush from Rabbi Schumer silences him.

The orthodox Jew silently shovels dirt into Mom's grave. An icy chill surges up my spine as he finishes and moves onto Dad. The finality of his actions tells me there's no more denial. No point in daydreams. My family is dead.

Thursday, August 16, 1968, 6:00 p.m., Los Angeles

My older sister Sharon sets her suitcase down in the doorway of aunt and uncle's house as she waits for her cab. I clutch her elbow and lean in. My words tumble out in a rushed whisper, "Don't leave me with them. You're an adult. We can live at home!"

Sharon turns to look at me with cold eyes. "I have a life. I'm not leaving Columbia to take care of you."

My heart's pounding so loud I can hear the blood flow in my ears. I squeeze her biceps in desperation. "I'm not a little kid! And you can go to college here!"

She shakes me off as a yellow cab pulls up to the house. As Sharon grabs her suitcase and storms out the door, she takes my last shred of hope with her.

Sunday, August 18, 1968, 8:00 p.m., Los Angeles

Heaviness settles in as I drag myself through the motions of living. Everything's a blur, and I can't tell the difference between sleep and wakefulness. I forget to eat.

Aunt Margaret orders me into the shower. I haven't bathed since the funeral. She slams the bathroom door shut and I stare at the water streaming from the showerhead. With a sigh, I take off my clothes and let them drop into a heap on the floor.

A spray of water rushes over my head as I step into the shower. Dirt flakes from my knees to wash down the drain. I rest my forehead against the cool tile and squirt some shampoo onto my scalp. Soapy bubbles drop from my hair and onto my chest. My hands go through the motions of washing and rinsing.