Transito Santos isn’t sure how her partner, Feliciano, died. All she knows is this: he had worked a seven-day week, Monday through Friday at the fish processing plant, and the weekend at the grape orchard. He had cashed both his checks, and had four hundred dollars in his wallet. On Sunday night he went to see his brother, and spent the night at his place. On Monday, he called Transito and told her he had received a call that his nephew had been killed in Guatemala, and that he was feeling very depressed. He was walking on the train tracks near their New Bedford apartment, where they live with their little boy, Yordi. That night, he never came home. On Tuesday, Transito went to the Police station, where they took her information. She heard nothing, into the night, and all day Wednesday. On Thursday afternoon, a police officer came to her door, but she was out buying an ice cream for Yordi. She learned this on Friday, when they called her on the phone. They told her that they had found Feliciano near the train tracks, but unfortunately, he was dead. She was called to the station, where she was asked to wait. The officers brought out a cardboard box and showed her his things – his cap, his backpack (she could see his thermos inside, which she filled with oatmeal every morning) – and she said yes, they were his. She was hoping that they would give them to her, but they didn’t. She asked them about his cell phone, his wallet, the cash. But those things were not there. The police had no further information. She was brought to the morgue, where she was shown a photograph of his face, which she also identified. She now has only his death certificate – where the cause of death is listed as “pending” – and an officer’s card, but she has heard nothing since then.

Since his remains were sent back to his parents, in Guatemala, to be buried, she has set up a makeshift memorial near the spot where he was found. There is a hand-painted cross bearing his name, date of birth, date of death. She went to WalMart and got a bag of potting soil; she brings a little each time she goes, emptying it out around the impatiens that she has planted. Her friend told her she ought to try artificial flowers, so she has bought enough to have a rotating supply. Every week, she and Yordi walk down the rocky tracks toward the cross. She loosens the soil around the impatiens and sprinkles them with water. She removes the cloth flowers that have become soiled, puts them in a plastic bag, and replaces them with clean ones. She’ll take the dirty ones home to wash. Next week, she’ll replace dirty with clean, making new arrangements, week after week.