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!”

Sera followed Aruni closely, anxious that they not become separated. As far as her eye could see, swarms of people spread out, picnicking, meeting up with friends, laughing, blaring music. It reminded Sera of concerts she’d attended on Central Park’s Great Lawn in summers past. Well, that was until she looked up. Sure, there was a stage, much the same as those shows she’d seen in New York. But Manhattan’s stages didn’t tend to boast fifty-foot effigies of what looked like the world’s largest, ugliest waiter.

“What the fu—” Sera stopped stock-still, just yards inside the park’s entrance. The colossal marionette took center stage, white-faced, huge-eared, with angry staring eyes and a long, white outfit sporting a painted-on black bow tie, black buttons, sash, and cuff links that looked to be fashioned from pizza pans. Actually, the effigy looked quite a bit like the Mr. Bill Play-Doh doll from old episodes of Saturday Night Live, to Sera’s astonished eyes—if Mr. Bill’s torture du jour were being stretched into Gumby shapes on a Spanish Inquisitor’s rack. As if aware of Sera’s thoughts, the figure’s long, spindly arms began to wave in slow-motion distress, and amplified moans of distress started issuing from its wide, gaping mouth, echoing across the grassy field.

The crowd responded with a roar of delight.

Aruni and Janice swept their arms around her, laughing. “C’mon, girl!” Aruni cried. “It’s starting! Let’s get as close as we can. We don’t want to miss the fire dancers or the little gloomies!”

Sera allowed the two women to tug her forward, vaguely aware of the rest of the Back Room Babes spreading out into the crowd. She saw Hortencia start determinedly off in one direction, only to be pulled up short as Pauline just as stubbornly headed along a different vector. Hortencia, on the right, yanked her handcuffed arm. Pauline glared daggers at her and planted her Birkenstocked feet. Then the crowd surged between them and Sera, and she momentarily lost sight of their angry tableaux.

“Um, guys…” Sera began, resisting the pull of her two new friends. “Is there supposed to be a moaning Mr. Bill looming over us like that?”

“Yup. Not to worry. He’s an invited guest. That there’s Zozobra himself,” Janice said, following Sera’s dumbstruck gaze. “His name means something like ‘Old Man Gloom’ in Spanish. He’s supposed to represent all the negativity of the past year.”

Sera could see why. He looked a lot like a grouchy neighbor she’d once had, whose greatest joy in life had been waving his tennis-ball-tipped cane at neighborhood teens for anything from littering to displaying their tramp-stamp tattoos too close to his front stoop.

“Um, what is the crowd chanting? I can’t really make it out.”

“They’re shouting ‘Burn him, burn him!’” Aruni told her. “They’re going to set him on fire pretty soon, purge all that bad energy. He’s full of tax returns and divorce decrees and foreclosure notices. All that awfulness. I put a kiss-off letter to my ex in there myself. Had to slip the kid from the Kiwanis Club’s Zozobra-decorating crew ten bucks to let me stuff it in there, but it was worth it.”

“Nice,” Sera complimented. She could think of quite a few negatives she’d like to see go up in flames, but somehow, she doubted the Kiwanis kid would be able to assist her in squeezing Blake Austin’s bloated ego into the effigy. Not that it would fit.

“And what’re those tiny figures dancing around the base all about?” They looked like they were practicing for a Casper convention.

“Those’re the gloomies.” It was Janice who answered, dimpling. “They’re local kids picked to take part in the ritual. They’re supposed to be ghosts of negative energy, if I remember right. Syna’s boy Jimmy got himself picked to be one of them this year. She was so proud. Oh, and look, there’s the fire dancer.” She pointed.

Sera could just make out a figure in flame red, twirling and leaping around the base of the wailing effigy, waving a torch tauntingly. “I can guess what her job is,” she said. The chants of the crowd were growing louder, fists pumping in unison in the direction of the stage, like protestors at a rally, or rock ’n’ roll fans. No few of them held up lighters, showing their eagerness to help toast the grotesque figure.

“Yup. C’mon, Pauline’s calling us.” Aruni urged her to close the gap between them and the rest of the Back Room Babes. Janice gave Sera a wink and linked arms with her.

Despite the rowdy crowd, the BRBs were able to form a loose circle, and at Pauline’s urging, they all clasped hands. (Of course, Pauline and Hortencia had little choice in the matter, but they seemed to be keeping their simmering dispute under a tight lid for the moment.) Sera’s hands were taken by Aruni on one side, her birdlike fingers cool and serene, and Syna’s on the other, warm and slightly sticky. Janice had moved farther down the circle, linking up with Crystal and another woman whose name Sera couldn’t recall.

“Women,” cried Pauline. “I’m so happy to be sharing this moment with you tonight.” She had on her lecturer’s bon vivant voice, Sera noticed with a smile—the one she’d perfected on NPR interviews and during commencement speeches at small women’s liberal arts colleges, back in the day. “What we have here is a perfect opportunity to free ourselves of just about any damn thing that’s been holding us back. You each joined the Back Room Babes because you were searching for fulfillment, something that was missing in your lives.

“For some of you, it was a disappointing marriage bed,” she continued in her booming voice, oblivious to the grins and interested looks she was gathering from outside their circle. “For others, it was simply a desire for more desire, or to get to know and befriend your bodies better. And some of us—let’s face it, we just needed a place to shoot the shit with other women.” She jiggled her arms, sending a wave of friendly energy through the group’s linked hands. “Zozobra’s your chance to literally watch all those hang-ups go up in flames, and to chart a new course for your future. Now, I want you each in turn to get in the middle of our circle and share one thing that’s been blocking you from being the ultimate, bad-ass woman you’ve always dreamed of being, and then tell us what you’re going to do to change it. We’ll hold space around you to honor what you share and help you focus your affirmation for change. Who’d like to be first?”

Syna let go of Sera’s hand with alacrity, hustling her booty into the center of the ring. The other women closed ranks around her, with Sera now holding River Wind’s callused hand. (River, she’d learned, was a local sculptress, and the one responsible for the earth mother fountain in Placita de Suerte y Sueños’s courtyard.)

“My biggest problem is my exercise equipment,” Syna announced. “I spend hours every day wallowing in guilt over not using my stupid elliptical machine. I’m tired of hating myself because I don’t want to get motion sickness wobbling away on that darn torture device for forty-five minutes a day, all so my buns will sit a quarter-inch higher in my ever-so-fashionable mom-jeans. So here’s my Zozobra-resolution: that glorified clothes hanger is getting kicked to the curb! My butt is just fine, and anyone who says otherwise—including my husband—can just suck it!” She waggled her fist in the air, cheeks flushed.