The House on Carnaval Street

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “No, not that. You know.” Now she raised her collar, grabbed Glen by the front of his T-shirt, and pretended to bite his neck. “They take the blood.”

  “Mosquito?” Glen giggled, clearly enjoying himself.

  “Vampire! You mean a vampire?” Sharon shouted out.

  “Yes! That is what it is. A vampire facelift.”

  I was picturing a procedure that would leave me with a whiter than white face and long, pointy fangs, not exactly what I had in mind.

  “It’s where they take your own blood and put it back into your face,” Analisa explained. “With shots. It will make you look joung. I’ve seen the pictures.”

  Sharon shuddered. “There’s no way anybody’s getting me to do any shots, unless they’re shots of tequila.” It did sound pretty disgusting, and I had my doubts, but to me needles sounded way better than knives.

  Mexico has its own take when it comes to health care. Like at the pharmacy, where there always seems to be some sort of party going on. I’ve seen a guy there dressed up like a giant Pillsbury Doughboy—although I guess he’s supposed to look like a doctor—dancing around outside trying to entice people to go in. There’s also often a “nurse” hanging around out front, handing out promotional flyers for all sorts of miracle cures. This is a country where you walk in off the street and the pharmacist offers up Viagra and Lunesta as if they were Tic Tacs or Lifesavers. Where you can get storefront X-rays and blood work done on a whim, any day, any time. But as quirky as it seemed, I hadn’t heard anybody complaining about the medical service down here. My only personal experience until now had been the one time I went to the clinic inside the pharmacy with my ears plugged up. A nice doctor irrigated them swiftly and efficiently. Then he triumphantly held up my big glob of earwax for all the world to see. “Mira! Frijoles en sus oidos!” I had beans in my ears.

  I persuaded Sharon to accompany me to the doctor on Juárez Street, the one Analisa had heard good things about. The neighborhood left me thinking twice about leaving my car unattended, but inside, the office was a sparkly white.

  “The Vampire?” The graying doctor took my chin in his thick hand and slowly turned my head back and forth. Then he shook his own head slowly back and forth. “Not for you.”

  “Why not?” I whined, enviously eyeing the posters of Salma Hayek, Cameron Diaz, Penelope Cruz, and the like plastered on the walls of his office.

  “Too late. The Vampire can only do so much for a woman like you.”

  A woman like me? What the hell did he mean by that? Before I could yank my chin from his hand and head to the door, he continued, tapping each part of my face with his pen as he talked. “Perhaps with a brow lift, some work on the eyes, a little lipo under the chin, cheek implants, and then we straighten out that nose, yes. You might look beautiful.” He flashed a perfect smile and swept his arm toward the posters on the wall, as if he had personally performed surgery on them all. I slumped in my chair. I never knew I had a crooked nose.

  “And you,” he said, turning to beautiful Sharon, “the same. But also your lips need work.”

  He took off his glasses and stood up. “That will be seven hundred pesos for today’s visit, please. Each.”

  My reputation, when it comes to entertaining, is, shall we say, somewhat spotty. Though I shine when it comes to the procurement part—I’m the one who’s always assigned to bring the chips or the sodas for any get-together—my shortcomings, when it comes to dealing with an oven or even a mixing bowl, are widely known. I try to keep things simple. The one and only time I volunteered to host Christmas dinner for the entire family, including the in-laws, I knew better than to attempt a roast turkey. But cooking spaghetti for fifteen turned out to be a whole different matter than doing it for four. Fortunately, the day was saved by a secret dash to the gas station for their famous fried chicken. Another time, when I decided I wanted to try my hand at my own gas station chicken, my tendency to get easily distracted resulted in a kitchen fire, where everything, including the carpet, went up in flames. Even in Kabul, at my own coffeehouse, I was told in no uncertain terms that my one and only job was to greet customers and stay out of the kitchen.

  But on Carnaval Street none of that stopped me from impulsively inviting a few of my neighbors over one Saturday morning for a little get-together. Thank goodness for Analisa, who arrived early with a cake from Panama Bakery, along with her crucial bilingual skills. I put on the coffee. Pepe, the old man who lived on the other side of my bathroom wall, appeared at my gate exactly on time, with a tan fedora on his head and a bag of candy in his perfectly manicured hand. It wasn’t long before Josi and her brother-in-law Jorge, who together own a building six houses down on Carnaval Street, arrived, Josi in her flip-flops and shorts and Jorge looking as though he were headed to a board meeting.

  I’m not sure what I had been thinking. I picked at my cake while the four of them chatted away. Analisa tried her best to draw me in.

  “Tell your friends how do you like living on Carnaval Street, Debbie.”

  “You know how I like it, Analisa. You go ahead and tell them.”

  Analisa rattled something off in Spanish. “Jorge wants to know if you have met the dead people yet.”

  “Excuse me?” I almost spit out my coffee.

  “You heard me, Debbie. So have you seen them? The dead people?”

  “Um, no.”

  “He says he knows lots of dead people. One who lives in his building is a doctor.” Analisa looked at Jorge and nodded her head, clearly impressed.

  “Really,” was all I could say. Who was I to judge? After all, I’d seen plenty of strange things myself in my own lifetime. Besides, there was no way I’d want to offend him.

  “Yes,” Jorge continued, “but he is a very nice and very peaceful dead doctor.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Josi says she wish he would send the dead people to shop in her store.” Analisa laughed. “Jorge says he does, but they don’t need many groceries.”

  Jorge was full of stories. I had barely finished pouring a second round of coffee when off he went on a long, tragic tale about the people who used to live a few houses down from mine. The story goes that one night a young girl who lived there went out dancing with a friend. They met some boys, things turned ugly, and the girl was murdered. Her mother, inconsolable, spent two years mourning over her deceased daughter’s clothes and locks of her hair, praying for her return. Then the girl did return, in the body of her twelve-year-old niece, who had been living in the house as well. One day the niece was normal, and the next she was howling like a wounded animal, suddenly with enough strength to throw tables and chairs and people across the room. She began attacking everyone around her. Jorge heard the commotion and went down to look, and caught sight of the girl growling. The doctor was called, but everyone quickly agreed that this was no illness—the girl was possessed. The street emptied as priests and pastors and ministers of all denominations came to perform an exorcism. The only noises to be heard for the next three hours were the screams of a young girl and the baying of dogs across the neighborhood. That was twenty-two years ago, and the last time anyone ever lived in that house.

  “Ask him if he knows anything about my house,” I urged Analisa, praying that I wouldn’t uncover a grisly past to keep me up at night.

  Jorge pointed to the street. Analisa translated. “Did you know that the Carnival parade used to start right here, outside your door? It went from here, down to the water. And the ­Carnival queens, many of them came from this street.”

  I had to smile, thinking of how I had been unwittingly following in the footsteps of bygone beauty queens every time I set out on those daily strolls during my first few weeks in ­Mazatlán. I was just about to chime in with some stories of my own when Analisa’s phone rang, for about the fifth time since she had arrived. This time she excused herself and went into the kitchen to talk. An aw
kward silence filled the room as I refilled cups and passed around more cake. I was tempted to try out my Spanish, but how can you trust a language where potato, pope, and father are all the same word, where penis and comb are easily confused, and fart and dog sound suspiciously alike? I waited and hoped (the same verb, in Spanish) for Analisa to hang up and join us again soon.

  “Ask Pepe what he knows about Carnaval Street,” I asked when she did return.

  “He says it is a good street. He lives here his whole life. He is ninety-three.”

  “Wow.”

  “He remembers a furniture store, and a shoe store where you drive up a ramp to get in. If you have no car, you had to use a ladder.”

  The irony of Pepe’s early life didn’t seem to have escaped him. Forced to quit school at fifteen after his mother became ill, he went to work to help pay the electric bills. His first employer? The power company, who had him climbing the poles to disconnect those who didn’t pay. Mazatlán was pretty wild back then. But Pepe’s mother, he told us, taught him to be respectful and honest, to stay away from trouble. “I had an invisible umbilical cord to her,” Analisa translated with a smile.

  “What is it with Mexican mothers and their sons?” I asked Analisa later, while we were cleaning up in the kitchen. Her phone rang again. “And who keeps calling you? You have a new sugar daddy or something?”

  “It’s my son, Debbie. He just wants to know when I am coming home.”

  “Aha! See what I mean?”

  “What? He takes care of me. He worries about me.”

  “He worries about his next meal. You spoil him, Ana.”

  “No. He is a good boy, Debbie.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t good. But he’s already eighteen years old, and I’m just saying you shouldn’t be a slave to him.”

  “I am not a slave to anybody! So what if I cook for him and wash his clothes?”

  “And come running whenever he calls.” I knew better than to pick a fight with Analisa, and I honestly had no business criticizing her parenting skills. But I had been battling with my own problems in that area recently and was feeling pretty raw. My son Noah, who, following our escape from ­Afghanistan, had left Northern Cyprus for the States after a couple of months with his brother, was struggling. Always a party boy, he was now a full-grown man with a serious drinking problem, a severe lack of funds, and the distinct possibility of homelessness staring him in the face. A series of bad choices had sent my son into a devastating downward spiral. My heart was breaking.

  Noah had never been an easy child. His strong will and boundless energy always kept things lively, to say the least. Focus, when it came to schoolwork, was not a part of his vocabulary. He was a good boy, but suffered from the grass-is-always-greener syndrome to the point of resentment. That was the challenge of bringing up kids in a working-­class family smack in the middle of a fairly upscale community. We weren’t poor. I’d seen what poor was from my travels in India, digging wells with a humanitarian group, and I was determined to teach my kids to appreciate what they had. I worked hard to make sure we always had a nice home and a car and gifts under the Christmas tree, but we just couldn’t afford the extras, like ski club or vacations in Florida. Noah wanted what he thought of as normal, but with a nontraditional mother living in a highly traditional community, he didn’t stand a chance. Things just didn’t fit in with his Hallmark image of how life was supposed to be. Zach, being younger, was more willing to go along for the ride. Case in point, our stint in the Bahamas. Zach embraced it as a wonderful adventure. I think Noah still resents me for it, to this day.

  Things only got worse after Noah decided he didn’t want to live by the house rules his father and I had set down in our respective homes. My mother took him in, let him run wild, and then bailed him out of every bad situation he managed to slide his way into. It was the worst mistake we ever made.

  By the time I left for Afghanistan, Noah was already twenty-one, an age when most kids prefer that their parents live thousands of miles away. I really thought he’d come into his own. I had dealt with Noah and his drama for his entire life and was confident that he’d eventually find his way. But now, after years of him struggling and me joining in on the enabling, since I had naïvely come around to the idea that a little financial support might help him move forward, he seemed close to hitting rock bottom instead. As difficult as it might be, it was clear that my only alternative was the tough love route. Unfortunately Noah never had any minutes left on his phone, so our communication was limited to e-mail, and accusations had been flying back and forth between Chicago and Mazatlán for weeks.

  Noah: Mom, I need to ask a favor. Can you wire me $200? I know that’s a lot, but it would really help. I don’t ask for much these days.

  Me: I just sent you $250 a week ago. Do you not have a job anymore? No lies, Noah. Tell me what’s going on.

  Noah: Nothing really. Just need a little money. You know I hate asking shit like this.

  Me: Giving you money doesn’t seem to help you. There will never be enough money to keep you on your feet. You need more than money. As soon as you have money you spend it like it is the last day of your life.

  Noah: I just need a little help with the bills.

  Me: I love you, Noah, but I am not going to rescue you every time you are unable to pay your bills. It’s clear you don’t think you have a problem, and that’s fine. Because you are the only one who can help you.

  Noah: When someone has a problem you don’t turn away.

  Me: Noah, it’s time you make the right choices. You can’t guilt me into shit like you did when you were a kid.

  Noah: So we are done. I didn’t ask you for anything, just to be a mother, and you can’t even do that. If you don’t want to be part of my life, then don’t. I don’t need you.

  Me: I am being a mother, but what you want is a bank account. Giving you money is not a mom’s job. Making life easy for you is not a mom’s job. It is my job just to love you. I do love you with all my heart and that’s why I am going to be hard on you now. I am sorry about how this is going to feel for you. I may not have been the perfect mom but I do have a mother’s heart, and I won’t let you manipulate me.

  Noah: I don’t want your money, don’t need your help. Someday you will look back and never forget this. You have no idea how I feel. All I wanted was a family. I will leave you guys alone.

  Me: You have a family that loves you, try not to forget that.

  Noah: I’m trying, and I’m just asking for some help. I can’t do this by myself. We both know that. You’ve done everything you could have done to help me, I just seem to fuck things up no matter where I am . . .

  Me: Noah, you are a wonderful human being and a good person.

  Noah: I’m truly sorry about everything, I’m disgusted with the way my life has turned out. And know that I have no one to blame but myself. I just want to get out of here.

  Me: Go back to Michigan and try to find some sort of work.

  Noah: Can’t I just come to Mexico with you and never come back . . . get away from all this shit?

  Me: If you can’t make it in the States, why would you think you can make it in Mexico?

  Noah: I don’t understand why you won’t take me in. I’m your son! You would rather me be on the streets? I’m asking for help. This is not what people do to each other. God, Mom. This is going to end badly, I can already feel it. Please don’t do this to me. I will end up in the gutter facedown, and you will end up with a phone call from the hospital.

  Me: I refuse to play games with you, Noah. Nobody put you in this place. You put yourself there. It’s time you take responsibility for your actions. I know it’s hard. It’s hard for me, too.

  Part of me, the part that made my entire insides ache when I pictured Noah’s impish smile, wanted to hop on a plane and rush to the rescue. But I knew that bringing Noah to Mexico was pro
bably the worst idea of all. I’d seen sober people turn into drunks practically overnight in this town, a place where beer is cheaper than water. And the fallout from the violence surrounding the drug cartels was making jobs harder to find for everyone, let alone someone who didn’t speak a word of Spanish. No, there were plenty of safety nets for Noah in the States. I just prayed he’d fall, gently, into one of them soon.

  As soon as I heard a healer was coming to town, I knew I had to go. El Maestro Constantino would be here for five days, and between my own issues and my anxiety about Noah, I felt I could use all the help I could get. I called everyone I knew to invite them along. Most of them thought I was nuts, but I didn’t care.

  Now, though I consider myself to be a somewhat spiritual person, I wouldn’t call myself a spiritual person in the way that people toss that term around these days. I know I’d never be able to keep quiet long enough to meditate—I don’t have a whole lot of sit in me—and I’m really not the chanting type. Scrubbing floors in a cold monastery on my bare knees? Not a chance. Enlightenment is probably going to have to fall into my lap, preferably while I’m shopping or something, and my spiritual leader will probably be someone I meet while he’s having a beer at the bar. But I don’t close doors, because I do believe that anything is possible. If nothing else, I’m observant. Celebrations, ceremonies, rituals, and rites have always held a particular fascination for me. I’m pulled to them, whether it’s Hindu body piercing in India, Shinto naked gatherings in Japan, or the Hungry Ghost Festival in China. They make me want to know more. What are these people seeing? What are they feeling? Personally, I do believe there is some bigger force, some higher being out there. And I’m not about to rule anything out. In that way, I have a lot in common with the Mexicans, at least the ones I have met.

  But six o’clock in the morning is not my favorite time of day. The line outside the dance hall was already snaking around the block when I met up with Bonnie and Cheryl, my only two friends to live up to their promise to join me. We had just settled into our folding chairs when I heard Sharon’s voice, yelling down from the terrace of Casa de Leyendas. “Ya healed yet, Deb?”