Denis nodded toward his big friend. “Bill and I both just retired. Came down here to start a whole new life.”
I toasted him with my empty coffee cup. “Well, then, good luck to you. I’ve been starting a whole new life down here myself.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“So far so good.”
“Any words of advice for the new guys in town?”
“Yeah. Don’t drink the water. And if you do, bring your own toilet paper. That, and you should know that all tacos are not created equal.”
Denis laughed so loud I’m sure they could hear it all the way down on the Malecón. “I’ll try to remember that. But seriously, I’d love to get some tips on where to go, what to see. We’re open to anything.”
I started to share the names of some of my favorite restaurants and shops with Denis, until I realized that if I didn’t leave right away I’d definitely miss class.
“Shoot. I’ve gotta run. But it was a pleasure to meet you two.”
Denis stood and shook my hand. “Likewise.”
“You have an incredible head of hair,” the hairdresser in me blurted out, running her hand through his thick white mane. “Has anybody ever told you that?”
Denis laughed again, unfazed by my boldness. I scribbled my phone number on a cocktail napkin and rushed off to class, hoping I wouldn’t lose track of this guy in the gringo shuffle. But on my way I had a brilliant idea, and dialed Analisa immediately to explain the plan.
“Listen, Ana, you know those two guys who just walked in before I left?”
“You mean the cute Chinese men?”
“Whatever. Anyway, don’t waste your energy thinking you’ve found yourself a new meal ticket. They’re gay. But I’m thinking that maybe we should ask them if they want to join us when we go shopping in Guadalajara. They’re new here, they’ll need stuff for their house, right? And I’ll bet you they love to shop.” I knew that Analisa was nervous about taking the trip. The violence in the area seemed to be exploding, and besides, even in the quietest of times Mexican women do not just take off on a midnight bus for a twenty-four-hour shopping spree in a strange town without an entourage, like we were going to be doing. For me? After a bus ride through the Khyber Pass, this seven-and-a-half-hour ride on a Mexican highway seemed like a first-class journey on the Orient Express. Back then, I had convinced my son Zach, who was staying with me at the time, that a trip into Pakistan to pick up a much-needed facial machine would be a wonderful adventure. We’d travel just like the Afghans did, and for safety purposes we’d even look just like Afghans, Zach with his curly hair slicked down flat, and me in a head-to-toe black burqa. We kept our conversation to whispers as the bus rattled its way around the steep hairpin turns, slowly making its way through the rocky landscape lined with poppy fields and abandoned, overturned semis and old tanks, bombed-out cars and trucks, in plain sight of the Taliban fighters who were known to fire down on military transports from their nearby mountain hideouts. I was actually relieved when our covers were blown, just as we were leaving Afghan territory. Showing our passports caused all sorts of excitement, along with the enforcement of a Pakistani government requirement that we accept the escort of an armed guard for the rest of the journey across the border zone.
Even though I knew the odds of anything happening on a trip to Guadalajara were slim by comparison, the thought of having two men accompanying us as a deterrent to anybody who might want to try something stupid was an appealing one. There were plenty of other men we knew in town whom we could invite, but that invitation would have been taken to have, no doubt, a few benefits attached. So these guys appeared to be a perfect solution, even if they didn’t seem like the type to jump in between us and the barrel of a bandito’s pistol. Besides, I thought, how nice would it be to develop a friendship with a gay guy down here? It would be so great to have a man to hang out with, especially at night, when I never felt totally comfortable traveling around alone. I told Analisa to hand her phone to Denis.
“Hey, Denis, it’s Debbie. The Debbie you just met there at Macaws.”
“Hey there!” he answered in a voice so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
“You know, I was just thinking. Have you ever been to Guadalajara?”
“Can’t say I have. But Bill and I have been looking forward to doing some traveling around Mexico.”
“Well, here’s a thought. Analisa and I are doing a twenty-four-hour trip, leaving Friday night. You guys want to come with?”
“Just the two of you?”
“Yep, just the two of us.”
“Hey, Bill, want to go to Guadalajara Friday night?”
I could hear Bill’s voice coming through loud and clear. “Whatever you want, little buddy!”
“Count us in.”
I told Denis to give me a call later in the week to confirm, but seriously wondered if I’d ever hear from him again. Bar talk is sometimes just bar talk, forgotten even before the tab is settled and the tip paid. But the very next morning Denis’s voice was exploding through my phone with his own invitation for me to join him and Bill down at Panama’s for breakfast. Thirty minutes later we were chatting over runny plates of huevos divorciados. We met at Panama’s the next morning as well. When Bill heard me mention that my washer was on the fritz, he insisted I bring my laundry over to use theirs. We stopped by my place, then headed over to the Marina and their home—an over-the-top drug lord palace with pillars and a pool.
“Decorate this yourselves?” I asked, eyeing the chandeliers dripping from every ceiling.
They both laughed. “No, it came this way,” Bill assured me, as he wiped some invisible dust off the dining room table.
In the tradition of the expats I had first met down here, we kept our initial conversations pretty much centered on the here and now, in a sort of don’t ask, don’t tell kind of way. I really didn’t feel like prying, nor did I have any interest in going down the Afghan road with Denis and Bill, or whining to them about my time in California. And they were just so happy to be in Mexico that it was all they really seemed to want to talk about. I was able to pick up on the fact that they had both been truckers. I had a hard time imagining Denis as a Teamster. To me, he looked more like a science or math teacher. In fact, Denis did tell me he had a degree in education, but was expected nevertheless to join his family’s landscaping business in the Pacific Northwest. In the end, he had opted for trucking, and the solid paycheck that it would bring. The other thing I learned that day was that Bill was the most phenomenal laundry folder I’d ever seen.
We met the guys at the bus station on Friday night with our blankets in tow. Denis didn’t seem to be his usual chipper self, and Big Bill looked like a deer in the headlights. “I don’t do buses,” muttered Bill when I asked what was wrong. He was clearly terrified, shooting a look of you owe me big-time at Denis as we boarded together. Analisa just looked tired. After a double shift in high heels, she was ready for some sleep, and so was I.
The next day started early in the Tonalá area of Guadalajara, where we shopped our way through town with a joyful vengeance. The stalls at the Mercado seemed to go on forever, their tables covered in handmade pottery and glass, textiles, ceramic masks. Bill and Denis were good sports, to a point. When I stopped at what was probably my twentieth stall to chat (via Analisa) with the women who were weaving the most amazing little purses out of long, colorful strips of straw right in front of my eyes, the two of them pleaded for mercy and headed to a shady bench to wait me out. Which was fine by me, as I had become completely awed by the sea of goods surrounding me, and enamored with the people behind it all. These people were artists. I learned that much of their merchandise was created in living rooms and back alleys. Whole families were put to work painting and embroidering and sculpting and carving. But it was the women I was drawn to most, and my rapidly emptying wallet became a testament to just how far my
admiration went.
After hours of dragging everyone through street after street, shop after shop, I finally succumbed to the temptation of a cool table in the tree-lined courtyard in the middle of town, and the huge ceramic bowlfuls of sweet, strong punch that Analisa ordered for us off the menu. By now we were all giddy with exhaustion, too tired and silly to protest when we caught her slipping little shots of tequila into our bowls whenever one of us turned away. The evening flew by, and before we knew it we were weaving our way back to the bus, pushing and joking and teasing like a pack of schoolchildren. I settled in next to Denis and pulled my blanket around me, comforted by an intense feeling of familiarity that, at this early stage of our friendship, I had no business feeling. My eyes slid shut before we were even close to the highway, the bumpy road rocking me into submission. But suddenly, from within that fragile place between watchfulness and dreams, I thought I felt the unmistakable sensation of a pair of cool, moist lips pressing against my own. My eyes flew open as a loud gasp escaped from my mouth.
Denis looked even more surprised by my reaction than I was by his kiss. “What?” he asked.
“What are you doing?”
“Kissing you.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“What about Bill?”
“What about Bill?”
“You know.”
Denis’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Bill’s on his own.”
“But aren’t you and Bill, I mean, aren’t the two of you . . .” Denis remained silent. Why wouldn’t he help me out here? “C’mon. It’s cool with me that you two are gay.”
“Who’s gay?” shouted out Bill from behind.
I couldn’t tell whether Denis wanted to laugh or cry. “Well, this is a first,” he said, straightening up in his seat. “Bill, do you think our ex-wives know about us?” Now Denis did laugh. Bill did not.
“How long were you m-married?” I stammered, stunned at this sudden shift of fate.
“Thirty-three years,” Denis answered softly.
“And how long have you been divorced?”
“One month today.”
I sighed, silently vowing to keep my distance. Behind me, Analisa was sound asleep, her head resting on Bill’s broad shoulder. I’d wait until tomorrow to pass on a warning, to both of them.
Before I even got half a chance to contemplate sitting back in a rocker and knitting some baby booties, Analisa and I got invited out on a double date. Denis and Bill had asked us to join them for a dinner dance at the Playa Mazatlán Hotel. And I didn’t have a thing to wear.
“Put on something nice,” was all Analisa advised when I asked her what people down here wear to these sorts of things. Mexican women dress up to go to the supermarket. You never see them walking along the Malecón in anything but high heels and bright, tight dresses or pants, no matter what the time of day.
The long black dress I bought, with a plunging neckline and millions of rhinestones, was, in my opinion, pretty spectacular. It was my first evening gown, and slipping it on made me feel like a teenager heading to the prom. My hair was swept up into a loose, wispy bun in defense against the heat. I could only hope that the glue holding the eyelashes onto my lids wouldn’t melt over the course of the next few hours. The rhinestone-covered heels were the icing on the cake, twinkling like Cinderella’s fated slippers as I turned and twirled in front of my bedroom mirror. I rushed out the door to pick up Analisa so we could head over to the Golden Zone together to meet the guys.
Analisa climbed into the taxi and we quickly gave each other the once-over, then said our hellos. Her casual white hip-huggers looked like they had been painted on, and her green strapless top was showing off her chichis to their max. Had I totally misunderstood the dress code? We remained unusually silent for the rest of the ride, me tempted to tell the driver to turn around and go back to my house so I could change. But instead I just prayed that Analisa was the one who was inappropriately dressed, and not me.
The long circular driveway at the Playa Mazatlán was jammed with cars when our taxi pulled up. I breathed a huge sigh of relief seeing the full range of attire that filled the arched walkway leading to the hotel’s entrance, and was reminded once again just how much I loved this place where even a fifty-year-old wannabe prom queen doesn’t cause the slightest raised brow or blink of an eye. Denis and Bill were waiting for us right where they said they’d be—in front of the apparition of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
“Can you two see this thing? I can’t seem to find her. Denis says he can, but I don’t believe him.” Bill was shifting back and forth in front of the shrine, squinting at the cracked mirror where, just a few years earlier, a desperate hotel maid had seen the vision appear in answer to her prayers for her troubled family. At first she had thought it was a spot of dirt, and tried every type of cleaning solution at hand to wipe it off. After she realized what she was seeing, priests were called in to verify her claims. Whatever they decided, the apparition became a huge draw for both the pious and the curious. And the maid’s prayers were answered, thanks to the hotel management, who stepped up with the funds to help.
“Of course I see it!” Analisa lifted the cross suspended in her cleavage and gave it a kiss. “What is wrong with you, Bill? You don’t believe?” she added, playfully swatting his shoulder.
“Wow, you look great, Debbie.” Denis hooked his arm through mine. “Shall we go in?” His black pants and matching shirt blended in seamlessly with my prom dress, and, I had to admit, set off his white hair quite nicely.
I had been spending quite a bit of time with Denis since our crazy shopping trip to Guadalajara. Mostly we’d meet for breakfast by the beach, watch movies, take walks, and once I even tried to cook dinner for him. Thank goodness for Sergio, who, much to my surprise, was standing on the other side of the door holding the pizza I was forced to order in defeat. How many jobs did that guy have, anyway?
My neighbors seemed strangely wary of Denis. I finally figured it out one day after he and I stopped by Josi’s store to pick up some eggs on the way to my house. I could see the Spanish version of my book, which I had given her a few weeks earlier, on the back counter. Josi nodded to me as Denis leaned over the dairy counter. “Sam?” she mouthed silently, her brown eyes wider than wide.
I couldn’t stop laughing as we headed outside and up the block.
“What’s so funny?”
“Josi thinks you’re a warlord!” I managed to say, and cracked myself up all over again.
In fact, Denis caused quite a stir wherever we went in Mazatlán, where apparently Japanese people were a pretty rare sight. “Mr. Miyagi!” shouted out a voice from across the street one day, where we turned to see a big, burly guy striking a karate pose. Of course that became Denis’s instant nickname. Mr. Miyagi. Sometimes people would bow down to him on the sidewalk, and waiters would speak especially loudly and slowly so the Japanese man would understand. The funny thing was that Denis, being a third-generation American, didn’t really think of himself as Japanese. I was more Japanese than he was, having traveled there four times, as opposed to his never. But in Mazatlán, he was the Japanese Guy. He was like a rock star, and everyone came to recognize his raucous laugh a mile away. I know that whenever I heard it, it never failed to bring a smile to my own face, no matter what kind of mood I was in.
That night at the Playa Mazatlán folks were dancing under the stars to a full mariachi band. Denis and I watched while Bill and Analisa sambaed and mamboed their way across the floor, the sweat slowly seeping its way across Bill’s Hawaiian shirt, turning it into a deeper shade of blue as the dampness spread across his back. The two of them finally wore themselves out and joined us at the surfside table, panting like a couple of tired dogs.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up an appetite. Anyone ready to join me?” Bill pointed to the buffet tables, heaped with platters of exc
ellent-looking food.
“I’m with you, buddy. Girls?” Denis stood and bowed a little, gesturing the way with his upturned arms.
“Just bring back a plate and we’ll share. I’m good with that for now.”
“Me, too,” echoed Analisa. “I am good, too.”
I could see Analisa’s eyes following Bill as he walked away from the table. “He’s a nice man, Ana. Don’t be leading him down a bumpy path. He’s not just some fat wallet on two legs.” Analisa shot me an icy look that told me I had crossed the line. I put my hand gently on her arm. “All I’m saying is be careful.”
“You be careful yourself, Debbie.”
We sat in silence until the guys returned to the table, their plates overflowing. I had just helped myself to a shrimp when the first pop echoed through the still night air, quickly followed by another and another, until the sound of the surf was completely drowned out by a deafening symphony of explosions.
“Ooh, fireworks!” Analisa was beaming from ear to ear. I, on the other hand, was fighting an urge to dive under the table.
I had so far succeeded pretty well in hiding my issues from my new friends, except, of course, Sharon. Luckily any weirdness they’d noticed had gone unmentioned, like when I refused to sleep in that bedroom Bodie had built on my roof, as it had bars on the windows and a door that required a key to get out. He graciously changed all the locks without question. I was determined for this not to be the night where I would be nominated as the poster child for PTSD.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?” What, could he see my heart pounding through my gown or something? I prayed that my makeup wasn’t melting under the sweat I could feel trickling down my face. I nodded and took a deep breath. Denis handed me a glass of water. “You’re shivering. You can’t be cold in this weather. Are you sick?”
It’s just fireworks, I told myself. In Mexico. A celebration. Nothing more. I tried hard to remember everything Cynthia had taught me. That was then, and this is now. That was then . . .
The House on Carnaval Street Page 18
