The House on Carnaval Street

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “Here, grab these!” I shouted to the driver who was waiting by the car. I started tossing big ones, little ones, noticing him jumping and ducking as he strained to catch each one before it hit the ground. “Just throw them in the trunk,” I told him.

  On the long drive home, the driver’s snail’s pace was beginning to irritate Sam, who started to berate him in Dari.

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “I told him his mother was a donkey’s ass.” He scowled, sighing loudly as the driver slowed even more to avoid one of the hundreds of ruts and potholes in the road.

  I had to agree that the guy was driving like an old woman (though I never did understand why mothers always had to be dragged into these kinds of insults). By the time we got to our compound Sam stomped off into the house in a huff. I asked the driver to unload the trunk and bring everything inside.

  “What the . . .” Sam pointed to the rusty canisters the driver was cradling in his arms like a baby.

  “They’re pretty cool, right?” I said. “I found them by the shipping container, all used up. Perfect for Zach’s room. He’ll love them.”

  “All used up? What were you thinking?” He gestured to the driver, who gently placed the bombs on the salon floor. Sam bent down to take a look. “Some of these are still live. What is the matter with you?”

  Needless to say, Zach ended up with a more traditional room, and my grandbaby would as well.

  • • •

  Everyone arrived at Cahoots late, and all at once, crowding in through the doorway of the restaurant like a bunch of chattering hens. I saw Martha’s mother, and rushed over to say hello, which was about all we could say to each other. Martha quickly came to our rescue, kissing her mom and bending over, not without some difficulty, to pick up the scarf her mom had dropped.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “A scarf ?” Martha replied.

  “No, not that. That.” I lifted Martha’s shirt a little and pointed to the red cord, with a safety pin hanging from it, tied around her swollen waist. She and her mother looked at me as though I were nuts.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You don’t know what that is?”

  I kind of thought it might be some sort of thong underwear, but I doubted she’d be wearing that at this stage of her pregnancy. I shrugged my shoulders.

  “It’s for the moon. It’s to protect the baby.”

  “The baby is in danger from the moon?”

  “Do you mean the eclipse tonight?” Bonnie suggested, seeing the look of utter confusion on my face. She pantomimed two circles, one passing in front of the other, with her hands.

  “Yes, of course.” Martha’s look dared me to mess with her.

  “Oh, I know about this,” Lisa chimed in. “The Mexicans believe that if a pregnant woman is exposed to an eclipse, the baby will be born with a cleft lip. It’s an old Aztec superstition. They thought that an eclipse happened when a bite had been taken out of the moon. If a pregnant woman viewed an eclipse, a bite would be taken out of her infant’s mouth. They used to put knives on the women’s bellies before they went out at night, to protect them. Nowadays they just use safety pins.”

  I nodded as respectfully as I could, suspecting that this wouldn’t be the last time I’d come up against a cultural challenge when it came to my grandchild. I turned around to see the two big tables filling up, my guests separating like two teams on opposite ends of the field. Mexicans and foreigners. English versus Spanish. My heart sank a little. An awkward vibe had taken over the room, but thank goodness I had a little something up my sleeve that I hoped would warm things up.

  Now, I don’t do games. I’ve always hated those showers where they make you balance a balloon between your legs or guess how big the mother-to-be’s tummy is. No, it was my party, and we were going to do things my way. And when the five Trannies of Mazatlán came prancing into the room, you could almost feel the ice melting. These guys were amazing, and really quite beautiful, if not a little worn, in their sequins and silk. It wasn’t long before they got everyone hooting and holler­ing with their act. The Mexicans were clapping and chanting, and my friends had tears rolling down their cheeks, they were laughing so hard, especially when a platinum blond with boobs almost as big as mine lassoed Noah with a pink boa and pulled him up onstage for a dance. Martha was clearly having a blast. Fun is fun in any language, but I did worry a little about how this all was going to look in my grand­daughter’s baby book.

  • • •

  Change was definitely in the air. The cruise ships had stopped docking in Mazatlán, in reaction to the overblown reports of violence in the area. It was true that there had been a couple of stray incidents, the circumstances of which remained a little murky. And there was that shooting that happened down in a Golden Zone parking lot, unfortunately in front of a slew of tourists. But according to my friends, the exclusion of Mazatlán from the ships’ itineraries was an unfair and unwarranted blow, and some thought the move was no doubt financially motivated, a result of a battle over docking fees. “Hell, the crime rates against tourists in the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, and Cuba are all higher than Mexico’s,” Bodie told me. The travel advisory issued by the State Department didn’t help, either. “I don’t see any travel advisory for Tucson,” Glen pointed out, referring to the recent shooting that left six people dead and a dozen others, including Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, gravely injured.

  I thought the whole thing was crazy. All you had to do was spend thirty minutes in front of the big-screen TV at Macaws, watching the news from Detroit, to realize how ludicrous the finger-pointing at Mazatlán was. I swear Glen and Sharon deliberately chose to point to the Detroit satellite feed in order to make their B&B guests feel safer where they were. A fierce pride had sprung up among all us expats, eager to defend our city against the fearmongers and rumor junkies. A volunteer army of “Blue Shirts” was quickly formed to patrol the streets, assisting whatever tourists there were with directions and helpful advice, in an attempt to convince them that it was okay to venture out from the resorts. But for some, like Glen and Sharon, it was more than pride. It was survival. As word got out about the cruise ships, business started to drop like a rock. I worried about Noah and his ability to support his growing family.

  I could also sense a change happening inside me, though this change was definitely for the better. Denis’s patience had paid off, and in fact became one of the many characteristics that made him, eventually, irresistible to me. It was clear to me that Denis was different from most of the men in my life, but it also was becoming clear that I was a different person from who I had been with those men. While I was wide awake one night analyzing my past relationships, one after the other after the other, after the other, my own special version of counting sheep, I came to the revelation that the relationships all had something in common. They had all started up during periods in my life when I was feeling particularly weak. I’m really not sure if it was my weakness that compelled me to seek a partner, or if the partners were drawn in by my vulnerability, but either way, it was, inevitably, a deadly combination.

  But by the time I was getting to know Denis, I was actually feeling relatively good about myself. And a relationship born from strength was turning out to be a whole new experience. That night in bed I ticked off the differences:

  1.Denis and I don’t fight. Well, if we do, it’s usually just me doing the fighting.

  2.Denis is low-maintenance. I love that. Except for the times when I hate it, and feel like I need to put a mirror under his nose to see if he’s still breathing.

  3.Denis does not thrive on my adventure. For most men, instead of being arm candy, I’m more like arm TNT. Maybe it was because they were looking for some vicarious thrills, or some second-­hand drama. I don’t think Denis really has any interest in going along for that ride.

  4.Denis doesn’t w
ant to rescue me. And by the time we met, I guess I really didn’t need a whole lot of rescuing, thank you very much.

  5.And then there is that laugh. No man I ever knew before could light up a room the way Denis does, simply by opening his mouth and letting the joy burst out. That man can find humor in anything, he is such a good sport. Well, almost anything. He didn’t laugh much the time I accidentally hit him right between the eyes with a cardboard Christmas ornament, as if it were a Japanese throwing star. I swear I didn’t mean to chuck it that hard, but I had been trying everything in my power to turn his attention away from the television—I yelled, I waved my arms, I got up and danced a little—I couldn’t believe this man was not noticing me just two feet away. No, Denis wasn’t tickled by that particular incident. But I sure was, once I realized he wasn’t hurt.

  Given my track record, I should have been giving up on men by now. But honestly, I love having a partner. Hell, I loved being married. It’s just who I am. But I do believe that everyone can be stronger with someone by their side, whether it’s a husband or a lover or a friend, as long as they’re both on the same team. And it looked like, for Denis and me, it was finally time to play ball.

  Another change was developing, almost without me really noticing. I kind of blame the whole thing on Sergio. Though he had been trying to put the salon bug in my ear long before Noah came down to Mexico, by now the final move in his playbook had been put in place. When I think back on it, Noah had barely gotten his luggage off the plane when Sergio brought Martha by. Lucky for Sergio, they hit it off. Martha was the only girl left in her family who didn’t have a man, and since she and her sister were so close, Sergio had become the man responsible for both of them, driving Martha to and from work, pitching in when her son, Derek, needed a male’s guidance. He was tired of taking care of his sister-in-law and needed somebody else to take over. Noah was his golden opportunity. And now Martha was family, my family. And, as I knew, Martha had been working as a masseuse in a spa, just like her sister.

  Early on in their relationship, Noah had asked me to drive him to pick up Martha at work. All I will say is that the conditions were appalling. The place looked like a flophouse, dark and dingy and crammed with run-down lawn furniture. Then I saw a couple of drunk crew members head in from port, looking for massages.

  “We have to get her out of there, Noah,” I whispered as we hurried back to the car.

  “I know, Mom, but what’s she going to do? Martha needs to work, and loves to work, and this is what she knows.”

  At the time I didn’t have a solution. But now I was starting to think it was all meant to be, all part of a plan belonging to some higher being . . . or Sergio.

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking,” I confessed to Sharon one morning over coffee at Macaws, as I told her about my idea. “It’s overwhelming, with the language barrier, working seven days a week, constantly having to deal with clients and staff.”

  “Yep,” agreed Glen as he passed by with an armload of plates.

  Sharon nodded knowingly.

  “And I swore I wouldn’t do it again after what happened in Kabul. It was just too painful. Why am I even thinking about this? I feel like a homing pigeon. No matter where I go, or what I want to do, my homing device pulls me back into the salon whether I want to be there or not.”

  “Sergio is handing you your staff on a silver platter. It’s a start. And trust me, finding the right staff down here is no easy feat.”

  “Yeah, his golden opportunity turned into my silver platter.”

  Sharon laughed. “You should just go for it. You know you can do it.”

  “I know.” I sighed. “How can I not do this? It’s what I do, who I am.”

  “That’s not a bad thing, Deb.”

  “It isn’t a bad thing. And honestly? I know it’s the right thing. Think about it. I’m a teacher. And I know I could train Martha and her sister to help me build a kick-ass salon. We could ­specialize in manicures and pedicures. It could be great.”

  “Are you trying to convince me, or convince yourself ?”

  “No, it’s true. I think I’m okay about this. I’m actually more than okay. If only I could find a place to rent before I change my mind.”

  Glen stopped dead in his tracks and pointed to a little storefront right across the street from Macaws. “That place is empty. Been empty for a couple of years.”

  “Are you serious?” I never did know when to trust Glen’s sincerity.

  “He’s not kidding, Deb. There’s nobody there.”

  My heart started racing a little, but in the good way. I was going to open a salon. A family salon, where Noah could run the office and the baby could be with her family. There’s no better place to grow up in than a salon. Look at me! I was never lonely as a kid, even though I had no brothers or sisters. And my own kids never had a babysitter who wasn’t like family. I’d bring Noah and Zach to the salon every day after school. They’d do their homework there, play games on the sidewalk in front, eat gas station chicken in the back room for dinner. It was home.

  And then I thought about Kabul, and for the first time in a long time the image of the beauty school brought back a flood of positive memories. How I loved joking with the girls once we started understanding each other’s language a little, and enjoyed joining in on the teasing that went on as they got dolled up to go home for “Happy Thursday,” the start of the weekend for them. My awe at their determination, the satisfaction that came from seeing them develop their skills, and the joy of being a part of something that gave them the power to become breadwinners, that gave them hope for the future. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with the urge to get things going as fast as I could. I was ready to do anything. Anything but hair.

  Tippy Toes and baby Italya arrived at almost the same time. Italya’s birth was a real family affair, with Noah and me and Derek and Teresa and Denis all cramming into the car to drive Martha to the clinic for her C-section. It was all rather calm and matter-of-fact, as if we were simply popping down to the supermarket to pick up some chicken for dinner. That’s the way they do it here. Women are given the choice, well before their due date, between C-section and vaginal delivery. It seems as though many of them choose the former, to avoid the pain and gore of doing things the natural way. I guess in Mexico it’s just not posh to push.

  The Mexican medical system remained as baffling as ever. The receptionist didn’t even bother to turn her gaze away from the TV hanging on the wall when Martha approached the desk, belly first.

  “Estoy aquí por mi bebé,” she announced.

  The woman briefly shifted her eyes. “Bueno,” she replied, turning her attention back to the TV. Noah took out his wallet and began counting out the seven thousand pesos he’d been instructed to bring along.

  “Mi bebé?” Martha repeated, a little louder.

  “El brazo,” ordered the receptionist, her eyes still glued to the television. She held out her hand for Martha’s arm, attached a cuff, and took a blood pressure reading without missing a word of her telenovela.

  The clinic was BYOB, as in bring your own blanket, along with pillow, food, and caretaker. You even had to rent a bassinet for the baby. Derek played happily with his toys on the tile floor of the sparse room as his mother, and the rest of us, waited. I had my doubts that Denis had any clue about what he had signed up for, but he was a trouper nevertheless. After a while he got antsy and headed up to the roof for a smoke, then came back later with a wild story of witnessing a weapons exchange on the street below, right in front of the hospital. I was tempted to go back up with him to check out the action, but just then a nurse came in and silently rolled Martha out of the room. Thirty minutes later, like clockwork, she was wheeled back in. Only this time there was a little blanketed bundle with her, cradled in the nurse’s arms. It was bizarre. One minute no baby, the next minute, out of nowhere, she’s here.

  The n
urse handed the baby to Noah, and that’s when it hit me. My son had a baby! My son, the same kid who had driven me to hell and back, was a father. That’s his baby he’s holding. His daughter. And then I started to think don’t drop the baby, watch out for the baby, don’t forget the baby, until I had to remind myself that wasn’t my job anymore. By the time Noah handed the baby over to me, I could barely see her tiny pink face through the tears that seemed to have bubbled up straight from my heart.

  Within what seemed like minutes, it was standing room only. Every aunt, cousin, sister, and niece seemed to have appeared out of thin air, each of them vying to be the next in line to hold the baby.

  “Qué linda nene!” cooed Martha’s mother as she stroked Italya’s forehead.

  “Preciosa,” echoed Teresa, poking the baby’s arm.

  “Bonita,” added a young cousin, reaching under the blanket to squeeze my granddaughter’s toes.

  “Hey, guys! I know she’s adorable, but let’s give her some space, okay?” I asked, as gently as I could. “Denis, could you get the hand sanitizer from my purse?”