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 exwives 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 excellent-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 . . .
“Want to go down to the water?” Denis stood and pulled out my chair. I slipped off my shoes with a shaky hand and silently followed him down the staircase to the beach, the sound of the fireworks crashing through my ears. As we stood at the surf’s edge to watch the light show overhead, I forced my breath to slow in unison with the rhythm of the tide. Am I trapped? No. Am I lost? No. Am I afraid? Well, yes. But that’s okay. It will pass.
The flashes were multiplying into a frenzy of color. I could see the light bouncing off the waves as Denis stood beside me in open-mouthed awe, entranced by the spectacle above. Suddenly the entire sky exploded all at once, with a roar so loud its echo bounced back and forth and back again against the hotel wall. I took a deep breath and planted my feet firmly in the sand.
And then it was over.
BEFORE I KNEW IT SEVEN months had passed, and Christmas had come to Mazatlán. It sort of snuck up on me, because Christmas is really the last thing you expect in eighty-degree weather, at least for someone from Michigan. The first things I noticed were the lights in the Machado. They seemed to have multiplied overnight, creating a glow that could practically be seen all the way from my house. A huge tree had sprung up in the center of the square, its frame built from metal rods and Coke bottles, and a roped-off sand sculpture of the Three Wise Men appeared in front of the theater. The whole town seemed to be buzzing with excitement, the streets taken over by pedestrian traffic, the shop windows bursting with anything and everything that might be considered a gift, the street vendors hawking every moving, flashing toy a kid could dream of, and the stores crammed with shoppers running up months’ worth of wages on their credit cards. And just when you thought there couldn’t possibly be room for one more note of music blowing through the Mazatlán breeze, there it came—“Feliz Navidad” in the restaurants, “Ave Maria” from the church, “YMCA” behind some sort of holiday talent show in the street downtown, and Frank Sinatra seeping through the walls from my neighbor Pepe’s house. Everyone was celebrating, in their own way.
Me? I got into the spirit by dressing up my car as Rudolph. Analisa couldn’t stop laughing when I picked her up in the little Mini decked out with antlers on top and a huge red nose on the hood. Together we headed down to the Marina to meet up with Denis and Bill. Analisa and Bill had, by this point, progressed into a “relationship-relationship.” And though there was no question that Denis and I were becoming closer and closer, I struggled with myself daily to keep him a short arm’s length away, determined to fend off a visit from the ghost of relationships past.
That night we decided to cruise the El Cid neighborhood to check out the holiday decorations. It being a gated community, one that you could sense was shifting from an expat safe haven into a moneyed-Mexican showcase, we had to take a creative approach to talk our way onto the grounds. I was volunteered for the job.
“We’re going to our Spanish teacher’s?” I yelled out the rolled-down window. Denis let out a huge guffaw. I had recently fired the teacher I had found online, a sketchy-looking gringo who had instructed me to read the newspaper to see how many words I recognized—basically anything with an o at the end, as in perfecto, exacto, rancho. Then he told me to buy a slang dictionary and learn as many swear words as I could.
The guard eyed the antlers on top of the Mini and turned his expressionless gaze to me.
“Profesor de español,” piped in Analisa from the backseat, with her perfect Spanish, before anyone could stop her.
The guard bent down to my level. “Cuál es el nombre de la persona . . .”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand Spanish.” I flashed my widest smile, and waited.
“A quién están visitando?”
I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. The barrier arm lifted. We were in.
“OH MY GOD! LOOK!” ANALISA was hanging out her window, furiously snapping photos from her cell phone. The stucco mansions lining both sides of the wide road were decked out to the max. There could have been an entire HGTV special shot right there on that street—Extreme Mexican Christmas. We weren’t just talking lights, of which there were more than plenty, lights of every color and shape and size outlining the balconies and roofs and windows, endlessly flashing and blinking and twinkling. These people had created entire scenarios using their homes as the stage, crazy mixed-up worlds where Mickey Mouse and Santa, teddy bears and polar bears, snowmen in scarves and tigers in elf hats all lived together in complete holiday harmony. One house was wrapped in polka dots with a sign proclaiming it the Casa de Santa. And there he was, right on the front porch in his sunglasses and Hawaiian shirt, toasting us with an upraised glass.
Then there were the inflatables. Maybe I had been away from the mainstream too long, but since when did blowup dolls become a Christmas staple? Analisa snapped away as we passed more than one inflatable Santa escaping up a tree while getting pantsed by a mischievous dog. But my absolute favorite was Inflatable Jesus, standing next to a huge penguin carrying a gift, like a tuxedoed arctic Magi cradling his offering under the palms.
I loved it all. Christmas was always big in my house growing up in Michigan. My rotund dad was custom-made to play Santa, which he did year after year. Junior “June Bug” Edward Turner came alive at Christmas, when he became the child who couldn’t wait until morning to rip open the presents. Even my mom would join in, dressing up as Mrs. Claus. A tacit truce would come over the household, and for a few days we’d operate as a unified trio. It was the one time a year we’d both manage to see my dad as the lovable, jovial life of the party everyone else saw him as, instead of the villain in the black hat he was to my mom, and therefore to me.
As an adult I did my best to keep the Christmas tradition going, renting elf costumes for myself and whomever I was married to that year. I’d replace all my everyday towels and plates with the holiday variety, and would string enough lights on my house to put Chevy Chase to shame.
When I saw what Sharon had done to Casa de Leyendas it was all the proof I needed that we truly were long-lost sisters. She is a total Christmas freak. Back in the Sta
tes, Sharon used to transform her entire household into a wonderland, including switching out the pictures on the walls, the spreads on the beds, and the curtains in the windows. She’d start her decorating in September, beginning with the assembly of a miniature village complete with a hundred and fifty teeny homes, a pond full of skaters, and fountains and lights, arranged piece by piece until it took over her entire dining room. The five themed floor-to-ceiling trees would come later. Before she and Glen had moved down to Mexico, she told me, they had to purge two whole storage units’ worth of Christmas paraphernalia, including more than four hundred and fifty poinsettias that they sold at a garage sale, as they’d heard the holiday wasn’t that big south of the border. But that didn’t stop her from starting all over again once they got here.
This year she was hosting a Christmas Eve gathering. That afternoon the town had turned into a bundle of energy, the streets jam-packed with last-minute shoppers and early revelers pushing their way through the crowds under a cacophony of Christmas music blaring from every store. After a long nap, I headed over to Casa de Leyendas by foot under the starry sky, feeling secure that the streets would still be buzzing. But it was eerily quiet when I rushed out of my house. Until I hit the corner of Carnaval and Constitution, where I ran into what appeared to be a little parade. As the leader of the group, a man holding a bright paper lantern, came near, I backed into a doorway to allow them all to pass. Behind the man was a young woman on a donkey (who looked as if he’d rather be anywhere but there), followed by a procession of little boys and girls carrying poinsettias in their arms. Shepherds and angels and a group of musicians brought up the rear. I slid out of the doorway and followed behind as they wound their way down the street. I practically crashed into a tuba player when the whole group suddenly came to a stop in front of a large wooden door. In unison, they broke into a sweet verse, of which the only word I understood was esposa. Wife. The door swung open. From inside came another chorus of voices, answering back with their own verse. Then the outside people sang again. Another answer rebounded from behind the door. This went on a few times before I understood what was going on. It was Joseph and Mary, seeking lodging. In Mazatlán. I was tempted to tell them to follow me to the B&B, but thought better of it and instead continued to follow them as they made their rounds. I knew I’d be late for Sharon’s party, but this was just way too cool to miss.
Margarita Wednesdays Page 18
