Finally there was room at the inn. I watched from the street as the entire procession was welcomed into a courtyard jammed with partiers of all ages. White lights had been slung across every branch, eave, and beam, illuminating a huge piñata that hung from a tree smack in the center of it all. Because, of course, that’s what Mary found when she came to the inn. A giant piñata.
WHEN I FINALLY ARRIVED AT Casa de Leyendas the party was in full swing. In the foyer, a spectacular tree stretched practically all the way up to the twenty-foot ceiling, and a life-size wooden nutcracker stood guard at the foot of the garlanded marble staircase. Every inch of the B&B was stuffed with some sort of holiday thing. It was a true winter wonderland. I was envious. My own little house remained dreadfully Scroogelike. But it had just seemed a little silly this year to invest in a tree and all the trimmings, when I still barely had enough furniture to seat myself and Noah. This year all I had was a measly sprig of mistletoe hanging in the archway leading to the dining table.
Everyone was there at Sharon and Glen’s. Except for Noah, who hadn’t stood a chance of prying Martha away from her family on The Hill on Christmas Eve. Bodie and his girlfriend, Wendy, were there with Bodie’s dog, Snickers, by their side. Barb was there, holding on to her husband, Art, as if he were one of those wobbling clowns that might topple over at any moment. I saw Bonnie and Bob, all duded up Texas-style, and a festive Lisa all dressed in red. Pete was acting his usual gentlemanly self, escorting Cheryl by the arm, and Sonja was bouncing around like a Mexican jumping bean, waving her arms in an animated conversation that Barry, Donna, and Rob were silently trying to follow. Analisa had the night off and was already home with her family, even though their party wouldn’t even begin until midnight.
“Where’s Denis?” I asked, pricking up my ears to locate his unmistakable laugh.
“He was here earlier,” Glen assured me. I could feel my heart sink a little. “He set up the hot buttered rum. Went to run an errand. He’ll be back.” Glen offered me a steaming cup.
“Got any ice?” I could already feel the sweat trickling down the back of my neck.
Glen laughed, handed me the drink, and walked away. I wandered out to the patio of Macaws, which had been taken over by a giant fir tree sagging under the weight of dozens of little white envelopes hanging from its boughs. Curious, I picked one off to see what it was. Inside was a card showing a photo of a small boy with a crooked grin.
Carlitos is 7 and in the 1st grade at a school for kids with disabilities. He had TB when young, resulting in weakened lungs. His wish list includes a bike, a soccer ball, and clothing size 8 or small, and shoes size 20.
“Would you like to participate in our angel tree?” came a voice from behind my shoulder.
“Sure,” I answered, not really understanding what this woman was talking about. “My name is Deb. And your name is?”
“Connie. Pleased to meet you. All you have to do is sign your name here.” A clipboard seemed to magically appear at her side. “Then just bring your gift for Carlitos down here to Macaws by Friday, and we’ll take care of getting it over to the home.”
“The home?”
“It’s the boys’ orphanage. They take in boys from the streets.”
“That’s wonderful.” I added my name to the sheet. The generosity of the expats down here, when it came to devoting energy or money to local causes, was awesome, and their tradition of giving was one I was eager to be a part of.
“I’m curious,” I said. “Is there anything like that for the girls down here?”
“Well,” Connie responded after a little thought, “there are a few I know of. One is a sort of safe house for neglected or abused girls. It’s over by the Pacífico Monument. I know they’re always on the lookout for help. They do such an amazing job with those girls. You know how hard it is to keep girls on track down here, what with the pregnancy rate so high, and legalized prostitution and all.” She scribbled the name down on the back of my little envelope, and I tucked it into my purse.
Denis had still not arrived. I scanned the room for Sharon, and was anxious to deliver the gift I had stashed in my purse. I had fretted for days over what to get her. What do you get for the woman who seems to have everything, or if she doesn’t, goes out and buys it herself ? It seemed so fruitless. I had had no problems shopping for my other gifts. Noah was getting some new jeans and shirts and sneakers, things that he desperately needed. And there were the tiny pink blankets and little soft hairbrush I couldn’t resist buying, now secretly stashed away at the bottom of my closet for when the time came. For Cynthia, I had found the perfect present to send. It was a fairy godmother with wings, all dressed up quite chicly in a sheer black sequined gown and silver crown. And for Denis, I had painted a large canvas with a scene of old Centro that I couldn’t wait until Christmas to give him, so I didn’t. He loved it, but if I had to listen to him complain one more time about not knowing what to get for me, I thought I’d scream.
For Sharon, I decided to repurpose something I already had. I settled on a beautiful scarf, pure silk, handwoven, and one of the few things I still had to my name that were from Afghanistan. I had given it to my friend Karen in Michigan during one of my visits back to the States from Kabul. The first time we saw each other after I had left Afghanistan for good, with nothing to my name, Karen returned the scarf to me.
“What’s the matter? You don’t like it?” I asked Karen as she handed it to me.
“I love it, Deb. It’s just that I think that now, you need it more than I do.”
I was touched, and it was beautiful. But now I wanted to share it with Sharon. However, when it came to wrapping it, I found myself hesitating. Into the gift bag it went, and out of the gift bag it came. Another scarf went in in its place, then out again. This went on for two days, the thought of parting with anything related to Afghanistan causing so many emotions to flood back that I was simply paralyzed. I had finally, that evening, with a burst of resolve, stuffed the scarf into the bag and shut my door behind me.
“It’s gorgeous!” Sharon rubbed the silk against her cheek. I could feel the tears welling up, but I was happy. I knew she’d look beautiful in it.
“Ho ho ho!” I couldn’t mistake the sound of Denis’s voice booming from the back of the room.
“Ho ho ho!” Glen shouted back, as he threw a thin package toward Denis’s outstretched arms. Seconds later I heard his laughter roll across the B&B. Wendy and Bodie had made Denis his own little Mr. Miyagi paper doll, a generic flat body topped with a Pat Morita head. Genius.
“Hey, little girl, want to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what you want for Christmas?” someone whispered lecherously into my ear. I turned to see Denis suddenly behind me, empty-handed.
“You’re on your own there, bud.”
“Later,” he promised, dragging me out to the patio of Macaws.
It was just after midnight when Denis walked me home. By now the streets had taken on a whole different feeling. It was like a Saturday afternoon, the neighborhood teeming with kids shouting and hollering as they tried out their new toys. Little remote-control cars circled our feet as we scrambled to dodge the shiny soccer balls flying overhead.
“Thanks,” I said to Denis as we reached my front door. “And Merry Christmas.”
“Mind if I just come in to use the bathroom for a sec?” he asked, playfully jumping up and down on the sidewalk.
I unlocked the gate and swung open the door. And there, smack in the middle of my living room, was the most beautiful Christmas tree in the world. I had never seen anything like it. Wait, or had I? Come to think of it, I had seen this tree. This exact tree. It was while I was window-shopping with Denis. At Fábricas de Francia, probably the most expensive store in all of Mazatlán. I remembered admiring the display. It was a white-flocked tree, my favorite kind, just like my mom always got. Denis must have gone back and plunked down a fortune to buy that display, ornaments and all. I was, for once, speechless.
“Yo
u like it?” he asked, his hands coming to rest gently on my shoulders.
I nodded.
“I’m glad.” He steered me around the tree toward the dining room, and pointed like a little boy up at the wilted green leaves suspended by Scotch tape, hovering above. Of course we kissed. And kissed again. Then he turned toward the door. “I know you may not be ready, but I’ll wait for you, Debbie. You can count on that. I’m a poker player, and I know you’re a one-in-a-million shot. But trust me, I can wait.”
And with that he was gone. It was going to be an interesting new year.
“SHIT! TOO COLD!” SHARON’S SCREAMS bounced across my patio.
“Oops.” I laughed. “My bad. Forgot to test the water first. Rookie mistake.” I poured the rest of the bucket over her upside-down head. The soapy water swirled around the drain, leaving an orange residue I hoped wouldn’t turn into a stain on my beautiful Saltillo tiles.
“Jeez, Deb. Do much hair lately?” Sharon pulled a dry towel around her shoulders and parked herself on a stool.
“You know the answer to that. And don’t forget, I’m doing you a favor, right?”
In fact, I was breaking one of my own cardinal rules. When I was growing up in a professional salon, the idea of a kitchen beautician just didn’t fly. My mother had always warned me about going down that road. I really hated doing hair in my house.
“You really should open a salon, Deb. I mean it.”
“Not gonna happen. So stop asking. You and Sergio, I swear, you’re going to drive me up a wall.” Sergio had been slyly encouraging me to open a salon practically from the moment we met.
First it was “Teresa used to have a salon.”
“Really.”
Next it was “Her sister is a massage therapist and aesthetician.” What doesn’t this family do? I thought. Then it was “Teresa really wants to read your book.” So I gave Sergio a copy in Spanish. Two weeks later he said, “Teresa really wants to meet you.” So meet we did. And she was nice, if not a little shy at the time, but I was beginning to see where Sergio was going with this, and I knew I’d better nip it in the bud before it went any further.
“Sergio,” I told him one day while he was refinishing a table for me, “I have absolutely no interest in opening a salon here in Mazatlán. As we say in the States, been there, done that. And not gonna do it again. I’m retired.” The truth was, despite my protestations, I did miss a lot about salon life. Just as some people get their warm fuzzies from the taste of a dish their mom used to make, or from hearing a familiar song, my memory senses are triggered by the aroma of perm solution and nail polish remover. I had been trying hard to ignore my destiny, but the funny thing about destiny is that it really doesn’t take too well to being ignored. I’d find myself sitting in a beauty shop, having my hair done or getting a mani-pedi, and the sound of the Mexican girls joking and laughing with each other would bring on a kind of profound homesickness. But it still wasn’t enough to make me want to jump in and do it myself, again.
“So if you’re so opposed to a salon, Deb, what are you going to do?” Sharon chimed in as if she were reading my mind. She knew I was antsy, and she assumed, correctly, that eventually I’d need to generate some sort of income. When I first came down to Mazatlán I was so focused on literally getting my house in order that I shoved the thought of working way back into the dusty corners of my brain. Sometimes I’d engage in some wishful thinking that what little money I had might last forever. I’d do the math. I figured that if I only spent, say, three dollars a month, what I had in the bank should last for like a hundred years. Or I’d look at it the other way: I’m good, if I make sure I only live until around sixty-three. I never was that great with numbers. But there was more to it than just the money. I was too young to retire. I hated playing cards. I wanted to live a normal life in Mexico, and to me, normal meant working. Maybe that’s why I was so attracted to hardworking Sharon.
“I don’t know what to do,” I told her. “I do know that I’m not made for the nine-to-five thing. I tried that once, the prison gig. It’s just not in my blood, I guess.”
“Yeah, me neither.” Sharon laughed. “But that didn’t mean I had to be a Playboy Bunny like my mom. Maybe you should try something different. I’ll bet you could do anything you put your mind to.” Sharon’s words brought back a picture of my mother’s beaming smile as I would twirl clumsily around our living room in my too-tight tutu. “You’re no Pavlova, so get out of the way of the TV,” my dad would growl. “You’ll see,” I’d growl back. We always did have sort of a rocky relationship, especially when I started to have my own opinions, or maybe when I started parroting those of my mom.
But funny enough, in my family, it was my dad who was the dreamer, and my mom who was the doer. Dad was always looking for the next deal. He fancied himself as a mover and shaker, and was a serial risk taker, much to my mom’s dismay. One of his nicknames was Windy, and for good reason. He talked his way into buying bakeries, dress shops, apartment buildings. But it was Mom who always ended up doing all the work. She just wanted security. Like when he bought that bakery. A German bakery. We didn’t have a drop of German blood in us. And of course he didn’t know how to bake. So who stayed up all night making bread and doughnuts and turnovers before heading out the door, exhausted and resentful, at 7 A.M. to do hair? But I have to give my dad credit for always seeming to come out ahead, even if it was thanks to my mom for blocking some of his crazier schemes, and for her willingness to have his back at the ones that did fly. For a cotton picker from Arkansas, I’d say he did pretty damn well.
Between my dad with his big ideas, and my mom’s can-do attitude, my entrepreneurial spirit kicked in at a very young age. By the time I was seven I was melting crayons onto my dad’s discarded beer bottles and selling them as candleholders for ten cents apiece from the side of the road. Sometimes, if I ran out of empties, I’d secretly uncap and pour out whole bottles of my dad’s Budweisers to up my inventory. I’d even sell food from my own house if I could make a profit. Our apples and candy bars would disappear at an alarming rate. A little while later I learned how to knit, and sold scarves to the captive audience at my mom’s salon.
“It’s just really hard for me to even think about doing hair down here!” I shouted to Sharon over the noise of the blow dryer. What I didn’t share with her that day was a notion I had been thinking about, one that had been bubbling up in my brain for the past few weeks, but one that in no way was I ready to act on. It came to me, of course, at a beauty salon. I was getting my hair extensions done, an endless process that requires me to sit still for hours longer than I’ll sit still for anything. I watched with horror as client after client came through for their pedicures, each and every one subjected to poking and prodding from the same wooden pedicure wand. Seven pedicures, all with the same, unsterilized tool. They’d dip it in a little cold water between each job, but that was it. For me, it was appalling. Afghanistan, where even the air you breathe is full of fecal matter, was the harshest environment anywhere for keeping things sanitary, but I made sure we did it. In Mazatlán, I felt like I was playing Russian roulette with my feet every time I sat down in that chair. I’d give anything to get a good, clean pedicure, I thought. And then I sort of laughed out loud a little, because suddenly my mind went back to Afghanistan, where I said the same thing about a good cup of coffee, and ended up opening the Kabul Coffee Shop just so I wouldn’t have to drink Nescafé.
BUT MY MOST PRESSING TASK, at that time, was planning Martha’s baby shower. Though the baby (a girl!) wasn’t due for another few months, I just couldn’t wait, so I took the opportunity of the post-holiday calm to claim the date. Of course, in Mexico there really is no such thing as post-holiday calm. There always seems to be another celebration on the horizon. Right after Christmas and New Year’s, we had Kings Day. The Mexican tradition for this day is to share a sweet wreath of bread with candied fruit sprinkled on top and a little plastic baby Jesus baked inside. Now, where I’m from, pe
ople are raised to believe we have Jesus in our hearts, but not so much in our cake. My grandmother would have loved this holiday. She had Jesus everywhere in her house, gifts from her fourteen children and millions of grand-, great-grand-, and great-great-grandkids. Pillows, figurines, bedspreads—if Jesus could be printed, sculpted, or cast, Grandma had him in her house. I even made her a paint-by-numbers Jesus one Christmas, which hung proudly over her mantel. But a cake? One bite and you’re choking on the Almighty. It should come with a warning.
Whoever chomps down on the baby Jesus during Kings Day becomes the designated host for the next holiday, Día de la Candelaria, or Candlemas, which falls on February 2, forty days after Christmas. And of course, that year, that person was me. I’ve heard all sorts of interpretations of how this day is celebrated. In the States it’s also the day we call Groundhog Day, because it comes at the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. For Catholics, it’s “Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin.” According to Jewish law a woman was considered unclean for forty days after giving birth, so the custom was to bring a baby to the temple after forty days had passed. That would have been the day Jesus was taken to the temple. In Mexico, the most traditional families have their own Niño Dios, a baby Jesus doll. Some of these dolls have been handed down through generations, and sometimes godparents are even chosen for them. The lucky godparents then become the ones responsible for hosting all the celebrations between Christmas, when the doll is placed in a manger, and Candlemas, when the doll is presented to the church, dressed head to toe in a brand-new outfit that often costs more than the families’ flesh-and-blood children’s entire wardrobe. In some parts of Mexico they celebrate with bullfights and parades. I chose to go with the simple, yet time-honored, tradition of having people over for tamales.
Margarita Wednesdays Page 19
