“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 States, 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 ver
se, 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.
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.
“You 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.
The House on Carnaval Street Page 19