Margarita Wednesdays

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “What’s going on, Deb?”

  “I’m just tired. Haven’t slept very well for the past few nights.”

  “Well, I hate to say, but you look more than just tired. I think that healer guy must have really done a number on you.”

  I dabbed my napkin at a tear I could feel escaping from the corner of my eye. Though I was sure Sharon would be sympathetic, I feared that once I started talking I’d fall apart. Noah was a mess, and trying to help him by denying him help seemed to go against every drop of maternal instinct I carried around inside. Intellectually I knew it was supposed to be the right thing to do, but when my mind would go to that dark place where I’d imagine Noah squatting in front of a bank begging for change, or unconscious in a ditch, all bets were off. I went back and forth and back and forth from being angry to frightened to guilty to ashamed, and all that ricocheting around just left me feeling so overwhelmed that I admit I often found myself desperately trying to simply shut Noah and his problems out of my mind.

  “So how did the Art Walk go?” I asked with a shaky voice, in a feeble attempt to change the subject.

  Sharon kindly played along. “The Art Walk? Oh, it was good. More crowded than the one last month. We had good business that night.”

  As she went on about the pros and cons of running a business in the old part of town, I began to notice something happening across the street, behind Sharon’s back. The city gardener at the museum was holding a huge iguana up by its tail. I could see its long green body squirming and writhing helplessly in one hand, as the gardener held a machete in the other. I kept waiting for the gardener to release the poor thing, but he just stood there. I tried not to look, and struggled to concentrate on what Sharon was saying. But suddenly I couldn’t bear to watch this cruelty any longer, so I pushed back my chair, apologized to Sharon for the interruption, and ran, yelling, into the street. “Stop! Please!” Halfway across I watched as the gardener straightened his arm. That’s when I noticed the red gash across the iguana’s neck, so deep I could see the bone underneath. The gardener’s eyes were moist. He shook his head sadly. I quickly looked away, as a million thoughts flooded my brain. I should just walk away, something was telling me, back to Sharon and back to the comfort of Macaws. Don’t get involved. If you look too closely, you’ll have no choice. Once you really open your eyes, you open your heart. There’s no turning away. You’ll have to take responsibility for that poor animal. I don’t want an iguana! I don’t even like iguanas that much. What do iguanas even eat? Where do they sleep? Why am I even doing this? But, as if my body had been taken over by some other, more benevolent being, instead I yelled as loudly as I could for Glen, who came and picked up the maimed lizard in his arms and marched it back over to Macaws. We placed it gently down on the bar and asked Cesar the bartender to call the vet. By the time he arrived the bar top was littered, thanks to everyone who was there that afternoon, with enough pesos to cover the emergency on-location surgery, right there between the bowl of limes and the pile of cocktail napkins.

  Later that night I called Noah, and made him a deal. Though he’d clearly be way more work than a crippled iguana could ever be, I opened the door for him to come down to my house on Carnaval Street.

  HAVE I MENTIONED HOW MUCH I love to shop? I am so, so good at it. Just point me in the direction of a nice boutique or gallery or crafts fair, and I’ll come out with my soul full, even if my hands are empty. And malls? They are just about my favorite places on earth. I used to fly from Kabul to Dubai just for the malls. I didn’t even have to buy. Simply sitting anywhere among the Sephoras and Victoria’s Secrets and Bath & Body Works and Sunglass Huts of the world, sipping a coffee, people-watching or reading a book, is to me what being on a yoga retreat is for other more disciplined, more flexible women. I relax. But in Mazatlán, shopping has its limits. No decent sheets, not one affordable lamp, and forget about those size-nine shoes. Apparently drag queens were the only ones wearing pumps that big down here. By now I was well versed in every item to be found in Centro, and was itching to move on.

  So when Sharon suggested I join her on a road trip to Pátzcuaro in search of Catrinas, with a stop at the mall at Morelia, I had to hold myself back from kissing her on her pale pink lips. So what if I didn’t even know what Catrinas were, and who cares if it was a ten-hour drive? I was in.

  We left the following Thursday in my Mini, looking like a couple of shoplifters who had scored big-time, our clothes bulging with the cell phones we’d stashed in our bras, the wallets we’d hidden in our underwear, and water bottles we’d stuffed in our pants. We weren’t about to take any chances. Some friends of Analisa’s had just been carjacked the month before. The banditos took their purses, their jewelry, everything, leaving them stranded on the side of the road in the middle of the desert. The only thing they were left with was a warning: Walk away, hand in hand, and whatever you do, do not turn around.

  So we were prepared, at least physically. It was an early departure from Mazatlán, which is always an interesting process. We had just braked for the first stoplight when a snot-nosed kid in cowboy boots flung himself onto the hood of the car. A splash of dirty gray water hit the windshield. “Go away!” Sharon yelled, as she lunged to turn on the wipers in an attempt to minimize the damage. The kid laughed, the light turned green, and he jumped off the hood, the early morning sun bouncing off his enormous silver belt buckle as he held out his hand for a tip. Sharon stepped on the gas, only to find herself trapped by the next stoplight, victim to the next window washer on the strip. “No!” I wagged my finger out the rolled-down window. No was no in Spanish, right? “No!” I yelled, even louder. We drove on to the next light with an even muddier windshield, and so it went, block after block, until we finally reached the highway barely able to see the road in front of our faces. But we were on our way.

  You can get to know someone pretty well over ten hours inside a locked vehicle. Sharon and I talked about everything, probably divulging more than we would have had we not been relying on the fast-paced chatter to help keep our nerves from falling prey to the dangers of the Mexican roads. At least we were in the Mini, which I figured was too small to appeal to banditos. Really, how many of them, and their drugs, and their guns, could fit inside one of these things? There was no way they’d get my car up those steep mountain roads, and it was too small to run a roadblock. Not like my friend Carolina’s SUV, which was used in ten murders before the police returned it to her, with advice to sell.

  But some of the personal horror stories we shared that day made the drive down Highway 15 look like a game of Candy Land. The two of us were one-upping each other like a couple of bragging kids in the schoolyard. And I have to admit, even though I was pretty confident I could easily top Sharon when push came to shove, she did have quite a story. I had just finished my own tale about being trapped in an elevator in Pakistan with a lecherous policeman when she took over.

  “Well, did I ever tell you about my creepy first husband?” Sharon settled into the passenger seat with a can of Pringles. It was my turn to drive.

  “Um, no.” I figured this one had to be good for at least fifty miles.

  “Yep. I was only eighteen when I moved in with him. Wouldn’t allow me to work, would barely allow me to even leave the house. We didn’t even have a phone.”

  “Are you friggin’ kidding me?” I had dealt with a couple of control freaks myself, but I doubted I ever could have survived that kind of situation. I would like to think I would have walked right out, but then again, I was well aware of just how complicated things can sometimes be.

  “Nope. He was crazy jealous of everyone, my family, my friends, even strangers on the street. I always had to wear my shirts buttoned up to the top, and forget about a bathing suit. He bought all my clothes. I never went shopping.”

  “Why the hell did you marry him in the first place?”

  Sharon laughed. “You are asking me that question? Miss ‘I Do, I Do, I Do’?”

  “Okay,
okay. But seriously, you so don’t seem like the type to—”

  “Deb, I was so insecure back then that it didn’t even occur to me that the situation wasn’t normal. And you know what finally woke me up? He actually accused me of incest. Incest! Can you imagine? One afternoon he walked in on me and my brother watching TV from the couch, and just lost it.”

  “Jeez, what a wack job!”

  “Uh-huh. I am just so grateful I met Glen.”

  “So you just met Glen and that was that?”

  Sharon lifted her bare feet to the dashboard. “Oh, it was a lot more complicated than that.”

  Thank God for those complications. They managed to keep me awake and entertained for the rest of my shift, all the way to Guadalajara. Sharon hadn’t managed to fully extract herself from her marriage until two long years after that afternoon with her brother, and it had been her creepy husband’s own mother who introduced her to Glen, who wooed her with flowers and walks in the park, something she had never, ever before experienced with a man. The relationship did have its fits and starts. But one night, after a long separation, Sharon walked into the bar where Glen was playing. The music stopped. Glen handed over his drumsticks to a friend and took Sharon in his arms. They danced, and lived happily ever after. Well, at least from my outsider’s point of view happily ever after, but I was pretty sure theirs was a good marriage. They were a real team when it came to their commitment to Casa de Leyendas and Macaws, and I loved the way Sharon’s blue eyes sparkled when Glen made her laugh. I wondered if I’d ever find that in my life.

  Sharon was already familiar with some of my stories, but she didn’t really know all that much about Noah or Zach, at least not before this trip. But by the time we switched places again, halfway to Morelia, she was well up to speed.

  “Wow. You’ve got quite a dilemma, Deb,” she said with a sigh.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You know, there are times when I wish I had had a kid, but then again . . .”

  “Yeah, they can break your heart. And even worse, they’ll give you gray hair while they’re at it.”

  Sharon laughed.

  “So why didn’t you guys ever have kids?” I asked, a little worried that I might be crossing the line with the question. But so far nothing had seemed off-limits in this conversation.

  “Just didn’t happen for us.”

  “Yeah, that happens,” I said, imagining what a good-looking kid Sharon would have had.

  “You know, Deb, I was pregnant once.”

  For once I stayed silent, giving Sharon the space to continue, or not.

  She dug under her seat for the Pringles can. “Actually, I can’t believe I’m telling you this. It’s a story I haven’t shared with anyone down here.” She paused and looked out the window for a minute. “It’s so strange. You’re probably not going to believe it.”

  “So try me.”

  Sharon hesitated, then began. “You know, when Glen and I moved down to Mazatlán, it wasn’t the first time I’d been there. Forty-five years ago, my mom brought me down to Mazatlán for an abortion.”

  “But you must have been just a kid!”

  “I was. And abortion was illegal in the States back then. I remember coming through town in a taxi in the middle of the night. The Golden Zone didn’t even exist yet. I think the Playa Mazatlán was probably the only hotel out that way at that time. We came to Centro. And I know the doctor’s house was somewhere in our neighborhood, right around Casa de Leyendas.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I told you it was a strange story. It was a beautiful home. I can still remember the inside. If I walked into it this day, I would know it right away.”

  “I can’t believe that happened right there.”

  “I’m sure it was within walking distance of Macaws. I have a feeling it’s one of those little houses right around the corner from us.”

  “Oh, Sharon, I’m so sorry.” It killed me to envision a frightened, teenage Sharon being forced into such an ordeal.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I survived. But isn’t it an amazing coincidence?”

  How lonely she must have felt, I thought, in a totally foreign place, vulnerable, in the hands of a stranger. I doubted I’d ever be able to return to the scene of that sort of horror. To me, the odds of Sharon choosing to live right there, out of the blue, seemed pretty slim. Coincidence, or not? What is it that really drives us to make the decisions we do? I wondered, and not for the first time.

  IT WAS JUST AFTER SHARON took over the wheel again that things started to get a little dicey. First she insisted on giving what little food we had left in the car to a skinny dog at the gas station. Granted, it was just a bag of Cheetos, but still. At least she left me with a box of Red Hots, and she respected the line I drew when it came to our water supply. Then, before we had even traveled a mile, we were pulled over by two guys in military uniform. I grabbed my bra, hoping to God these men were the real deal. Sharon pulled over and rolled down her window.

  “Dónde está la hierba?” growled the taller one.

  Sharon looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders. She turned back to the officer.

  “Dónde está la hierba?” he repeated.

  “Lo siento, mi español es muy malo. Por favor, habla despacio.” Sorry, my Spanish is very bad, please speak slowly. Sharon seemed to have that line down.

  “Dónde está la hierba?” he said again, this time very slowly.

  “Deb, I know that word. I use that word. I think it’s the word I use to tell Pedro to pull the weeds. Why would he be telling me to pull the weeds?”

  I leaned over Sharon’s lap and yelled out her window. “We have no fruit!”

  “Fruit? I don’t think it means fruit, Deb.”

  “I know. But it has worked for me before. No fruit!”

  The officer waved us through with a big sigh.

  “Grass! I just remembered. It does mean weed, Deb. They’re looking for drugs. Ha!”

  “Well, that doesn’t seem like the smartest way to find them. Oh, the pot? Here it is, Officer. Is this what you’re looking for? Sheesh.”

  The next incident was even more confusing. Now it was a pair of cops pulling us over. This time I rolled down my window. We seriously had no idea what they were saying, but I did think I heard the word for coffee somewhere. I turned from the one cop to his partner, who simply nodded his head in agreement.

  “Café?” I asked, thinking that perhaps I had been hearing things.

  The officer nodded yes. Coffee? I thought. Why would they want coffee, and why on earth would they think I’d be traveling with an extra cup? My eyes went to the cup holder, where I spied a can of Red Bull. I gamely offered it through the open window. The cop rolled his eyes, and once again we were waved through. It wasn’t until we returned that Cesar, the bartender at Macaws, explained. “The police asked you for coffee?”

  “Yes! Wasn’t that weird?” Sharon asked. “We offered them Red Bull, but I guess they really wanted that coffee.”

  Cesar laughed. “No, it’s not that. When a cop says can you give me a little something for coffee, it’s their polite way of asking for some money. You know, a bribe.”

  We were very close to making it to Pátzcuaro when, unfortunately, we took a wrong turn. I was driving again and had put Sharon in charge of the GPS.

  “Just enter Pátzcuaro,” I told her, GPS pro that I was.

  “P-A-T . . . oh shit. I pressed the wrong button.” Sharon dug in her purse, searching for her glasses.

  “Hit the back button.”

  “P-A . . .”

  “No! Just hit it once. Don’t start all the way over.”

  “Okay! Relax! A-R-O. Now it says country.”

  “So spell it.” I could feel my heart rate increasing with every wrong mile we drove. The roads were becoming narrower and windier and bumpier by the minute. “What does it say? Can we get there this way?”

  “It keeps coming up with Canada.”

  �
��Canada? Just type in country.”

  “I am! And I’m telling you, it keeps saying Canada.”

  Sharon was punching the glass GPS screen so hard I thought it was going to shatter.

  “It’s a touch screen, Sharon! Stop hitting it.”

  “Stop yelling at me!”

  “I’m not yelling!” I yelled. “You’re getting us more and more lost by the minute.”

  “Calm down, Deb. You’re stressing me out.”

  “I’m stressing you out? You’re stressing me out!” I pulled over onto a narrow turnout, leaving barely enough room for a donkey to pass. The steep hillside below was littered with tires and rusted car parts. “I can’t drive like this!” I yelled, turning to look Sharon in the face.

  Sharon crossed her arms. “Well, I can’t ride like this.”

  “Really? Really, Sharon? Is this the way this weekend’s gonna go?”

  “Yeah, I guess it is!”

  “Really? Well, then, I’m going home.” I started to unlock the door.

  “Ha! Go ahead. Let me just type in country and see if it will help you get there. C . . .”

  “Sharon, Mexico starts with an M.”

  As our laughter rocked my little car, I realized, with delight, that we’d had our first fight. Sharon and I were now officially best friends.

  THE MINUTE WE PULLED INTO the town of Pátzcuaro, my head began to whirl. At first I chalked up my wooziness to the long drive or the altitude or my empty stomach, or maybe even the sensory overload from the little shops lining the streets, windows filled with handwoven sweaters and blankets and hats and hand-carved furniture and so much folk art I couldn’t even digest it all. But I had a feeling that this might be something different.