Margarita Wednesdays

by Deborah Rodriguez

  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 want 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 nurse 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?”

  “It’s the evil eye, Debbie,” came Martha’s groggy voice from the bed. “When you say something nice about the baby, you have to touch her.”

  I held the baby closer. The nurse pointed to Italya, then to me, and back again. “Como abuela.” Everyone smiled and nodded.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I think they’re saying she looks like you,” Noah suggested.

  “Como él también,” added another of Martha’s relatives, pointing at Denis, laughing. A blushing Denis held out his palms and shook his head.

  “What?” I asked. “They think she looks like him because her skin is pale?”

  Teresa rushed to my side. “El hilo rojo!” She gasped, suddenly pulling a thin red string from her pocket. I didn’t dare move as she began to tie it around Italya’s tiny wrist.

  “The evil eye again?” I asked. Martha nodded and closed her eyes. Just then the nurse reappeared and gently took the baby from my arms. “Where’s she going? What’s the matter?” Thinking the worst. She looked healthy to me. Mix-up? Wrong baby?

  “Now she must go get her ears pierced.”

  TIPPY TOES’ BIRTH WAS A bit more complicated. Starting a business from scratch in a place where you can’t buy anything wholesale, or locate the necessary equipment anywhere within hundreds of miles, is, needless to say, a challenge. I was down to my last five hundred dollars by the time I was ready to open.

  Bodie and Sergio were putting the finishing touches on the remodel when they gave me a call. “You do want a water hookup in the back room, right?”

  “No, don’t need one back there. What we have is fine.”

  “But you’re going to want to do hair, shampoos, right?”

  “Tippy Toes, Bodie. Get it? It’s not called Happy Hair.”

  “C’mon, Deb. What if you change your mind?”

  “Not going to.”

  “But let’s just say you do. It will be expensive to bring the water in later. If we do it now, it’ll be a breeze.”

  “No more money?” I asked, wincing at the thought of my bank balance.

  “Nope.” I could hear Sergio in the background urging him to just do it.

  “Okay. And Bodie? Tell Sergio to keep his opinions to himself. He’s done enough damage already.”

  But of course it was mostly thanks to Sergio that my staff was in place—Martha and her sister, Teresa, their niece Luz, plus their friend Daniela from up on The Hill, and Selena, a girl I had inherited from a shuttered Golden Zone salon. Training began amid the elaborate paint job I had commissioned for the inside of the salon. I wanted something different, something that said beachy and fun, so an airbrushed wraparound mural with a surfer theme was in progress. My friends, enlisted as guinea pigs, arrived two by two for the free services I offered as incentive. It was important to me that my staff become comfortable working with foreigners, and I hovered over the girls as they followed, step by step, my carefully choreographed manicure and pedicure instructions. I admit to being a taskmaster, but I was determined to make the experience a memorable one for my customers, including the presentation. Most of all, I wanted to ensure consistency, a level of comfort that comes with knowing you’re walking into something familiar, especially in a foreign country. Sort of like going to McDonald’s when you’re in, say, Bulgaria, but better.

  I had, by now, decided to branch out a little from just doing nails. So when my scheduled test subjects showed up, either for a morning or afternoon session, they had to take whatever service they were offered. If we were practicing facials, they got their pores steam cleaned. Massages? Lucky stiffs. But Lord help the ones who showed up at waxing time. More than one woman of a certain age turned and ran out the door before we could attempt a Brazilian, much to my girls’ relief. I couldn’t help but think of Kabul, about the time when a young aid worker asked if we could do a Brazilian. Sure, I said. Of course we could. My girls were mortified at the thought, as this just wasn’t the kind of thing that was done there. Maybe it was something your mother or sister might help with, at home, but it certainly wasn’t a procedure done by strangers, in a public place. The aid worker knew this, and was nervous putting herself in the hands of novices. I assured her it would be fine. I’d do the job myself.

  It was dark in the salon the afternoon she showed up for her waxing. It was dark there every afternoon, as the windows were cemented up to block us from the street view, and the electricity wasn’t turned on until four o’clock. That day my top student was enlisted to help me get started as soon as the lights came on. The woman’s blond hair would have been tough enough to see in any lighting, but when the power went out halfway through, we were doomed. “Light!” I yelled to the rest of the girls outside the door. “We need light! Hurry!” A minute later they all marched in, with miners’ lamps on their heads and flashlights in their hands. I still don’t know who was more embarrassed, the nervous, spread-eagled customer or my painfully modest girls.

  It was proving hard to find volunteers for waxing in a retirement community. At first I had the girls practice on Noah, but when he started resembling a hairless Chihuahua I had to put a stop to that. I managed to find a couple of other guys to come in, but when one asked for a back, crack, and sack wax, Martha almost puked and threatened to quit. Luckily he was just kidding. Another victim came in looking like a gorilla. I felt so sorry for him, with the pain he had to be going through getting all that hair ripped off his back, that I ran to Macaws and got him a double shot of whiskey with a straw, which one of my girls held under his face while Teresa yanked the strips off, one by one.

  It was finally showtime. Martha, Teresa, Luz, Daniela, and Selena were all good to go. Five girls, just like I had in Afghanistan. Sometimes, when I’d listen to them giggling about a customer who’d just left, or hear them complaining about a tip, picking up just enough of the language to understand what was going on, I’d almost forget where I was. But there was no mistaking Mazatlán for Kabul when it came to how my girls showed up for work. With their low-slung pants and skintight shirts that ended well above the belly button, all I could see were stretch marks and the crack of an ass when any one of them bent over to do a pedicure. At first I tried to tease them out of their fashion habit
by sliding a ten-peso coin into an exposed crevice every time I saw one, or by tickling their bare belly rolls, which those who had had babies wore like a badge of honor. Then I bought aprons to cover their tummies. Eventually I had to take the drastic step of bringing in longer, looser shirts from the States.

  Noah took to his role managing the salon like a fish to water. It was in his blood. Both my boys had gained experience in the field over the years—I had sent Noah to beauty school at one point in his life, and Zach had pitched in during his time in Afghanistan by doing pedicures for embassy workers while I did their hair. Of course, now he was on a different track, selling kidnap and ransom insurance, another career choice no doubt inspired by his mother. But Noah had fallen closer to the tree. Sometimes I felt sorry for him, the lone man plopped into a bevy of highly emotional, high-strung, hormonal women, most of them related, which gave them even more of an excuse to fight and cry at the drop of a hat. Especially after they had all worked together long enough for their cycles to become coordinated.

  Noah’s home life was only slightly less tumultuous. From that very first day in the hospital, when Teresa and her relatives, including Martha, dug their heels in to insist that Noah could not possibly be the one to stay overnight on the skinny Naugahyde couch—You can’t change her diaper. She’s a girl! You don’t know how to feed her. You’re a man!—he had been struggling to stake his claim as a father, an involved father, in a country where that has traditionally been far from the norm.

  “You don’t know how to do any of this,” Martha would tell him.

  “I can learn.”