Now and Forever

by Maxwell, Megan

  He’s not very convinced by what I say, and he gives me an unsettling look. When he’s about to say something, I quickly kiss him instead.

  “C’mon . . . let’s go. Flyn, Simona, and Norbert are waiting for us in the living room.”

  When the clock at the Puerta del Sol begins to chime, I explain that this is the countdown. And I encourage them to eat a grape with each chime. Flyn and Eric have done this before, but Norbert and Simona haven’t, and I can’t help but laugh at their expressions.

  Grape by grape, I’m bringing in the reinforcements.

  One. Two. Three. Papá, Raquel, Luz, and my brother-in-law are fine.

  Four. Five. Six. I’m happy.

  Seven. Eight. Nine. What else can I ask for?

  Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Happy 2013!

  On the last toll of the bell, Eric’s going to hug me, but Flyn comes between us. I wink at him. This is normal. The boy wants to be first.

  “Gutes neues Jahr!” say Norbert and Simona, who hug me.

  I can’t help myself and kiss them. We laugh when I make them say it in Spanish: “Feliz año nuevo!”

  The couple’s having fun repeating my words, laughing happily. Norbert and Simona shake Eric’s hand, and they all wish each other a happy New Year. Flyn sticks firmly to his uncle’s side. I squat down to be at his height, and he lets me kiss him on the cheek.

  “Happy New Year, handsome. I hope the year will be marvelous and spectacular.”

  The boy returns my kiss and, to my surprise, grins. Norbert picks him up as Eric hugs me.

  “Happy New Year, love. Thank you for making this night so special for all of us.”

  16

  The next couple of days pass, and being with Eric is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He loves me; he spoils me; and he takes care of everything I need. Flyn is another story. He competes with me in everything while I try to make him see I’m not an adversary. If I make a potato tortilla, he doesn’t like it. If I dance and sing, he looks at me with disdain. If I watch something on TV, he complains. He can’t stand me, and he doesn’t pretend otherwise. That makes me more frantic every day.

  I talk to my family members in Jerez, and they’re all well. That comforts me. My sister tells me how drained she is from her pregnancy and all the battles she’s waging with my niece. It amuses me. I imagine Luz overexcited, waiting for the Three Kings. My Luz is wonderful!

  One morning when I go down to the kitchen, I catch Simona watching television. She’s so focused on what she’s viewing that she doesn’t hear me. When I come near, I see she’s anguished, frightened.

  “My God, are you all right?”

  She wipes her eyes with a napkin.

  “I’m watching Emerald Madness, miss.”

  Taken aback, I glance at the TV and see it’s a soap opera. I chuckle; so does Simona.

  “I think you’d like it too, Miss Judith. Do they watch this soap opera in Spain?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m not a fan of soap operas.”

  “I’m not really either, but it’s caused quite a sensation here in Germany. Everyone watches Emerald Madness.”

  I’m on the verge of laughter.

  “It’s about a character named Esmeralda Mendoza. She’s a beautiful young woman who works as a servant for the Halcones de San Juan. But everything gets complicated when the prodigal son, Carlos Alfonso Halcones de San Juan, returns from the United States and falls in love with Esmeralda Mendoza. She secretly loves Luis Alfredo Quiñones, Mr. Halcones de San Juan’s bastard son, and, oh God, everything becomes such an ordeal . . .”

  That’s quite a story. My sister would love it. Eventually, and without knowing why, I sit with her, and suddenly I’m deeply enmeshed in the plot.

  Marta, Eric’s sister, comes for me on January 2. I told her I needed to do some holiday shopping, and she’s offered to go with me. Delighted to see me enjoying myself, Eric gives me a kiss on the lips when I go. “Have a good time, love.”

  It’s unbelievably frigid outside. It’s two degrees below zero at eleven thirty in the morning, but I’m happy to have Marta and her fun stories as company. We go to Munich’s central plaza and Marienplatz, a majestic square surrounded by very impressive buildings. There’s a huge and spectacular street fair here for me to do my shopping.

  “Do you see that balcony?” asks Marta, and I nod. “That’s city hall, and every afternoon they play live music there.”

  All of a sudden, a very colorful stand with an abundance of Christmas trees draws my attention. They come in red, blue, white, and green and in different sizes. They’re mostly decorated with photos, notes with wishes inside, macaroons, and CDs. I love this!

  “What do you think your brother would do if I put up one of these trees in his living room?”

  Marta lights a cigarette and laughs.

  “He’d be horrified.”

  “Why?”

  I accept a cigarette from her as she looks over the colorful artificial trees.

  “Because these trees are too modern for him, but, mostly, because I’ve never seen him put up a tree at his house.”

  “Are you serious?” I’m perplexed and at the same time convinced I want to do this. “Well, too bad for him, because I can’t live without a tree during the holidays. Epiphany’s coming up. So, horrified or not, he’s going to have to put up with it.”

  Marta cracks up as I buy a seven-foot-high red tree. It’s spectacular! I also buy tons of multi-colored ribbons with bells. I want to decorate the house the way it deserves. It’s still the holiday season! We pay for the tree and promise to come back and pick it up at the end of the day.

  For more than an hour, the two of us shop, and, when our noses grow red from the cold, Marta suggests we get something to drink.

  “I’m going to take you to a very special place. Some other day, I’ll take you to eat at the restaurant at Olympic Tower. It revolves, and you’ll see some extraordinary views of Munich.”

  A few minutes later, we’re in an astonishingly huge place.

  “Dear Judith, as the good Munich native I am, I’m immensely proud to tell you you’re in the Hofbräuhaus, the oldest brewery in the world.”

  The place is dazzling. Vintage vaulted ceilings. There are long, grand wooden benches and tables where the patrons eat and drink.

  “C’mon, let’s get something to drink,” says Marta, taking me by the arm.

  Ten minutes later, we’re seated on one of the wooden benches next to other people. For about an hour, we talk and talk, and I enjoy a stupendous Spaten-Brau beer.

  We’re hungry, so we order something to eat before we go on with our shopping. I let Marta choose, and she orders Leberkäs, a hot appetizer of flour, meat, and bacon meatballs, and a crunchy pretzel on which you can smear all kinds of sauces. Everything is delicious!

  “Well, how do you like Munich?”

  “What little I’ve seen is magnificent. I think it’s a very stately city,” I say after swallowing a bite of my pretzel.

  “Have you come to live with Eric?”

  “Wow, direct and to the point. Just like I like it. The answer is yes,” I say, determined to be sincere. “We’re like fire and ice, but we love each other and want to give it a go.”

  Marta claps happily, and people around her look at her strangely. But she doesn’t care one wit about that.

  “I love it; I love it! I hope my little brother learns life is more than work and seriousness. I hope you’ll open his eyes in many ways, but I’m sorry to say that’s going to be a problem for you. I know him very well.”

  “Well, I don’t want problems.” As soon as I say it, I remember David de Maria’s song, and that makes me smile. “Why do you think I’m going to have problems with Eric?”

  “Eric has never lived with anybody, except for Flyn, these last few years. He became independent when very young, and if there’s something he doesn’t like, it’s anyone meddling in his affairs and decisions. In fact, I’d love to see his face when h
e sees that red tree full of colored ribbons you bought.” We both laugh. “I know that hardheaded guy very well, and I’m sure you’re going to have all sorts of arguments with him. And, in terms of Flyn, he’s not always good for him. He overprotects him. He’d keep him in a crystal vase if he could.”

  That makes me laugh again.

  “Don’t laugh; you’ll see for yourself. And listen to me: my brother’s not going to approve of the gift you got Flyn.”

  “He’s not going to approve of a skateboard?”

  “No.”

  “Why?” I ask, thinking how much fun I have with my niece and her skateboard.

  “Eric will very quickly see the danger. You’ll see.”

  “But I bought him a helmet, as well as kneepads and elbow pads, so he won’t get hurt when he falls . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter, Judith. All Eric will see in that gift is danger, and he’ll ban it.”

  A half hour later, we head toward Maximilianstrasse, which is considered Munich’s golden mile. At D&G, Marta checks out the jeans. While she tries them on, I quickly buy her a T-shirt I saw that she liked. We visit a number of exclusive stores, each one more expensive than the other, and when we get to Armani, I buy Eric a blue-striped white shirt. He’s going to look so handsome. Once we finish our shopping, we go back to the plaza at city hall to pick up my tree. I begin to doubt whether I’ve done right by buying it.

  17

  There’s a storm building in the skies above Munich, so we decide to end our shopping for the day. Eric isn’t home when Marta drops me off at six o’clock. Simona tells me he’s at the office but won’t be long. I quickly take my gifts up to my room and hide them in the back of the closet. I don’t want anyone to see them. Before changing, I look out the window. It’s blowing snow, and I remember that poor abandoned dog by the trash cans. Without thinking twice about it, I get a blanket from one of the guest rooms. I’ll buy another to replace it. I go down to the kitchen, pour a little stew into a plastic bowl, and heat it up in the microwave. I walk through the trees to the front gate. I open it and look around the trash cans.

  “Susto . . .” The word means “fright.” I’ve christened him with this name because of how he frightened me the first time we met and also because of how scared he is. “Susto, are you here?”

  A thin white-and-cinnamon-colored greyhound pops up his head from behind the trash cans. He’s trembling, frightened, and he must be very hungry and very, very cold. Evidently suspicious, he won’t come near me, so I put the stew on the ground and try to encourage him to eat.

  “Come on, Susto, eat. It’s really good.”

  But the dog hides and flees before I can touch him. That makes me sad. Poor little dog. He’s obviously so scared of humans. But I know he’ll be back. I’ve seen him around the garbage cans so many times, and I want to do something for him. Using some planks and boxes, I improvise a shelter for him at the side of the trash cans. I put the blanket inside, along with the stew, and leave. I hope he comes back and eats.

  I return to the house and go up to my room to change. I come back down to the living room, carrying the box with the tree. Flyn is at it with the PlayStation. I sit down by his side and drop the enormous, colorful box between my legs. Surely, that will pique his curiosity.

  For more than twenty minutes, I watch him play without saying a single word as the goddamned thundering video game music destroys my eardrums.

  “Would you like to set up the tree with me?” I say, surrendering.

  Finally, Flyn looks my way. He stops the music. Oh . . . what a relief! He sees the box.

  “Is that where the tree is?” he asks, curious.

  “Yes, it has to be assembled. What do you think?” I say, opening the box and showing him a part of the tree.

  “I don’t like it,” he says.

  I smile; otherwise I’d have to pinch him.

  “I thought we should have our own tree. And to be original and do something no one else does, we could decorate it with wishes we’ll read aloud on Epiphany. Each one of us could have five wishes. What do you think?”

  Flyn blinks. I’ve managed to get his attention. I pull out a notebook, a pair of pens, and multicolored ribbons. “We’ll put the tree together and then write out our wishes on little pieces of paper. We’ll roll these up and put them on the tree using the ribbon. It’s a good idea, isn’t it?”

  The boy glances at the notebook.

  “No, it’s a horrible idea,” he hisses, his dark eyes staring right at me. “And, anyway, Christmas trees are green, not red.”

  I cringe. What a lack of imagination! If this kid says that, what will his uncle say? He goes back to his game, and the music thunders anew. But determined to put up the tree and enjoy it, I get up to begin.

  “I’m going to put it up here, next to the window,” I scream so he can hear. It’s still snowing outside, and I hope Susto has come back and is eating in his little house. “What do you think?”

  He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look at me. Nonetheless, I go to work.

  But that screeching music is killing me, and I try to mitigate it the best I can. I turn on the iPod I have in my jeans pocket, put in my earbuds, and, seconds later, begin to sing along.

  Delighted with my music, I sit on the floor, take the tree out of the box, scatter the pieces all around me, and read the instructions. I am the do-it-yourself queen, so I’m finished in ten minutes. It’s a beauty. Red . . . a radiant red. I look over at Flyn. He’s still playing.

  I pick up the notebook and pen and begin to write out my wishes. Once I have several, I tear out the pages and cut them with care. I draw little holiday doodads all around them. I have to entertain myself somehow. When I’m satisfied with my wishes, I tie them with the gold ribbon. I do that for about an hour until suddenly I see a pair of feet by my side. I lift my eyes and find my Iceman and his furrowed brow.

  Uh-oh!

  I quickly get up and take off my earbuds.

  “What’s that?” he asks, pointing at the red tree.

  I’m about to respond, when the boy sidles up to his uncle and, with the same serious expression, points to the tree.

  “According to her, a Christmas tree. According to me, a piece of shit.”

  “Just because you think my beautiful tree is a piece of shit doesn’t mean he’s going to think it is too,” I say tartly. “OK . . . perhaps it doesn’t go with the living room, but I couldn’t resist. Isn’t it pretty?”

  “Why didn’t you call to consult me about it?” says my favorite German.

  “To consult you about it?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yes, about buying a tree.”

  Unbelievable!

  After a moment, I take a deep breath instead of saying what I think.

  “It never occurred to me I had to call you to buy a Christmas tree,” I say.

  Eric looks at me and evidently realizes I’m getting angry. He tries to soothe me by taking my hand. “Look, Jude, this isn’t my favorite time of year. I don’t like the trees or the ornaments everyone insists on putting on them. But if you wanted a tree, I could have ordered a more elegant fir.”

  The three of us turn to look at my bright red tree.

  “Well, I’m sorry you don’t like the holidays, but I love this time of year. And I don’t like the idea of cutting down firs just because it’s the holidays. They are living things that take a long time to grow and shouldn’t be cut just because we humans want to decorate our living rooms with firs.” Uncle and nephew glance at each other. “I know some of those trees are replanted later, but most end up in the trash, all dried out. I won’t do that. I’d rather have an artificial tree I can use and put away for next year. At least I know it won’t die or dry out in its box.”

  Eric’s mouth begins to arch up. He’s amused by my defense of the fir trees.

  “You really don’t think this is a very original and pretty tree?” I ask.

  “No,” he says with his usual sincerity, arching his brow.r />
  “It’s horrible,” whispers Flyn.

  But I refuse to surrender. I ignore Flyn’s comment.

  “What if I told you it’s our wish tree?”

  “Our wish tree?” asks Eric.

  I nod. Flyn is touching one of the wishes I hung on the tree.

  “She wants us to write out five wishes, hang them on the tree, and read them on Epiphany so they’ll come true. But I don’t want to do that. That’s girl stuff.”

  “It would be too much for you to like it,” I whisper a bit too loudly.

  Eric scolds me with a look.

  “And, anyway, Christmas trees are green, and they’re decorated with ornaments!” Flyn screams. “They’re not red, and they’re not decorated with wishes!”

  “Well, I like it red, and I like decorating it with wishes,” I insist.

  Eric and Flyn look at each other, and I can see they’re communicating. Goddamn it! But well aware I want my red tree and that I’m going to have to deal with these two grouches, I try to stay positive.

  “Come on, you guys, it’s Epiphany—Christmas!—and it wouldn’t be anything at all without a tree!”

  Eric stares at me. I pout. Finally, he smiles.

  Annoyed, Flyn starts to walk away, but Eric grabs him by the arm.

  “Write out five wishes, like Jude has asked you,” he says, pointing to the notebook.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Flyn . . .”

  “Damn it, Uncle! I don’t want to.”

  Eric squats. He’s face-to-face with the boy.

  “Please, it would mean a lot to me if you did it. This Epiphany is special for all of us, and it would be a good beginning with Jude here in the house, all right?”

  “I hate that she takes care of me and orders me around.”

  “Flyn . . . ,” Eric insists, but his voice is harder now.

  The staring contest between them is intense. But, in the end, my Iceman wins. The boy is furious now, but he picks up the notebook, tears out a sheet, and grabs one of the pens before walking away.

  “Flyn, take the green ribbon so you can tie them,” I say.

  He doesn’t look at me, but he picks up the ribbon and sits down at the table in front of the TV and begins to write. I lean over to Eric on my tiptoes and whisper, “Thank you.”