Now and Forever

by Maxwell, Megan

  “I’d rather he be that way than have something happen to him.”

  “Of course, the way you’re raising him, something is certainly going to happen to him. Haven’t you considered there’ll come a moment when he wants to go out with friends or with a girl, and he won’t know how to do anything except play Wii and obey his uncle?”

  Eric looks at me.

  “That you’ve come to live with me and the boy in this house is the most wonderful thing that’s happened to me in many years, but I’m not going to take any chances with Flyn just because you think he should be different. I’ve accepted this horrible red tree in the house; I’ve made the boy write absurd wishes to decorate it, but I’m not going to surrender when it comes to Flyn’s well-being. You’re my girlfriend. You’ve proposed taking care of my nephew when I’m not around, but Flyn is my responsibility, not yours; don’t forget that.”

  Those ugly words on a morning as beautiful as Three Kings’ Day hurt my heart. He’s such a jerk! His house. His nephew. But determined not to cry like a fool, I pick up all the gifts for the boy and shove them back in my bag.

  “Very well,” I hiss back. “I’ll write a check to your nephew. I’m sure he’ll like that better.”

  I know my words and tone are irritating Eric, but I’m ready and willing to irritate him so much more.

  “You said the empty room on this floor was for me, right?”

  Eric nods, and I head that way. I open the living room door and discover Simona, Norbert, and Flyn.

  “You can go back in,” I say, the boy’s gifts in my hands. “Your uncle and I have said what we need to say.”

  I hurry to the room, open the door, and drop the skateboard and all its accessories on the floor. With the same urgency, I return to the living room. Simona and Norbert have disappeared, and only Eric and Flyn are there.

  “I’ll write you a check later,” I say, though I’m a bit shaken. “But don’t expect it to be as much as your uncle’s because, one: I don’t think it’s right to give you so much money, and, two: I’m not rich!”

  The boy doesn’t respond. It feels bad in here, but I’m not ready to be the one who fixes it. I remember the envelope Eric gave me. I open it, and, on seeing a blank check, I return it.

  “Thanks, but no. I don’t need your money. In any case, I considered all those things you bought for me the other day to be my gifts.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me. They both stare at me. But like a devastating hurricane, I point to the tree, ready to conclude our Epiphany.

  “Come on, guys. Let’s finish up our lovely morning. How about we read the wishes on our tree? Maybe one of them has already come true.”

  I know I’m pushing them to the wall. I know this is not the right thing to do, but I don’t care. In just a few days, they’ve driven me out of my mind.

  “I don’t want to read those stupid wishes!”

  “And why not?”

  “Because,” he insists.

  Eric evidently understands I’m really angry, and it obviously disconcerts him not to know what to do. But I’m raging because I have to be here with these two blockheads and so far from my family.

  “Let’s see. Who will be the first to read a wish from the tree?”

  Neither of them moves, so I finally pick one of the pieces of paper.

  “Fun . . . I’ll be first, and I’ll read one of Flyn’s wishes.”

  I’m taking off the green ribbon and unrolling it when the boy comes running toward me and snatches it from my hands. I’m shocked.

  “I hate this; I hate this tree; and I hate your wishes!” he exclaims. “You’ve made my uncle angry, and because of you, today has been horrible.”

  I look over at Eric for help, but he doesn’t move.

  I want to scream, to start a third world war in this living room, but, in the end, I do the only thing I can. I pick up the goddamned red tree and drag it to the same room where I stuck the skateboard.

  “Miss Judith, are you all right?” asks Simona, bewildered.

  Poor woman! What a miserable time she’s having! “Relax,” she says, and takes my hands. “Mr. Zimmerman is occasionally strict when it comes to the boy, but he does it for his well-being. Don’t be angry, miss.”

  I kiss her cheek.

  “It’s OK, Simona,” I say as I go up the stairs. “Everything’s OK. But I’m going to go and freshen up, or this will all end worse than Emerald Madness.”

  We both smile. When I get up to the room and close the door, my neck is itching. God, what a rash! I look in the mirror, and I’m completely plagued. Damn it!

  Determined to leave the house no matter what, I take off my pj’s, get dressed, and, once I have my coat on, go back to the living room where the two of them are playing Wii. I stride up to them. I pull the cord and disconnect them. The music stops. They both look up.

  “I’m going for a stroll. I need it!” And before Eric can say a word, I add, “Don’t even think about telling me I can’t go. For your own good, don’t even think about it!”

  I leave the house. No one follows me.

  Poor Simona tries to convince me to stay, but I tell her I’m fine and not to worry. When I reach the gate and go out the side door, Susto comes to greet me. I walk around the neighborhood for a little while with the dog at my side. I tell him my problems, my frustrations, and the poor beast looks at me with his big eyes as if understanding. After a long walk, and when I’m back in front of the gate to the house, I realize I don’t really want to go in, so I call Marta. Twenty minutes later, when I can barely feel my feet, Marta picks me up in her car and we take off. I say goodbye to Susto. I need to talk to somebody who’ll respond, or I’ll go crazy.

  20

  With the tension level at about a zillion, I drink a beer and look up at Marta’s serious face. Given what I’m saying and my anger, she probably has a pretty good idea of what’s happened.

  “Easy, Jude. You’ll see how everything will have calmed down when you get back.”

  “Oh, of course . . . Of course it’ll have calmed down! I don’t plan on saying a word to either of them. They’re made for each other. If one is stubborn, the other is even more so. For the love of God, how can your brother give a nine-year-old a check as a gift? And how can a nine-year-old become such a premature old man?”

  “They’re like that,” Marta says, laughing.

  Her cell phone rings. She takes the call.

  “That was Mother,” she reports. “She said my cousin Jurgen called to let us know he has a motocross race not too far from here. Would you like to go?”

  “Of course.”

  Forty-five minutes later, in the middle of a snowy, vacant field, we’re surrounded by motocross bikes. I’m a bundle of nerves. I watch the race and applaud like a madwoman. When it’s over, we go say hello to Jurgen, who welcomes me warmly.

  “I called Aunt Sonia because I didn’t have your number. I didn’t want to call over to Eric’s house. I know he doesn’t like this sport.”

  I understand and give him my cell number. He gives me his. Then I look at the motorcycle.

  “How does it drive with the wheels full of nails?”

  Jurgen doesn’t hesitate. He hands me the helmet.

  “See for yourself.”

  Marta doesn’t want me to ride. She’s worried something could happen to me, but I insist. I put on Jurgen’s helmet and start the motorcycle.

  Wow! What a shot of adrenaline.

  I happily go out on the frozen track and take a lap; I’m pleased the wheels do a pretty good job in the snow with all those nails. But I don’t let myself get careless. I know I’m not wearing the necessary protection; if I fall, I’ll get hurt. Once I’m back by Marta’s side, she breathes easier.

  “Thank you,” I say, handing Jurgen’s helmet back to him. “It was wonderful.”

  Jurgen introduces me to several other racers, and I seem to surprise them all. When they find out I’m Spanish, they all say some version o
f “olé,” “toros,” and “sangria.” What notion do these foreigners have of Spanish people?

  After the race, we say goodbye, and Marta and I go for another drink. When we sit down, I’m still elated from the lap I took on the bike. I know if Eric finds out, he’ll scream to high heaven, but I don’t care. I had fun. I suddenly realize how Marta is looking at the server. That blond fellow has already come by several times to bring us things, and he certainly is very courteous.

  “Let’s see here, Marta. What’s going on between you and that handsome server?” I ask, laughing.

  “Nothing,” she says, surprised. “Why would you ask that?”

  Sure my intuition is right, I lean back in my chair.

  “One . . . the server knows your name, and you know his name. Two: he asked me what kind of beer I wanted, but he brought you one without asking. And three, which is vitally important: I noticed how you look at him and how he smiles.”

  Marta laughs. She looks his way and then turns back to me. “We’ve seen each other a couple of times. Arthur is very charming. We’ve gone out for drinks and . . .”

  “Wow! I see there’s a lot to talk about here,” I tease, and Marta laughs.

  I look over at this Arthur. He’s a young man about my age, tall, with tiny glasses and a kind of pretty-boy thing going on. When he sees I’m checking him out, he smiles at me, but his eyes instantly go to Marta as he picks up some glasses from the table next to us.

  “He likes you a lot,” I tease.

  “I know, but it can’t be,” says Marta, still laughing.

  “And why not?” I ask, curious.

  Marta takes a sip of her beer.

  “Look closely. He’s much younger than I am. Arthur is twenty-five. He’s a boy!”

  “Listen . . . He’s the same age I am. How old are you anyway?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  I burst out laughing, and a couple of people turn around to look at us.

  “You think that about a four-year difference? Come on, Marta, please. I never imagined you would worry about something as ridiculous as age. Since when does love have an age? And before you say anything, I want you to know that if your brother were younger than I am and I liked him anyway, nothing would stop me. Absolutely nothing because, as my father says, life is for living!”

  We both laugh.

  “Marta, so good to see you,” says a voice behind us.

  We both turn and see two men and a woman. They’re very attractive. Marta gets up and hugs them.

  “Judith, let me introduce you to Anita, Reinaldo, and Klaus. These two guys work with me at the hospital, and Anita has a beautiful and very exclusive fashion store.”

  They sit with us, and, forgetting my problems, I entertain myself by getting to know these guys, who quickly make us laugh. Reinaldo is Cuban, and I love his very Latin American expressions. My cell rings. It’s Eric. I don’t want to avoid him, so I pick up and try to respond as seriously as possible.

  “Yes, Eric.”

  “Where are you?”

  Since I don’t really know where I am, and I’m sitting here watching Marta laugh with these guys, I decide to be straightforward. “I’m with your sister and some friends getting a drink.”

  “What friends?” asks Eric impatiently.

  “I don’t know, Eric . . . some friends.”

  I can hear him sigh. It really pisses him off that he can’t control where and, especially, with whom I hang out, but I really want to enjoy my time.

  “What do you want?”

  “Come home.”

  “No.”

  “Jude, I don’t know where you are or with whom,” he insists, and I take note of the tension in his voice. “I’m worried about you. Please, tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you, sweetheart.”

  Silence . . . a funereal silence.

  “I’m going to hang up,” I say. “I want to enjoy this beautiful Three Kings’ Day, and I think I will with these folks. Certainly, I hope you also enjoy the day in the company of your nephew. Goodbye.”

  And then I hang up.

  He must be furious. The cell rings again. Eric. I decline the call, and when he insists, I turn it off. I don’t care if he gets mad. As far as I’m concerned, he can bash his head against the wall. I join the conversation and try to forget about my German.

  Marta’s friends are lots of fun, and, on leaving the pub, we go get something to eat at a restaurant. Like always, everything is delicious, or, like always, I’m just furiously hungry. When we leave the restaurant, Reinaldo suggests we go to a Cuban place, so we head there.

  As soon as we get to the Guantanamera, Reinaldo introduces us to some other Cubans living in Munich.

  Marta and I drink a bunch of mojitos. Marta’s so much fun. She’s the complete opposite of her brother when it comes to having a good time. We make a good pair. Anita isn’t too much farther behind. When the marvelous Celia Cruz’s “Quimbara” plays, Reinaldo invites me to dance, and I accept.

  Reinaldo dances superbly, and I let him lead. I move my hips. I raise my arms. Step forward. Step back. I turn. Move my shoulders. Azúcarrrrrr!

  Time goes by, and I’m in a better and better mood. Viva Cuba!

  Around eleven o’clock at night, Marta, a little drained from the pace we’ve been keeping, hands me her cell.

  “It’s Eric. I have about a thousand missed calls from him, and he wants to talk to you.”

  I sigh and take the cell.

  “Yes, my little bore, what do you want?”

  “‘My little bore’? Did you just call me a bore?”

  “Yes, but if you’d like, I can call you something else,” I say, laughing.

  “Why did you turn off your cell?”

  “So you wouldn’t bother me. There are times when you’re worse than Carlos Alfonso Halcones de San Juan when he tortures poor Esmeralda Mendoza.”

  “Have you been drinking?” he asks, not understanding what I’m talking about.

  Well aware that at this moment there are more mojitos than blood in my body, I reply, “Of course, my love!”

  “Jude, are you drunk?”

  “Noooooo!” I say mockingly. “Come on, Iceman, what do you want?”

  “Jude, I want you to tell me where you are so I can come get you.”

  “Don’t even think about it. You’ll ruin my good time.”

  “For the love of God! You left this morning, and it’s eleven o’clock at night and . . .”

  “Over and out, handsome.”

  I give Marta’s cell back to her and watch her talk to her brother for a few minutes.

  “I want you to know my brother has given me two options,” she says as she pulls me away from the group. “The first: I take you home. The second: I get him even madder, and understand that, when we go home, the earth will tremble.”

  “Well then, let the earth tremble!” I say, laughing, determined to continue having a good time.

  Marta bursts out laughing, and the two of us dance to “Bemba Colorá” as we chant, “Azúcar!”

  We get home at dawn, more inebriated than sober.

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask her when we get to the black gate.

  “Don’t even think about it,” says Marta, laughing. “I’m going home to pack my bags right now and flee the country. Once Eric catches me, he’s going to skin me alive.”

  “He’ll have to get through me first!” I say, laughing too as I get out of the car.

  But before I can say another word, the gate opens and there’s Eric, his face totally twisted. He takes giant strides toward the car, gives his sister a look, and hisses, “I’ll talk to you later . . . little sister.”

  Marta nods and, without a word, takes off. We’re left by ourselves, facing each other in the middle of the street. Eric takes me by the arm, trying to rush me inside.

  “C’mon . . . let’s go home.”

  Suddenly, there’s a harrowing growl that breaks the silence, and, before anything happens that we might
regret, I shake loose from Eric and calmly whisper, “Take it easy, Susto. It’s OK.”

  The dog comes close, trying to protect me.

  “You know this mutt?”

  “Yes, it’s Susto.”

  “Susto? You’ve named him Susto?”

  “Yes, isn’t he cute?”

  Eric wrinkles his brow. “What is he wearing around his neck?”

  “He was cold, so I made a scarf for him,” I say, delighted.

  The dog puts his bony paw on my leg, and I caress him.

  “Don’t touch him—he’ll bite you!” says an angry Eric.

  That makes me laugh. I’m sure Eric would bite before Susto ever did.

  “Don’t touch that dirty mutt, Jude, for the love of God!” he insists.

  The dog growls, and I lean down.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, OK, Susto? C’mon, go to sleep. It’s OK.”

  Eric is discombobulated, and the dog gives him a quick glance before he goes into his ramshackle house. Eric walks away without a word.

  “Can I bring Susto into the house?”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  I knew it!

  “Look at this poor little guy, Eric. Look how cold he is.”

  “That mutt is not setting foot in my house.”

  Oh, we’re back to his house!

  “C’mon, my love. Please!”

  He doesn’t respond, and, in the end, I decide to follow him. I’ll insist some other time. I focus on his behind and his legs.

  Wow! That tight butt and those strong legs make me grin; I can’t help myself and give him a quick slap on that ass.

  Eric comes to a stop, gives me an incredibly sour look, and, without a word, keeps walking. I’m not afraid of him, and I’m feeling playful. I grab some snow, form it into a ball, and target that beautiful ass of his. Eric stops again. He curses in German and then walks off again.

  Oh, what a lousy sense of humor!

  I grab more snow, make up another ball, and hit him on the head this time. I burst out laughing. Eric turns around.

  “Jude . . . you’re making me angrier than you can possibly imagine.”

  God, he’s so sexy.

  He continues on his way, and I follow. I can’t take my eyes off him in spite of the cold, and I smile, thinking about all I would do to him this very instant. Once in the house, he heads off to his office without saying a word to me. He’s very, very angry. A sweet warmth covers my body. It makes me all the more aware of how cold it is outside. Poor Susto. Once I take off my coat, I decide to track Eric down at his office. I want him. Before going in, I take off my wet boots and jeans. I pull my shirt so it’s halfway down my thighs and open the door. Eric is at his desk, staring into the computer. He doesn’t look at me.