Widowish: A Memoir(43)

Marcos

When the waiter came by for our lunch order, I asked for the two-enchilada combo plate with rice and beans.

“Anything to drink?” he asked.

I shook my head no and ran my fingers through my hair. It had been up and under a baseball cap when Marcos picked me up to go to the guitar store. I hadn’t slept well the night before, and in the morning I was in the usual rush getting Sophie out the door. I walked the dogs and did some work for Joel’s company but hadn’t had time to shower.

“Ready?” he asked when I opened the door that morning.

“Yes, thanks for picking me up,” I said.

“No problem.” He opened the truck door so I could climb in.

I was a mess. I felt frazzled, nervous. Marcos was calm as ever. Steady. I thought it might be awkward driving with him, but it wasn’t. He was sporting his usual jeans and T-shirt attire. His hair was thick, and his beard the solid five o’clock shadow it always was.

“So I think the guy’s name is George. He owns the store, and he said he’d take the guitar on consignment. You’ll get your money but it could be a few months. Or maybe only a day, depends who swings by.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “I’m in no rush.”

“Good,” Marcos said. “And this gives me an excuse to go into his shop. It’s for serious musicians. You’ll see.”

He smiled at me. I felt my face turn red, and so I looked out the window instead. It felt like someone else’s life. Someone young, inexperienced, and carefree. Not someone who watched her husband suffer through a horrible illness and ultimately die of a mosquito bite. Not someone who slept with her fourteen-year-old daughter every night because they were both afraid of being alone.

I handled the business transaction with George while Marcos acted like a kid in a candy store. He plugged in every guitar that interested him and played with genuine abandon.

I sat down and observed him going from one guitar to the next, talking shop with the owner and his assistant. He winked at me as he crossed my path, headed for another guitar.

“Real serious musicians,” I said.

He stopped and smiled. “I’m sorry. You’re probably bored to death.”

“Not at all!” I said. I wasn’t. This wasn’t my world. It was nice feeling incognito.

He noticed as I checked my phone for the time.

“We’ll get out of here, soon. What time are you picking up Sophie?”

It startled me when he mentioned Sophie. My real life seemed so far away.

“Not for a couple of hours,” I said.

“Good,” he said, smiling.

We ended up at the Mexican restaurant down the street. Our eyes had to adjust to the dim lighting as we were shown to a quiet booth. My inner voice was telling me this wasn’t a date (but it felt like one) and was also trying to tell me that I looked good (I didn’t) and to remember everything so that I could tell Jillian about it later. Mariachi music played softly on the speakers behind us; I was impressed as Marcos ordered his lunch in broken Spanish.

“Se?or, por favor,” he said to the waiter. “Un chile relleno, one enchilada de pollo, and un taco de pollo.”

I figured Marcos had some Hispanic origins, but it didn’t occur to me that he could actually speak Spanish. I was riveted.

“Anything to drink?” the waiter asked him.

Marcos looked to me. “You’re sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m good,” I said.

“OK.” Marcos turned to the waiter. “I’ll just have a beer, please. Una cerveza. Thank you.”

My heart started pounding. Hard. Did Marcos just order a beer?

The waiter smiled and walked away. I looked at Marcos.

“Are you sure you can do that?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do what?”

“Have a beer?” I said.

“Well, yeah. I’m not teaching until tonight, so . . .”

I quietly panicked. Marcos was falling off the wagon right in front of me, and I didn’t know what to do. I reached for my phone. I wanted to call Joel. Hun, Marcos just ordered a beer! What should I do? I sat deflated, confused. I felt like crying.

“What’s the matter?” Marcos looked at me.

“I just . . . I thought you didn’t drink,” I said.

He smiled. “Well, I do. Every now and then. I like a beer with my Mexican food.” A concerned look came over his face. “I mean, if drinking is a problem for you—” He started to signal the waiter. I stopped him.

“No, no. It’s fine. I drink. I like to.”

He settled in and started eating some chips and salsa. The conversation could have gone in many directions. We were two people, two adults, having lunch together in a Mexican restaurant in our shared neighborhood. But the conversation taking place in my mind was so loud—Joel, you’re not going to believe it!—that I had to excuse myself from the table. I went to the bathroom.

I got the story wrong, all wrong! I can’t trust myself, I thought.

I didn’t mind that Marcos was drinking, in fact I was relieved in a way. But if I got his backstory wrong and the narrative that I had created about him, then what else might I misinterpret? I didn’t know him at all, which made me even more nervous. How could I dare to determine if this was a date or just an extension of our business transaction? I wanted to call Joel so badly that I started praying. Tell me what to do, hun . . . I don’t know what this is! . . . Marcos is not who I thought he was, who we thought he was!