Chapter 4
Juan and I spend the rest of the afternoon in our apartment, decorating our misfit Christmas tree with popcorn garlands we make ourselves and all manner of baubles and trinkets collected from Christmases past. Even though it’s only a rejected branch, it’s remarkably sturdy and strong. As we decorate, it occurs to me that a Christmas tree holds so much more than ornaments. Resting on all those boughs is a treasure trove of memories that remain long after the tree is gone and Christmas itself is over for another year.
From the box of decorations at my feet, I gingerly pick up the miniature elf with legs like spindly green beans. Gran used to hang him high on the tree, claiming he kept watch over us, assuring that no harm would come our way during the holidays or in the year ahead. Reaching into the box, Juan removes an ornament in a wreath-shaped frame—a photo of his family assembled in three rows in front of a Christmas tree in Mexico. He places the decoration at eye level so he can admire it every time he walks by the tree. His family is so far away, and yet they’re near and dear to us, remembered every day.
After an hour of arranging, Juan and I are down to the final ornament, a bright star that Gran and I made years ago out of dry macaroni that we glued into an elaborate pattern and sprinkled with gold glitter from the dollar store. Juan places the star on top of the tree’s funny evergreen tuft, where it twinkles in the late afternoon light.
He adjusts the topper several times to no avail. “I can’t seem to straighten it. Our tree is horribly crooked,” he says.
Years ago, such a predicament would have caused me great anxiety. A pit would have opened in the bottom of my stomach, rendering me as off kilter as the tree. But not anymore. I stare at the lilting evergreen with its akimbo star topper. “It’s perfectly imperfect,” I pronounce. “If I can lean into it, you can, too.”
And Juan does exactly that. He leaves the leaning tree and comes to my side, taking hold of my hand, and for a moment we both stand there admiring the imperfection.
That’s when there’s a knock at our door. “Are you expecting anyone?” I ask.
“No,” Juan replies.
I walk over to the door and peer out the peephole—a safety habit drilled into me by Gran when I was but a child. It’s a stranger, a striking young woman about my age, with high cheekbones, feline eyes, and bouncy blond hair tied back in a ponytail. She’s holding a long implement in her hand, but due to the distortion of the fish-eye lens, it’s hard to tell what exactly it is.
“How can I be of assistance?” I call out as I keep watch through the peephole.
“I’m looking for the super,” the woman says as she bats a wisp of blond hair out of her eyes. “I just moved in two weeks ago. Toilet’s clogged again. Is he there?”
It’s then that I recognize what’s in her hand—a harmless plunger. I slide the dead bolt back and open the door.
“I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong apartment,” I say. “Mr. Rosso, the landlord, is just down the hall. That door right there.”
Though I’m pointing very clearly to the door across the corridor, the woman pays me no mind whatsoever. Rather, she’s fixated on what—or rather who—is behind me.
“Am I ever glad to see you!” she says, and when I turn, I realize she’s talking to Juan. “My toilet’s acting up again, and I can’t figure out what the trick is. Any chance you can help?” she asks.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to the woman. “Juan’s a chef, not a plumber.”
“A chef?” the blonde repeats, her nose crinkling up as though she’s just sniffed the bell end of her plunger.
“I’m happy to help,” says Juan. “Just give me a second.”
Before I can say anything more, Juan saunters down our hallway toward the closet by our bathroom. He starts pulling out boxes and bins.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” I say to the plunger-wielding blonde. “My gran always advised me not to open doors to strangers, so…”
With that, I close the door in her face as gently as I can, then bolt it shut. I hurry down the hall to where Juan is rummaging through his toolkit.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he dons a tool belt and slips in various wrenches, pliers, and clamps.
He turns to me. “Aren’t you always telling me to be kind to the neighbors?” Juan asks. “A clogged toilet this close to the holidays is a recipe for disaster. If it happened to us, we’d be distressed, too.”
“But this is Mr. Rosso’s issue, not yours. Don’t you think he should handle it?” I ask.
“We all know where that will lead,” Juan replies.
“Down the clogged drain,” I reply.
“Exactly. This will only take a second. If I can’t sort out the issue, I’ll send her Mr. Rosso’s way.”
With that, Juan strolls down the hall toward the front door, whistling a little tune as I follow behind him. Once he arrives at our threshold, he stops, then turns to face me.
“Please tell me you didn’t slam the door in her face,” he says, eyes wide.
“Goodness, no,” I reply. “I merely closed it in her face. These days, you can’t be too careful. Stranger means danger, Juan.”
“She’s far from dangerous,” Juan says. “And it’s the season of goodwill and charity, remember? I’ll be right back.”
Juan opens the front door, and the blonde is still standing there. The minute she spots him, a look of relief blossoms on her face. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you!” she exclaims.
“Juan is very helpful,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll…” But before I can finish my sentence, Juan and the blonde are walking together down the hall toward her apartment.
I close the door behind me, leaning on it. There’s something strange about what just happened, and as I think about it, I realize what it is: Juan seemed to know her. In fact, she seemed familiar with him, too. But how can that be if she recently moved into the building?
Be careful what you assume. Nothing is as it seems.
Of course. Gran’s wise counsel reminds me not to jump to any silly conclusions. Who am I to begrudge Juan’s kindness to a stranger, even if she happens to be an absurdly attractive one? It’s not her fault she was born a natural beauty, nor is it my fault that I was born a…a what? A woman with mediocre looks that at best might be described as “natural,” though unlike the blonde who was just at the door, I’m unlikely to win any beauty pageants.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Juan says the same thing whenever I put myself down, judging my looks and wishing to be prettier and more alluring than I am. Truly, while I don’t know what he sees in me, I do know that one of the wondrous aspects of being human is that we appreciate different qualities in different people. I, for instance, love the fact that Juan’s forearms and chest are smooth and bare, not a hair on them; that his left eye is slightly larger than his right; and that so often when he smiles, that mischievous little dimple alights on his cheek, a spritely divot containing a depth of delight.
A couple of weeks ago, that dimple appeared when Juan was setting up Gran’s Advent calendar in our living room. I patted his cheek the second I spotted it.
“What are you smiling about so fiendishly?” I asked.
“It’s a secret,” he replied as he fiddled with a drawer.
“But you’re terrible at keeping secrets,” I said.
“That’s true,” he replied. “But not this time. For once, my lips are sealed.”
“But you know I don’t like secrets. Please tell me,” I begged.
“Not a chance,” he answered.
“Then be careful,” I cautioned. “My gran used to say that secrets have a way of punishing those who keep them.”
“Not this one,” Juan said as he closed another Advent calendar drawer. “This one will reward me. I’m sure of it.”
Now, I wish I remembered which drawer he closed in that moment, because I would open it to see if it contained a clue to whatever mysteries he might be keeping from me. Maybe it wasn’t the Advent calendar making him smile in the first place. Maybe it was something else entirely, a hidden thought locked in a private drawer in his own mind. If only I had the key…
I take one more deep breath and then stand up straight. I open our front door again to survey the hallway, and as I do, I spot Juan across the hall, conversing with Mr. Rosso outside his apartment. I close our door until it’s barely ajar, leaving just a tiny crack that I can watch through.
Mr. Rosso’s arms are crossed over his protuberant belly. Juan is explaining something to him but so quietly I can’t make out all his words.
“You have to understand,” Juan says. “Molly can’t know.”
“Your affairs are none of my business,” Mr. Rosso replies with a snort and a flick of his nose.
“Thank you, Mr. Rosso. I appreciate your discretion,” Juan says.
As I watch, Mr. Rosso offers a hand, and Juan shakes it. Or at least I think he shakes it, but then I see Juan slip something into his back pocket. Or is he just adjusting his tool belt? From this distance, I can’t quite tell. Either way, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. This exchange raises so many questions in my mind, I’m feeling dizzy. I click the door closed, and a few moments later, Juan opens it, nearly toppling me as he bursts in.
“ Madre mía, Molly!” Juan exclaims. “What are you doing standing right by the door? I almost knocked you over.”
“Sorry,” I reply, “I didn’t mean to get in your way.” I step back to give Juan some space.
“Did you fix her pipes?” I ask.
“Fix whose pipes?” he replies.
“The beautiful blonde. Does her toilet work now?”
“Yes,” he says, removing his shoes and wiping off the bottoms before placing them in the closet. “All I did was yank the chain.”
“I see,” I reply. “I’m pleased that’s all she required.”
I cross my arms against my chest, suddenly feeling cold.
“Molly, are you all right?” Juan asks. His eyes are wrinkled and tight, the left one larger than the other, as usual.
I look right into his eyes. “Do you know that woman?” I ask. “I can’t make sense of why she showed up at our door out of the blue.”
“Do I know her?” he echoes. He begins to fidget with the tools on his tool belt, his fingers running over them as though trying to locate some implement they cannot find.
“Yes. Do you know her?” I ask again, but I get no answer. “Let me rephrase: have you visited her apartment before?”
His eyes shift away from mine. “I don’t really know her, Molly,” he says, after a pause. “She was in the laundry room yesterday. She said hi. And I said hi. She knows which apartment I live in, I guess. That explains it, doesn’t it?”
The truth reveals itself, the lie hides behind words. That’s what Gran used to say.
I stare at Juan, and it’s like his face is veiled. Usually, it’s wide open, as easy to read as a picture book, but not now. I search it for clues, but for the first time in a long while, his face is an impenetrable mask. Suddenly, it’s like I’m ten years old again, pleading for Gran’s help at the grocery store because I have no idea if the cashier means to insult me or be kind.
Some things can’t be explained. And some people are a mystery that can never be solved.