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¨ I’m down.¨ I say before realizing I’m more ready to open my email than anything else. My phone is at twelve percent, and I refuse to have it zapped away from mindless scrolling or even email correspondence if I don’t have enough to call the cops in case of the worst scenario. However, I’m a firm believer that Joaquin is quite the protector. He was outdoors for about three hours trying to shift trees and branches around to shut up my big city reporter questions. Sure, the food is good to pay him back with, but I have another tactic to use. I hope I don’t overstep any boundaries as I consider my next tactic. I noticed a bucket of Epsom salts on the side of his tub last night, and seeing the number of lemons in his fruit drawer that needs to be used, I’m mentally committed to running Joaquin a bath this evening. More than anything, he needs to relieve his stress. I’m sure at least a quarter of his stress stems from me being here, a stranger. I can’t help but believe he’s in constant host status, and I know it involves him owning his coffee shop. He’s been putting on his best face for me. Being around him increasingly builds my desire to see what lies beneath it all. He started off more charming than he is right now, and I know what a lemon salt bath does for me. It chills me out more than a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc.
After a couple of games of Uno, Joaquin hauls the small generator from the front of the house to the back patio. I entertain Adam with goofy charades; pretending to be a killer whale under candlelight has got to be a sight to see. I notice how addicted I am to my phone, and I wish I could ask Adam to record me. I can only imagine how ridiculous I look.
¨ You’re funny, Nadia.¨ He gives me his infamous smile that looks more like a half smile than a full one. He clearly inherited this from Joaquin. Speaking of Joaquin, he emerges from the door and turns on the kitchen light.
Adam and I instantly applaud together as if somehow Joaquin restored the power without any assistance. Role-playing with us, Joaquin proceeds to bow, giving me a place to release my internal tension. I spill into more laughter than required right now. I’m also pleased to know I can charge my phone and laptop. I excuse myself to the guest room to do so.
I discovered many documents my agent sent me from her intern. Eager to see what’s been found, I download and skim the material I’m sure I’ll be curled up in bed with later, shifting through. But, it’s not the greatest as I see what a handful of old actors had to say about my grandmother, ¨constant restless energy,¨ ¨She always felt she needed to prove herself to others even though she was already so successful,¨ ¨Eager to do the director’s job at times, Delores was incapable at times to let others work without injecting her opinion.¨ Ouch. These were not the words I was hoping to find. I ought to be happy they didn’t call her a Diva. It’s probably best to sell the idea of Grandma being fiercely ambitious and having so much talent that she could’ve walked in the director’s shoes if given a chance. Sure, there were great things stars had to say that could be used, but it was nothing new. More of the same, ¨She was the most beautiful Hollywood star of her time,¨ or them ranting about her ¨cat-like eyes¨ or ¨her style was impeccable and impacted fashion in undeniable ways.¨ There was one quote by Julia Roberts that said, ¨I looked up to her and studied her facial expressions because she knew how to shift emotions with her face alone without relying on body language.¨ I’m unsure if that insinuates Grandma was overly expressive or if it suggests that she didn’t use enough body language. I need to pull out my subjectiveness to tell an honest memoir, but Nonna has been more of a mother than my own to me, and my natural biases may radiate off whichever cover I choose for the book. But that doesn’t make much sense since I know I have no control over that. I’m just proving my point to myself.
As soon as I find my emotions leading my mind down the rabbit hole of unpleasant comments about Nonna’s work, there’s a knock at the bedroom door. I glance at the time display in the corner of my laptop and notice how alarmingly late it has gotten. It’s already eight pm, so I’ve been in this room for over two hours. I rub my knuckle across my forehead and tell whoever is at the door to step in.
Sprawled out across the bed with my feet swaying above me, I looked like a high school student exhausted from studying for finals. Or maybe my face looks worrisome as Adam teeters in holding a stuffed koala bear named, Blister.
Putting on Blister’s whiny voice, Adam stands before me and moves the bear in his hand like a ventriloquist. “Mr. Joaquin says it’s time to shut off the generator.”
I chuckle, closing my laptop to separate my heart from this tender work. If I hadn’t picked up this job, I would be a wild wreck, overly invested in whatever someone would do to my grandma’s story. I can even imagine sending little threats to the writer, making sure they wrote as many positive things about her as possible. But, being in this role, I wish I could create false narratives and opinions of others to fit all the gloriousness I’ve experienced from Nonna.
“Thank you for letting me know, Blister,” I respond to the stuffie before the hot looming presence of Joaquin appears, tottering over his son. His gray eyes do such a great job of reading my tension. It’s as if he’s known me from a previous life.
“You need a break.”
Now he’s speaking to me as if he’s known me all my current life. Or as if he has me wrapped around his finger. I push myself up and off the bed and respond, “Yes.”
Two crisp glasses of white wine sit on the kitchen table. The candlelight is back, and the crackling thunder has Adam wrapped in his father’s arms. The thunderclaps sound like there’s a community of giants in a back-cracking competition.
“Why’s the book you’re working on a secret?”
Joaquin has gotten enough out of me, but I refuse to get any more upset by what I gathered from him and his questioning last night. Who knows how he’d respond to my grandmother and or her work. He probably doesn’t know much about her, but I need to disassociate, so I change the topic.
“Is Adam’s school far from here? Seems like you guys are in a secluded little box at the edge of Evergreen.”
Joaquin smiles. I think he likes that analogy. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why he chose this spot.
“I’m at the end of a very popular walking trail. I may stroll down there tomorrow to see how much damage there is. It will impact business, but to answer your question, Adam goes to school straight down that path, just a short mile walk.”
“Oh! So do you walk him every morning?”
“No, my grandparents pick me up.” Adam sits up from the crevice of his dad’s underarm pit to join in.
“That’s gotta be cool.”
“It helps Dad keep his business going.”
Joaquin nods in agreement.
“I get a lot of traffic from either out-of-towners or daily walkers. It’s a great stop for them to use the restroom and reset before walking back.”
“Seems ‘chill’ enough. I notice you like reading a lot of crime stories and geography books. Is that the case?”
“Yes. Crime books that send people around the world are my favorite. I have a thing for forensics and rainforests, any forest, and piecing crime stories together brings me joy.” Joaquin sips at his wine.
I don’t know why he seems so buttoned-up, trying to give me correct answers. This guy has heard me burp, seen me tear up, and watched my face tense up with work, and what do I get from him? Calculated responses that make me wonder,what if he is a serial killer?
I’m losing it. I take another sip of wine, wondering why his bookshelf is so expertly organized and his home so clean. What material has his reading books of choice given him about crimes and how to cover them up? Maybe he reads geographical books to find where to hide the bodies as he kills women worldwide.
“Do you travel at all?”
“Not as much as I’d like to. The books provide me with enough knowledge to imagine myself in these places.”
