Listen to Jennifer Shumate read 'Christmas in Mexico.'

It is Yvette's fault that Frank is trapped in this gray house. She danced with him through the streets of Paris, her eyes needing him and loving him with every step. She laughed at his jokes that were not funny and kissed him with all the love she did not feel. He taught her the tricks of the trade, the fine art of conning other people out of their fortunes. His knowledge spilled into her ears but slipped out and cascaded down her back because it was not anything she did not already know. When Frank asked her to come to the States with him, he did not notice that she was too eager. It was not until years later that Frank realized Yvette had not left Paris. Another woman, living inconveniently inside Yvette's skin, had boarded that plane with him and he had not noticed the difference until it was a wedding ring too late.
    Now Frank lives in a sagging gray house in Mexico with his wife. It is the only house for miles, planted at the top of a hill near the border. It is guarded by a ragged row of trees at the bottom of the hill, ugly dead trees that no one would picnic under. When Frank and his wife fled from the border patrol with their shotguns and the sheriff with his warrant and the United States with the law on its side, it was this house that welcomed them to their new existence. In younger days, the house had been a vibrant red that sang every morning when the sun's rays kissed its roof. The paint has been ripped off of the house by the wind, leaving behind only a few brave shards of red that simply refused to leave. Wooden shutters that were once shiny white beat out a staccato rhythm like a death march in winter. All that remains is the gray shell of a house that frightens away children who once would have played on its porch.
    The locals know Frank and his wife have a sordid history, but no one knows what it is except that it is sordid. The locals do not even know their names. The fugitives sip their margaritas and their cervezas from the shade of the sagging porch. Frank's wife yells at the Mexicans in grade-school Spanish that thinks it is all grown up. Frank doesn't even bother. The Mexicans speak neither English nor the wife's mangled Spanish, but it is easy enough to decipher her meaning from her pointing and her gestures.
    Frank watches his wife as he sucks down his fourth margarita today. She has all of Yvette's beauty, and none of her grace. She spends her days painting her nails and looking irritated. Frank spends his rocking in a chair, reading magazines and newspapers. He tries to block her out, fantasizing about Yvette and Paris and other things that will never be. It is of no use. His wife's cacophonous voice rips Frank out of his daydream, tearing him away from Yvette yet again. She is not talking to him. She never is, but the effect is the same.
    In the living room, there is a desk piled high with papers of vague importance and dubious legality, passports and birth certificates and death certificates that men will pay extraordinary amounts for if they are desperate enough. It is a rough wooden desk made from old fence boards that will give you splinters if you slide your hand across it. Frank and his wife celebrated their escape on this desk, and she ended up with splinters in her ass. Now she restricts those sorts of activities to the bedroom and with men who are not her husband. Strangers visit the gray house at all hours of the night and day, and the pile of papers on the desk gets shorter when they leave. Other strangers disappear into a back room with Frank's wife, while Frank sits frowning on the porch. When the strangers leave, they are wrapped in smiles and kisses and lavender scented lotion and Frank does not understand his jealousy. It seems out of place in this house and in this marriage that is not with Yvette after all.
    It has been six years. Six years of selling papers and his wife's body, of dealing with illiterate Mexicans, of hiding out in this god-forsaken wasteland. And it is Christmas.
    For Frank, December 25th is just another day. There is no tree, no presents wrapped with care. There are no bright bows, and no electric Santas to greet you at the doorway. It is nothing more than the day between the 24th and the 26th. Just his wife staring at him from across the table over a bowl of stew. This is Christmas dinner for Frank.
    There is a knock on the door. It is the guy that his wife is leaving him for. She hasn't told Frank. She doesn't plan on telling him, but there is really no need. Frank has known her plans for months. He sees the secretive looks between his wife and the man, and the mysterious look in her eyes when he leaves. Frank is twenty years her senior, and he has seen it all before. It's like a new edition of an old book: the cover may change, but the story is the same.
    The man is one of her regulars. He is a Mexican, but a rich one. Frank knows his wife is trading up. He also knows that she does not remember Paris the way that Frank does, only that it ended with this marriage that is as dead as the trees at the bottom of hill. Frank was convenient, as is his replacement. She said forever to Frank, but she didn't mean it. She won't mean it with the Mexican, either, but he will believe she does and that is all that really matters. She will bat her eyes and whisper trite clichés, and the Mexican will believe them all. He is ensnared in a trap that he cannot hope to escape from, a fish at the end of a plastic line with a hook in its mouth. Frank could almost feel sorry for the Mexican, except that he's stealing his wife.
    Frank loved his wife once. He blames it on this house. It has sucked away his emotion and his humanity. He has lived within its gray walls under its gray roof for so long that he is gray too. When they ran away from the States and landed here, they thought it was an adventure. A foreign country and a foreign people, waiting to be robbed by thieves who were invited to dinner. It was romantic then. Now it is drudgery.
    Frank answers the door and lets the Mexican into the gray house. He stares into the Mexican's eyes, trying to tell if the house is stealing his soul too. But they are bright and vivid eyes that are trying too hard not to look guilty of anything. The Mexican's frequent visits are not enough to allow the house to slit open his belly and spill his soul out onto the floor. Frank wonders how much time one must spend here to lose their soul, and he thinks of letting his wife have the house so that the house will suck out her soul too. But it is easier to live without a soul. If he had a soul, he would care that his wife leaving him for the first man she could find with more money than him. And a Mexican, at that. Frank swallows his distaste as the word rises in his throat. If he had a soul, he would feel like he'd been punched in the gut, like someone reached in and ripped out his heart. It doesn't, and Frank likes that.
    His wife pretends it is only business with the Mexican. She gives him a curt nod and motions him to the bedroom. The one she shares with Frank. The Mexican drops some money on the table and gives Frank an embarrassed smile, as though he is just a client and is not about to spirit away Frank's wife. Frank cannot remember the last time she shared that bedroom with him the way she will share it with the Mexican. He is reminded of Yvette and Paris and a pair of furry pink handcuffs, but he has learned to stop making comparisons. Frank has his own fun on the side, but he does not prance it around in front of his wife. He has the decency to hide it, like a good husband should.
    Frank doesn't mind the clients. They pay their money, screw his wife and leave. It is the way she bats her eyes at him, that secret smile she gives the Mexican when she thinks Frank isn't looking. It is the pretense of love that has balled Frank's hand into a fist. She spends an hour with the Mexican, their laughter spilling out of the room and into the hallway. It is the laughter that makes it cheating.
    Frank imagines his wife whispering into the Mexican's ear while she rides him, promising him forever. He can hear her telling him how much she loves him, that she can't wait to be with him forever. The Mexican probably doesn't understand most of the words, but the starry-eyed looks she has been practicing in front of the mirror are enough for him to get the gist. The Mexican will believe her. He professes his love to her in Spanish, comparing her beauty to an ancient Aztec goddess. She does not know what he is saying, but knows it is supposed to be romantic. She plans their escape, lying in the crook of his arm after he has finished the first time. The Mexican nods his agreement without understanding. Frank doesn't need to put his ear to the door to know what is going on behind it.
    Frank finishes his stew alone. He reads his newspaper, ignoring the sounds slipping out from the bedroom. The stew is a bit bland. He prefers the stew meat to be in smaller chunks so that he can fit some potato on the spoon with the meat. He also likes baby carrots instead of adult ones. They are sweeter, more tender. These carrots have too much crunch. A couple of bay leaves and some red wine would have done wonders for the stew. His wife is not much of a cook. She is not much of anything, except perhaps a whore. They say that everyone has some special talent or another. Frank won't argue that his wife has found hers.
    The news today is not very interesting. Gas prices are up. Foreclosures are up. Unemployment is up. None of this matters to Frank. A black man has been elected President. This is interesting to Frank, but it doesn't matter either. Their economy, their laws, their leaders do not affect him anymore. He cannot feel a connection to his homeland anymore, and he blames that on the house too.
    The sounds from the bedroom are more boisterous now. Frank listens to his wife's muffled cries of pleasure. They are legitimate, not like the fake ones she uses for her clients. He lights a cigarette and digs through the kitchen drawers until he finds a pack of cards. He lays out a game of solitaire, lining up each card precisely. He likes things to be neat and orderly. He cannot have clutter. Frank has always been a deliberate man, and it's getting worse as he gets older. It takes him ten minutes to line the cards up so that they form a perfect straight line, but he cannot play until it is done. He used to play poker with his wife. They didn't have any money, so they played strip poker instead. It was always a win-win situation for Frank. Now he plays solitaire.
    After he plays a few hands, he stacks the cards together and slips them inside their box. There is a shotgun in the hall closet. He can't remember the last time he cleaned it. He brought it with them from the States. It was his father's gun. He brought it on the pretense of protection, but Frank has never shot this gun or any other gun. He has always preferred the subtlety of finesse to the brute force of a gun. The bed is pounding against the wall. It is giving Frank a headache. Frank slides his hand down the cool metal barrel, and he feels an erotic tingling. His wife moans again and screams the Mexican's name. Frank lifts the shotgun to his shoulder and aims it at the back wall of the closet, which shares a wall with the bedroom. A thin veil of drywall and paint obscure his view of her adultery. He wishes she would get it over with. The fucking. The leaving. All of it. On second thought, he wants her to suffer. He imagines the shell flying out of the barrel, through the wall and into her face. He imagines the sex covered in blood and a different kind of scream from the ones that torment him now. Frank leans the shotgun against the closet door so that he can adjust his erection. He makes a half-hearted attempt at finding shells for the shotgun then lets it fall back against the wall as he closes the closet door. She will not be any happier with the Mexican, and that makes Frank happy. He decides he will enjoy being single. It will be the same, except for the pretenses.
    Frank takes a walk to escape the pounding of the bed against the wall. He smokes a cigarette as he strolls down the dead hill, reveling in the sudden stillness. He remembers running toward the jagged teeth, grasping his wife's hand in his. His hands are empty now, save the cigarette clenched between his fingers. It is quiet here, just Frank and his cigarettes and the crickets. They are singing for him, promising they will not leave him. He has lost his way and his soul and his wife, but he still has the crickets. Frank sits under the trees and crosses his legs. He can see the border patrol towers from here, and he wonders if they can see him. They came here to escape prison. They didn't know they were running from the skillet into the frying pan, into a prison called Mexico shaped like a sagging gray house.
    The serenade of the crickets has begun to annoy Frank. He heads back to the house. His wife is finished with the Mexican. She is sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette and scratching her crotch. The Mexican is gone, but he will be back. She does not look at Frank when he walks into the house. A pair of fake diamonds sparkle in the light as she turns her head. He knows she wants him to see them, that she wants him to be jealous. She doesn't know they are cubic zirconia. Maybe the Mexican doesn't either. Frank's internal laughter at their combined idiocy is betrayed only be a faint smirk.
    Frank is tired of this. He is tired of his tired wife and his tired life. He opens the closet door again, and pulls out a battered suitcase. He carries it into the bedroom and flings it open on the bed. Frank opens the drawers of the dresser and removes all of his wife's belongings. The fourteen pairs of shoes she insisted on bringing with them from the States, the skimpy lingerie that she has never worn for Frank, even the pink furry handcuffs that she lost the key for after Paris. Frank shoves it all into the suitcase and sits on it so he can zip it shut. The suitcase clatters against the wooden floors as he drags it into the living room.
    Frank's wife doesn't say a word. She gives him a flippant smirk and grabs the suitcase out of his hands. She flounces out of the house and down the hill. It doesn't take much intelligence for Frank to figure out what she will do next. She will go to the Mexican. She will tell him that she's left Frank, that she couldn't stand to spend another minute in that house. He will be happy and he will welcome her into his house that is neither sagging nor gray. Frank wonders if the Mexican will lose his soul too. Frank blames his grayness on the house, but he knows the woman played her part too.
    Frank sits on the edge of the porch and watches her go down the hill and away from the house. He is holding a photo album, the only thing he saved from his wife's possessions. It is full of old pictures from when his marriage and his wife were still young. He removes the photos one by one, then rips them in half. The pieces lay in a pile on the ground that he will burn later. Their first date, their wedding day, Christmases and birthdays. It all goes into the pile.
    He stops at the last page. The pictures were taken before they were married. They are of Paris and Yvette, a purple scarf wrapped around her neck and her head topped with a red beret. Frank likes to pretend that Yvette is real, that she is more than a character his wife played to land a man. Yvette is more real to him than the woman climbing down the hill with a suitcase bouncing behind her. Yvette is the woman Frank fell in love with.
    Frank tosses the rest of the photographs into the pile on the wooden porch. Yvette smiles up at him from the photograph as he smokes another cigarette. He wishes he had stayed in Paris instead of leaving with an imposter on his arm. Yvette would not have left him for a Mexican. Yvette would have said forever and she would have meant it. Frank says a prayer for Yvette's soul, and tells the picture that he hopes she found happiness. He apologizes for leaving her in Paris.
    Frank uses his foot to kick the pile of photographs into the house. He strikes a match, the stinking sulfur saturating the air, and throws it on the pile of broken photographs. The flames dance against the backdrop of the jagged teeth at the bottom of the hill, the Mexican wasteland that he calls home. Frank moves to the safety of the trees, and watches the flames consume the photographs. They spread to the porch and then to the house. They climb up the gray walls and across the tattered gray curtains to the gray shutters until they reach the roof. It is an explosion of color, of red and orange and yellow and gold. Franks sits in the safety of the shade of the jagged trees, smoking another cigarette as he watches his gray house burn.



About the author:
Jennifer Shumate is an Associate Editor for Allegory, and recently received her Bachelor of Arts from Texas State University. Her fiction has previously appeared in New Myths Magazine. She currently resides in Austin with her husband.

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