Ameera, Unveiled (19 page)

“Thanks. Yeah, this dance is more comfortable,” I said. “And thanks for letting Polly and me do it with you and Kelly.”

Before she could respond, the solo was over and Denise was strutting our gypsy clan to center stage.

Steve whistled and yelled, “Yeah, baby!” to my chagrin. I focused on playing with the girls rather than on my groupie husband.

At the end of our journey to Gypsy land, we obliged our audience with a small, paused picture opportunity. Part of the act required each of us to outshine the other. Denise was last. She gave a saucy wink and kicked her skirt up as she left stage. Cute. I started stripping to put on my cabaret outfit for the last number.
Third note to self: Get comfortable with hamming it up.

The final costume change was easy. I repacked my costumes and left post-show jeans out. Sybil chatted with Jennifer while Lara secured a last hook on her red cabaret costume. Denise and Kelly argued over who was buying the first round of beer. I saw Polly obsessing over a strand of hair and rearranging her Pharaonic belt.

The pretty blonde, Melody Meadows, was on stage doing the last solo before our final number. I looked at the stainless-steel shelves bearing martini olives, dill pickles, blue cheese dressing, and Bloody Mary mix. I’d signed up for the glamorous glitter package when I’d pursued my love affair with Palmetto Oasis and, here I was, stripping in a stockroom.

Jennifer walked to center stage to thank patrons, friends, and families for attending our dress rehearsal. She then invited everyone to visit our website before joining us in the final hallway formation. The mysterious “Entrance to the Stars” drew my feet to the stage. I knew the music mesmerized dancer and audience alike. I loved the dance and hoped to do it justice.

In fewer than six minutes, the dress rehearsal was over. I’d participated in my third and final photo op before I’d noticed my husband standing up to express enthusiastic approval of my new venture. It was the dance-recital reaction I’d never experienced growing up. My little ballerina wanted to believe his reaction, but I’d been on the other side of the stage and knew my flaws: low arms, small moves, and mental distractions. Stockroom, sticky stage, and lack of experience had been my crosses.

As we lowered our arms at the finale, Steve rushed up to kiss me on the lips. Me and my flabby tummy at my first public performance. My dad laughed, Kay and Isabella applauded, and my old classmate smiled approvingly. I felt blessed by Steve’s enthusiasm, but I wished I could’ve brought more to the table with me.

Blushing, I returned to the dressing room to change and join my supporters.

The energy in the stockroom was frantic and excited.

“Ladies, we’ll be a hit in Jamaica,” Sybil said, brushing hair away from her eye. She focused on gathering a large, scattered pile of costumes.

“All I know is that I can’t wait to be on the beach, drinking free beer, and teaching classes,” Kelly said in her upstate twang.

“Showing your ass and spanking bald men,” Denise added. We all giggled.

Costumes banged into suitcases with less care than they were originally handled. I made mental sticky notes to acquire more bling—more glitter, more jewelry, more hamming. Nudity was a comfort level I didn’t have. Cosmetic knowledge eluded me. Maybe rooming with hammy Polly would be a good thing.

As I left the stockroom, Steve grabbed my bag and took it out to the car. It was precious cargo, so I appreciated what he was doing. I couldn’t afford to lose its contents this close to Jamaica, especially in light of my drooping skirt stunt.

As I sat at our table to wait for him, I dove into the nachos at the center.

“Need something to drink?” my dad asked.

“Tequila,” I laughed. “No, not really. I’ll take any cold draft beer in a glass. Or two.”

The waiting staff buzzed to serve their new customers. My dad ordered the beers. Steve hustled back from storing my suitcase. I listened to all the feedback from the table.

“The first dance was beautiful,” Isabella said. “I loved the wings.”

“The Gypsy was so cute and sassy,” my classmate Debbie added. “Y’all were great. And colorful. That girl at the end who kicked up . . . too cute!”

“My favorite was the last one. The music was haunting and got your attention,” Steve said. “All of you doing it together was powerful. And, Kat, you did great.”

I stared at him, smothering my skepticism. I wasn’t good at taking compliments, and he was so generous with them. I wished I could live up to his admiration. I shared a glance with my sister. I knew she’d understand. Kay had been with me through the Chris years.

Sometimes I figuratively pinched myself to be sure Steve was talking to me. Chris had rationed kind words and compliments. I’d compensated for a stingy emotional relationship by trying to keep from expecting admiration.

I smiled at Steve and said, “Thank you, dear.”

Sybil was making the rounds. She was a great executive director . . . mother hen . . . CEO.

“Kat, you did great,” she said.

“Thanks, Sybil. This is definitely a crash course in dancing. I’d say Steve got caught up in the moment, huh?” I glanced at him as he grinned back.

“I’m so proud of Kat taking this on,” he said, giving me a Groucho Marx eyebrow. Steve pulled out his phone and showed it to Sybil. “I’ve got a new screensaver—my wife, the belly dancer. Can’t wait to hear your stories when y’all get back.”

Sybil was business as usual when she asked, “You’re flying with Polly on Delta?” She was already herding each of us to the airport in her mind.

“We leave Sunday morning and get there about one-ish,” I said. “You guys are going through Memphis?”

“Six of us. We don’t get into Jamaica till after 3:00 p.m. Lara can’t get there till Wednesday,” she said. “Wait for us at the airport. Have a fruity drink! They’ll shuttle us to Negril together. And Kelly’s flying in from Spartanburg. Look out for her too.”

“Okay, we’ll hang out and wait,” I promised. Lara’s words came back to me, “There’s no process. Every gig’s different.” I seemed to be getting accustomed to the ever-changing vistas of the belly dancer’s world.

16

“Steve, you ready?” I yelled from the bathroom. I’d left an anniversary card on his dresser. Strict instructions were on the envelope: To be opened on November 9. “Hey, Chaz,” I said after grabbing my suitcase.

Chaz hated the sound of suitcase wheels, so his soulful eyes looked sad. His nails clicked on the hardwood floor as he escorted me to the garage. He then sat to guard my suitcase.

“Chaz and I are ready when you are,” Steve answered from the breakfast room. “Got your ticket, passport? Enough money?” The newspaper rattled, but he didn’t move from his chair.

“Yes, yes, yes, and let’s go,” I said, a little anxiety in my voice. All I could think was:
I’m really going to Jamaica with a belly dance troupe.
Steve got my bags and headed to the garage.

“I’ll get Chaz.” I got his leash so he could ride with us and stand on the console like Mighty Dog. Chaz loved rides to the airport. I heard the garage door open.

“Come on, sweetie,” I said, clipping his leash on. “I’ll only be gone a week. Don’t let Melkey give you too much grief.” His feathered tail swept the floor before he dashed out the door, leading me to the car.

“Okay, dear?” Steve asked as he backed the car out of the garage.

I stared at the dew glimmering in spiderwebs on salt marsh grass across from our driveway and took a purging breath as I considered my response. We passed the pond occupied by wood storks that stood like Dr. Seuss creations among the reeds.

I thought about how much I loved Charleston.

“Yeah,” I responded softly. “I just wish I could’ve brought more to the table. You should hear some of the funny stuff that comes out at practice. When I think about dress rehearsal . . . I can’t put it all together yet, but there’s so much back history and joy between them.”

“I’m glad you’re doing this,” Steve said. “If you need anything, use our credit card. I’ll let you know if anything’s going on that you should know about.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling. I adored him. Chaz jumped into my lap, panting and wagging his tail. I loved my life. “I’m sorry I’ll miss our anniversary.”

“You were very understanding last year when I had that business trip,” he said. “We’ll do something when you get back.”

As we approached the last traffic light before the airport, the sun radiated behind bare trees, blanketed by a low-lying fog.

“I can’t wait to tell you all about Jamaica,” I said. “There’ll be a lot of people-watching opportunities. We’re supposed to be staying near the resort where we’ll be teaching.”

“Don’t worry about anything here,” he said. “What time’ll you get back?”

“It’s around 8:00 p.m. Sunday. I left a copy of the ticket on the kitchen counter,” I said. “I’ll call from Atlanta. I don’t mind taking a cab, so cook me a steak and save me a muffin.”

We pulled in front of the airline drop-off point. Chaz, who sensed the impending transition, looked from me to Steve. “It’s okay,” I said, kissing Chaz’s forehead. “I’ll be back.”

Steve pulled my bags out of the trunk.

“See you next Sunday,” I said. “Thanks for the support. Love you.”

“Break a leg, Kat,” Steve said, kissing me good-bye. “By the way, you look hot.”

“I’ll miss you,” I said.

As I pulled my bags toward the automatic doors, I watched Steve’s car until the red taillights faded around the corner. The check-in line wasn’t long. A family of four was at the counter. I took my place behind a businessman with a cell phone glued to his ear. Polly wasn’t here . . . or had already headed to the concourse.

I looked at the clock: 6:40 a.m. I had about an hour before takeoff.

“I can take someone here,” an airline representative called. I pulled my bags forward and handed her my passport. She typed my name, stared at the screen, frowned, and pursed her lips.

“Everything okay?” I asked. I fought the urge to panic.

She looked up and smiled. “Screen’s just slow. Where’s your final destination?”

“Montego Bay,” I said and exhaled, forcing my hands to release their death grip on the handles of my suitcases.

“There it is. How many bags?” she asked.

“One.”

She pointed at the scale. As I placed my bag on it, she stripped white ticket adhesive and wrapped it on my suitcase. It was official; I was on my way. She handed me my passport with two boarding passes.

“Have a good flight,” she said.

“Thank you,” I smiled as I reached for my tickets. I used my confident walk as I headed toward a new adventure, pulling my little black bag of costumes after me. Then my stomach growled. Not a purr. A growl. Yeah, that’s hot . . . not. One more security gate and I could look for food. Geez, from goddess to human this easily?

As TSA motioned me through the metal detector, I winced and hoped nothing put me on the pat-down mat. I wondered whether they’d been trained to scan a belly dancer’s carry-on. As I thought this, the conveyor belt stopped and reversed. The agents whispered and pointed at the screen. One of them looked at me.

“It’s full of dance costumes,” I said softly. I prayed I didn’t have to repack the bag after they’d searched it. They looked back at the screen and the belt carried it forward.

I headed to Gate A-3 and wandered over to a food and magazine kiosk to purchase a Diet Coke and a bear claw.

“Kat!” Polly was waving a hand. How’d I miss her? I checked out her travel clothes and makeup—black pants and a tropical-print top. She wore a matching topaz necklace and earrings. “I was getting worried,” she said.

Before I could reply, the boarding call sounded for Gate A-3 First-Class and Medallion passengers to board Flight 633 to Atlanta.

“Steve doesn’t believe in early arrivals,” I explained.

“My son brought me a little after six. I grabbed a bite to eat,” Polly said, shifting her handbag.

I patted my backpack. “Diet Coke and pastry,” I said. “No calories and very nutritious.” We giggled. The airline announced boarding for Zone 2. Since we needed overhead bins for our precious costume cargo, we joined the queue and headed to our assigned seats.

Forty-eight minutes later, the plane skidded to a stop in sunny Atlanta. We had at least two hours before we boarded our next flight in the international terminal. It’d be a bit of a journey from Concourse B to International E. God bless whoever put wheels on carry-ons.

“Bye-bye,” the flight attendant said. “Thanks for flying with us.” I smiled and pulled my costume bag up the ramp to wait for Polly by the monitors. As I did this, my eyes were drawn to a couple of older women waiting to board. I looked at their gate destination: Las Vegas. They looked like old friends who’d aged together but hadn’t grown old.

I thought of Polly and me in twenty-five years.

I checked the status of our flight. “Plane’s on time. Leaves around eleven thirty from Concourse E,” I said to Polly as she walked up. “Hey, we’ve got time for the Crown Room,” I said. “I can get us in with my American Express.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Polly offered politely.

“No, it’s free for us. We can grab a Bloody Mary before they start serving lunch,” I said, grinning. I veered toward a map. “This one,” I pointed down the hall toward the food court. “Let’s go, Aj’bani.”

“Just do it, Ameera,” she answered.

As the elevator doors opened on the club’s second floor, we saw a room speckled with airline passengers hiding from the masses. Coats were strewn over upholstered chairs, computers were open, and slick-salesman types were hooking into free Wi-Fi. I headed toward the windows facing the runway.

“Wow!” Polly said. “All this is free?”

“Just tip the bartender,” I said. “I never knew about this before Steve. Let’s get Bloody Marys!” I hesitated. “Polly, does this feel real to you yet?”

“Kinda,” she answered. “But now I’m not in the airport and in some secret cave . . . definitely not. You’ve got some moves, girlfriend.”

The bartender asked, “What can I get for you, ladies?” as he wiped the counter with a white towel.

“Two Bloody Marys. One spicy, one regular. Both with three olives,” I said.