Ameera, Unveiled (21 page)

“We’re here!” Polly said, slapping my shoulder and giggling. “I just wanna dance, dance, dance! Classes, shows! Pinch me! We’re in Jamaica!”

I forced a smile and pinched Polly.

The plane glided and bounced a couple of times as the wheels hit asphalt. The sea paralleled the runway. White-capped waves broke on white sands. Passengers rustled prematurely in their seats, unbuckling and chattering excitedly.

I didn’t feel the same excitement as Polly. Exhale, Kat. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that when I exited the plane to take my first breath of Jamaican air, my transformation would begin. I wanted to be Ameera, with beautiful, glittery wings, so I wouldn’t be bothered with all the fear factors.

“I think we’ve got at least an hour’s wait. We’ve gotta figure out where the hotel shuttle waiting area is,” I said. “I’ll bet there’s a sign at baggage claim.” My mothering voice was surfacing . . . again. When would my diva kick in?

“Kelly’ll be in soon,” Polly added. “I think she’ll amuse us.”

The plane pulled to a stop at the terminal near a portable stairway. Jamaican employees leaned against the terminal wall, watching. I wondered whether someone might head toward the stairway to let us out. The engine whine decreased and, after a few minutes, two employees strolled to the steel stairs.

I’d heard the term “island time” when visiting the Caribbean, and I suspected there was a Jamaican island-time work ethic as well. I wasn’t in a hurry. No worries. The unlatching of the door unleashed passengers into the aisles.

As we yielded to the first three rows, I amused myself by picturing Ameera’s wings unfolding as I crossed the doorway into the humid island air.

“Thanks,” I said to the flight attendants. Funny, I don’t feel like an Ameera butterfly. Just a tourist, carrying a thirty-five-pound bag of costumes and a black book bag. We walked across the hot concrete toward the terminal and through a group of airport locals wearing orange fluorescent vests. They reminded me of highway crews at home, standing around watching one man working with a jackhammer. The concourse entrance was covered with scaffolding and unfinished sheetrock. On entering the renovation area, we passed a poster honoring the Jamaican bobsled team at the Winter Olympics.

“Funny,” I said in response to the poster.

The hallway seemed endless and not well lit as we followed the baggage claim signs.

As we completed our trek, I realized I’d forgotten about Immigration. The line wasn’t too long. Fortunately, we’d completed our forms between our Bloody Marys. After an invitational wave, the Immigration officer glanced at my face and passport. In less than a minute, my passport was stamped and we were directed to retrieve our bags.

“What was your last trip?” I asked, looking for our baggage destination.

“Home to see my folks. New Hampshire,” Polly said. “I go fishing with my dad at least once a year. I believe this’ll trump that!”

We saw familiar faces from our flight gathering near Carousel 2. We stood by a column and released our baggage handles.

I scanned the baggage claim perimeter and spied the shuttle signs. I nudged Polly. “Our final destination till everyone gets here.”

She looked where I was pointing and nodded. “We’ll check the arrival screens. See if they’re on time.”

We settled in for another island-time wait.

“Wanna play Troupe Jeopardy?” Polly asked. She hummed the game show theme and laughed.

“Why not?” I asked. “You first.”

“I’ll take Kelly for $100,” she said.

I chuckled and thought quickly. “What’s her phrase for ‘shut up’?” Polly should get this one.

“‘Shut your piehole,’” Polly said, acting as if she were beating out two other contestants to the answer. I gave her a thumbs-up. “Your turn.”

“Kelly for $200,” I said.

“What anatomical feature of hers does the troupe see more than they’d like?” Polly asked.

An easy one. “Kelly’s butt—with or without a thong,” I said. We high-fived. “For the record, I’d say Kelly’s friendly and a little bit redneck. She’s got a tender heart. She loves her dog and can’t walk by the homeless.”

“She likes beer and bald men,” Polly added. “We need to get better informed on the spanking thing.” We laughed as the baggage belt squeaked and rattled to life.

Polly spotted her bag and moved across to an open position. I followed her with my eyes but guarded the costume bags. My bag was just behind hers, so I motioned in the air. She grabbed both.

We met outside the luggage piranha sea and walked over to our last airport checkout: Customs. There, uniformed, unsmiling agents, propped on wooden stools, wore latex gloves and asked us to make declarations. The line should’ve moved quicker, but other airport employees were approaching the agents to chat. We tourists felt an unspoken rule . . . that we were to be seen and not heard until called, no matter how long it took.

“Good God, stop talking and start working,” Polly said, irritated. She spoke a little loudly for my comfort. We rolled our bags forward another foot.

“Sssshh,” I said. “We don’t wanna get them irritated.” By no means was I afraid of speaking up, but I was a visitor and knew not all tourists make good impressions.

“Don’t yell at me,” Polly said, laughing. An agent waved her forward. “What am I supposed to say?”

“I have nothing to declare,” I coached her. As she walked off, I waited behind the yellow line until I, too, was summoned. If Steve had been standing beside me, he would’ve nudged me off balance, trying to make my toes cross over the yellow line. An agent waved me forward and welcomed me to Jamaica.

17

“Wuhl-cum to Jamaica,” a tall, muscular native wearing a yellow button-down shirt with cobalt-blue embroidery said. “Can mi help yuh wid someting?” His melodious words convinced me I was in Jamaica . . . mon.

“We’re working in Negril with some friends,” Polly said, charm oozing from her smile and eyes. “I think we may be first in our group, and we’re trying to find the shuttle waiting area. We may be staying at the Grand Lido.”

“Who yuh wit?” he asked, raising a clipboard.

“Pal-met-to O-a-sis,” Polly articulated slowly. She stood close beside him in the event she saw someone familiar on his list. “Maybe Sybil’s there?”

They flipped a page and he pointed. “Dis? De three o’clock shuut-tle to Hedonism II. How many?”

“Eight today, one on Wednesday,” I said. “Hedonism? Are you sure?”

“Yeh,” he said, showing me the page.

Polly stifled a laugh while my mind struggled to find a reference point that would enlighten me as to what the name meant. She saw my confusion and said, “I’ll fill you in.”

“No problem?” he asked. We shook our heads and thanked him.

“Hedonism?” I repeated as we headed to the bar. Polly’s laugh rolled freely now, and tears tracked through her makeup. “Polly?” I wanted in on the joke.

She fanned her face, took a breath, and slowed her laughter. “I’m buying you that drink now,” she said, trying to contain her amusement. “They didn’t teach you this in Sunday school.”

With a Diet Coke and rum in hand, we headed back to our baggage to camp out and wait.

“Come on, Polly. What’s a hedonism?” I asked. She’d started laughing again. “Don’t make me go ask that guy,” I begged.

Polly wiped her eyes and swigged her drink. “Don’t you know what it means?”

“Not really. The way it sounds . . . uncivilized?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Wild people? When would I use it? Use it in a sentence.”

“Kat is staying at Hedonism,” she said, laughing. I stared at her hard. “It won’t be a big deal if Kelly shows her ass at Hedonism.” She choked from amusement but wasn’t sharing the joke.

I got up and went over to the guy with the clipboard. “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you have a brochure on Hedonism?”

“Yeh, mon,” he said, reaching for a vinyl notebook. He flipped several pages and extracted a color pamphlet. I stared at the jungle scene with a perfect blonde who was wearing coconuts over her breasts and a grass skirt, walking toward the photographer.
The Pleasure Seekers’ ultimate playground
. . . I read and paused. Enjoy the white sandy beach—
the Prude side or the
Nude side.

I turned to look at Polly. She raised her glass as a wicked grin spread over her face.

“Thank you,” I said and walked back to Polly. “Do you think this fits our mission statement?” I asked, realizing what had tickled Polly. “Wow!” I went on to read the rest of the pamphlet. Jacuzzi with a transparent floor over the disco? Be wicked for a week?

Polly enjoyed my wide-eyed wonderment as we read the promotional pamphlet together. By the time we’d finished our rum drinks, I’d shoved the pamphlet in my book bag.

“Now that we’re team number one and know where the pit stop is, tell me your impression of,” I paused to pick a troupe member, “Denise.”

“Works with Kelly at MUSC. Friends with Kelly. Takes care of Kelly,” Polly said. “She’s cute. I heard her call her husband ‘Elvis.’ That’s all I know.”

“Me too. We’ll have to watch and figure her out . . . in Hedonism,” I said.

We laughed. I didn’t know a lot about Melody Meadows, with whom I’d rehearsed at The Maproom, or Ruth Mead, the other two members of the troupe who would be joining us. I was tired of talking so I pulled out a People magazine. Polly pulled up a game on her cell phone. An hour later, we looked up to see several cackling women moving our way. I would’ve known Jennifer’s laugh and Kelly’s Southern twang anywhere.

“Kaaat,” Jennifer said, waving a hand embellished with henna flourishes. “Polllly. We’re here!” Her exotic outfit was accented with perfect jewelry and makeup.

“Hey, guys. Been waiting long?” Kelly greeted us. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m getting a beer.”

“I’m coming with you,” Denise volunteered. Jennifer floated beside them.

Sybil was talking to the man with the clipboard. Blonde hair draped across her right eye, her grin revealed her dimple as she pointed toward our luggage and nodded her head. He walked over to a telephone and she came our way.

“Hey, ladies. Good flight?” Sybil asked. She was wearing a tropical sundress and jeweled sandals. Another female stood beside her whom I didn’t recognize. I assumed it was her best friend from Georgia.

“We did. And we did it First Class. Literally,” Polly said.

“Lucky!” she exclaimed. “Did you get the news about where we’re staying?” Her smile held back a little mischief.

“I’ve got the brochure,” I said, holding it up like a naughty trophy. “I’ve no idea what to expect.”

Denise and Kelly joined the group with cold beers. Jennifer sipped a margarita on the rocks, salted rim. The quiet member, Melody, returned with a strawberry Daiquiri.

“Group meeting,” Sybil said, motioning for us to huddle round. “For those of you who haven’t met her . . . this is my friend and co-founder of Palmetto Oasis . . . Ruth Mead.” Ruth gave us a big grin and a little wave. “We’ve got rooms at Hedonism II. It’s across the street from the Grand Lido. They’re putting our bags in a separate shuttle. We’ll watch to be sure our carry-ons are in before we get in the bus. It’s an hour and a half to Negril. If you need to do or buy anything, we’ll leave in about five minutes.” She looked around the circle. Some of us broke off for the restroom. “Meet me there by the doors in five minutes,” she repeated.

Sybil and Ruth pulled their bags toward the double doors.

“Last leg of the day, my friend,” Polly said. We pulled our bags behind us as we joined Sybil.

The bones of the trip were here, but the unknown loomed at a place called Hedonism II.

Eight pairs of eyes watched the baggage handlers like hawks as they moved bags to the luggage shuttle. When the last bag was loaded, we boarded the lead van for Hedonism II. We had it to ourselves, so I grabbed a seat on my own. I was suffering from a bit of overload.

As I retrieved my book, I saw the Hedonism brochure. The pamphlet stirred up labels from my past.

I didn’t view myself as a prude. Naïve, maybe. Between my 1960s’ childhood and my virginal marriage, I lacked knowledge of the experimentation of the 1970s. But the social and sexual curiosity of my late-thirties’ divorce dispelled much of what I’d failed to experience in my adolescence. As a late-life single woman, I’d gradually allowed inhibitions and guilt-induced control platforms to release the conservative handcuffs. I rejected submitting to control freaks. Someone did give me handcuffs once . . . with fur.
See
? I told myself.
I’m not
a prude.

Not that I wanted to hang out at the Nude side. How can we teach classes at a clothing-optional resort? My mind spun.

Through a travel-exhaustion haze, I heard someone laughing about Jennifer’s plane experience. I pulled myself back into the moment.

“I’m so proud of you,” Sybil was saying. “You did great. Lara’ll be proud too.”

Jennifer laughed. “Three stiff drinks and only one Valium.”

I watched the bus roll and sway as it followed a road headed southwest along the coast. Locals were gathered at produce stands. Humble houses, with laundry hanging from ropes strung across the backyards, passed as a blur. Kelly and Denise discussed their hopes to snorkel in Negril. Ruth mentioned wanting to find a bird-watching opportunity. Melody chatted quietly to Polly about her daughters who’d been left in the care of her husband at home.