How Stella Got Her Groove Back (20 page)

“Well, I like loose,” he says.

“I would appreciate it if you would leave
now,
” and he gets up slowly and walks toward me with his big black penis standing straight out and as he walks into the bathroom the tip of it hits my arm and I am about to throw up if he doesn’t hurry up and Winston where are you? I think as I look out at his banana trees and our fuchsia flowers and then I hear the rustle of material as Mr. Jesus Traitor slides into his pants and slips on his shirt and he takes his time putting on his shoes and he walks up to me and says, “I’m sorry if you are offended in any way and I would very much like to make it up to you. Here is my card,” and he hands it to me. “If you are ever in Atlanta, please look me up,” and I say, “I don’t really like Atlanta,” which is a total lie, and he says, “If you come to visit
me
I will change your mind,” and I want to say, Sure, in my next life, and he is winking at me as I step back to avoid what appears to be an oncoming kiss and now he is smiling as if saying, I’ll get you next time, and I close the door and go sit on the edge of the bed like an old tired whore.

I
FEEL BAD
.
Maybe I was too hard on Judas is what I’m thinking after I wake up this morning and get ready to put on my jogging clothes then change my mind fast. I’m tired of running on the beach. This is my
last
day here. I have run on that beach every single morning I’ve been here and besides I do not want to run into him this morning. In fact I don’t want to see Mr. Freak of the Week for the duration of my stay if it’s at all possible.

I order room service and afterwards walk down to say goodbye to Tonya and Patrice, who are leaving in a few hours. We exchange numbers and all that and give each other hugs and then I come back to my room to consider packing but it’s too drab in here and I still have the whole day so I decide to go snorkeling since I haven’t really done much of the free or I should say paid-for-in-advance activities that have been readily available to me.

• • • •

I snorkel snorkel and snorkel some more. The fish are beautiful and the coral reefs are unbelievable which is of course why people snorkel. I see every color and shape of fish imaginable and even when I snorkeled in Maui it wasn’t quite this intense immediate close-up pretty. I want to touch the plants because they are swooning and swaying and look as though they are reaching up to the surface of the water but we are not supposed to touch the coral because some of them, most of them, are still alive and could die from being handled by human hands and I think it’s pretty fucking amazing that you can touch something so beautiful in a lovely way and it could like just die. My ears feel like they’re plugged with foam and it seems like the water is holding me together in one piece and when I look down at a thousand purple and yellow baby fish all headed in one direction I want to follow them but I feel as if I am cutting through their backyard without permission so I steer my body away and flap my fins back and forth until I see the rudder of the boat I came out here on. The water is quite warm and really only ten feet deep even though we are a mile or more from the shoreline. I could stay out here for hours I think as I take my mask and mouthpiece off and accidentally swallow a mouthful of salt water but I don’t really care because I am like totally buoyant.

• • • •

Instead of going to the regular beach, for some strange unconscious unknown or unplanned reason I find myself heading toward the nude beach and I tell myself that it’s mostly to avoid Judas. I have on my one-piece blue plaid bathing suit. Whenever I think plaid I think ugly, like parochial school plaid, but this is a pretty hot bathing suit, though the cheapest of the bunch, and it does wonders for my figure even without any Wonderbra features inside the cups.

These people really ought to go somewhere and hide instead of flaunting all this flesh out in the open is what I’m thinking and I stop dead in my tracks before my foot even touches the sand. They are all mostly pink though some are darker than I am and there are plenty of large firm breasts in the air but I try to ignore all these people as I pass them even though I can feel them staring at me wondering why on earth I am wearing this plaid one-piece bathing suit and when I see old man Nate sit up I am afraid to look at him too closely but see patches of brittle gray hair all over his spotty chest and his arms are a pretty reddish-brown and he is looking at me and waving and I simply wave back and stop at a chaise that’s about thirty feet away from him and about ten feet from an old fat slovenly white man who is sucking on a cold pipe. His wife who was probably a knockout in her younger years is reading a Jude Deveraux paperback and wearing a big floppy straw hat and she is as naked as everybody else out here and her breasts are the same size as her stomach which suffice it to say is humongous and she has these purple veins running all over her body like a map of major interstates or something. I sort of stand there for a minute and look out at the ocean which looks exactly like the ocean around the bend where everybody is wearing a bathing suit and I find myself sliding my straps down and then stepping out of my suit and the sun feels good on my ass and breasts and shoulders and I walk toward the beach with both hands covering my breasts and then I turn around and face the folks on the beach and for no reason at all I squeeze them and smile at that white man. Yes, you will go back to your room with your fat and fluffy wife who is gazing at me too as if she once looked even better than I do right now and then there is old man Nate who is like salivating and this tiny section of the beach is gaping with their so-called liberated and we-don’t-think-of-you-as-naked little eyes and it is not really because I am all that gorgeous. The deal is that I am the only black woman on this beach because most black people only run around butt naked in Africa where we are in front of our own people and where it is the normal thing to do and nobody really gives a shit.

I stay in the water for just a few minutes and when I get out Nate is heading in my direction but I run to grab my towel before he gets close enough for me to see his elephant-size unit which is rather atrocious and scary-looking. I would never need this much dick is what I’m thinking as I cover myself.

“Now why you have to go and do that?” he asks.

“Don’t come over here bothering me, Nate. I’m not out here to be hassled.”

“I’m just glad to see you here,” he says, standing there ever so proudly.

I look down. “You don’t seem to be as glad as you say you are,” and I begin to walk away.

“Why you leaving so soon and you just got here, girl?”

“Because I’m tired and this is boring.”

All he can do is nod.

• • • •

I eat lunch with the Canadians and even though they still have almost a whole week left to honeymoon they are clearly becoming either bored with each other or tired of hangovers, this island or captivity at the Castle Beach. I tell them how much I have enjoyed them and I Dream of Jeannie smiles at me and tells me, “So much meeting you fun, Stella!” Ben says he can’t wait to get back to work because he misses laying tiles and cutting marble and granite and limestone and just for the hell of it I ask him what Sasha does for a living and he says she is a dancer. What kind of dancer? I ask and he blushes and makes swirling motions with his hands in front of his chest and rolls them down underneath the table and I say, Nude dancing? and he says, Well, actually she’s a stripper, and my eyes go big and when I turn to I Dream of Jeannie she is nodding and smiling and says, “Yes, very much so!” I want to tell him that this girl should go back to school.

I take a taxi into town and spend hours at the marketplace, where almost everything they sell seems to be black red and green or made of wood but I buy a small sculpture hats skirts T-shirts shorts more T-shirts bracelets gold earrings Jamaican cookbooks at least twenty Jamaican CDs and postcards from the local merchants to show my support for their entrepreneurial endeavors on this island which I recently discovered is still mostly owned by the British.

I have a hard time getting all this stuff to my room but I manage and when I get there and take everything out of the bag I put on a Maxi Priest CD called
Fe Real
which they were playing this afternoon in the dining room when I found out Sasha was a stripper. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time but they were playing it in the store when I walked in which apparently means that it had a subliminal effect on my psyche and I am like sick of Seal and Maxi is my new flame. As I drag all my clothes out of the closet and put them on my bed I realize I don’t know where or how I am ever going to get all this shit into my suitcases.

I decide to write out my postcards so at least they are postmarked from Jamaica and not Miami which is where my plane has to stop for a two-hour layover, and I choose the one from Rick’s Café where two young men are caught in midair jumping off the highest cliff and I decide to send this one to Quincy. I write something motherly and sweet and downright corny and then I come up with something else for everybody else’s postcards—Angela’s, Vanessa’s, a few close friends and one person and one person only at my job—and then the phone rings. It startles me because I haven’t actually heard it ring in days.

“Is that Stella there?” the voice that sounds like silk is asking.

“Winston?” I say and all of a sudden my heart is beating a thousand beats per minute.

“Helloooo,” he sings. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “And you?”

“Fine. Working very hard. But say, are you still leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes. Early.” I drop the postcards on the bed.

“Well, I would really like to see you to say goodbye before you leave, Stella.”

I want to say, Fuck you, Winston, why haven’t you called me until now, why call now, you little creep! but instead I hear myself say, “When?”

“Well, I have one and a half hours coming up for dinner.”

“A whole hour and a half, Winston?”

“Well, I actually have two hours but—”

“Well, aren’t I the lucky one.”

“What’s wrong, Stella?”

“Nothing, Winston.”

“I just have to shower and then I could come right over.”

I look at my watch. It is four thirty-five. “And what time might that be, because I’m supposed to have dinner with some friends this evening.”

“Do I know them?”

“I don’t know, Winston. What difference does it make?”

“Are you all right, Stella? Did I do something?”

“No, Winston, but I’m just really surprised to hear from you because your friend Norris has been saying you’ve been by here and he’s been making me feel really silly about ever meeting and spending time with you.”

“I came by once to drop off his key but I was only there for a few minutes and I asked him if he’d seen you around anywhere and he said no and I didn’t know your last name and the front desk wouldn’t give it to me and Norris said he had no way of finding out so finally I called Abby and asked if she would get it for me and she did and I’ve been calling you since yesterday but you’re never in your room.”

“Why didn’t you leave a message?”

“Can we talk about it when I get there, because I have to be back by six.”

“Okay,” I say and feel foolish for sounding like his mother.

“I’ll need a pass, as they won’t let me in the front gate without one,” he says.

“Not to worry,” I say, imitating the island jargon.

“Can you meet me at the front gate at five past five?”

“I’ll be wearing bright yellow in case you forgot what I look like,” I say, laughing.

“That’s my whole problem,” he says. “I’ve been trying hard not to remember.”

“And?”

“It’s not working. I’ll see you soon.”

• • • •

I pay sixty dollars for a pass so that Winston can come through the gate of the Castle Beach Negril and spend what will probably amount to only forty-five minutes. But I need to see him. I want to see him. If I don’t, I feel like my trip won’t have any real closure. Of course I know I want to sleep with him again but not under these circumstances because I would feel cheap and I don’t want him to think for a minute that that is the main reason I want to see him and that that is the only thing I can think of to do with him when all we have is forty-five minutes. I already value him for more than sex, this much I do know as I stand there in my yellow shorts and yellow top, and when I see him come around that hedge in a deep pink shirt and those long purple shorts and he is wearing thick black sneakers with white socks he is so beautiful and he is already blushing and I can smell him before he gets close enough to touch me and he looks at me like he’s dreaming and bends down out in the open and kisses me and I am never going to be able to forget him, that much I know already.

“You look very nice in yellow,” he says and takes me by the elbow and I am feeling like he has made it back safely from the war and now I’m on my way to a convent or something.

“Are you cooking up a storm?”

“Not really,” he says. “Mostly chopping and cutting, slicing and dicing. You know?”

“I think I know.”

And we walk up that path for what is going to be the last time and it is weird and the fuchsia hibiscuses look sad, his banana trees look as if they are drooping today, and when I look up at him he looks as if he has many things on his mind, is suffering in some way from something, and I wish I knew what it was so I could help him out but by the time we reach my doorway and walk inside with all the things strewn all over the bed he leans against the wall and just looks at it all.

“So you’re really leaving, huh?”

“Yep.”

Maxi Priest is singing something lovely and mellow about keeping promises or breaking them, one of the two, but all I know is that I can’t believe Winston is really standing here in my room until he comes toward me and stops and looks down and says, “Stella, I want you to know how sad I am to see you leave,” with the utmost sincerity and I am afraid to look into his eyes because I might actually cry and I am too old to be crying over some young guy I just met on some island and I am feeling all mushy inside because I may never see him again and the mere thought of that is making me ache but I gather my composure and try to act like a real grown-up.