How Stella Got Her Groove Back (24 page)

I don’t really mean that. I am not
even
thinking about any article when I lie on the bed stare up at the ceiling fan spinning and spinning until it feels like my heart is spinning and spinning in the opposite direction until I realize that I am feeling suspended comforted soothed as if I have been endorsed. As if for the first time in a long time someone has just said to me I like you because you are you and that’s it. It’s just that simple. He hasn’t asked me where I live or what kind of house I live in or how much money I make or what kind of car I drive none of that bullshit that I am almost always asked by legalized grown-up men and it gets on my nerves every time. It’s funny too that Winston hasn’t once mentioned his or my age and I wonder if he’s pretending that I’m not forty-two years old. Maybe he’s forgotten. But what about when he remembers? Oh who cares. Shit. I like him. He likes me. And I’m happy about it. That’s what I know right now. And right now it’s enough. As a matter of fact it’s good and plenty.

• • • •

For some reason (and I
do
understand the reason because I’m not completely dense) I get this surge of energy and put away all my clothes in like one-two-three and then I head for the mall where I plan on buying Quincy a pair of sneakers that fit because his feet have grown again and that new CD by Monica with that song “Just One of Them Thangs” that I absolutely love and Mr. Shaggy Boombastic who is of all things Jamaican and oh yes TLC
CrazySexyCool
which I will buy two of because Quincy and I cannot share CDs ever since I bought him his own miniature stereo system for his room after he all of a sudden started watching MTV like it was going out of style and even I like Beavis and Butt-head every now and then and I’m not all that worried about my child being badly influenced because he knows from whence he came. And even though the word “fuck” is like my favorite curse word of all time and I use it as like all parts of speech my son has never and hopefully will never hear me use it oh I forgot that time when I was PMSing and he was fixing his go-cart and he had all the tools sitting on top of my car which scratched it and put a dent in it and it cost $2,300 to get fixed and I did go off on him and use the F word but he has not even come close to doing anything so costly again without thinking about it first and so I continue to use the F word privately because I use it more for personal reasons like for processing and digesting thoughts for use in front of dear friends and close relatives who also seem to favor its usage.

It seems like it was only a few weeks ago that Quincy was watching Nick at Nite and then all of a sudden like overnight switched to
MTV Jams
hosted by Bill Bellamy which is why he knows what’s up with the latest music and keeps me well informed but he has been begging for TLC and he says he thinks the one with the patch over her left eye is cute and when I told him that she burned down her boyfriend’s house all he said was So I still think she’s pretty cute and I like her, Mom, and all I’m really grateful for is that this is the first evidence I’ve seen of him even noticing girls and I give him credit for having good taste buds and he is like starting from the top and even though I know it may be racist and sexist and I should be ashamed of myself but the fact that she is black kind of pleases me and the fact that she is a she pleases me even more so no problem, mon, is what I’m thinking as I turn into the mall parking lot and hell I might as well go ahead and get him a few new T-shirts that I’ll hide in his drawers to save so he can “have it going on” at least during his very first week of junior fucking high school.

• • • •

I hadn’t planned on buying Winston anything so I am as surprised as anyone when I find myself in Foot Locker buying Quincy two pairs of size ten Airwalks and without thinking twice asking the guy if he could bring out a size thirteen of these Nike Airs which are hot off the press. I know not what I’m doing but then again I think maybe I do. The old wives’ tale is that if you buy a man a pair of shoes he will most likely walk away from you. I want Winston to walk away from me. That would be the safest thing. It would also be the smartest thing. This much I do know.

But then I go a little crazy. When I go into the music store to get Quincy’s CDs I begin to pick out CDs that I know Winston likes but probably doesn’t have because he doesn’t have any money and I must buy about six or seven of them for him: some hip-hoppers of course and some rap and I throw Seal in for good measure and Mary J. Blige and when I get outside the store it occurs to me that he doesn’t have a CD player so I decide to get him a portable one with headphones and once in the store I figure I could use one on airplanes but now that I’m out of a job how often will I actually be flying but then I could also use it at the beach or outside in the backyard and Quincy could use one too when we’re driving up to the mountains and I want silence and he wants Monteil Jordan so I get him a cheap one because he will drop it lose it something and so now we all have CD players.

Of course the same thing happens with the T-shirts. I go No Fear crazy too. I get Winston four and Quincy five because after all he is my son. When I see those Kipling backpacks in Macy’s, I remember that Quincy needs a new one so I pick a forest green for him and grab another for Winston, just because. I am walking past the Sunglass Hut and I see those cool mirrored glasses that wrap around your face that all the young guys are wearing and I am whipping out my Visa card once again but I am like totally enjoying this, this business of doing something for somebody else. I mean Winston has like nothing, and this might make him smile, let him know that someone, that I am thinking about him. I will let it be a surprise. But. On the other hand. What if he thinks I’m doing this to impress him or maybe I’m trying to buy his affection like that old lady in that Richard Gere gigolo movie. I’m not that fucking old, so why would he think that, Stella? And besides, this stuff doesn’t even add up to my car payment.

• • • •

Angela is sitting on the side porch as I pull into my driveway. She looks upset about something. “You have gone and just completely lost your mind, haven’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Stella. You must think you’re Diana Ross or Cher or somebody—is that what this is all about?”

“Look, it’s hot as hell out here can I at least go inside my own house and get a glass of ice water while you rant and rave?”

“I didn’t come over here to rant and rave whatsoever,” she says, following me inside. “What did you buy? What’s in all these bags?”

“None of your business,” I say and push all four into the pantry. If she had a life she wouldn’t be so nosy.

She sits down at the kitchen table, turns her chair so that it faces me, spreads her legs open and says, “Stella, you aren’t serious about this boy?”

“Who said anything about being serious? Damn. Why is everybody making such a big fucking deal about this?”

“You’re apparently the one making a big fucking deal about it and apparently your neighbors are all asking questions.”

“How do you know what my neighbors are asking?”

“Because Vanessa said that the woman who lives across the street from you whose daughter is in Chantel’s class told her that her mother told her that you’ve got a new boyfriend and that Quincy might just have a new dad.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Look, Stella, tell me for real what the deal is.”

“I just like him, that’s all.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“Do you realize how simple you sound?”

“Yes,” I repeat and I’m trying hard not to laugh, because she’s not with me, not even close.

“You’re not taking this any further, I hope.”

“What do you mean by ‘any further’?”

“You’re not planning on seeing him again?”

“Not anytime soon.”

“What!”

“I said not anytime soon.”

“I cannot believe my ears. Okay. Let’s try this. Let’s say for instance that you are serious. And answer this honestly. What can he possibly do for you?”

I am pretty much inclined to walk over to the door and open it and just ask her to take her Miss Goody Two-Shoes pregnant ass home but I also want to say you don’t get it because you don’t get anything. If it doesn’t add up then it’s a negative to you. But you know what? This
doesn’t
add up. And I really don’t give a flying fuck. Which is the whole point. All I know is that right now I feel good and this young man is responsible for it. He makes me feel like I’m in flight, he makes me feel like a rainbow, for lack of a better fucking cliché. “What did you just ask me?”

“What can he
possibly
do for you?”

“He’s already done it.” I sigh.

“Oh has he now. And just what is that? Can you give it a name?”

I am losing my patience with her about now so I storm over and put my hands on my hips and I say, “How about this: He makes me feel like I’ve been doing lines of coke like I’ve just smoked a good joint had a few drinks run a ten K had a deep tissue massage skied fifty miles per hour down KT-22 at Squaw Valley had a double espresso and a Xanax all at the same time. How’s that?”

“You are tripping
so
hard.”

“I haven’t
done
anything! I’m not marrying him! I just slept with him and hope I get a chance to do it again and plus I happen to like him. What is so wrong with that?”

She is calm. “Haven’t you heard about this stuff? It’s called tropical fever or something. I mean think about it. You went to an exotic place that from what I hear is pretty close to paradise and you meet this fine young boy who of course any woman in her right mind would want to screw and then you do, but most people would just do it drop it and come on home. Get on with their normal regular life. Why can’t you just do that?”

“I am trying to! I’ve only been home a few days and you’re making it seem as if I’m about to elope!”

“I’m worried about you. You’re acting too giddy.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Vanessa said all you’ve been doing is giggling.”

“So?”

“We’re not used to seeing you like this.”

“Like
what?
”

She’s searching for the germane word but I decide to help her: “Happy?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, so is there a law out there somewhere that says Stella can’t be happy if a young man is partially responsible?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You and Vanessa have just gotten so used to seeing me feeling and acting beige instead of yellow, lonely and blue instead of excited and red hot, that now just because I’m acting like I’m alive or being a little daring and not just content being Lois Lane you can’t handle it. Go on. Admit it!”

“Well, you don’t have to say it like that because it’s not true.”

“It is true.”

“You’re the oldest, Stella. The one whose feet should be firmly planted on the ground.”

“They are. I’m just kicking up some soil. I have a right to, you know.”

“Stella.” She groans as if she’s losing her patience.

“What?”

“You know every young man’s fantasy is to sleep with an older woman. Did you know that?”

“Not really.”

“Yep. Evan slept with a woman thirty-five.”

“He told you?”

“Of course he told me.”

“And? Your point?”

“He slept with her quite a number of times. It was good for his ego, knowing he was able to satisfy a grown woman.”

“And?”

“That’s all it was. An ego booster.”

“Look. You don’t even know Winston, so don’t compare my experience with Evan’s little brush with lust.”

“Like there’s a difference?”

“I’d say so.”

“Have you thought about the fact that this Winston is the same age as your nephew?”

That was low. “He’s not my nephew.”

“Well, just keep in mind that you are old enough to be his mother and think how embarrassing this whole thing could be for Quincy. I mean you do care about your child, don’t you?”

“You can stop anytime now, Angela.”

“Wait. Let me just ask you one last question.”

“I’m listening,” I say, exasperated.

“You did practice safe sex, I hope?” and she gives me this look.

“Fuck you, Angela,” I say, but what I want to say is: Go home. Take a nap. Go put on an apron or something, go look for more emergency exits, since you seem to know where they all are, or go home and study your earthquake kit, because I’ve got tons of shit I need to do around here before Quincy gets home.

Now she’s rubbing her hands over her mixing bowl belly more for effect than anything and she knows she has gotten on my nerves but she loves getting on people’s nerves because it seems to be what confirms that she is indeed doing something, that she is in fact an active member of a real family and that she can do something that will make you actually respond. I feel like putting her in a high chair or a playpen and sticking a pacifier in her mouth. “Vanessa told me about your job.”

“It’s no biggie.”

“I’d say it’s a very big biggie and I hope you seek legal counsel so that you can get some kind of redress and you know Kennedy has all kinds of friends with expertise in this kind of situation.”

“I doubt if it’ll come to a lawsuit.”

“You never know,” she says, heading for the door hallelujah. “You can never be too prepared.”

Oh yes you can, I think. And you’re living proof of what can happen when you are.

M
Y ARMS ARE
stretched out as far as they will go when Quincy comes walking through the airport gate grinning his little buns off and runs into my arms like he’s my baby which he is and one day I hope my sense of color and style will rub off on him and he’ll choose his attire so that one thing coincides with or at least complements the other because right now he is decked out in a pair of brown plaid baggy shorts and an orange and green Phoenix Suns T-shirt and I’m not even going to mention the red Cardinals baseball hat which thank the Lord is on backwards. He is nevertheless still my chocolate chip.