Read In The Company of My Sistahs Online
Authors: Angie Daniels
In The Company of My Sistahs (8 page)
Chapter 12
RENEE
I
t was obvious Jamaican men loved African American women, because ever since I'd left the room I'd been getting mega play. Brothas were whistling, catcalling, showing me all of their white pearly teeth, and my ass was sucking that shit up. I was looking too cute and definitely knew it.
t was obvious Jamaican men loved African American women, because ever since I'd left the room I'd been getting mega play. Brothas were whistling, catcalling, showing me all of their white pearly teeth, and my ass was sucking that shit up. I was looking too cute and definitely knew it.
With a rum punch in my hand, I followed the path around the resort. Bob Marley was blaring from a speaker not far from the pool. People were everywhere, laughing and totally oblivious to anything but the uplifting atmosphere. It was quite apparent I was going to like it here.
I moved along the beach, where there were over a hundred lounge chairs occupied mostly by women basting in the sun, hoping that by nightfall they might manage a tan that closely resembled my natural caramel complexion. A group on the end were laughing and sipping punch. I rolled my eyes when I noticed they were all wearing cornrows and beads.
I never could understand that shit. White folks will travel all the way to Jamaica to get their hair braided when we've got salons right in the hood that can hook their asses up. I figure they like our music, our men, but the only way they can justify wearing their hair like us is to say, “I got my hair done in Jamaica.” Shit, they don't have to spend a hundred dollars to get their hair done, when they can go to my girl Kenya's shop on Twelfth Street. Shit, she's from Jamaica. So what's the difference? Not a damn thing.
After mean mugging their asses for several seconds, I quickly reminded myself that I didn't come to Jamaica to start no shit, and strolled my hateful ass over near my building to wait for the others. I smelled chicken and stopped on the path near a hut that was directly below my hotel room. One thing I can eat every day of the week is chicken. Fried, baked, barbecuedâit doesn't matter. Chicken is chicken as long as it is a leg or a wing. I don't do thighs.
I saw smoke coming from behind and there were at least a dozen people standing in line. Peering over the top of my sunglasses, I noticed two ebony brothas working inside the hut. Curiosity got the better of me and I swayed my hips to the end of the line to get a closer look. From where I was standing, they both looked fine as sin.
While I waited in line, I swayed my hips to the uplifting beat of the music. They're playing that song of Janet Jackson's featuring the Elephant Man. As I continued to move to the beat, I keep my eyes trained on the brothas before me glistening with sweat. By the time I reached the front, the lanky one to the right had already been disqualified. He was too skinny and had a big jug head.
“Hey beautiful, what can I get for you?”
I was grinning like a damn fool as I moved up to lean against the counter to stare at the dark chocolate brotha who was hooking up the meat. He was buffed with long dreadlocks that hung down to the middle of his back.
“Can I have some chicken?”
“Pretty lady, you can have whatever you want.”
He moved to fix me a plate. As I waited, I leaned over and gazed down at his tight ass. Nice. Very nice.
“What's your name?” he asked as he fixed my plate.
“Renee. And yours?”
“Langley, mon.” He handed me a plate that smelled good, then leaned forward and kept grinning.
Langley. I liked the sound of that. “Nice to meet you.” I glanced down at my plate, then frowned. “Uh-uh. Langley, I don't eat thighs.”
He had the nerve to look at me like I was crazy. “But that is jerk chicken.”
“I don't care what it is. I don't eat nobody's damn thighs.”
“That is good meat, mon.”
What part of “don't eat thighs” was he not comprehending? I handed him the plate back. “Then you eat it.” I knew I was acting like a bitch. Like I've said before, it is in my nature and there ain't a damn thing I can do about that. Although I bet you a dollar Langley was probably thinking, “here we go, another spoiled-ass American woman.” And, do you think I care? Hell, naw.
“How about some jerk pork?” he suggested.
I was pleased by his quick thinking. “Now, I can do pork.”
He shook his head as he moved to fix me a different plate, and you know me well enough by now to know I never know how to keep my damn mouth shut.
“What are you shaking your head for?”
“You American women are so picky.”
“What's wrong with being picky?”
“Nothing. But you know how that American saying goes, âdon't knock it until you try it'.”
He obviously did not understand why I couldn't eat every piece of the chicken. “Tell me, Langley. Have you ever had chicken feet?”
“Chicken what?”
“Chicken feet. You know, the things they walk with that have toes?”
He chuckled. “No, mon. I've never had chicken feet.”
“But would you try it?”
The way he scrunched up his face you would have thought he was about to take a shit. “No way. That's voodoo, mon.”
“Well, when I was a kid my mother used to send my dad to the butcher for chicken feet.” Langley's brow rose. “Yeah, I know. My mama's ass was crazy. Anyway, she would fry them and put it on our plate along with macaroni and cheese and Brussels sprouts or some other green shit. Anyway, it was considered a norm in my household like chicken thighs is obviously a norm in yours.”
I could tell the exact moment when my point came across because he gave me a wide dimple smile.
“Now, if you're not even willing to try sucking on some chicken feet, how the hell you gonna get pissed off because I don't want no goddamn chicken thighs?”
He started laughing, and his boy, who obviously had been listening, started laughing also. Shit, he probably thought I had made that shit up, but I was for real. The butcher probably thought our asses was so poor we couldn't afford anything on the chicken but the damn feet. He must have felt sorry for my stepfather because he used to give him those feet for free. My sister and I used to suck between toenails looking for meat. When I think about that shit now, I wonder why I didn't realize until I was thirteen that my mother's ass was crazy. Shit, my stepfather was just as crazy for going to the store and picking up them damn feet.
Langley carried over a plate of Jamaican jerk pork. I scooted over to the last stool and grabbed a fork. The blackened meat was hot and spicy. I swallowed it down with my rum punch.
“So, what do you think?” He gave me a look that reminded me of a child after showing his mother a picture he had drawn in art class.
“Mmm, very good. Hot as shit, but good.”
I glanced over at his jug-head friend, who was grinning as he prepared plates for two teenagers that came up to the hut. They looked like college students with their perfect bodies and long blond hair.
“Where's your husband?” Langley asked me. He leaned against the counter and stared down into my mouth as I ate.
I took my time chewing my food before I spoke. “Who said I got a husband? Do you see a ring on my finger?” I wiggled my hand in his face.
“No, mon. But that doesn't mean nothing in America.”
I had to laugh at that because he was right, it didn't mean shit. Take me, for example. I wore my wedding ring the first year of my marriage, then suddenly I became “allergic” to gold. I'd wear it Monday through Thursday, but on Friday the sucker was itching so bad, it came off the finger. Seriously, although Lisa says it's some psychological bullshit I came up with so I could party on the weekends, ring free. I tried showing her the red irritated line but she wasn't hearing that shit. Not that it mattered. A brotha could care less. In fact, some of them consider a married woman more of a challenge.
“No husband. I'm here with my friends.”
“Are they as lovely as you?” he inquired.
Now how the hell was I supposed to answer a question like that? Hell naw, they ain't as lovely as me. Instead I said, “I don't hang around with no ugly people.”
I could have stood there and flirted with him all evening but the line was growing long and I already had one hook-up for the evening. I would save Langley for another time. “I'll catch you later.” I wiggled my fingers, then spun on my heels and headed toward the beach.
I took a seat in a chaise that was all the way at the edge of the beach. Every time a large wave came, water spilled around my ankles and feet. That shit was refreshing, to say the least. While I sat there eating my food my thoughts drifted to my husband.
He had been so disappointed to hear that I preferred to go to Jamaica with my friends instead of him. We had just gone to the Bahamas the year before on a cruise. I spent more time in the bed with my legs up in the air than I did out on the deck enjoying the ship. I don't know why a man thinks if you go somewhere romantic all there is to do is fuck. Sure, I don't mind a little dick from time to time but not all the damn time. If I am paying good money to visit an exotic location then goddammit, I want to get my money's worth. If I wanted to fuck all day, I could have stayed home and stared at my own damn ceiling. I couldn't get John to understand that so I made sure that Lisa told him it was her idea. Sure enough, she told him she needed to spend some time alone with her sister, and he bought that shit.
I shoveled the last piece of pork in my mouth, then set my plate beside me. Glancing up from my drink, I spotted Kayla heading my way. I tried to hide the scowl on my face. I just couldn't understand why she was so ashamed of her body. I mean, I know she big, but damn, if you're that embarrassed why not do something about it. That probably sounded insensitive, because I know losing weight is no easy task. I tried many times and failed. Believe it or not, after I gave birth to Tamara, I was wearing a size fourteen for years, until one day I looked in the mirror and saw the rolls around my waist and said, “Enough with this shit!” I started running three times a week and cutting back on my sweets. It was a tough hill to climb but I did it.
Anyway, I know it takes willpower and that is one thing I know my girl is lacking. She has very low self-esteem that shows. And it's a shame, because she is so pretty.
Kayla flopped down in the chair beside me. “I should have known you'd have a drink in your hand.”
I sucked my tongue. “Hell, yeah. I'm on vacation.” I took another sip. “Where's Nadine and Lisa?”
“They'll be down in a few minutes.”
I took a deep breath and allowed my body to completely relax. Sitting near the ocean there was a nice cool breeze.
“How's John?”
I glanced over at her, then back out onto the water. I had wondered how long it was going to take before she got around to mentioning him.
I picked up my sunglasses, slid them on, and stretched out in the chair before speaking.
“Fine ... I guess.”
“You guess? When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
She shook her head. “Y'all got the weirdest marriage. So, have you decided what you're gonna do?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“You need to just go on down to Delaware. You know that man is waiting on you.”
“I know he's waiting. He bought that big old house and he's waiting for us to join him.”
Kayla squinted her eyes. “So what's the problem?”
“The problem is, I don't want to be with him. But because he's so nice, I don't know how to tell him.”
Kayla looked at me as if I had lost my damn mind. “Renee, he's a good man with a good job. He doesn't cheat. You don't have to work. I don't understand you.”
“Because there is so much more to it than that.” I inhaled deeply. “I'm so sick of people thinking I've got it made. Y'all just don't know what I have to go through.”
“I'm listening.”
I sighed heavily. “I just don't love him.”
Kayla was thoughtful for a moment before saying, “I don't think you know what love is.”
“Maybe I don't, but I know what love isn't, and it's my relationship with John. I married him for all the wrong reasons and that was my fault. I have tried so hard to love that man and look past all his faults and I can't.” How can I get people to understand that I've made a mistake? What's even harder is getting myself to truly accept that I've made a mistake and then finding the strength to move on.
“What bothers me the most is that he is exactly the same man I married three years ago. I knew then that his dick was little and that he was too damn old, yet I tried to convince myself that neither of those things matter. All that mattered was that he was a good man who was willing to do anything to make me happy. Yet money and stability is not enough.”
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