Skin Folk (17 page)

Surprise flare on she face. She draw back little bit to look at me good. “And like you really sorry, too. Yes, you is a treasure,
all right. No need to be sorry, darling. You ain’t do nothing wrong.”

The Ladies-of-the-Night scent of she going all up inside my nostrils. The other men and they does laugh after me that I have
a flower bush growing beside the pigeon peas and the tomatoes, so womanish, but I like to cut the flowers and put inside the
house to brighten up the place with their softness and sweet smell. I have a blue glass bottle that I find wash up on the
shore one day. The sand had scour it so it wasn’t shining like glass no more. But all the waves smash it, it ain’t break yet.
From the licking of the sea and the scraping of the sand, it had a texture under my fingertips like stone. I like that. I
does put the flowers in it and put them on my table, the one what Daddy help me make.

“So, why you never come with the other fishermen? When you pull up to the dock all by yourself in that little dinghy, I get
suspicious one time. I never see you before.”

All the while she talking, and me mesmerized by she serious brown eyes, and too much to feel and think about at once, I never
realise she did sliding she hand down inside my blouse, down until she fingers and thumb slide round one of my bubbies and
feel the weight of it. Jesus Lord, she go call Jackobennie now! I make to jump up again, terror making me stronger, but this
time she look at me with kindness. It make me weak. “Big strong woman,” she whisper.

She know! All this time, she know? I couldn’t move from that chair, even if Papa God heself was to come down to earth and
command me. I just sitting there, weak and trembling, while she undo the shirt slow, one button at a time, drag it out of
my pants, and lay my bubbies bare to the open air. The nipples crinkle up one time and I shame I shame. Nothing to do but
sit there, exposed and trembling like conch when you drag it out of the shell to die.

I squinch my eyes closed tight, but I feel a hot tear escape from under my eyelid and track down my face. So long nobody ain’t
see me cry. I feel to dead. I wait to hear the scorn from she dry-ashes voice.

“Sweetheart?” Gentle hands closing back my shirt, but not drawing away; resting warm on the fat shameful weight of my bubbies.
“Mister Fisherman?”

Yes. Is that I is. A fisherman. I draw in the breath I been keeping out, a long, shuddery one. She hands rise and fall with
my chest. I open my eyes, but I can’t stand to look in she face. I away gaze out the window, past the clean pink shell to
the blue wall of the sea far away. What make me leave my home this day any atall, eh?

“Look at me, nuh? What you name?”

I dash way the tear with the back of my hand, sniff back the snot. “K.C.”

“Casey?”

“Letter K, letter C. For ‘Kelly Carol’: K.C. I sorry I take up your time, Missis. You want me to go?” I chance a quick glance
at her. She get that weighing and measuring look again. The warmth of she hands through my shirt feeling nice. Can’t think
’bout that.

“Why you come here in the first place, K.C.?”

I tilt my head away from her, look down at my shoes, my nice shine shoes. Oh God, how to explain? “Is just I… look, I not
make for this, I not a… I did only want some company, the way the other men and they does talk about all the time. All blessèd
week we pulling on the nets together, all of we. And some of the men does even treat me like one of them, you know? A fisherman,
doing my job. Then Saturday nights after we go to market them does leave me and come here, even Lennie, and I hear next day
how sweet allyou is, all of allyou in this cathouse. Every week it happen so and every Saturday night I stay home in my wattle
and daub hut and watch at the kerosene lamp burning till is time to go to bed. Nobody but me. But I catch plenty fish and
sell in the market today, I had enough money, and after them all come here I follow them in one of Lennie small boats. I just
figure is time, my turn now… But I will go away. I don’t belong here.” My heart feeling heavy in my chest. I sit and wait
for she to banish me.

She laugh like a dolphin leaping. “K.C., you don’t have to go nowhere. Look at me, nuh?”

The short distance I had was to drag my eyes from the window to she face was like I going to dead, like somebody dragging
a sharp knife along the belly of a fish that twisting in your hands. My two eyes and she own make four, and I feel my belly
bottom drop out same way so that fish guts would tumble like rope from it body.

She start to count off on she fingers: “You come in clean clothes; you bathe too, I could smell the carbolic soap on your
skin; you not too drunk to have sense; you come prepared to pay; you have manners. Now tell me: Why I would turn away such
a ideal customer?”

“I… because I…”

“You ever fuck before?”

“No!” My face burning up for shame. I hear the word plenty time. I see dogs doing it in the road. I not sure what it have
to do with me. But I want to find out.

She give me one mischievous grin. “Well, douxdoux, is your lucky night tonight; you going to learn from the mistress of this
house!”

Oh God.

Softly she say, “You go let me touch you, K.C.? Mister fisherman?”

My heart flapping in my chest like a mullet on a jetty. She must be can feel it jumping under she hands. I whisper, “Yes,
please.”

And next thing I know, my shirt get drag open all the way. She say, “Take it off, nuh? I want to see the muscles in your arms.”

My arms? I busy feeling shamed, ’fraid for she to watch at my bubbies—nobody see them all these years—but is my arms she want
to see? For the first time this night, I crack one little smile. I pull off the shirt, stand there holding it careful by the
collar so it wouldn’t get rampfle. She step in closer and squeeze my one arm, and when she look at me, the look make something
in my crotch jump again. Is a look of somebody who want something. My smile freeze. I ain’t know what to do with my face.
My eyes start to drop to the floor again. But she put she hand under my chin. “Watch at me in my eyes, K.C.; like man does
look at woman.”

My blasted tongue run away with me again. “And what it have to look at? You seeing more of me than I seeing of you.”

A grin that could swallow a house. “True. Help me fix that then, nuh?” And she present me with she back, one hand cock-up
on she hip. “Undo my dress for me, please?”

She had comb she hair up onto her head with a sweep and a frill like wedding cake icing, only black. The purple silk of the
gown come down low on she back so I could see all that brown skin, smelling like sweet flowers. The fancy dress-back fasten
with one set of hook and eye and button and bow. I tall, nearly tall like Two-Tone, but this woman little bit taller than
me, even. I reach up to the top of she dress-back. I manage to undo three button and a hook before a button just pop off in
my hand. “Fuck, man, I can’t manage these fancy things; I ain’t make for them. Missis, I done bust up your dress, I sorry.”

She feel behind she, run one long brown finger over the place where the button tear from. Quicker than my eyes could follow,
she undo the dress the rest of the way. I see she big round bamsie naked and smooth under there, but she step away and turn
to face me before I could see enough. “Give me the button.”

I hand it to she. She laugh little bit and drop it down between she bubbies. “Oh. Look what I gone and do. Come and find it
for me, nuh?”

Is like somebody nail my two foot-them to the floor. I couldn’t move. I feel like my head going to bust apart. I just watch
at she. She step so close to me I could smell she breath warm on my lips. I want to taste that breath again. She whisper,
“Find my button for me, K.C.”

I don’t know when my hands reach on she shoulders. Is like I watching a picture film of me sliding my hands down that soft
skin to the opening of the dress, moving my hands in and taking she two tot-tots in each hand. They big and heavy, would be
about three pound each on the scale. If I was to price this lady pound for pound, I could never afford she. I move my hand
in to the warm, damp place in between she bubbies. The flower smell rising warm off she. My fingers only trembling, trembling,
but I pick out the button. I give it back. She stand there, watching in my eyes. Is when I see she smile that I realise I
put the fingers that reach the button in my mouth. She taste salt and smell sweet. She push the dress off one shoulder, then
the next one. It land on she hips and catch there. Can’t go no farther past the swelling of she belly and bamsie without help.
And me, I only watching at the full and swing and round of she bubbies and is like my tongue swell up and my whole body it
hot it hot it hot like fire.

“You like me?” she say.

“I… I think so.”

“Help me take off my dress the rest of the way?” She telling me I could touch she. My mother was the last somebody what make
me touch their body, when I was helping Daddy look after she before she dead. Mummy was wasting away them times there. She
skin was dry and crackly like the brown paper we does wrap the fish in. But this skin on this lady belly and hips put me in
mind of that time Daddy take me to visit my granny in the town, how Granny put me on she knee and give me cocoa-tea to drink
that she make by grating the cocoa and nutmeg into the hot milk, how Granny did wearing abrown velvet dress and I never touch
velvet, before neither since, and I just sit there so on Granny knee, running my thumb across a little piece of she sleeve
over and over again, drinking hot cocoa-tea with plenty condensed milk. This woman skin under my hands put me in mind of that
somehow, of velvet and hot cocoa with thick, sweet condensed milk and the delicious fat floating on top. As I pass my hands
over she hips to draw down the dress the rest of the way, I feel to just stop there and do that all evening, to just touch
she flesh over and over again like a piece of brown velvet.

Then she make a kind of little wiggle and the dress drop right down on the ground and is like I get transfix. My two eye-them
get full up of beauty and if God did strike me dead right there I woulda die happy.

She only smiling, smiling. “Like you like what you see, eh, Fisherman?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She step out the dress and go over to the bed. She lie back on it and I mark how she bubbies roll to either side when she
do so. Today I bring back two fat, round pumpkin from the market, rolling around in my basket. The soup from those pumpkins
going to be nice. I taste the salt on my lips still from when I touch she bubbies and lick my fingers after.

She say, “Come over here, K.C.”

I go and sit on the edge of the bed, not too close. And now I shame again, for it have a white crochet spread on the bed,
and white pillowcases on the pillows and them, with some yellow and pink embroidery edging the pillowcases. I can’t get my
fisherman stink all over this lady nice bed!

“Take off your shoes and your pants, K.C.”

So I do that, giving thanks that I could turn my back on she and not see she watching when I get naked.

“The underwears too.”

I drag off my underpants, the one good ones with no stain. I fold them up small small and put them at the foot of the bed.
I leave my hand on them. They still warm from my body. I feel to never leave that warmth.

“Come into bed with me.”

So then I had was to turn around to climb on the bed. I feel so big and boobaloops and clumsy. I roll back the bedspread,
careful, and sit down on the sheet. I pull my knees up to my chest. I watch at she feet. Pretty feet. No callus though.

She rise up in the bed, sit facing me. She ease the crochet bedspread out from under she body and roll it all the way down
to the end of the bed. What she go do now? I nearly perishing for fright. “Lie back, K.C.”

So I do that, stiff like one piece of plank. She lean over me, she chest hanging nearly in my face. If she come down any lower,
how I go breathe? She start passing she hands over my two shoulders, side to side. Big, warm hands. Big like mine. All these
years, is this my skin been hungry for. I feel my whole body getting warm, melting into the soft bed. I close my eyes.

“Nice?” she ask.

“Mm-hmm.”

She hands pass side to side, side to side, so hot and nice on my skin. And then the hands go under my bubbies, weighing. I
jump and my eyes start open, but the look on she face ain’t telling me nothing. I turn a piece of board again, just lying
there. She run she thumbs over my nipples and I swear I feel it right down to my crotch. Is so I does do myself nights when
the skin hunger get too bad, but Jesus God, how it powerful when somebody else do it for you! My breath coming hard, making
little sounds. Can’t make she see, can’t make she hear. I go to push she hands away.

“Is all right, K.C. Nothing for shame. Relax, nuh?”

“I doing it right?”

“When it feeling good, you doing it right.”

I must be doing it plenty right, then. I put my head on the pillow again. She start to squeeze my bubbies, to pull and tug
at them. I ain’t know how much time past, I just get lost in what she hands doing. The little noises I making coming louder
now. I wonder if Lennie could hear me, and Two-Tone, but I decide I ain’t care.

The woman hands on my belly now, massaging the big swell of it. Between my legs my blood only beating, beating. I want… no,
I ain’t want that. How anybody could want that? But when she push my legs apart, when that big, warm hand cover my whole pum-pum
and squeeze, I swear it try to leap into she hands. She push apart my legs little more, spread my pum-pum lips open. Oy-oy-oy,
I shame, but I couldn’t stand to stop she. She press on that place, the place between my legs I find to rub so long ago. I
forget how to breathe. “Look your little parson’s nose there,” she giggle. She take she hand away and I nearly beg she to
put it back. She lick she fingers. She must be did watching my face, how it get disgust, for she say, “You never taste yourself?”

“Yes.” My voice come out small.