How Stella Got Her Groove Back (17 page)

“You go to hell, Stella. But seriously. Have a great time and try to stay out of trouble.”

“Not to worry,” I say.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Bye, Angela. And I love you too.”

Boy, and I thought my life was sad.

• • • •

It is time for karaoke and I drag myself down the pathway and say hello to the night workers and go upstairs to the piano bar and sure enough it is filled to the brim with people mostly white people and they are singing up a storm and the words are on the white wall and they hand me a book and say pick a song and I am not at all into this. I go downstairs and find myself walking into the empty disco where Bevon the DJ is testing out his selections for tonight and I ask him if he’ll play Diana King’s “Shy Guy” and he says sure and he does and I stand on the dance floor by myself and dance and then he plays one of my absolute favorites by Seal, “Dreaming in Metaphors,” and then “Groovin in the Midnight” by Maxi Priest, “Open Your Heart” by M People, and after “I’m Ready” by Tevin Campbell I have swerved swayed and swiveled until this sadness this hollow feeling overwhelms me and I say thank you and get out of there until I find myself taking a shower and putting on my cotton pajamas and sliding under the covers which do not smell like anything at all and I spend hours trying to shut down my brain and heart to rid them of him his image his scent those fucking kisses until I guess I finally fall asleep.

• • • •

I am running on the beach this morning but my feet feel like lead and why is it that this beach seems longer and it’s already hot too damn hot and why does it have to be so hot so early in the morning? Huh? I pass quite a few people on the beach, two of whom to my surprise are black women. They say hello and give me the thumbs-up and I think it is nice to see yourself outside yourself sometimes and it is also a nice feeling when black people acknowledge each other.

I continue with my normal routine after I run. I do the breakfast thing but Winston does not appear and I pretend that I’m not thinking about him but I have to make myself blink sometimes because it seems as if I see his translucent form walking right through these tables and heading in my direction. The two women I saw on the beach stop at my table with their trays. “Mind if we join you?” the taller one asks.

“Not at all,” I say.

We introduce ourselves. The tall one’s name is Tonya and although I guessed that she’s a model it turns out she’s a surgery resident at Massachusetts General Hospital in Cambridge. She barely looks old enough to be a candy striper. Patrice is an anesthesiologist at St. Luke’s in Manhattan and she looks Puerto Rican or like she’s mixed with something; her skin is flawless, a smooth creamy shade of brown, and her hair is long and thin, bone straight and black, and as soon as they start talking I’m sure they’re both from the South somewhere but it turns out to be Chicago and they’ve been friends since elementary school. I tell them I’m from Chicago too but I grew up in the burbs and so did they and we like bond immediately because of the strong geographical factor. I tell them what I do for a living and once we get all this over with we sort of feel like, well, like three girls on vacation. “What made you guys come to Negril?” I ask.

“Well, we wanted to get away from our husbands,” Tonya says and they laugh. Tonya is pulling her hair back into a ponytail. They are in great shape: Patrice has one of those
Shape
magazine bodies and Tonya looks like a few more crunches a day and she’d be a runner-up for the cover. Neither of them has any children and they’re both thirty-one years old.

“You guys didn’t come down here to get in trouble or anything, did you?”

Patrice blushes and says, “Not really. We love our husbands even though they get on our nerves sometimes, but we’ve both been working so hard these last eight or nine months and we hardly ever get to see each other anymore so we decided to take a girls’ vacation and leave their butts at home. That’s all.”

“That sounds healthy,” I say.

“Did I mention that I’m two months pregnant?” Tonya says.

“No,” I say. “Congratulations.”

Tonya says, “And what about you, girl? Where’s your man?”

I feel kind of flushed. “Well, I came alone.”

“You go, girl,” she says, and they give each other a high five.

“So. Have you gotten in any trouble?” Patrice asks and they both lean forward so all four of their combined breasts rest on the table.

I am blushing harder.

“Tell us, girl, tell us! Curious minds wanna know!”

I lean forward and now there are six breasts sitting on the table. “Well, since I don’t know you sisters I guess it’s safe to tell you but I should be ashamed of myself even though I’m not but I slept with a twenty-one-year-old Jamaican guy.”

“No you didn’t!” Patrice says.

“Yes I did,” I say.

“So what was it like doing it with a kid?” Tonya asks.

I don’t like the sound of that. “He’s not a kid.”

“Whatever,” she says. “What was it like?”

“Yeah, tell us.
How
was it, girl?” Patrice asks, bending even closer.

“Well, he moved like butter for one thing and I’m here to testify that I have never been kissed so good in my entire life.”

“Get outta here,” Patrice says, looking envious.

“A kiss can do it to you sometimes,” Tonya says.

“Tell me about it. I was like totally shocked. I mean here I am thinking I’m gonna teach him a few things, turn this young boy out and blow his mind and hopefully make him think he’s on fire and, well, do you see flames coming out of these braids or what?”

“It was
that
good, huh?” Patrice groans.

“I’m not even talking about the sex, you guys. It was some other stuff going on that I can’t put my finger on. But all I know is that I’m messed up. Fucked up really. Because he’s gone.”

“Damn,” Patrice says and takes a sip of her lemonade.

“Where’d he go?” Tonya asks.

“Well, he got a new job working down the road at Windswept so he had to go home and get his stuff which is like a four-hour drive from here because when he comes back he’ll be like living there and everything.”

“So go visit him,” Patrice says. “My husband and I stayed there for our honeymoon. It’s a beautiful resort, for couples only. Girl, go on down there and get your man,” and the three of us start laughing.

I shake my head back and forth. “Can’t do that. Don’t know him well enough and I could scare the daylights out of him. Nope. I just wish I could stop thinking about him.”

“This is too deep for me,” Tonya says. “Girl, forget about him. Look at it for what it was: a one-nighter. You’re on vacation. On a tropical island. It’s called a fling. Not to be confused with the beginning or blossoming of a new relationship. The guy is exotic and goes with the island. It’s not like something like this could lead to marriage! Find yourself a new victim tonight, girl, and you’ll get over this little infatuation before you even blink.”

“Would you shut your mouth, Tonya,” Patrice moans and now all of us sit up and I feel like I’ve just reenacted the last episode of
I’ll Fly Away
or something and we are all gathering our composure and trying to step out of that zone. Patrice seems to be totally identifying as if she’s been here done that she can relate, girl, when Holly, this sexy tall lithe young social director with short curly hair whose breasts are so voluptuous they make all three sets of ours look weak and who has apparently been ill for the last two days flops down at our table and announces herself by saying “Hello” loudly in a British accent.

We each say hello back to her, and she sings, “Don’t let me interrupt you. Carry on,” and she taps the tabletop with her palm.

And so I do. “Anyway I
miss
my new boyfriend.”

And Holly says, “Boyfriend? What’s his name there?”

And I say, “Win-ston,” in a Jamaican accent.

And she says, “You’ve got to be kidding. Not tall skinny homely Winston with the big lips?”

Patrice and Tonya are doing that tennis-watching thing with their heads and I say, “Yes, he’s my friend. Why, what’s wrong with Winston?”

Holly makes a yucky face and then pushes the air with her hands and says, “He’s been after me for so long now he’s getting on my nerves.”

All of our eyebrows go up, but looking at her with her flawless sienna skin perfect white teeth round cheekbones curly eyelashes long shapely legs that tiny waist those curvy hips—she could easily be a high-paid runway model—I totally understand why Win-ston would be persistent in calling her. The fact that she does not take my “my boyfriend” at all seriously even though I was trying for facetiousness (although deep down inside I liked the sound of it after I said it) is kind of like a reality check and is somewhat heartbreaking for me at this moment in time and space. “You mean you don’t find Winston attractive?” I ask, trying not to sound defensive.

“He’s kind of cute but far too skinny. He really needs to gain some weight and he has no money and he’s far too passive.”

“Passive?” I say. I want to say, I beg to differ with you, sweetheart, but I don’t, and as I’m thinking this Patrice and Tonya both give me the eye but Holly keeps right on talking.

“Yes, passive. He’s kind of slow actually and besides I’m sick of Jamaican men. They have no money, hardly any class at all, they can’t dress, and I’m hoping to meet an American man one of these days.”

“Is that why you have this job?” Patrice asks.

“No. It’s just a job,” she says, looking around the dining room, perhaps for a prospect. I’d really have liked to tell her that young men rarely go on vacation alone because they don’t know how to entertain themselves and basically because they’re, well, stupid and they don’t want to bet on getting lucky when they can just pay up front and bring all the luck they need with them. So the chances of her actually meeting somebody who would forget about the Miss America runner-up he brought with him and go off in her direction would be slim indeed and she should save up her money and just like get on a plane and fly to the U.S.A., though her chances of getting lucky there will probably (but I don’t dare say this to her) be even slimmer because there are millions of pretty women in the United States hoping and praying they get lucky too.

Holly taps the table again with her palm and jumps up. “Well, gotta go. Enjoy your breakfast. Are any of you ladies interested in a game of volleyball today?”

We look at each other. I say, “Maybe,” and Patrice says, “Maybe,” and Tonya says, “Maybe,” and then we all laugh.

“She was cute,” Tonya says.

“She was phony and knows exactly how cute she is, but forget about her, we want to hear more about Winston,” Patrice says.

So I go back to day one and tell them everything and by the time I finish we are lying out on the beach on our respective chaise longues and Norris comes over and says, “Ladies, are you going to play volleyball today?” and we all gaze up but I can see he is clearly looking at me and he says, “Did you know Winston stopped by this morning to drop off my key? You
do
know he was sharing my room?”

And I say, “No,” and he smiles like the bitch he is and says, “Yep,” and turns around and struts away like Naomi and Cindy do on those runways. I hate him.

“Who’s Miss Thang?” Patrice asks over her sunglasses.

“I think he has a crush on Winston,” I say.

“That’s pretty obvious,” Tonya says and rolls over.

“I don’t want to play volleyball,” I say.

“Me neither. We just got here last night and we’re tired,” Tonya says.

“Yeah,” says Patrice. “I’m volleying right here.”

We basically ignore Holly and Norris and when we hear the sound of drums and cymbals and “The Star-Spangled Banner” we each pull our sunglasses away from our eyes and turn to see where the noise is coming from.

We simply do not cannot believe what we see coming in our direction: a parade of red white and blue painted people. And there are about fifty or sixty of them! “They must think today is the Fourth of July!” I yell.

“You ain’t never lied,” Tonya says.

And we sit there until these naked patriots march right by us, their bodies painted interpretations of the American flag. Lips are red. Hair is blue. Black bodies are rendered iridescent white. Stars are painted across bellies and behinds and an old man’s penis is red white and blue while a woman who has not had the liposuction she needs has miniature flags covering her private area and glued to each of her huge breasts. They are blowing trumpets singing up a storm and waving as they walk past us. We watch the heat from the sun melt the blue red and white but we are too stunned to comment and we just stare until they turn around and walk by us again and then we just sort of lie there and it is obvious that we are all thinking the same thing: did we just see a parade of painted naked people marching along the beach? We think we did we think we did we think we did.

To our complete astonishment, the volleyball game has continued uninterrupted. We shake our heads back and forth and drop them against our towels, which are rolled to form pillows, until we get so hot we run out into the water and swim for a while and then I guess we eat lunch and then I take my afternoon nap and then I eat dinner again and walk into the empty disco and it is boring and I go to my room and wonder what Winston is doing if he is thinking about me at all and I am thinking it is only Sunday and I still have all of Monday Tuesday and Wednesday left to go and why on earth did I have to stay so many days what am I going to do here on this stupid island without him? I mean I like Patrice and Tonya but they are not quite as stimulating company as Winston is and as I look out at those massive waves crashing against the big rocks again and I press Seal On again and I stand out on that balcony and breathe in the ocean air again and look out as far as I can but don’t see anything at all except the world looking as if it ends somewhere out there and I step back inside and close the French doors because I’m tired of all this beauty all this water all this whatever, because it feels like this tropical fever has broken and now I just want to go home.