Scarlet Redemption

by Lani Wendt Young

  Immediately two women next to her – leap up and slap her face. One slap. Two. Then a fuki of her hair just for good measure. How dare you contradict the Matriarch!? An older version of Dora, her mother? – comes running from outside the fale and tugs at Dora’s hair bun, dragging her up and out of the assembly. Muttering and berating her as she goes.

  Now mother’s look of concern makes sense. She’s freaking out that I might shame us all by saying something stupid in front of Great Aunty. I’m sure Mother’s hands are itching to give me a pre-emptive slap and yank me out of here by my hair before I can open my mouth again.

  Great Aunty’s lip curls as she watches the offender get removed. She has a large mole on the right side of her upper lip and I’m finding it hard not to stare as it wobbles every time she purses her mouth.

  She looks back at me and the intensity of her stare has me sitting up straight – but then slouching back down again as I remember that here, one doesn’t show respect by standing tall. Especially not taller than the tiny elder beside you. So confusing sometimes to be straddling two cultures. Dammit.

  Aunty doesn’t care about my inner cultural turmoil. “You’re the girl they sent away to live in America.”

  I nod and then remember my manners. “Yes Aunty.”

  There’s a sly gleam in her eyes. “You’re the girl who was drunk and pua’i at the funeral.”

  The coconut wire is strong, reaching all the way here. I cannot turn away from the shark noose rope trap of her gaze that tells me she knows. You’re the girl who got pregnant and had an abortion? You’re the girl who did bad things?

  I nod again and steel myself for what comes next.

  “I never liked him,” Aunty says with a sneer.

  Excuse me?

  “He was not a good boy. Even when he lived here with your grandparents. He was maka’i fale.”

  All the noise of just-another-day in Savaii dims and fades. There is no one here but me, Great-Aunty. And Mother, who is sitting still and with a face like stone.

  “I told my sister he was a bad one. She tried to beat it out of him with lots of Jesus, but he had a sickness inside. How did he die?” asks Aunty.

  I pretend ignorance. “Who?”

  She gives me a look of disgust. “Solomona. Who else.”

  “Cancer,” I say disguising my inner screaming with abject politeness.

  Aunty shakes her head. “No. It was ma’i Samoa. Spirit sickness. A curse.” She says it with such obvious relish that for a moment I am afraid of her, thinking of dark whisperings about aitu and teine Sa. “The aitu sends the rotting sickness to such men. Was it in his poki?”

  Great-aunty seems slightly obsessed with penises.

  “No, not his prostate. I think it was lung cancer.”

  Aunty isn’t dissuaded. A sage nod. “Telesa matagi sends ma’i Samoa in the air. You can’t hide from them.” She gives me a laser sharp glare. “It was different when we were the feagaiga. When the word of a daughter, a sister carried the power. Any man who did the things he did? No matter how old or young. No matter who he was. Would have been shamed. Punished. Driven out of the nu’u. In the old times, your mother would have cut him.” She mimes a vigorous slashing motion, the glee evident on her face.

  Okay then.

  I purposely avoid looking at Mother on the other side of the fale. I don’t want to see the anger in her eyes. The condemnation. I have weathered enough of it to last me several lifetimes. I didn’t bring up Solomon. This is all Great-Aunty.

  There’s a long pause and it seems like Aunty has fallen asleep, her head dropping in a dozy slumber. I am about to get up and creep away, make my escape while Dora is getting chastened by her mother. There’s still time for me to make it to the truck.

  But then Pativaine’s head jerks up and her eyes glare right at me.

  “Do you see…” she pauses with a furrowing of her wrinkly brow, then turns to snap at the nearest daughter in attending. “O lea le igoa o le kama o le aka foi gale?” What’s the name of that actor again?

  They don’t know the answer and so they look fearful.

  Aunty is impatient and spits curse words at them. They are shit eaters, dumber than the actual ass of an ass, and their grandmothers are peeing in their graves at how ashamed they are of such ignorant descendants.

  Finally, one of the lesser aunts hazards a cautious guess. And yes she’s correct!

  Aunty Pativaine is gleeful. “Rambo!” she says. “Sylvester Stallone. Do you see him there in America? He’s my favorite. Very manaia.”

  Great Aunty is a Rambo fan? I wasn’t expecting that.

  “Well, he did come to Vegas last winter I think. I saw him.” On the TV. Along with fifty million other people.

  Aunty is delighted. “You saw him? What did you think? What’s he like? Did he look the same as in the movies?”

  I don’t want to tell her that I haven’t seen any of Stallone’s movies. “Ummm, yes he does. Exactly the same. Very handsome. Big muscles. And a very nice man.” Like me and Rambo are besties. And I was standing only a breath away from his muscles.

  “What’s your favorite Rambo movie?” she demands.

  I hazard the safest guess possible. “The first one.”

  It’s the right answer because she nods with grim seriousness. “The second one was alright but not as good.”

  She then launches into a monologue about Stallone’s performance in lots of different movies. I say monologue because it’s clear that she doesn’t expect me to say anything. My contribution to this conversation is to listen in wide-eyed appreciation and nod every so often. I’m just glad she’s not lacerating me with a recital of all my ancestor’s sins. Out of the corner of my eye I see Mother relaxing visibly. Have a little faith in me mom! I got this.

  It seems all one needs to do to be in Great Aunty’s good books, is to say you saw Rambo in real life and lie about loving his movies, because when it’s time for us to leave to catch the last boat back to Upolu, she pulls me tight in a wiry-armed hug.

  After planting a wet kiss on my cheek she looks me in the eye and says with matter of fact casualness, “I will die soon. You won’t see me again. So listen from in here.” She stabs at my chest with a bony finger.

  “You are too much living afraid. Solomona is dead. The aitu of our family is still watching over us women. Even though we try to forget them with Jesus. Don’t waste their justice and suffocate in fear of a dead man.” A nod at the other women in the fale where somewhere there is Dora. “That fire you showed? Speak it more. Live it more. Then you can be like me.”

  I try to think of something to say but Aunty is done, waving me away with sour impatience as she yells for someone to bring her tobacco leaves. I’m walking to the car when Aunty calls out with a loud voice. “Remember, always keep a sapelu by your bed! And don’t be afraid to use it when you take a man in there.” She makes that vicious slashing motion again that’s scary even though her arms are skin and bone.

  Relationship advice for every woman – keep a machete by your bed and make sure your man knows you can use it.

  In the car to the wharf, Mother complains loudly about Great Aunt’s blasphemy. She is thankful that Father was not there to hear it. (In that is an unspoken warning not to repeat a word of the incident to anyone in case it reaches Father’s ears of judgement.) She mourns the passing of her mother, because “Only she could talk sense to Aunty.” She tells us never to follow Pativaine’s example of disrespect and sacrilege. “Everyone is so scared of her. Oka! And she wonders why I never want to go visit her.”

  I say something about Aunty being old and hasn’t she earned the right to be as outspoken as she wants to be?

  Mother makes a snort of disgust. “She was always like that. Even when I was a small girl. Always speaking things she shouldn’t.”

  I think about Great-Aunty all the long ferry ride and drive home. I’m not surprised or even troubled that she knows about Solomon. This is Samoa where everyone knows everything abo
ut everyone. But it’s her admonition that keeps echoing…You are too much living afraid.

  Is she right? And if so, what am I afraid of?

  I make a decision. I don’t know if it’s the sort of thing Great-Aunty had in mind when she told me to stop living afraid, but I’m doing it anyway. Jackson is going back to America soon and once he goes, that’s it. Any chance I may have of fixing whatever this thing is between us? Will be gone too.

  I go to the hotel, ask at the front desk for directions to Jackson’s room and the woman at reception gives me a look of disdain.

  “Mr. Emory? Is he expecting you?” she asks. The way she says his name, in a caressing kind of way tells me that she knows who Jackson is. She’s noticed him.

  Every jealous particle of me bristles, like it would if I were Jackson’s girlfriend and had a right to be jealous and bristly. I want to say, Bitch please, he has licked me from head to toe like a starving man with an ice cream sundae who just can’t get enough.

  But I don’t. I am here to grovel and apologise to Jackson and I’m not sure how my grovelling will be received. He could very well call for security to escort me from the building and then this evil snake will laugh at me.

  So instead I smile with barbed sweetness. “Yes he most certainly is. Waiting. For me to come.” I may have placed undue breathy emphasis on cooooome.

  Without batting an eye, the receptionist hits back. “You should know the hotel has a policy about women visiting men’s rooms.”

  Only in Samoa. Now I want to smack her.

  “Really? I wonder how Mr Emory will feel when he finds out that I can’t make our very important meeting because a ….receptionist tried to bar me from the room.” I put on my most efficient corporate-sounding voice. The one where I sound like a palagi who went to Cambridge University and then had tea with the Queen. The voice every brown person knows will get us better service and more respect. Yes, we even use that voice on each other. Because it works. “I may have to file a complaint with your manager. This is unacceptable behaviour and not the standard of service I would expect from what’s supposed to be Samoa’s best hotel.” I’m going to add in more, like – ‘I wonder what the local newspaper would make of this story!’ and ‘You can be certain I will be writing a detailed unfavourable review on Trip Advisor! And taking this matter to social media in the worst way possible!’ But I don’t need to. The woman backs off immediately. I stride away with my head held high and my back ironing-board straight, hoping that I radiate #bossBitch vibes. But as soon as I get to Jackson’s door, my fake white people confidence fades.

  What am I doing here? Am I really doing this?

  Deep breath. I knock and from within I hear his muffled voice. “Coming.” Footsteps. “You can just put it here.”

  The door opens and the words trail away when he sees me. “You’re not room service.”

  My rehearsed speech disintegrates at the sight of him. “You’re not wearing any clothes,” I say.

  Because he isn’t. Jackson Emory is standing in the doorway with nothing but a towel tied at his hips. It’s a small towel and Jackson Emory is a very big man. He’s just stepped out of the shower and droplets of water glisten on every line and muscled curve of his torso. He was shaving because he’s got a razor in one hand and half his face still has a froth of white cream on it.

  He’s a tall drink of ice vai tipolo on a steaming hot day. Brown sugar gritty on your tongue, crunchy sweetness in your mouth.

  There’s surprise on his face and then quickly replaced with a mask of reserve. “Scarlet. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  And I wasn’t expecting you to be naked, but hey, life’s full of unexpected blessings.

  “Can I come in?” I ask. Please say yes. Please.

  He opens the door wider and steps back. “Of course.”

  Even in my current state I can still appreciate the splendour of the finest suite money can buy in Samoa.

  “Wow. This is fancy.” I suddenly feel very dirty and very poor. I showered before I came over but maybe I should have gone to the salon and gotten my hair done too. Booked a makeup artist. This was a bad idea. I need to go. I clamp down on my inner panic. Because the blood of poki-chopping warrior women runs in my veins and I can do this.

  “Please, sit down, make yourself comfortable.” He points to his face. “Let me finish up. I’ll be quick.”

  “Sure. I’ll wait.”

  He disappears through another door, but doesn’t close it so he can call out over the sound of a tap running. “I thought you were Afa with the breakfast order. He’s great. Gives me a commentary every morning on his night out…” Then there’s a sharp exclamation.

  “Did you cut yourself?” I call out.

  He reappears in the doorway, frowning, one hand to his jaw. “How did you guess?”

  “I say fuck too when I cut myself shaving my legs.”

  There’s blood leaking through his fingers now and he looks around to grab tissue to staunch it.

  I take refuge in being efficient and medically proficient. I’ve watched every season of Grey’s Anatomy. I got this. “Sit down, let me help.”

  He obeys and I go to study the cut. “Wow it’s a big one. You’re careless, aren’t you.”

  A frown. “I was in a rush.”

  “Oh? Nervous because I walked in on you naked?” I tease.

  “Half-naked,” he corrects me. “I have a towel on.”

  I scoff. “That little thing? Oh Jackson please, it barely covers anything.”

  Our eyes and smiles meet and it’s a perfect moment of lightness, one worth savouring. One I put in my pocket of memories, storing for later when I go back to my real life.

  I help him clean up and stick a bit of plaster on his jawline before he goes to put some clothes on, re-emerging in a white shirt and pants. How is it possible that I want to have sex with him even more when he has clothes on?

  “I thought you’d left already,” I said. “But Troy said your flight got cancelled.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Something about donkeys on the runway? Getting sucked into the plane engine?”

  I make a yuck face. “Ugh, only in Samoa!”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks. Without waiting for a reply he goes to the bar on the opposite side of the room. Ice and Diet Coke.

  “Oh, no champagne?” I quip because I’m nervous and I always say dumb things when I’m nervous.

  The careful way that he hands me the glass tells me he’s feeling some of the caution and anxiety that I’ve got bubbling inside me.

  That glimpse gives me reassurance. I take a deep breath as we both sit on opposite sides of the couch.

  “I came to talk to you about what happened at the hospital…” I say, ready to do this right. But he interrupts.

  “No, let me say something first, please,” he says. “I was out of line. I have no business telling you how to be with your family. I shouldn’t have said what I did and I’m sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair as he frowns. “We only just met and I got no right to step in like that. I hate seeing you unhappy, or anyone – even your family – disrespect you like that. But the more I learn about Samoan culture and how families work here, the more I realise how out of line I was. This is new, we’re new and I overstepped. I hope I haven’t screwed everything up.”

  I look at this man who radiates earnest apology and all I can think is how bad I want to hold him, hug him, kiss him and love him. I move to his side of the couch and lay a finger against his lips.

  “Shhh Jackson. Stop talking. I’m sorry too.”

  And then I kiss him. For a heartbeat he is frozen with surprise, and then he is kissing me back. It’s languorous and slow, tongue play so delicious that I feel like I could do this all day, and all night. I want to weep at how right it feels. How kissing him feels like returning to a home I never knew I had. Safe, secure, familiar, forever welcome.

  But then it gets hungry. His hands come up to tug me closer, the kiss deepens
and I want – I need – to get closer.

  I pause for a moment – so I can straddle him, so I can better hold his face in my hands, so I can drink him in. I can feel his hardness, a growing surging heat between my widespread legs and I grind against him instinctively. He groans, reaches up to fist a handful of my hair so he can pull my head back, so he can kiss the line of my throat, and then down to the wire of electricity that runs along my shoulders. A muttering that sounds a lot like a curse word when my shirt gets in the way.

  “Off,” he demands, curt and rough.

  I like curt and rough Jackson!

  I’m tugging at my shirt but it’s too slow for him and before I can register what’s happening – he grips the fabric with two hands and rips it open. A sound of triumph and then he is peeling down the lace cups of my bra. The sound of my breathing is loud in the suite but not as loud as my mewling cry when he suckles first one breast and then the other. His mouth is hot and wet and he sucks, licks and nibbles with a fierceness that both hurts and feels very, very good at the same time.

  I am rubbing against him now in a regular bucking rhythm and the barrier of our clothing has me whimpering with frustration. I want to move off his lap so I can unzip him, so I can get the last of our clothes out of the way, but he won’t let me. Instead he grips both breasts in his big hands and centres me.

  Another command. “Be still.”

  This is a Jackson I haven’t seen before. Authoritative and in control. I love it.

  He holds me still on his lap so he can tease each turgid nipple with his tongue, lapping at them and making me squirm as he gently pinches and tweaks the thick buds.

  “So does this mean you accept my apology,” I gasp, trying to joke and lighten the moment but failing miserably because he’s doing things that make any conversation impossible. So I just rock against him instead and give myself over to the waves of delight.

  “See how beautiful you are Scarlet?” he says, voice thick with desire as he looks up at me. “I can’t get enough of you.”