“I know,” I say. “But I’m really sorry to hear about your mama, Maisha. And you be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do, cause I don’t have one to complain about or help.”
“I know, baby. But hey. Let’s get off this dreary subject. So anyway, you know what?”
“What?”
“Stop acting like such a fucking grown-up, Stella. Do you realize that as women we’ve been programmed to do the right thing since we were little girls and even when we were in our twenties and tripping hard with these fools we were in love with—remember when we were all doing drugs and hanging out partying?”
“Of course I remember. Well, sort of.”
“Anyway, my point is: even back then when we were supposed to be footloose and free spirits and shit, who was the one in the relationship who made sure the rent and stuff was paid on time?”
“We did.”
“Who made sure shit got taken care of in general?”
“We did.”
“So my point is we’ve acted responsibly for so long that I think we could’ve had more fun than we did and in fact I believe we’re entitled to a whole lot more so I think now is the time for you to enjoy what the fuck you missed.”
“Never thought about it that way.”
“Think about it. And think about this. What if Win-ston really falls in love?”
“And?”
“First of all, a lot of young men fantasize about being with an older woman because who better to learn the ropes from? And also, if they’re able to please and satisfy you, then that’s a feather in their ego cap. Some of them use this experience so they go out and trample all over these hot young girls, but some of them actually do like older women and some of them do fall in love.”
“But I can’t do anything about that.”
“Just remember that this isn’t just about you, Stella.”
“I know,” I say. “But stop, Maisha. I can’t think straight as it is.”
“This is one of the signs,” she says.
• • • •
When we get to her house, Rudy is there. He is a jazz musician. A saxophonist who has played with the best, including Miles Davis. He also teaches jazz theory and composition at the university. He is cooking and Maisha frowns when she sees him in the kitchen and shakes her head back and forth to me as if to say disaster disaster and when he turns around she smiles in pure delight. “Rudy! Making dinner again!”
“Yep. This is something special I had when I was in Brazil, if I can remember the shit right, but I’ll know it when I add enough of these spices to it. Hey, Stella. What’s the deal with all the hair?”
“Shut up, Rudy. I bought it.”
“Yeah, and who had to die in order for you to get it?” He laughs. “Is everything all right down at the gallery?” he asks Maisha.
“Everything’s ready to go,” she says. “I was telling Stella here she ought to do some more of those tables and what is that stuff you use to make them smooth and brassy looking?”
“Gold leaf.”
“Yeah. And what else have you made lately that you keep hidden in the garage?”
“Well, I made this thing which I brought down here just for you.”
“You brought me something? Oh where is it, go get it, please, you give me the best gifts a girl could ever have. What is it? Earrings? Stella, you should sell those damn things. I could sell them from the gallery, you know. Come on upstairs.”
We run up the stairs of this house that looks like something out of Interior Design because even though the furnishings are sparse the artwork dominates and what is in here is jamming.
I open up my garment bag and pull out something I call wearable art. It is a crop-top sweater made of copper thread that I have knitted together and bordered with rust-colored angora.
“Don’t stand here and tell me you made this?”
“I am standing here telling you I made this. Started it over a year ago, finished it this spring—remember when I got that virus and was stuck in bed?”
Maisha nods though I know she doesn’t remember.
“Anyway I didn’t have anything else to do and to be honest I’d forgotten all about it until I was packing to come here.”
“Girl, you ought to quit. This is beautiful! I love it. I want some more of them. Make some for the gallery. Please. Where did you come up with the idea? What is it made of?”
“Copper thread, sort of. Put it on.”
“Are you crazy?”
“You can wear it, Maisha.”
“Oh no, baby. I’m not wearing this. I’m putting this on my wall. No, I’m going to put it in the gallery. Today. Would you mind?”
“It’s yours. Do whatever you want to do with it. I’m just glad you like it.”
“Like it?” And she walks over and gives me a big hug. “You are better than you think you are, girl. And that is a good thing, but you need to wake up.”
“Oh, guess what else?”
“What?”
“I got fired.”
“Good,” she says. “It’s about time you got out of that dreadful place. You did it long enough. So now I guess you can finally be the artist you were meant to be, right?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You’ll see,” she says. “You’ll see how far to go.” And then in the next breath: “Girl, I think Winston sounds wonderful and I hope you fall hopelessly in love and that he blows your mind because Lord knows you’ve been in a slump since your divorce. Enjoy yourself. So do you love him? Tell me the truth.”
“I don’t know!”
“Bullshit. You do know.”
“I guess I do but it’s kind of embarrassing to admit.”
“What’s to be embarrassed about, girl? He’s a man. You’re a woman. Whammo.”
“All I know is he feels like the Lieutenant of Love and I feel resurrected or something.”
“Well, girl, you sure look good and I can’t tell if it’s the hair or what but whatever works, work it.”
“I’m trying,” I say. “But Maisha, this is scary, you know.”
“So what?”
“I know. But to be honest, don’t think I haven’t thought about what I’d do when he gets here and I can’t stand the idea of his leaving. I mean what would I do?”
“Ask him to stay,” she says. “Simple as that. Now come on, we need to go downstairs and pretend to eat Rudy’s nasty dinner and girl just nibble on it and I’ll distract him long enough to toss the shit out and then we need to get dressed.”
• • • •
Rudy’s meal is fabulous and as a matter of fact we all take seconds. Maisha is so proud she hugs him twice. We all get dudded up and head for the gallery, where people are already trying to find parking spaces. Maisha has my sweater in her hand and as soon as she gets into her office she makes a tag for it and finds a small spot on the wall near the door to the garden, where long tables are filled with fresh flowers and cheese and fruit and wine. This show is a retrospective of about twenty African American artists’ work and within the next hour the place is swarming with two hundred plus people. Checks are being written. Credit cards are being whipped out. Little red dots are placed on pieces that hang on the wall or stand on the floor.
Maisha saunters over to me. In her pale yellow suit, she looks great, smart, funky. “Girl, eight people have asked me about your piece. We are going to have to talk some more about this. I mean it. You should pay attention, for real. Isn’t everything just gorgeous?”
“Everything’s gorgeous,” I say and walk her over to what appears to be a very old photograph of a black family that somehow has been transferred onto glass by the artist Mildred Howard—and I look on my price sheet one more time—it’s $3,500—and knowing I can’t afford it, I ask, “Maisha, can you please put me on the friendly payment plan? I have to have this. These people could be my family.”
She gives me a big hug and then whispers in my ear. “Girl, don’t look, but that guy over
there has been asking Rudy about you all evening and he wants to meet you, girl.”
I turn to look and I must admit that if it’s the one I think she’s talking about he is rather splendid in appearance. “Is he the one with the baggy pants and white shirt?”
“Yep. He’s a sculptor and those are two of his pieces over there. You want to meet him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, it won’t hurt. Just meet him. That’s all.”
“Okay.”
I stand there feeling pretty naked. Maisha goes to get him and he is looking at me as he walks over. He is really distinctive looking, like maybe he could be a model or something, because his features are pretty much perfect. I am beginning to notice lips more than I used to and his are thick and smooth and shaped like they would be pleasant to kiss. He looks to be forty maybe and he is about six one and dark dark brown and his skin has almost a satin sheen to it and he has a zillion baby dreadlocks which make him look more like an African prince than What’s-his-name I met in Jamaica who was actually from Senegal.
“Ralston, I’d like you to meet one of my longest and dearest friends. Stella, Ralston.”
“Hello, Ralston,” I say.
“Nice to finally meet you, Stella. I’ve been asking about you pretty much since I got here.”
“Really?”
“Really. And I love your work. But why is there only one piece of yours in here?”
“It’s a long story. I love your pieces. Wish I could afford one.”
“I could make you a deal,” he says and he seems to mean it. He is also looking at me like he’s looking inside me with those beautiful big obsidian eyes and I am feeling a little weird about this so I turn away.
“I’m really on a tight budget,” I say.
“Maybe we could do a trade sometime.”
“Maybe we could,” I say.
“And where do you live?” he asks.
“Up north. In the Bay Area.”
“I do too. Where exactly?”
“Right past Walnut Creek in Alamo.”
“I live in Montclair!”
Gee fucking wilikers.
“We should have lunch sometimes.”
“We should,” I say.
“Would you mind giving me your number?”
“No, I don’t mind,” I say, which is a lie. I have already given my number to whoever I want to have it but I cannot say that to Ralston. “Just get it from Rudy or Maisha,” I say.
“I will call,” he says.
“I’m sure you will,” I say. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to take a look at the rest of the show.”
“Go right ahead,” he says, peering at me like he has made some kind of discovery. What he doesn’t understand is that a prior claim has already been made.
I’M SCARED, WORRIED and beginning to wonder if maybe I am going a little bizonkers. I’m in my truck, on my way to the grocery store. The light is red and I’m just sitting there thinking what have I gotten myself into? I mean what in the hell am I really doing? I mean did I actually send a twenty-one-year-old a first-class airline ticket to come visit me and he said yes and he’s coming here to my home for three whole weeks? I mean, what are we going to do for three whole weeks? I haven’t had a man in my house longer than twenty-four hours in almost three years. You mean someone’ll finally get to use that other sink in my bathroom? But does this also mean I’ll have to clear off that entire counter of all my fingernail polish lotions perfume and makeup? Where will I put this stuff? And what about drawers? Or will he keep his things folded up in his suitcase(s) and I wonder how many of those will he be bringing? And will he want to party all the time? Probably. I mean he loves to dance, and I don’t do the town all that much—well, never, really—which means I’m going to have to do some serious investigating to find the best spots for dancing. But what else? What will we do all day long, since I’m home these days? Will I be carting him around everywhere, because he probably can’t drive and if he can, can he drive a stick, and if so I know he won’t be able to adjust to driving on the right side of the street and I wonder does he even have a driver’s license? Should I do his laundry for him while he’s here or just let it pile up? What if he gets on my nerves? What if I get on his nerves? What if after a few days I realize I don’t like him anymore? That it was just a crush a lustful heated fascination an infatuation. That Angela was right and this was nothing more than a tropical apparition. That I only want him because he’s taboo. I wonder if maybe I was lonely as hell, hard up, just grateful for some attention. No, I wasn’t that fucking hard up and I haven’t exactly been dying of loneliness. I can get a man if I want a man but finding one I really like and yearn for is a whole different brand of Snapple. So no, that’s not it. What if he doesn’t like American food, what will he eat? What if he dies while he’s here? Or what if he gets a toothache or needs an appendectomy or is bringing some incurable tropical disease over here with him? And how about those fruit flies? Does he own a jacket or a coat with a lining in it? I mean the temperature is already starting to drop here and if it turns out that I happen to still kind of like him after he leaves it would be nice if he could like come back for say a winter visit since he will have had a fall visit and then I could take him up to Lake Tahoe and he could see some real snow and we could lie down and make angels and with those long arms, wow, what wings he could make. And Quincy could show him how to snowboard and I could show him how to fly downhill and do bumps. I wonder if he’s ever seen snow? If he’s ever touched anything so cold and soft.
Oh no. There’s one of my neighbors. Shit. The neighbors! What about the neighbors? Who am I going to tell them he is because they will ask they ask about anything that looks new and Winston will be a new addition on the block and a tall handsome one at that and with a Jamaican accent and everybody knows I went to Jamaica this summer and they will think I probably bought him or blackmailed him or kidnapped him and how will I account for his presence? I mean who is he?
I hear someone honking behind me. “I’m moving!” I yell and jut forward put on my blinker and turn into Safeway and now I am smiling. I get a parking space right in front, which means there is a God, and now I’m laughing because I realize that the reason I’m having so much fun this summer is that for the first time in a long long time I am not all that worried about what anybody thinks, and so yes, I am acting a little irrationally, a little spontaneously, but hell, if I had known that acting silly and foolish felt this good I’d have been behaving like this a long time ago.
So to hell with the neighbors. I don’t care what they think. Well, I sort of do because I happen to like my neighbors and besides, I forgot I do have this child who has to face their children on a daily basis, so I will have a little chat with Quincy about yet another deep anthropological philosophical spiritual issue to which I’m sure he will respond in his very own Quincyesque manner. God, I love that boy. Now what did I come here for? Oh yeah, groceries.
• • • •
Quincy and I are bonding again. It is a Saturday night and we are sitting on the red leather love seat in our family room and the dog is at our feet. I wish someone were here to take this picture. We are watching the Discovery Channel, a show called Shipwrecked, which I didn’t tune in to until Quincy had already been watching it about fifteen minutes, but when I asked him if he wanted me to sit down and bond with him, he said, “Sure, Mom. Even though you don’t even know what the word means!”
We both laugh at that because we like to joke around with and use as much of the nineties slang as we can so we will remain among the hip hipper hippest of families ever to grace the suburbs. Not really. He throws the afghan across our laps even though it is rather warm in here and the French doors are open. We are watching what I assume are Australians on a gigantic boat out in the middle of some ocean doing something. “Is this Australia?”
“I’m not sure,” Quincy says.
“Why don’t you know?”
“Because they h
aven’t said where they are.”
“I bet they have said it and you just weren’t listening.”
“I have been listening.”
“Well, where do you think they are?”
“In the sea.”
I want to say, No shit—you are so deep, Quincy. But I wouldn’t dare. “If they did say where they are and you just haven’t been paying attention, you should be paying attention because you’re going to be in junior high school in two weeks and your attention span is going to count for a whole lot and right now you are unable to answer a simple little question that I have posed to you in front of whatever this is but you know what?”
“What?”
“I still love you, boy!”
“I love you too, Mom, but if you hadn’t been in the kitchen banging pots and pans so loud in the dishwasher maybe I would’ve been able to hear where they were!” and as he’s saying it he slowly but steadily rises to a standing position.
“What are they diving for anyway?”
“Some kind of old ship or treasure or something,” he says and flops back down in one kerplunk.
“Which is it?”
“Both!”
“How close are they to finding it?”
“Well, they’ve found some interesting stuff down there, but not enough to answer all their questions. And you know what’s really cool? They don’t have the right kind of equipment to do the kind of diving they’re doing but they’re doing it anyway and guess what, Mom? There’re sharks down there.”
How Stella Got Her Groove Back Page 27
