And I hang up.
I am finished with her for real for a while but then the phone rings right away. “Look, Angela, I’m tired of defending—”
“It’s not Angela, sweetheart,” Leroy says. Boy, talk about a blast from the past. And it’s broad daylight so at least he’s not drunk yet. He’s calling from his car phone as usual.
“How are you, Leroy?”
“I haven’t been able to catch you all summer. Where’ve you been? How’ve you been? What you been up to?”
“You do know who you’re talking to, right?”
“Stella. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Forget it, Leroy. I’ve been doing a little traveling this summer.”
“Oh yeah. Where’ve you been?”
“Jamaica.”
“Where in Jamaica?”
“Negril.”
“So is what they say true about the men down there?”
“Only the young ones,” I say to his vulgar ass and that answer should shut him up.
“Okay,” he says and clears his throat. “When can we get together, Stella? I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
“I can imagine you’re having a hard time sleeping.”
“Seriously. I miss you.”
“I’m kind of busy these days, Leroy.”
“Working hard?”
“Nope. Hardly working at all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I got fired.”
“Did you get yourself a lawyer?”
“Nope.”
“You should get a good discrimination lawyer. I know several I could recommend.”
“It’s already handled.”
“And so where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
“No, I mean which firm’s after you? I know there’re lots because as soon as word gets out they’re on you like white on rice.”
“I’m sort of going in a different direction.”
“What direction would that be?”
“Well, I might go back to school.”
“For what? Not another degree, I hope. What do you have, three already?”
“I might just take a few art classes.”
“Wait. Don’t tell me: stained glass or like pottery or something? Come on, Stella.”
“No. But you know, Leroy, you may very well have just given me food for thought. Look, I’ve really gotta go.”
“Please don’t go yet.”
“But I have nothing more to say.”
“Well, if you need a reference or anything, you know I know everybody. I can help you.”
“Thanks, Leroy, but only if you know someone who might want to buy some furniture.”
“I might be interested, depending on what kind it is.”
“Well, you won’t see anything like it in like say a Thomasville Macy’s or even Levitz, your favorite store and mine.”
“So when can we get together, Stella? I miss you. I haven’t felt your smooth warm skin in almost five whole months.”
“Leroy, get a grip, all right? I’ve met somebody.”
“Oh hell.” He sighs. “I was wondering when it was going to happen.”
“Well, it’s happened.”
“Oh well. Are you happy?”
“I will be.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Yes, Leroy. I’m happy.”
“Well, I’m happy for you, Stella.”
“Thank you, Leroy.”
“Let me know when I can see some of the stuff you’re selling, okay? My wife loves all that weird shit, so if I can support a friend, might as well support a friend. I’ll talk to you soon. Be good and stay in touch.”
I hang up again. Even though on the surface he’s a true Doberman, underneath he’s still got a little calico left in him. If his wife cracked her whip every now and then, he’d be fine.
• • • •
“So what’s it gonna be, leg curls or lunges?” Krystal asks. We are in my exercise room. I am looking out the window.
“I don’t really care,” I say.
“Lunges it is then. Let’s get your five pounders,” she says and I reach down to pick up the purple weights. Krystal is a lifesaver. Thanks to her I didn’t gain any weight after I quit smoking, which I was afraid of but which was not the main reason I started working out with her. I am lazy by nature and Krystal is and has been my motivator. We talk about everything and of course she knows all about Winston. She thinks the whole idea is pretty “neat,” as she puts it, but has some reservations which she does a pretty good job of masking because she believes that you should try something before giving up on it but at the same time not lose sight of your goals in life which may in fact be a contradiction to what you’re doing. Krystal is thirty-four and has been married to a really nice guy for the past five years. She is happy and still loves her husband and from what I’ve seen he still looks pretty smitten with her too. Unlike some personal trainers, Krystal actually has a master’s degree in physiology and has already qualified for the hundred-meter race in the Olympics next year.
We do two sets of fifteen. I am sweating. She isn’t.
“So are you getting excited?” she asks.
“Of course I’m excited.”
“Has Angela cooled her heels any?”
“Nope. I had to go off on her.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be too hard on her if I were you. After all, Stella, this isn’t something a person sees every day. She’s your sister and she loves you and I think she’s just concerned.”
“I know,” I say, pulling out my blue mat and pulling on the ankle weights. I get on my knees and with palms down push my bent left knee up and down until I feel it pulling in my butt which is the whole point. “I mean I don’t really need her blessing, Krystal. I’m an adult, and I wish she’d give me more credit for having some idea of what I’m doing.”
“I understand perfectly,” she says. “Are you counting?”
“Fifteen,” I lie.
“Let’s take it to half range. Fifteen more. Anyway the reality is you like this guy and I think the fact that you sent him a ticket is fantastic and that he’s coming is awesome and it’s like an adventure and both of you guys know or have an idea that it won’t likely lead to marriage and it’s not like it’s going to last forever, so I don’t see anything wrong with it. Right leg,” she says.
“I know,” I say. But what about the whole notion of forever? When you get right down to it, how long is it? I mean why can’t we just fall in love and simply love each other as hard as we can and see what happens, see how far we can go with it, what levels we can reach in terms of understanding being passionate compassionate honest hopeful. I mean how can we grow if we think we’ve already arrived at the end? I mean isn’t life supposed to be this evolving thing, kinetic? I mean isn’t this one of the reasons why we get bored, because once we reach the penthouse we feel like we’ve made it to the top floor but then there’s a roof garden and if we keep going there are like clouds and then an entire whatever?
This is precisely what happened to me when I got married, and I don’t want to go there again. I don’t. I won’t. Can’t. I do not want to repeat that. Besides, I’m not a boring person, that much I do know. Rarely am I bored with myself and I don’t like the idea of being a bore and I have no intention of boring Winston. I just hope he gets it. I hope he knows and I believe he knows that what we are doing is searching for the curve the arc the warmth the depth of field to live our lives in three-D and feel it deeper than that. That we want to jump that we are hunting for ourselves that we want to spread ourselves thin and split the layers because somewhere in all this somewhere under this shroud of hardness and pain and everything that hurts is something soft and supple something hushed and we know how to get to it, we know how to inch our way in because we have already started.
“Ready for crunches?” I hear Krystal ask.
“Can’t wait,” I say, and we both laugh.
&nb
sp; By the time we finish with the upper body, Krystal says, “Well, one thing is for sure. He’s not gonna find too many forty-two-year-olds in as good a shape as you.”
“I’m sure he’s been keeping track,” I say, as we do a few cool-down stretches.
“The bottom line?” she says.
“What?”
“If it feels good, I say go for it. Follow your own heart and your own head and forget about what anybody says. This is your life, Stella, and no one can experience it better than you. Now are we on for Wednesday?”
“Can’t wait,” I repeat.
• • • •
Quincy is walking down the stairs looking shiny and brand-new. In fact he is wearing his new brown plaid shorts that come to his knee, a hidden-in-the-drawer dark brown golf T-shirt, brown and gray airwalks, and he smells like he must’ve poured the entire free sample of Tommy Hilfiger cologne all over himself. His hair is about a half inch long now, very thick and black and kinky, because ever since we left San Diego and he saw Tiger’s dreadlocks sprouting, Quincy decided that the least he could do was grow himself an Afro. I’m all for it. It doesn’t seem that long ago that I was wearing an Afro. Some things do repeat themselves. “Don’t you look spiffy,” I say.
“Thanks, Mom,” he says and drops his backpack on the floor.
“And you’re matching!”
“Mom, I’ve been matching for four whole months now.”
“That’s not true, Quincy, and you know it. Just last week you had on at least three different designs, prints stripes plaids, and a number of participating colors were going at it all at once on your frail little body, so I beg to differ with you, homie, because I’m afraid this is the way it was.”
“Well, I know how to match now,” he says.
“You’re on your way, and you smell very good too.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“But Quin, all you need is a smidgen behind the ears and maybe a tad on the neck and a dab on each wrist and that’s it.”
“Well, when I was taking that little plastic thing off it splattered all over me so that’s what you’re smelling—the splatter. That’s not the part I actually put on my neck and arms. Smell,” he says and holds out his arm.
I take a whiff. Maybe one day he’ll be able to put it all together.
I go into the kitchen and take the biscuits out of the oven and set two on the table next to a plate of hot grits, a few slices of casaba melon and a glass of apple juice and I sit down to watch my son eat. We always eat breakfast together, at least when school’s in.
“So are you excited?”
“Of course I’m excited, Mom. Wouldn’t you be excited if it was your first day of junior high and you were going to a brand-new school? Think about it.”
“Don’t get cute, okay?”
“Sorry. I was just kidding.”
“Well, put a cap on it.”
“So are you excited?” he asks.
“About what?”
“Winston’ll be here pretty soon, won’t he?”
“Yep. And yes, I am getting excited.”
“Do you love him?”
“What?”
“Do you love him?”
“What would make you ask that?”
“Well, you like him a whole lot. He’s coming here to visit us and he’s going to sleep with you and you guys will have sex again, probably a lot, and I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“I love a lot of things about him, yes.”
“Would you marry him if he asked you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to. . . . I haven’t thought about marrying anybody, Quincy, and besides, he’s only coming for a visit.”
“Yeah, but what if he really likes you and you really like him and you don’t want him to go back to Jamaica?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“You should, Mom. You really should.”
“And what would you do if he wanted to stay?”
“Be his buddy. Mom, what does loving somebody feel like?”
“Boy, I can tell you haven’t had your coffee yet. Let me think for a minute here. Well, it sort of feels like there’s a very warm bright light burning inside you and it’s running throughout your entire body and makes you tingle.”
“That’s it? I feel like that when I Rollerblade.”
“Well, that’s just one of the ways it feels.”
“Can you give me some better examples, please?”
“You know how you feel when you snowboard?”
“Yep.”
“That rush you get?”
“Yeah,” he sings. “Same as Rollerblading.”
“The truth is, it’s awfully hard to explain. It’s just that you feel really good being around someone.”
“Like who, for instance?”
“Well, maybe that wasn’t a good one either.”
“Try me.”
“Well, try this: You haven’t eaten all day and you’ve been craving praying for some McNuggets, a filet of fish with extra tarter sauce and super-size fries with a large Sprite. You know the feeling that comes over you after you take that first bite?”
“Do I ever!”
“That’s how Winston makes me feel.”
“Wow. That’s pretty deep, Mom. What a good metaphor. You should maybe try being a writer.”
“Thanks for the career advice,” I say. “Anyway I just want you to know that the kind of love a woman and man feel for each other is different than the kind a parent feels for a child.”
“How is it different?”
“Well, let me put it this way. I feel very protective of you. Everything that happens to you matters to me.”
“Don’t you feel like that about Winston?”
“Well, yes. But let me finish. When grown-ups really love each other they kiss and hug and touch each other and they make love which is a better more accurate way of saying they have sex but they also share all kinds of things like their feelings fears hopes and dreams even their frustrations and they sort of feel comfortable with each other and relaxed enough to know that they’ve got each other’s back.”
“I’ve got your back,” he says, winking at me.
“I know, Quin. But you know the difference I’m trying to show.”
“Of course I do, Mom. You get romantic with Win-ston and you get cuddly-wuddly with me but we both make you feel good. How’s that?”
“That’s good. That’s very good. And I don’t want you to ever worry that I won’t have enough love left for you no matter how much I give to Winston or whomever.”
“Do I look worried?”
“How silly of me to ask. Now hurry up and finish your breakfast before you miss your bus.”
“Thanks for sharing, Mom, and I love you too.”
• • • •
I am getting out of the shower, looking at myself in the mirror. As I rub my body with Calyx lotion I seem to see gray hair everywhere and I’m wondering if he’s going to be able to really handle this, if he’s really going to be able to look at me and think I’m beautiful and not simply beautiful for my age. Because the bottom line is that I am indeed forty-two years old and I wish there were a way I could stay forty-two for the next twenty-two years so that Winston could catch up to me and then we could be the same age at the same time. But this is not true. I am proud to be forty-two and I’m looking forward to being fifty-two and sixty-two and so on and so forth and I don’t even know if I’d be feeling the same toward Winston if he were my age. I think if I’m going to be honest with myself then I have to admit that part of what is appealing is the fact that he’s not someone I should want or have, but the odds are working in my favor so far, aren’t they, Stella?
It takes me forever to get dressed. I don’t know for sure what to wear. What do you wear to the airport to pick up someone you love? I mean really. I stand in my closet for the next twenty minutes trying on skirts slacks suits sho
rts and T-shirts and put them all back on their respective hangers and decide on jeans and a lavender cotton and Spandex top that fits snug but I choose a mint green linen blazer I bought from a men’s store to wear over it. Simple silver hoop earrings. No makeup except a little lipstick and eye pencil to highlight the corner of my eyes. I stand at the mirror to see if I look okay and I look okay, pleasant, like I might actually be a nice person, but I’m not so sure if I’d want to like run into my arms and kiss me. Maybe I should put on some more makeup, but no, I don’t want to look too embellished. Besides, I am a woman, not an ornament.
I’m just about to take a step in the direction of Quincy’s room but I remember that he’s spending the night with Vanessa and Chantel, at Vanessa’s insistence of course. “Girl, you don’t need your son pressing his ears against your bedroom door or coming down with some ailment so he could get your attention. Anyway you need to enjoy the first night of this honeymoon alone. So I’ll be over at six to pick the boy up.” I am grateful to her and I’m also scared; Quincy is a great buffer, a great silence breaker, a great whatever.
I have done everything I could to spruce up this place. I went to Home Depot and bought two new large plants. I have bought new colorful thick thirsty towels and I have stacked them neatly right next to his plaid toothbrush. I have moved some of my clothes over in my closet to make room for his. Same goes for the shoes. My exercise drawer. Cleaned out. Empty. And in the medicine cabinet I have given him the whole bottom shelf for his toiletries. I am now hyperventilating, but it’s okay. I know I’m just excited and scared and anxious and in a way I wish I could actually catch a plane to the airport and swoop him up from the runway and jet on home so that I could avoid that hour’s drive over the freeway and over that long bridge and then parking the car and walking all the way to the gate where my heart will pound pound pound until he walks through.
How Stella Got Her Groove Back Page 30
