How Stella Got Her Groove Back

by Terry McMillan

  • • • •

  I am surprised at how calm I am standing at Gate 83, waiting. The ride was totally smooth and I only did eighty. I feel like I floated here. In fact I feel pretty much the same way I did when I went snorkeling. I don’t understand why I’m not bouncing off the walls. Why I’m not a nervous wreck. Why I don’t hear any buzzing or hissing in my ears. I mean this man is about to walk off an airplane and into my life and even though it may only be for three weeks my whole life could very easily change in the next few minutes hours but as I stand here I realize that my life has already changed and regardless of how long he stays, no matter what does or doesn’t happen, I have already discovered that there is another side you can go to, which is pure and good, that it is always there waiting for you to notice, that it is free but costly to find yet once you arrive, once you get there, you find you can bounce again skip again gallop again that you can recover from loss and pain and heartache that you can be repaired renewed restored without even comprehending what or how it has happened and you can simply blink and accept the fact that you are absolutely and unequivocally a new and improved version of your old self and no matter what happens from here on out you will not misplace yourself again you will not get so lost you can’t get yourself back you will not let the dust pile up collect settle all over your heart, no siree, not ever again.

  I blot my lips, glad that I wore a matte lipstick instead of the shiny kind. I’m still not sure what I’m going to say to him though I’ve rehearsed this greeting in my sleep a thousand times and there are only so many different ways to say Hi Winston or Hello Winston or You finally made it, Winston! or I’m so glad to see you, Winston! or Welcome Winston or How was your trip?

  I wonder will he kiss me out here in the open but I know for a fact that I won’t kiss him because it would be rather tacky and I don’t really want to embarrass him so maybe if I like stand on my toes and give him a friendly peck people will think he is my son and we can do our real kissing once we get in the car. I sure hope he looks like he did in Jamaica but right now I have no image of him whatsoever in my head, it has just sort of gone blank and is now full of this gray space and I don’t understand this so I turn away to look out the window and I hear his voice say, “Hello there, Stella,” and when I turn around he is standing there so tall and beautiful and as he walks over toward me I smell his Escape and I feel my shoulders drop and when he puts his arms around me I feel so relieved so grateful that he is live and not Memorex anymore and I put my arms around him and clutch him tight because I want him to know how happy I am to feel him see him smell him and then he looks down and says, “I made it,” and he presses those Easy-Bake oven lips against mine and I absorb them as long as I can stand it and then I back away and say, “Welcome to America, Winston,” and he exhales and puts his arm over my shoulder and as we walk through the airport people are looking at us and we wave to them and once we get to baggage claim we are so busy laughing smooching hugging holding hands looking at each other, making sure we are really here, that it is not until we are the only two people standing here that we realize we are at the wrong carousel, but we don’t care. We do not move except to hold on tighter. And all I know for sure is that he is here. That I am here. That I am happy. And we are going home.

  “YOU WANT TO drive?” I ask.

  “Don’t start on me already, Stella, all right?”

  He is blushing. I am grinning. “I’m just teasing,” I say, and of course he knows this. He puts both suitcases into the trunk. “Nice car,” he says. “And black is my favorite color. What kind of BMW is this?”

  “An M-5.”

  “Isn’t this a race car?”

  “Yep.”

  He is shaking his head back and forth as he gets in. His legs are longer than I remember but then again I’ve never been in a car with him before and I sit and watch him search for the button that slides the seat back. “Sooo,” he says. “You didn’t tell me you were also a drag racer.”

  “You mean I left that little detail out?”

  “I don’t recall your mentioning it, no.”

  “Well, I like to go fast,” I say.

  “This I know already.”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “Not at all.”

  I put the car in reverse.

  “So is this sarcasm what I have to look forward to over the next three weeks?” I ask.

  “Afraid so,” he says. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Not at all,” I say, trying to wipe the smirk off my face. “Not even a teensy bit.”

  • • • •

  Winston is full of excitement as we zoom along the freeway and I tell him where we are what he’s looking at and how much longer it’ll be. I point out Candlestick Park, the Pacific Ocean, the fog, downtown San Francisco (particularly the pyramid building). I tell him how long the Bay Bridge is and why we have to pay a toll, and then we go on past Oakland. I tell him that I’m his happy tour guide and I’ll answer any questions he may have but all he says is, “I’m just taking it all in,” and “Pay no attention to me,” and I say, “Ha!” and he says, “Ha!” and leans back in his seat until I turn off the freeway. When I finally get to my neighborhood I point out the grocery store. “That’s where you’ll be spending most of your free time, doing all the shopping for the next three weeks, and seeing as how you’re going to be cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner, you’ll need to remember how to get here, so pay very close attention.”

  It looks like he’s actually making a mental note.

  “And that’s the gas station and McDonald’s and the movies are right down there and across the street is a car wash which you won’t be needing because I have some very nice rags for you to use and there’s the cleaners and video store though you won’t have much time on your hands to watch any home movies unless we’re starring in them of course and that’s the pizza place and then there’s the hardware store that you will also undoubtedly be frequenting. Possibly we’ll let you off on Fridays for good behavior.”

  Steadily shaking his head back and forth, he is still beaming.

  I turn onto my street and he says, “You can’t be serious, Stella.”

  “About what?”

  “You can’t live in a neighborhood like this.”

  “It’s just a bunch of houses.”

  “But look at them. They’re mansions.”

  “You want mansions? I can show you mansions. These are hardly close. Anyway not to worry—if I don’t figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life in like the next twelve months, mine’ll be up for sale and Quincy and I will be moving to the projects.”

  “What are the projects?”

  “You never heard of the projects?”

  “No.”

  “It’s where you live when your money is tight or you don’t have any and it’s not the most comfortable or luxurious place to dwell and you don’t necessarily want to raise children there if you can help it and they’re usually right in the middle of the hood.”

  “I take it this isn’t the hood?”

  “Afraid not, but I can certainly take you there.”

  “I think I like it here,” he says. “I believe I know what the hood is like. It’s the ghetto. And we’ve got lots of them in Kingston.”

  I pull up to my house, which is sort of a contemporary white Mediterranean with a dark teal clay tile roof, and Winston is shaking his head again. My white Land Cruiser is parked in the driveway. “Is that yours?”

  “Every woman needs her own truck,” I say. “Now come on, darling. Let me show you to your suite.”

  Once inside, it’s apparent that he’s a tad overwhelmed by everything, I guess, and I’m trying to keep in mind that Winston is from Jamaica and even though he comes from a nice home and all maybe he’s not used to seeing one like this even though the house itself really isn’t that big a deal if you ask me. We are standing in the kitchen but he is looking into the family room at a table that is bleach
ed bird’s-eye maple and copper and stainless steel and it curves and slants and dips and I admit it is shaped rather oddly.

  “Wow,” he says. “Where’d you find a table like this?”

  “I designed that about ten years ago.”

  “You mean you thought this up,” he says, not really asking me.

  “Yep. And had someone build it.”

  “And you’re serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious.”

  “But Stella, you said you made a few pieces of furniture here and there, that’s all you said.”

  “And it’s the truth.”

  “Yeah, but Stella, this isn’t just furniture, not in the furniture sense of the word. It’s like sculpture, art or something, don’t you think?”

  “Well, I see furniture as functional sculpture if it does what it’s supposed to which is perform but if it can also add something beautiful or funky to a room, why not? Most furniture is boring when it should be more like music, you know. Anyway that’s how I used to feel when I did this.”

  He walks over to a little bench that is made of strips of suede burlap linen and leather. “It looks like it’s alive,” he says, and we both laugh.

  “That’s one of the pieces I actually made, but a lot of it I just designed and had built. You’ll see.”

  “Stella. You never let on that you had this kind of talent. Why’ve you been so modest? Why didn’t you tell me more about this?”

  “What’s to tell?”

  He moans and gives me a look but it is obvious that this isn’t the last we’ll talk about it and I am pleased that he likes what I have done and I am pleased that I am finally paying attention to what pleases me, what has made me take a step back long enough to look carefully at things. I have chosen metal and wood and paint and fabric as my medium because I am interested in the texture of things, in creating harmony where there was none before, in making the impossible possible, reversing the irrevocable. It is in surrendering to this process that I can give in give it up and be who I am what I am where I am and when I blink hard and open my eyes, take it all in and see what I dreamed, feel what I dreamed and I have some evidence.

  Winston has been walking around inside my dream and has just stepped out of it. “This house. It’s rather amazing,” he says, looking down. “What’s this floor made of?”

  “Concrete.”

  “Concrete. Inside a house. And it doesn’t even look like a sidewalk.”

  I give him a tour and explain whatever needs to be explained and when I show him my bedroom he kind of freaks a little because it is one of the coolest rooms in the house (I wonder why). “We’re sleeping in here?”

  “Well, you could have the guest room down the hall with the day bed or you can sleep out there in the love shack next to the garage. See it? Wherever you’ll feel more comfortable, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll stay here. With you. What’s the love shack?”

  “It used to be a guesthouse.”

  “And what is it now?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean by ‘nothing’?”

  “It’s a mess. I keep junk in there.”

  “Do you mind?” he asks, and heads outside. I follow him. We stick our heads inside the little stucco building and it’s not really in such bad shape, it’s just got a wheelbarrow and hoes and gardening tools and tents and Christmas ornaments and more junk on top of more junk and it’s dusty. My drafting table sits among the tallest of items and of course Winston notices it.

  “So looks like I’ll need to get some special cleanser from the hardware store in the morning to get this place fixed up and since you’ll be using this,” he says, pointing to the drafting table, “I should start with this, don’t you think?”

  I’m pretty close to crying and I don’t remember the last time anybody made me feel this good inside, I don’t remember the last time somebody “came through” for me. I’m just hoping I can give him half as much as he’s already given me. “I guess it wouldn’t kill me to put some rubber gloves on, but then I’ll need to go to San Francisco to pick up some supplies at my favorite art store and do you think you’d like to go with me?”

  “I’ll drive,” he says, and we walk slowly toward the house and when we get inside the door we both stop and sort of just stand there and look at each other and then we both get this dorky look on our faces like What do we do now? I really do want to make love to him but I don’t want to act too eager like I can’t help myself plus he should be tired but then again he’s young so maybe he isn’t. Relax, Stella. He’s here for three whole weeks.

  “I should get my bags,” he says.

  “Want me to help you?”

  “No. They’re heavy. Would you have any tea?”

  “Tea?”

  “Yes, you know, tea?”

  “Sure, I’ve got all kinds of tea. What kind do you want?”

  “I don’t care, Stella. Any kind.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be this easy to please, you can stay awhile.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he says and makes his way out toward the garage while I boil water. When he comes back I let the tea brew and follow him back into my room, where I stand in front of the dresser.

  “You can have these two drawers,” I say.

  “You actually cleared these out for me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. It is a simple platform bed and very low to the floor, so I am kind of leaning back on it. The sun is setting and is casting a sort of yellowish hue over the salmon walls, which is actually very pretty, and the room is beginning to turn the color of a ripe cantaloupe.

  “This floor is purple, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “And so is the one in the room next to it, right?”

  “Yes, they are. This wood’s from Africa and it’s called purple heart and the stuff on my office floor is just plain old leather.”

  “A leather floor?”

  “Yep. It’s been done before. Believe me.”

  When I see him hold up a suit, I walk him to the closet and point to an empty area. “You can hang all your stuff there.”

  “All I brought was one suit. Will I need more?”

  I smile. He is so sweet. “No, I don’t think you’ll need more than this one. How many suits do you have, Winston?”

  “You’re looking at it,” he says and cracks up. “I don’t go to very many formal affairs, you know.”

  “Not to worry, bud.”

  We stop in the bathroom. The ceiling is yellow plaster and curves like the top of a tunnel. “Boy, do you have unusual taste,” he says. “I’ve never seen any of this stuff before. Ever. Aren’t those sinks glass?”

  “Yep.”

  “And are those seashells in the countertop or am I just imagining it?”

  “No. They’re there.”

  “This is some house you have here. I’m serious.”

  “Well, I’m glad you like my home, Winston, and while you’re here, please live in it like it’s yours, because it is.”

  “Thank you, Stella,” he says and pecks me on the nose. “I’m just a little overwhelmed by it all, you know.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “So can we like just stop moving for a minute or two?”

  “We certainly can,” I say, pointing to the door. “In or out?”

  “Right here is fine,” he says, and we lie on our backs on the bed and watch the ceiling fan spin and Winston’s feet are touching the floor and mine hang over the edge and I feel my fingers walk over the puffy comforter squares and I take his hand in mine and hold it. We lie like this for a long time and it is so nice to share the silence with a man to meet one who appreciates the calm and then it seems like just as I am thinking how nice it would be to roll over into his arms Winston pulls me over on top of him and puts his arms around me and kisses me and I kiss him back and he says, “I’m so glad to see you.”

  And I say, “I’m glad to se
e you too.”

  “I can’t believe I’m here,” he says.

  “But you are here,” I say.

  “Yes, I am,” he says. “Sooo,” he says. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “An evening swim.”

  “You feel like swimming right now?” I ask.

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “Nope,” I say and sit up.

  “But let’s swim in here first, if that’s okay with you.”

  “No problem, mon,” I say, and slowly prepare myself for a swan dive.

  “YOU SURE YOUR sister’s going to accept me?”

  “Winston, you can relax.”

  “I am relaxed. I’m just wondering, you know.”

  He is driving the truck and he is driving like he’s been here all his life. I am impressed. We pull up in front of Vanessa’s house, and Quincy and Chantel are in the driveway, chasing her two cats. “Mom! Win-ston! You’re here!” Quincy yells, and runs to give me a big hug and then he actually hugs Winston, who hugs him back. Chantel imitates Quincy’s moves.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “Right here,” Vanessa says, coming out of the house with a bandanna tied around her head, looking even more like Pepa, and she is wearing tight bluejeans and supporting them rather nicely from every angle and the yellow print blouse is tied up front into a knot.

  “Oh, hi, Cindy!” I greet her.

  “Cindy?” She looks confused.

  “Crawford, isn’t it?”

  “You know where you can go, Stella. Don’t be so rude. Oh forget you. Now let me guess, you must be. . .”

  He is blushing. “Winston.”

  “And you’re from?”

  “Jamaica,” he says.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding!”

  He is still blushing.

  “How you doing, Winston? I’m Vanessa. Stella’s beautiful brilliant sister. Want to come in?”

  “Not right now, babe,” I say. “We’re on our way to San Francisco.”

  “Well, Quincy can stay here.”

  “We want him to come with us,” Winston says. “And Chantel as well, if it’s all right.”