by Retha Powers
about except themselves. Where they could go sometimes and “Underneath?” I said.
“Between the—” “No,” he said (you said), “right there, next to my—yes, yes, that’s it.
That’s it,” you said. Between the groceries, moving the hand to pull the clutch.
Looking back. But so much ahead.
All right, then. And so the globes. That began when I was in (summer) camp. When we were in camp. When there was nobody around. Nobody because “They’re all swimming,” he whispered. “In the pool down by the—”
“Getting wet,” I said, pulling at the—
“Yes,” he whispered (you whispered). And laughed.
In camp. Where I was. Right there. Just there. Lying on my “Back,” he said, quietly. “On your back. Stay there.” “Why?” I asked. “Because,” he said (you said), smiling. But I didn’t have to ask. Because that would be the first O yes the first yes time that he would ask me to do that, to do just that, to put my face there in that way, near the blue globes.
He liked the color blue, he said. His mother bought it for him to wear when he was in water, he said. Which was often. He liked the water. He liked the blue thing his mother bought him. He liked the way it fit so nice and tight around his (yes, me too). He liked the way it slid so slowly off his (but of course. And I did too). He liked the way the blue shone in the sunlight and the way it glistened when he dove into the water. When he parted the water. When his form streaked through the water and he moved his legs and there was no smell, no sense of smell, only his open mouth and his legs, arms, moving. Stroking. Only watermovement and darkness there. His belly flat between the strokes. His open mouth moving through the water. His open mouth tasting it. Between strokes. His mouth moving above his legs, above the water’s mouth, in darkness, yes, and light.
Smell it, you said
Why, I asked
Because you like it, you said
Because you like it, I said
Yes. Yes, I really like it, you said
You want me to smell it. You want me to breathe in, I said
Jesus, yes, you said. You groaned. Jesus yes. Yes yes yes yes yes. As I did, and you did,
and no one ever knew. Because we can’t ever tell. O no.
And so a dance. A dance of the afternoon. A two o’clock dance, a move out of dusty corners, a move of hips. Moves when all the others were away. Away swimming, getting wet. Wetting their mouths, soaking their thighs. A dance that began when we were thirteen and fourteen years old—began not quite with the blue globes, though they were there, but with “A skirt!” I almost shouted. Lying on my back, on that small camp bed that fit only one. “Where did you get that?” A skirt that you had stolen from—from her? The one whom you would later kiss while I watched? From her? “Do you like it?” you said. “Jesus Christ,” I said. A skirt. The blue globes (though I didn’t know it then) beneath. Shining. Beckoning.
Yes, I liked it. Just that way. The way the blue thing your mother bought you fit so slyly, ever so slightly, around your hips. They way it breezed, ever so slightly, when you did what you always did. “Wear it,” I said, quietly, very quietly, as you watched me holding myself. Lying on my back. “Wear it,” I whispered, as you climbed above me, stood above me, dancing over my “Face,” you said. “Over your face. Look up,” you said, “and tell me what you see.”
“I see everything,” I said.
He was dancing over my face. They were all away, away at two o’clock in the afternoon. Wetting themselves. Splashing each other’s back parts, each other’s chests. Away as he danced over me, as the skirt swished around his hips. As I saw everything. The blue globes beneath. Beneath the skirt. And everything pressing beneath them. I could see his ankles, his thick-to-thin ankles, on the bed on either side of me. His feet, at that time without shoes. Without the high heels that, while again dancing over my face, he would wear years later, in that secret place we kept, where groceries crackled in paper bags and the furniture sprouted dust. I could see his ankles as I would see them years later, when, on those nights that were still to come, long after camp and the bed that fit only one, long after hidden afternoons when they all were away wetting themselves with their shouts and splashes, long after the rings we would eventually place upon fingers in pledges to other people who would never know, long after the children we would each beget who also would never know, he would come to that place, that secret place that had begun long ago with a dance whispered out of dusty corners at two o’clock in the afternoon, and once more dance over my face with a skirt that swished about his hips, that swished to reveal—only now and then—the blue globes, and all that pressed behind them, beneath them. He would dance years later, as he danced only yesterday (but I will never tell), with those black patent-leather high heels wrapped tightly about his ankles. Those shining high heels close enough to lick. He would dance, and still, when the desire came, he would command me to “Smell it,” he would say, and I would. Clutching myself. Smell it, O my God, smelling it as my face disappeared behind the blue globes and they, yes, they, became all and everything. Became my face.
No, we can never tell. He can never tell how much he enjoys when I “Smell it,” he said, and “I’m smelling it,” I whispered, and “I know,” he groaned, holding my head there. Keeping my head there. He can never tell. Not ever tell the one who now delights in the rings about their fingers that both share, nor the many others who share merge reports and analyses, spreadsheets, of his days—the days when he thinks of me, I know, and of how, on some night soon to come, far away from the children he begat and the she who bears the ring that matches the one he wears, far away from the children I begat and the she who loves my smile as I delight in her face, I will smell him I will smell him I will “But just kiss it,” he will say some night, “just this one, or twice, or three times.” “What would any of them say if they knew?” I ask one night as he dances over me, trying to aim everything for right there, just there. “If they—”
“But they’ll never know,” he says—and though I cannot see him entirely, for the darkness of that place that is this one, I know that he is smiling, that he will soon laugh—yes, laugh the way he always does when he comes down over me, when the skirt billows over my face, when he knows that I am closing my eyes as he closes his and smelling it, taking it all in, about which we will never tell “anyone,” I say. Say to the darkness. To the globes, that will become (but not for the first time) my mouth. Open my mouth.
The first time, you wanted me to touch them. You put them in my face.
They were wet. And I
Yes. Was thirteen
years old. Was fourteen
years old. You were fifteen (sixteen?)
years old. You were
“swimming,” you said,
“swimming. That’s why they’re wet.”
“They’re blue,” I said. “Front and back. I like the color. Blue like—”
“Don’t say it,” you said. “Just put your face there, and—”
“Smell it?” I asked.
“Yes,” you said. “There. Right there!”
That was camp. When we were twelve or thirteen or fourteen years old. By the time I was seventeen and you were
“Eighteen!”
I thought with purest secret pleasure as you danced over me and I thought about doing so much more—yes, so much more than merely kissing it. You were eighteen and had graduated from lifting first one leg, then the other. From laughing so uproariously when you did what you did, and I breathed in. From sticking it out so that the blue globes, especially when it was time for you to do what you did, touched my face. From balancing over me just that way, gently, ever so gently, so that, when it was time, when you next wanted me to, I would inhale all of it and reach up just that way—yes, still lying on my back—to kiss the blue globes that would be “wet,” you whispered, “yes. For you, always wet. Like the first time when I came in from swimming and they were—”
“Soaked,” I sa
y, remembering.
No one else ever inhaled. Ever smelled. You promised me that they wouldn’t. You promised me that you wouldn’t do that with “Her,” you said, “no, of course not. Are you crazy? How could I? She would think that I’m the ultimate—”
“Pervert,” I said. “Yes.”
“Yes,” you said, blowing out the candle next to the place where we stretched, fully prepared. And then it happened, you did it, did it without lifting a thigh or arching your back (yes, even while lying on your back), it was one of your most reckless, and you commanded me to “Smell it,” you said. And I did, O yes, but of course, as you pressed down upon me and kept me there. Covering my face. Covering. Allowing me to breathe in. Ensuring that I thought only of you and what your she or mine or any of the children we had begotten would say if they could “see us,” I thought, closing my eyes. Sucking silent air.
But don’t worry, I said years later. When I was forty-one years old. When you were forty-two years old. When we were “in secret again,” I said. “Yes,” you whispered, taking that part of me in your hands and smelling it. “Yes.” Don’t worry, I said, squeezing that part. You don’t need to worry, I said, for (but how powerful it felt in my hands!) there will never come a time when the globes are not blue and there. When you do not wear that thing that makes them blue, as you did when you
were
fourteen
years old. There will never come a time when I will not want to smell their secretmost things, those things shared only with me, about which I will never tell. You will never tell your her, I whispered into one of your parts last night, and I will never tell mine. I will take my finger that bears the ring that pledges my self to my her and put that finger in your secretmost place that is only for me, and never (but no. How could I?) tell her that I did so. You will take your hand that bears the ring that pledges your self to your her and do that to me as severely as you can, yes, please, once more and again, just like that, with those circles, those spirals, all of those circlings around the secret part—you will do that, I will command you the way you command me when I smell you and open myself up to (uhhuh), but you will never tell her, her whom you never ask to smell anything as you ask me to and have asked me to since the two o’clock dance of that first afternoon. Don’t worry, I said, because you are—of course—deep, deep down inside my lungs. You’ve been there deep down there for every year of all these years. The way I’ve been in your dreams and you’ve been inside my (yes) and we in all the secret places for all of these years. The way no one will ever know about it. No one knows about it. The way your ring shines when you move it around me that way and I can still smell you because the blue globes are only inches over my face. The way the globes move when you dance, the way they shudder when you want me to breathe in. The way the children you begat laugh when you come home. “Daddy,” they say. “Daddy, Daddy!” The way she smiles at you when you’re tired. Smiles, not knowing not ever knowing how you have been smelled for years, and how another face that smiles at her (“How are things, baby? Looking good, baby!”) has disappeared within your secret-most parts for more than (fill in the years). The way you dance over my face, wearing that skirt (last week it was a Scottish kilt with pleats) and those shiny high heels prance close enough to lick. The way I inhale you—
No. No one will ever know. Will ever see. Will ever hear. Nor smell. Smell that smell that is for me. Me only. Only mine. In darkness, yes, and in light. The globes in blue.
Close to my face. As you do that. Yes, please do that. And that and. About which we will
never tell. Never tell as I am smelling you. As I am fifty-one
years old. As you are fifty-two
years old. As you are
Above me. Dancing, yes. And the globes. Shining, always in blue, full and round.
Shining, before they descend. Descend to cover my face and I inhale and
Laughing. We who are laughing. We who are—
A Different Drummer
_________________
by Cheo Tyehimba
Cam was late for rehearsal. The door to the Caribee was swung open and strong gusts of wind were violently slamming it back and forth against the wall. He grabbed the door, ducked inside, and latched it shut. Then dashed upstairs.
Sekou’s djun-djun was vibrating the wooden steps beneath his feet: BOOM-boom-boom! BOOM-boom-boom!Ba-ba-boom-boom/Ba-ba-boom-boom! At the break the djembe player rolled in: KRAK! Kri-kri-kri-KRAK-KRAK!… then the hollow, jostling sound of beads shaking against the thin calabash shell skin: Shi-Shi-Shika! Shi-Shi-Shika! Shi-Shi-Shika!… the cowbells’ jingling music kept time and completed the orchestration.
The second company was going through warm-up steps, moving across the floor in successive waves as the drummers played. Three drummers, Tunde, Randy, and Sekou, were assembled down in front, by the stage. Sekou, the elder of the group, shot Cam a look of disapproval as Cam unwrapped his drum and began to set up. When they finished playing, Cam approached him.
“Peace,” Cam said, extending his hand. Then he greeted the others. “Sorry I’m late, I had an appointment that went overtime.”
“Okay, we’ve got to tighten this up,” said Sekou, stepping out from behind his djun-djun. “I agree with Grace, we’re lagging behind her dancers on both ‘Lindjianand Sedeba.’ We’ve got to pick it up, play, play, play…together!” he said, glancing at Cam.
“Well, I’m ready,” Cam said, tightening his drum strap over his hip.
“Now that’s what I want to hear,” said a female voice. Cam turned around and saw her beaming, hands on her hips. It was Grace.
“Greetings, sista, sorry about holding you up.”
“No apologies,” she said with a quick wave. “Sekou, y’all ready?” With a quick nod between them, the short, yam-colored woman spun on her heels and walked out to the center of the floor.
“All right, now.” She surveyed the dozen or so women standing in front of her. “Now I want to go over ‘Lindjian andSedeba’ again until we’re moving on spirit. Spirit alone. Remember, this is an initiation dance, it has to be on this plane,” she said as she spread her long arms wide, letting her elbows dangle high at about ear level.
They were playing the rhythm light, at slow tempo, while she demonstrated. She sprang, rising slowly, came down and kick-stepped, kick-stepped, turned, sprang again and spread her arms up higher in top flight, then fanned them down across her heart as she descended. She gathered a personal mist between her arms and seemed to move with the sway of its tide. Grace broke the dance down into parts and moved very slowly, dancing in and out of a solitary square of light on the floor from a nearby window. She dipped her head forward in a delicate bobbing motion with each fluid swoop of her arms, a black swan lifting off in the hot light.
Cam looked over at Nyema. Grace’s moves mesmerized her; she swayed her own arms slowly in imitation.
“This is the dance of the bird!” shouted Grace, swirling to a stop. “And I want y’all to fly! We’ve got two weeks before we take this out on the road, so let’s do it!” The light from the window filled the room as the women began dancing upstage in rows of four. The drummers picked up the tempo. A pulsation of plum-, chocolate-, caramel-, and honey-colored limbs flew and flailed forward beneath a jungle of brilliant sarongs and head wraps. They moved confidently, smiling and dancing up to the feet of the drummers. Black women, all, full of creative longing and tangible fire.
Then they spun around and hurried back to try the move again. Tunde was picking up the pace, slapping his djembe harder and harder. The BOOM-BOOM from Sekou’s bass drum began to come quicker. Everything was rising. After a few passes, Cam could see steam vapor just above the heads of the dancers, seeping up into the wooden-beamed ceiling.
As twilight filled the room, the dancers flew through the routine. Cam’s arms were burning and beginning to sag but he sucked down a deep breath and bore down. He straightened his back and slapped out his part. Then he played a break and Tunde quickly roll
ed from his drum part into a solo. Tunde lit out like he was on fire! Cam nodded and smiled at him to show his admiration, but the brother was already gone. His eyes were closed. He tossed his head to the right, as if listening for some faint note.
Tunde was a tall master drummer from Mali. He’d been teaching Cam and a small coterie of drummers for several years. He stood, half crouched, and feverishly pushed beats out of his drum like it was a sonic washboard. Spikes of sweat shot off his locks as he tossed his head in a fever. Slapping his hands against his drum with the speed of a humming bird, Tunde rapped out a succession of fire-crack beats: KRAK-kri-kri-kri-kri-KRAK! Then a machine-gun solo:
PING-PING-PA-TA! PING-PING-PA-TA! PA-TA-PaTaPa-TaPaTaPaTaPaTaPaTaPaTa-PATOW-PATOW!!PATOW-PA-TOW!!DOW!! He spun in the direction of approaching dancers, shooting his rhythms directly to them. Supernatural foods rolled and popped and riffed from the skin covering his drum. The lines of dancers moved across the floor like high-kicking, soft-sailing birds of paradise on some high-speed assembly line. They were flying!
As they moved on in a trance to Tunde’s energy, Cam watched Nyema swirl to a stop in front of him and felt a thin tingle in his middle. He held his rhythm tight. She was lovely, and with each pass she gave a little more of herself to him. As spirit rose, all of the dancers began to move on feeling, on the love that they already possessed. Tunde played on, in some preternatural zone, and soon even Grace had to jump out of her skin. Her long black braids spilled out of her white head wrap and as she tossed it aside, she hopped in front of his drum and received his offering.
Cam yearned to play like Tunde. Knew he would one day. He was drenched in sweat and began to feel himself lag behind and even play over Tunde’s parts at times. But he avoided Sekou’s piercing eyes. He just shook his head clear, grimaced, and tried to level his breathing. He moved to the edge of his chair and got ready for his solo.
