“Test me.”
It was dead quiet in the car for the entire twenty-minute ride through the Lincoln Tunnel and across town to Zander’s hotel.
“You told Zander to break up with me,” Bunny finally said.
“You’re a psycho.”
“He’s the one who knocked my tooth out!”
“Don’t care.”
“So you screw my brains out and then just—”
The driver pulled up to the front entrance of the hotel and eased behind a taxi parked ahead.
“Out.”
Bunny stared at Jake, and he thought for a second that her eyes were filling up with tears. Crying would not be good. He’d rather fight her hand-to-hand right there in the back of the car than deal with her sniveling and crying.
“Bunny,” Jake said. “I should have never touched you. If you feel like you need to tell Zander, do that.”
Bunny nodded and picked up her oversized bag. She climbed over to the door and Jake pressed back to make sure he could not be seen from the street.
The driver opened the door and grabbed her hand, guiding her out. Teetering on impossibly high heels, Bunny let the driver guide her into the lobby of the hotel. He returned to the car.
“Home, sir?”
“Hold up,” said Jake. He watched Bunny. She pressed the button for the elevator and then walked away before it came down. She came back outside and slipped into the back of the taxi sitting in front of the Suburban. Jake watched her lean up and speak to the driver and then sit back in her seat. The taxi pulled off.
“Home, sir?”
“Yeah. Home,” said Jake, his head down. He took his cell out of his pocket and dialed a number from memory.
“Yo,” said Z. “What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you,” said Jake. “And Zander, too. Immediately.”
Lily sat on her sofa with her legs tucked beneath her. Her hair, usually in a tight bun at the back of her neck, was hanging loosely, covering one side of her face. She swatted it back occasionally when she reached for a different colored crayon. Her left hand twisted and turned as she sketched, erased, and redrew lines and whipped the pencil back and forth to shade certain areas. She stopped for a moment, leaned back, and squinted at the paper. She looked at her aquarium for reference and bent down again, shading, drawing, and coloring.
Since she was five years old and watched her father illustrate his never-published children’s books, Lily had been fascinated with what colored pencils could do to a blank page. Some of her friends meditated, some did yoga, some went to church. Lily lugged out a sketch pad and a fresh pack of colored pencils when she wanted to commune with God.
She started out trying to drawing whatever her dad was working on. Once she started school, she made a habit of freeze-framing images in her mind and then attempting to re-create them later. In third grade, she drew a picture of her teacher snoring in her chair, her eyeglasses falling off her face. Her father was convinced she’d traced it from somewhere. She proudly said nope and shook her head until she was dizzy. By eighth grade, she scribbled so she had an excuse to keep her head down. By then, she’d learned that no matter what she wore, no matter how short her hair was, no matter how much her clothes screamed boy, she still looked into a person’s face and they just knew something was off. She’d seen guys jump back when they looked at her in the face, realizing that she’d manage to trick them into thinking about her in the wrong way. Even though she did nothing but blink her eyes. The safest thing to escape the wrath from confused prepubescent boys was to keep her head in her sketch pad at all times. A few days before the promotion exercises from eighth grade to high school, Lily sat in class, ignoring the teacher’s drone. She was pointing to different forms of animal and plant life in the aquarium next to her desk while most of the class was passing notes and flirting.
Lily kept her eyes on the fish for a second and then back down to her notepad, where she was re-creating the entire aquarium in rich, vibrant colors. She’d decided that the fish tank was the only thing worth remembering at the school. She planned to tack this piece on her bedroom wall and leave it there indefinitely. She was trying to figure out what color to use for the sea life that looked more like a flower when she realized the teacher had said something that sounded weird. She put her pencil down and listened.
“It’s one of the only plants that will change gender depending on what other gender is nearby,” she said, peeking through the top of the aquarium. “It’s really incredible the way it works.”
Lily put her sketch pad down and picked up her black-and-white composition book, the one her father bought at the beginning of the school year to take notes. It was completely empty. As the teacher listed all the different types of plant and sea life that were capable of switching from male to female, Lily scribbled down every word she said. After class, she went straight to the library and printed up images of all the species listed on her paper. Her father did not bother to ask why the bedroom wall was suddenly plastered with pictures of clownfish, wrasses, and moray eels. He was relieved to see that his child was settling on an appropriately boyish nautical theme. He decided to ignore the lilies that had started appearing in his child’s hair.
Ten years later, Lily lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment, waiting tables, teaching art classes, and still drawing fish found in the coral reef when her mind raced.
Lily ignored Corinne’s knock at her apartment door. As expected, Corinne barely waited thirty seconds before she used her spare key to open the door. On the few occasions when Lily really didn’t want company, she put the chain lock on the door. Which didn’t mean Corinne went away. It just meant she’d have a few minutes before Corinne started yelling for Lily to let her in.
“You have my key in case of emergencies,” Lily said, not looking up from her notebook.
“This was an emergency. You weren’t answering the door.”
“You didn’t even—”
Lily stopped herself.
“Never mind. Hello, Corinne.”
Corinne looked around the apartment and shook her head.
“All you need is twenty more cats and you’re ready for middle age.”
“Maybe by then I’ll find someone to share my life with.”
“You’re still on that?”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been having a tough time in the whole relationship department.”
Corinne gave Lily a look and then walked into the kitchen.
“Get over yourself.”
Lily scrambled off the couch and followed her.
“What’s that supposed to mean? You saw what happened with Shawn. I have no idea when I will ever be able to—”
“Lily, we’ve been friends since you got to New York, same time I did. What do you know about my dating history?”
“You dated Luke. Who was gorgeous.”
“And married. Who else?”
“That guy from the bodega.”
“The one we only know as that-guy-from-the-bodega?”
Lily chuckled.
“At least you’ve dated. You know what it feels like to be held in someone’s arms and feel loved and protected. Even if it didn’t last. I don’t know if I’m ever going to have even that. And I’m scared.”
“Well, for starters, I had a bit of a head start on you with the whole being-a-woman thing.”
Lily raised one eyebrow and shrugged. She was right on that point.
“And I don’t know what makes you think you’re special. Why do you deserve a man more than any other woman? Because you paid to become a woman? That was your choice.”
Lily opened her mouth to protest. Corinne waved her hand in her face.
“No, Lily. That’s not the way it works. You wanted to be a woman? Welcome. It’s slim pickings for all of us. We’re all out here, putting in work, meeting guys, meeting more guys, drinking endless cups of coffee at these horrible ten-minute Starbucks runs that serve as dates these days. We’re speed-dating and
creating profiles for dating sites and asking our friends to set us up. It’s sad. And it’s pathetic. And it’s fun. So get over it. You chose this shit. You wanted it. Buck up. Getting a vagina does not automatically earn you a relationship.”
“Are you done?” Lily asked.
“No. You’re more of a woman than every woman I know, myself included. You’ll be fine.”
“As long as I lie about my past.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that.”
Lily opened a drawer under her kitchen sink and took out a scrapbook overflowing with pictures, ticket stubs, pressed flowers, notes, and mementos. She placed it on the kitchen table and opened it carefully. Papers fluttered to the floor and spilled onto the table, as Lily rummaged through the pile.
“Look,” she said, pressing two tickets into Corinne’s hands.
“A Jake concert?”
“I went to pick up my check the other day and these were stapled to the envelope.”
“No way.”
“My boss said some guy came and dropped them off.”
“And you didn’t go?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you like him?”
“You said it yourself. I’m special. And guys like Jake do not do special.”
“At least not publicly,” Corinne said. “Who knows what he likes behind closed doors.”
“See that’s what I don’t want. I’m not going to be some guy’s fantasy blow-up doll. I don’t want to be a delicacy or an experiment or any of that shit. I’m not advertising in the back of the Village Voice. I’m just a regular person! Kinda.”
“Calm down.”
Lily didn’t realize she was breathing heavily until Corinne told her to calm down.
“I am calm,” Lily said She ripped the tickets in half and then in half again. She continued ripping and ripping until the bits were flying out of her hands and onto the floor like confetti. She grabbed the broom from behind the refrigerator and furiously swept the tiny kitchen, stabbing the bristles behind the fridge and the stove with such force that Cat came out to see what was going on.
“Lily. Listen . . .” Corinne said.
“I really want to be alone right now,” Lily said.
“Are you sure you don’t want to—”
Lily threw her head back and screamed with her mouth shut.
“I’ll call you later,” Corinne said, walking quickly to the front door and letting herself out. Lily went to the door and threw all the locks into place, including the deadbolt. She picked up her sketch pad and ripped out her latest drawing. She crumpled it in her fists and put it in a black trash bag. She threw the bag into the foyer and threw herself onto the couch, her arms crossed over her chest and hot tears stinging her eyes. Her phone rang. It was Corinne. She pressed ignore and then turned her phone off. She kept her eyes on the foyer, staring at the black garbage bag. She finally took it downstairs, to the side of the building.
On the way back inside, she noticed the crew of teenagers, but it was too late to turn around and go in the back way.
“What up, mama?” said the leader of the crew.
Lily smiled with her mouth shut and quickly walked past the boys and into the lobby. The boy grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the middle of the group.
“Why are you always in such a hurry?”
Lily couldn’t speak. Her heart was pumping hard and she felt like she could feel the rush of blood in her ears.
“Leave her alone,” said one of the taller boys. He was sitting on the bottom step of the stairwell. The leader turned to face him, letting Lily’s arm go in the process.
“What does this have to do with you?”
“Come over here and find out,” the boy said, not even bothering to stand up.
The leader and his minions seemed to think it over and decide to continue heading out the building. As soon as they were out the door, the elevator finally opened and Lily stepped inside.
“Thank you,” she said to the boy on the bottom step.
He looked up at Lily and shook his head.
“Whatever.”
Lily went back up and flopped facedown on her bed, trying to figure out why the boy on the bottom step looked at her like . . . like he knew. Cat hopped up and curled up next to her, licking her salty tears. Lily turned away and covered her head with her hands.
Belles Montagnes was a small, remote village seven thousand feet above sea level in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica. Ras always lost his breath when he stood at the base of the mountains, straining his neck to see the top. Years ago, settlers had turned Belles Montagnes into a luxurious playground for American tourists. The kind who would never step foot in Kingston. It was even accessible by helicopter; a helipad was perched at the peak of the mountain.
At the base, there was full-time security, private armed guards, and military. The president of Jamaica, as well as most of the aristocratic class, kept a home in Belles Montagnes. Ras was at the base of the mountain every morning at five a.m. He looked at the guard at the front gate and said nothing. The guard peeled back the heavy iron gates, signaling to the others with his eyes that it was okay to let him in though he did not have an access card.
A five-minute taxi ride would take him to where he needed to be. Every single morning. By five-thirty.
Another guard, outside an interior gated community would buzz him in each morning, though he knew full well that Ras did not live there. And by five-forty, every morning except Sunday when he went to her church instead, Ras sat down at the front door of his wife’s condo. And waited.
The first few weeks, it caused a bit of commotion. People who lived nearby would look over their balconies and point and whisper. Ras Bennett! Unshaven and looking unkempt! Sitting outside that door every morning!
After a while, Ras became part of the fabric of the neighborhood, like the delivery truck that brought essentials from the outside world or the gaggle of uniformed schoolchildren picking their way down the mountain to school each morning.
The door to 295 Windmere Place, number 3B, opened slowly, at precisely six a.m. Ras glanced up and saw his wife, their infant daughter in her arms.
“Good morning, Ras,” said Josephine, stepping over her husband’s legs, which were stretched out in front of her doorway.
“Please come back to me, Josephine,” Ras whispered. “Please.”
For the first three weeks, Josephine answered by hurling epithets. After a month, she calmed down considerably and would simply say no and keep walking. Today, a new reaction. She smiled.
“You look unwell, Ras,” Josephine said, walking past him with the baby at a fast pace in five-inch stilettos. “You should get some rest.”
Ras watched his wife walk away. She was wearing a navy skirt suit. It was much too warm on the island for a suit. But she wore one every day. Except on Sunday. At church, she always blew in, bright colors and fabrics sweeping around her and the baby as she took her seat in the first pew, smiling and waving to friends.
She was gaining weight. Ras noticed her rear was just slightly more plump than before she left. When Marie Josef ran away with the baby they were planning to adopt, she’d dropped twenty pounds in less than a month. This time, though Ras knew she had to be devastated to learn that he had cheated again, she was gaining weight. Her eyes were clear. She looked strong and in control. Ras thought about what she always said: “I don’t care what you do now. I have my baby . . .”
Ras pulled his knees up to his chest and put his hands behind his head. Would she file for sole custody of Baby Reina? Was there any hope? Ras could see the future and he wasn’t having it—he was determined to reunite with his wife at any cost. Ras’s mind began to drift, thinking about several things at once. A random thought drifted into his mind and settled there. Bits and pieces of body language from Josephine made him think even harder about the random thought. Why did Josephine seem so rested and relaxed? Suddenly, Ras scrambled up to his feet and ran down the stairwell in the
direction of the parking garage where he knew Josephine kept her car.
He saw his wife, bending over to buckle the baby into her car seat. Ras sprinted. He didn’t stop when he got close to the car. Josephine saw the blur coming toward her and stood up straight, her arms outstretched and her mouth wide. Ras ran directly into Josephine and pushed her against the car.
“Who is it?!” Ras screamed.
Josephine’s eyes widened, but she said nothing. Ras held her wrists above her shoulders, against the car. He squeezed. When she still didn’t respond, he sank his nails into the delicate skin of her wrists.
“Who?” Ras said, through gritted teeth. “When?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Josephine said calmly. “But I do know my wrists are bleeding.”
Ras didn’t take his eyes off his wife’s face to see if it were true.
“You’re having sex with another man. Who is it?”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “What makes you think that?”
“I can tell. You’re gaining weight. You’re. . . . everything about you is . . . I just know. Now tell me who it is.”
“How many women have you been with during our marriage?” Josephine asked.
Ras was silent, still squeezing her wrists.
“Dozens? Hundreds?” Josephine asked, her eyes still closed. “You were my first, Ras. Remember? Right in Peu de Ville. I cried. It hurt so bad. I kept saying, it’s not going to fit! And you laughed and said, ‘We’ll go slow.’ And we did. Do you remember, Ras?”
Ras was silent. He stopped digging his nails into her wrists but still held them tight. Josephine kept her eyes closed.
“You took your time. You were so patient with me. You would try to go in. And then I would stop you. And then you’d try a bit more. For an hour, until I bled. And I was no longer a virgin anymore. Then you bathed me and took me back to bed and made love to me with ease. There was no pain. Did you know I had never had an orgasm in my entire life until that night?”
Ras bit his lip to keep from speaking. He did know that. He also knew she’d never been completely nude in front of a man and had never given a blow job. Ras wasn’t even sure she’d actually seen a penis up close before they had sex that first time.
Diamond Life Page 23
