Bliss

by Fiona Zedde

  Sinclair breathed softly into the fabric of the couch. "I can't say because I don't know how the two of you fit together. "

  "We don't seem to." The brush continued to move across the canvas in smooth, languid strokes. "And that's the problem. "

  They finished the sitting by late evening. Hunter took Sinclair back to her father's house, dropping her off at the gate with a mocking salute. "Thanks for the therapy session, Ms. Sinclair. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me." Then she drove back up to her mountain.

  Sinclair watched the jeep until it disappeared completely out of sight, leaving only a trail of dust and unasked questions. During the sitting with Hunter, her curiosity had been piqued along with her libido. What in all the seven hells could drive Lydia out of that woman's arms? If Hunter had been her girlfriend ... she cut that thought off before it could go any further. Thoughts like that would just lead to another masturbation coma and Sinclair didn't think her fingers were up to the challenge tonight. She sat on a rocking chair on the verandah and dropped her bag tiredly at her feet.

  "Rough day?"

  She slowly turned her head to watch her father close the front door behind him and claim the other chair. "No. Not really. It was actually pretty good. I went back up with Nikki to the Breckenridges', then I spent most of the day with Hunter Willoughby. She's painting me."

  He looked sharply at her. "Be careful."

  "Of what?"

  "That woman. She's not someone you want to hang around with."

  "What does that mean?" Sinclair looked at her father in surprise. "Why don't you like her?"

  "It's not that I don't like her. I just don't like her with Lydia or with you. She's a bad influence."

  "What do you mean?" Sinclair hoped he didn't say what she thought he was going to say.

  "Well, look at her." He made an abrupt gesture into the evening as if Hunter were somewhere out there. "She looks like a half-man, trying to corrupt Lydia. It's not right. She's not right."

  Sinclair sat up in the rocker and looked sharply at her father. "What if she's not trying to corrupt Lydia?"

  "I just don't like her hanging around my daughters. She went off abroad and turned into a dyke. Now she wants to spread that disease to Lydia, maybe even to you, too. I don't want that. The Bible says that's not right and I believe it."

  "Are you joking?" Sinclair's sandaled feet slapped against the tiled floor as she abruptly stopped the rocker's motion. "Since when do you believe in anybody's bible? You committed adultery. How come you pick and choose what you believe out of this book? Since when is it OK to hate someone because of what she and another consenting adult do in the privacy of her own home?"

  Her father looked at her with dawning suspicion. "Are you one of those ... lesbians too?"

  "What if I said yes, would you kick me out and tell me never to call or write you again?"

  He stared at her. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

  "Before what? Before you started making ignorant comments about people you don't even know? Before you started talking crazy that Lydia was being corrupted by Hunter when my sister has probably had more pussy than Magic Johnson?" That was when she knew she'd crossed the line. Sinclair took a deep breath and slowly released it. Apologize, dammit! she chided herself, but the words wouldn't leave her mouth.

  "What did you say to me?" Her father stood up. "Don't you even come in here with your American ways trying to tell me about my Jamaican-born and -bred daughter. Don't mess with her good name. I don't appreciate it and I'm damn sure that she doesn't either." He didn't raise his voice once. With a look of sharp disappointment, he turned and walked back into the house.

  "Fuck."

  Sinclair sank back into the chair. She was suddenly very aware of the darkening sky and the empty noise of crickets just beginning to chirp their evening song. Her grandmother used to caution her all the time about trying to change somebody's mind when it came to such touchy issues as religion, sexuality, politics, or food. Be prepared for a fight, Gram said, and be prepared for failing in the attempt to convert someone to your way of thinking. But she hadn't been trying to convert anyone. There was just no way that she was going to sit there and let him call her diseased or let him talk with impunity about sin when he had fucked around on his first wife. The hypocrite.

  But with deepening night came a new attitude. Sinclair left the comfort of her rocking chair to look for her father. She found him in the living room, watching television and drinking carrot juice.

  "Hey." She sat beside him on the sofa. He looked at her once then turned back to the television to watch an old MacGyver rerun. Sinclair sighed and bit her lip.

  "I was out of line earlier. Lydia's business is her own, I had no right to speculate about what or who she does in her spare time. "

  "You're right about that."

  She rolled her eyes. On the screen MacGyver was building yet another explosive device with chewing gum and duct tape. Her finger itched to turn the damn TV off.

  "Papa, look at me."

  He turned off the television. After a moment of tense silence he faced her, turning his whole body to give her all his attention. "What?"

  This wasn't going well at all. "I'm not going to stay here if you feel that you can't be in the same house with a lesbian. That would only hurt us both and that's the last thing that I want." He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand. "Nikki doesn't have to know why I left. I won't tell her. I can fly back to the city and we don't ever have to speak again."

  He made a low noise of dismissal. "None of that is going to happen." With a sigh, he leaned back into the arm of the sofa and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I know about Lydia. I have since she was in basic school, but it doesn't mean that I like it. Having that girl Hunter here just puts it in my face all the time. It puts it in the neighborhood's face. I'm just afraid that people are going to talk and worse, that they're going to hurt her." He paused and took a breath. "Before I knew about Lydia I used to think that ... homosexuals were masochists. I mean, why choose a life of hardship and pain? Isn't it enough that black people are treated like slaves still, that this island is poor and in need and is like a sinking ship where the rats are scrambling over each other trying to escape? But I know her and she would never choose something like this. Sometimes I look in her face and I see how unhappy she is. I just want to do whatever I can to make things easier for her."

  "Can't you see that hating Hunter and acting like she's the cause of all Lydia's problems is not going to do that?"

  "I didn't say the way that I was dealing with this made any sense." He rubbed his nose again. "You want some carrot juice?"

  "Uh ... sure."

  When he got up and went to the kitchen Sinclair collapsed against the sofa with a barely audible sigh. The last thing she wanted to do was leave, but if he had insisted, she would have. He came back with a tall glass clinking with ice cubes and juice.

  "I made it this afternoon. It's nice and sweet."

  "Thank you."

  The juice had a crispness that was reminiscent of the outdoors, with its combined flavors of fresh carrots, vanilla, nutmeg, and a creamy sweetness that Sinclair could not name.

  "I could teach you to make that if you want."

  Sinclair wrinkled her nose and laughed. "You could try, but we'll see if I learn anything."

  He turned the television back on and they watched the rest of the show in companionable silence.

  Chapter 10

  .t was late. Even Sinclair's body knew that. She'd been able to get more and more sleep since coming to the island, but that still only meant five hours of sleep each night if she was lucky. Four when she wasn't. Tonight the silence of the room wasn't nearly as comforting as it had been on other nights. Her earlier conversation with Victor still weighed on her mind. Disturbing thoughts of Lydia, Hunter, and of herself plagued her, precluding any possibility of rest. Finally she just couldn't lay in bed anymore. She crept through the house, picked a boo
k from the shelf, and made it to the verandah without waking anybody up. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning.

  Sinclair was just getting into the first chapter when she heard the distinctive rumble of Lydia's Cadillac pulling up to the gate. The half moon lit Lydia's way up the gravel path to the textured gray tile of the small square verandah with its ring of lush, flowering plants. Lydia sat in the chair beside Sinclair and took something out of the paper bag she carried. It was grapenut ice cream. With two plastic spoons.

  "I knew you'd be awake. Hunter told me you have trouble sleeping at night."

  Did she? Sinclair wondered what else she had told Lydia about her.

  "It's not really trouble," Sinclair said. "My body doesn't need that much sleep so I end up staying awake most of the night." She took the spoon that her sister offered and waited while Lydia peeled the protective plastic from the top of the pint of ice cream. "So why are you up so late? Or so early?"

  Lydia put the plastic wrap on the ground near the container's cover. "Well, I haven't been to bed yet. I spent the last few hours at Hunter's but didn't feel like going home to sleep."

  Sinclair couldn't imagine spending an evening with Hunter and having the strength to do anything but sleep afterward.

  "We just talked. She and I talk a lot." She dug her spoon into the ice cream, sounding disappointed. "I think that this relationship is going to drive me crazy."

  Sinclair nodded although most of her attentions were focused on the dessert melting slowly in her mouth. The ice cream was sinful; a creamy French vanilla with grains of softened grapenuts spread throughout. Sinclair swirled the soft granules over her tongue and thought, reluctantly, of Lydia and Hunter together. She asked the question that Lydia seemed to be waiting for.

  "Why?

  "We're just not compatible." Her mouth smiled around the ice cream. "Although I usually like older women, from the beginning there was something about Hunter that really revved my engine." She licked her spoon clean and sat back with a tiny grin. "Her eyes are gorgeous. Have you ever really looked into them? God! There's a whole universe in there." Lydia shook her head. "But we're just not going to work out as a couple."

  "Why?" Sinclair asked again, not really caring. She breathed out into the night air again pushing aside her irritation at having lost her night's peace to Lydia's romantic troubles. Then again, she said to herself, the woman did bring ice cream.

  "Because she slept with Della. They used to be girlfriends."

  Ah.

  "I mean I understand that we live in a very small commu nity. There's bound to be incestuous contact. But that's too much. "

  "Just who is Della anyway?"

  Lydia looked at Sinclair as if she'd forgotten that she was there, or that she had another function besides being the silent witness to her confessions. "She's a big flirt, that's what. And she doesn't mean a damn thing that she says."

  What?

  "She's also Papa's friend and Nikki's." She tucked a smooth sweep of hair behind her ear and considered the empty spoon in her hand. "She and your mother were lovers for a little while, too."

  Sinclair stiffened and stared at her sibling. "How do you know that?"

  "Like I said, the lesbian community here is very small." Lydia shrugged and looked at her through a lush forest of eyelashes. Sinclair had the sudden urge to pluck them out one by one. How do you just drop a thing like that on a person?... Later. I'll ask someone else about this later. She took a calming breath and forced herself to refocus on Lydia's problem.

  "I still don't understand this compatibility thing with Hunter. So what if she slept with Della. That just means that she likes all kinds of women."

  Lydia made a harsh noise. "I can't touch Hunter. I can't have sex with her, not even close." She stuck her spoon in one corner of the ice cream carton. "Every time we start to do something I tense up. I just can't do it."

  Sinclair tapped the spoon against her mouth. "I still don't get it. It's not like she's your mother or even that she slept with your mother."

  "It's just Della-she's disgusting. I can't stand to be in the same room with her."

  "Did you feel this way after or before you found out that Hunter slept with her?"

  "I'm not even sure," Lydia said. "I feel like she preyed on Hunter's feelings, that she's a viper or some sort of ... succubus."

  That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Sinclair said nothing, merely spooned more ice cream into her mouth. It melted over and around her tongue, sweet, rich, and impossibly delicious. "What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know." Lydia's voice sounded far away, as if she'd lost her favorite toy and didn't know where to look for it.

  Sinclair gently patted her sister's hand and reached for the ice cream.

  Chapter 11

  ydia knocked on Sinclair's open door and poked her head (into the room. "Hey, Sinclair. Want to go out?" It was after eleven on a Friday night.

  "Sure." Nikki and Xavier laid on the cot already half asleep, hypnotized by the dancing blue lights from the TV. Deeper in the house, Victor sat reading an old copy of the British Financial Times. Sinclair put her book aside. "Let me change and go tell Papa that we're leaving."

  Lydia went into the kitchen to greet her father. "Hey, Papa. What are you reading?"

  "An old paper." He put it down. "You girls heading off somewhere?"

  "A little party up the hill."

  He glanced at Lydia's see-through blouse and slim-fitting black slacks. "Take care of yourself, now. People run crazy this time of night."

  Sinclair changed into tight low-rider jeans and a thin white blouse.

  "Nice," Lydia said once they were in the car. "The girls are going to be nuts over you."

  "I'll settle for them just buying me a drink and leaving the nuts at home."

  The house was hidden in the wilds of the mountain. As Sinclair got out of the car she could hear the quiet rush of a nearby waterfall.

  "The place belongs to Phyllis Chambliss and Sabrina something or other," Lydia explained. "They are some rich, rich women who made a lot of money in real estate in America, then came back to Jamaica to settle down and spend it."

  At least two dozen cars lined the long, paved driveway, everything from jaguars to Honda Civics. Sinclair noticed Hunter's blue jeep parked close to the high, marble archway that served as the entrance to the house. Even out here they could hear the sound of women's laughter entwined with music. High double doors parted under Lydia's hands.

  "Lydia." A woman in beige slacks and a matching blouse that gaped over her full breasts greeted them as they walked in. "I'm so glad you could come." She kissed Lydia's cheek. "You look marvelous as usual."

  "Thank you, Phyl." Lydia reached a hand back for her sister. "This is Sinclair," she said, "my American sister."

  "Pleased to meet you." An expensive, powdery perfume lingered on the woman. She left traces of it on Sinclair's skin when she pulled back from the unexpected hug. "Come in. The party is just getting started."

  Despite the obvious wealth of the two women who lived there, the house was relatively modest. The walls were done in soft beiges and browns, not unlike Sinclair's own apartment, but while hers lacked sensuality, this house certainly did not. The velvet tapestries in luscious shades of chocolate and cream begged for a naked back to rub against them. The same could be said for the low suede couches and chairs. The rugs were thick and full, inviting bare toes to curl into them. Arabic music played in the main room, bass-heavy and mellow.

  Beautifully designed trays of finger food sat on small tables in every corner. The women lounged about in their soft clothes, lightly touching each other, whispering, laughing, and sharing sips from the same cup. It was like a scene from a seraglio, very stylish and decadent. Sinclair immediately noticed a dark couple sitting under a soft golden light with their fingers linked, their mouths moving to shape words meant only for each other. One woman had long black hair that trailed down to her hips like a silken scarf. In her glitterin
g silk pants and cropped top, she perfectly complemented her partner's plain black dress and closely clipped hair. They were exquisite together.

  "Come, let me show you the rest of the place."

  Sinclair's gaze left the stunning couple as Lydia gently tugged at her hand, pulling her away. They walked through a long hallway decorated with unusual paintings and pottery and books. Lydia obviously wasn't intent on showing Sinclair any of these things. Her sister pulled her through a door at the end of the hallway and into chaos. Loud, hard-driving dancehall reggae poured over them. This was where most of the women were. They surged en masse to the music, swaying hips and tossing hair, flailing arms and shaking breasts. Sinclair could feel the music in her chest, feel it reach into her heart and vibrate the organ to its insistent beat. Her hips twitched to the rhythm.

  "This is fabulous," Sinclair said over the music.

  "What?"

  She raised her voice, "I said, this is great."

  Lydia shrugged her shoulders. She still didn't hear. Sinclair shook her head. "Never mind."

  Although it was mostly dark in the room, the faces of the women were visible in the flashes of color from the strobe lights and the disco ball that shot tiny darts of light all around the room in time with the music. There was every variety of woman here-jet-skinned, gold, red, long-haired, short-, and everything else in between. Sinclair thought she saw Hunter but wasn't sure. The lights shifted again and what she thought was dark, snaking hair solidified into a long fall of midnight weave. Lydia tapped her hand and sig naled toward the door. The quiet of the hallway was deafening in its abruptness.

  "I bet you have a lot of places like this in America."

  "We do, but I've only been to one. And it wasn't quite like this."

  "What do you mean? Better?"

  "No, just different. There were white women there, for one thing. And it was a public club so there were more people, more chaos, and it smelled like liquor and sweat." She remembered Regina rushing onto the dance floor to join the other gyrating bodies, ignoring her for the anonymity of a group grope.