How Stella Got Her Groove Back Read online

  “WHO’RE YOU GOING with?” Angela asks. She’s my younger sister by twenty-one months and she’s still about ten years older than me.

  “Nobody.”

  “You can’t be serious, Stella.”

  “I’m very serious.”

  I can hear her slurping up something. She’s always putting something into her big mouth and I guess it’s because she’s sort of pregnant with twins. “Hold it,” she says. “You mean to tell me you’re gonna go all the way to a foreign country by yourself?”

  “Yes. What’s the big deal?”

  “Who you gonna do stuff with and what if somebody realizes you’re alone and tries to take advantage of you and why do you have to go all the way to Jamaica?”

  I knew I shouldn’t have told her first. The most outrageous thing Angela’s done in years is buy a BMW station wagon. Even though she and her corporate lawyering spouse are in the process of brewing two children they actually went out and bought a completely furnished five-bedroom model home in a semi-custom home subdivision which is surrounded by nothing but tract homes and Angela and Kennedy decided to be bold and had the outside repainted a pale gray instead of the other million different shades of gray like every other house in their neighborhood. My sister would be lost without her garage door opener her sprinkler system her trash compactor, and Kennedy’d be disoriented without the landscaper the handyman and I know for a fact that he does not know how to use everyday tools. And like a real fool, Angela cleans her own house since she’s in it all day. She likes the predictable. She is truly an all-American girl. But she doesn’t watch enough Oprah.

  Apparently Angela didn’t hear a word Mama said when we were growing up. “Never let a man run the whole show. Never let him know if you’re holding the trump card. Never tell him how many men you slept with before him and never ever let him know how much money you got and keep some of your business to yourself cause he’ll hold it against you later long after you think he forgot.” You think she would’ve learned after going to the altar once before. But nope. She likes to repeat herself. The first husband (and I can’t even hardly remember his name but does it really matter?) caused her to bear a handsome buck whose name I do recall because he is my favorite (well, my only) nephew and he is away at college and well over six feet tall and the only black hockey player I’ve ever heard of. Evan is twenty. Last I heard he was also smart. He has told me to my face that he thinks Kennedy is a punk but he tries to get along with him because his mom loves the dude. Angela handed her entire soul over to Kennedy for safekeeping when she married him. He is only the second man she has ever slept with. He writes, produces and directs all three acts of their lives on a daily basis and she basically goes along with his program because I truly believe that Angela feels like she’s nothing without a man. Unfortunately in her case, it’s true. She needs guidance, direction from somebody, and boy does she get it from Kennedy. She doesn’t have to think about too much on her own because he takes a scientific mathematical approach toward life in that he’s got everything all figured out before the shit even happens. So basically Angela just connects the dots.

  She worships her husband. I loved mine. Marriage to her is the end of the rainbow. I wanted it to be the rainbow. I wanted each day to be fresh, warm, sprinkled with something redeeming, something that would make me feel good about being here, that this is nice, that the longer I know you the more I like you and as a matter of fact this bond is even getting stronger and it feels good to trust someone and I’m glad you’ve got my back and you know I’ve got yours and each morning when I wake up and feel you next to me I am so glad we are here together and when I look at you when I think about you I smile because we both pay attention to each other’s needs respect appreciate them and all I know is that I’d like to continue doing this. I think Angela negotiated the terms of her marriage with Kennedy, and being a litigator, he pretty much won.

  She’s still my sister and I love her like a sister and the main reason I called her first was because she’s under the A’s on my speed dial and my other sister—Vanessa—is of course way down in the V’s.

  I am in my car on my way to the mall to buy a few new bathing suits, a few pairs of sandals, some basic resort wear and a couple of somewhat sexy sundresses.

  “First of all, the main reason I’m going to Jamaica is to get away from everything and everybody, so I can lie on the beach and read and chill out without being distracted. If I went with somebody I’d have to negotiate with them about what we’re going to do each and every day, and if I don’t want to do what they want to do then there’ll be tension and I’ll spend my vacation compromising and I do enough of that at home and at work and for the first time in years I feel like being totally selfish.”

  “I think it’s ridiculous. Even though I’m four months pregnant and might not be much fun I’d be happy to go with you and you could do whatever you wanted to do.”

  “I told you I don’t want any company.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday? Today is already Sunday!”

  “I know it. That’s why I’m on my way to get some new rags.”

  “What about Quincy? What if something happens to him while he’s with his dad and you’re not even in the United States of America?”

  “Bite it, Angela. This is the first time I’ve taken a vacation without Quincy in six years and it’s the first time I’ve done anything this spontaneous in about a hundred. His daddy hasn’t exactly jumped over any hurdles trying to get here when Quincy’s been sick. I’ve handled it. Now it’s his turn. I’ll leave him a number, Angela. Damn. It’s also the reason why God invented airplanes. Six hours is all it takes.”

  “Where exactly are you going?”

  “Negril.”

  “I heard about that place. Nothing but freaks go there.”

  “That’s only one hotel.”

  “Called Hedonistic or something.”

  “Yep. But I’m staying right across the street, at the Castle Beach Negril.”

  “I heard all the beaches are nude down there. That nobody wears any clothes. What are you gonna do? Join in?”

  “They have a clothing-optional beach which is completely separate, and hey, if I feel like getting naked, you’ll never know, now will you?”

  “When did you decide to do all this? I just talked to you a few days ago and you didn’t mention anything about needing any vacation. Quincy hasn’t even adjusted to the altitude yet and you’re already making dust tracks of your own?”

  “I’m not listening to you, Angela, okay? After I dropped him off I came home with a gazillion things on my to-do list and it hit me that for the past six summers Quincy has gone to camp for two weeks and all I do is stay home and work my butt off. I also remember when he was born and when I put him down for his nap I’d jump up and start cleaning or something. That’s when I remembered Mama’s advice about babies: when they take a nap, you take one too otherwise you’ll be burned out. So yesterday afternoon I sort of got pissed at myself for trying to do too much all the time and so when this commercial came on TV about Jamaica it was so seductive I called my travel agent immediately and ironically enough she had just come back from Negril herself and she told me that since I was going by myself the classiest place to stay was the Castle Beach because everything is included—drinks, water sports, meals—and there’s no tipping so I told her to book me a first-class ticket as soon as she could like today if possible before I came to my senses and started acting like the responsible adult that I’ve been for the last twenty years and I told her I didn’t care how much the shit cost don’t even tell me just put it on my American Express card and I told her I’d pick the tickets up as soon as she called to tell me it was a done deal.”

  “When are you getting them?”

  “They’re on my dresser right now.”

  “What about your passport?”

  “My picture’s about six years old and I look fabulou
s if I do say so myself. My hairstyle is weak but I think that was when me and Quincy left Walter at home and went to Australia, remember?”

  “Yeah. Don’t you think Quincy would like to see Jamaica? Why can’t you wait until he gets back?”

  “You’re not listening to me, Mrs. Cleaver. Read my lips: I do not want to take my child with me on my vacation. Did you hear that?”

  “Well, you know what they say about those Jamaican men, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “That they’ve all got fire hoses for dicks.”

  “I don’t care what size their dicks are! You’re not listening to me, Angela. I’m not going down there to get laid. I can get laid any day of the week right here at home. I’m going down there to regroup. I’ve been living in fifth gear for too long and I need to decompress. That’s it in a nutshell. Comprende?”

  “How long you staying?”

  “Nine days.”

  “Dag, Stella!”

  “Look, I’m in the mall parking lot and if I don’t talk to you before I leave, I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “You know how expensive it is to call from another country?”

  “Then forget it. I’ll send you a postcard.”

  And I hang up. I knew I should’ve called Vanessa first. She’s a lot looser, four years younger than me, still has a fresh attitude and is much more open-minded than your average widow of four years who recently met and has been cavorting with a man old enough to be our father. Apparently J.B. is retired but he worked for years in the sporting goods business so he gives her all the free sneakers and exercise paraphernalia she could ever dream of even though she does not ever walk jog or exercise but takes the stuff because it is free and it’s great for her daughter, Chantel, who is only eleven and growing and Vanessa said J.B. who won’t tell her what those initials stand for is a recent widower and so they have a lot in common even though all he does is talk about his dead wife and just wants somebody to listen and he wants to show her how to golf and maybe have an occasional dinner like every Friday because since he also has prostate cancer he can’t do the nasty which she is grateful for in a sad way but she also said, “Hey, it doesn’t cost anything to be nice. And don’t even think of him as my boyfriend, girl. He’s what I call a part-time companion.”

  I like Vanessa because she is generous, fickle, but full of mucho compassion, and ever since Angela has become mother-bound again she has taken on the job of trying to be our mama. We lost ours twenty years ago when some drunk driver jumped the curb and took her from us and anyway we lost track of our daddy like twenty-five years ago and we don’t really care if we ever find him at this point and who’s looking but Angela sort of works overtime with her parental posturing and she is making it sound as if I am like asking for her approval to take this vacation. Which I am not.

  • • • •

  When I get home I have two messages. The first one’s from Vanessa. “Girl, Angela called and told me you’re going to Jamaica! How come you didn’t call me? Way to go, girl. It’s about time your old dead ass did something to liven up your dead-ass life. Way to go. Take plenty of condoms with you and get some from all those young Jamaican boys with big flapping dicks—do one a day if you can handle it, girl—and oooooh I wish I could go with you but Angela said you want to go by yourself and she’s such a square and I don’t blame you cause this way won’t nobody have to be all in your business and you can turn into like a whore and nobody’ll ever have to know but call and tell me if you do. Talk to you later. You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  I crack up. Vanessa and I are a lot alike except she’s much more outspoken and says whatever comes to her mind and then thinks about it later. She is forever putting her foot in her mouth but that’s what I love about her: plus the fact that she really doesn’t give a shit. I’m not as impulsive—I at least try to consider the consequences of what I’m doing but even if I’m scared I usually do it anyway because it kind of gives me a rush. This is the main reason why I used to do drugs. There’s nothing like a good rush.

  Beep. I hear Quincy’s tinny prepubescent voice which I’m assuming will change in a short time if and when those hormones ever kick in. On his eleventh birthday he wanted to show me the hair under his arms that he claimed had grown in the night before and as we stood on the upstairs landing and he lifted his elbow up I had to ask him to move into the light which he did and I saw some brownish fuzz and I assumed that’s what he was talking about and all I knew was that it smelled kind of skunkish and I suggested he be on friendlier terms with his deodorant. I also decided to take this opportunity to ask if he had hair on any other body parts and he said of course and I asked if I could see an example and he said no way and I said please you don’t have to show me your unit although I did want to see if he was going to be as lucky as his daddy. But I didn’t want to push the issue but then I heard him say well I’ll only show you the top part and I was suddenly in shock because first of all showing me the “top” meant there was something separate and apart from the “bottom” which I hadn’t really given much thought to because when he was little it all seemed to be in one little cluster but now there was a top and a bottom so I stood there somewhat afraid and wanting to say forget it but then he was slowly and carefully pulling his pajama bottoms down and I heard him say see and I looked and saw what was unquestionably black hair forming a little triangle against his brown skin and before I could fully absorb what I was seeing I heard the elastic snap against his narrow waist and he said Told you and I heard myself ask How big is your little unit now and he said Big enough, Mom, big enough.

  “Mom, this is your loving son Quincy, remember me? Anyway my dad wanted me to call you to remind you that on Tuesday we’re leaving for our fishing trip and we won’t have a phone for six whole days so you won’t be able to talk to your darling son and Dad is so fat now, Ma, you wouldn’t believe it if you saw him and last night we were playing Crazy Eights and I couldn’t get my legs under the card table because his thighs took up so much space, they were so big and rubbed together and I told him he should start working out and how you have a trainer and how you jog and stuff and how all my friends say how cool you are and he didn’t say anything but all I wanna know is how is Phoenix doing? Did you find any more ticks on him you know this is tick season, Mom. I miss him and I miss you even though I just got here. I hope you’re having fun without me but not too much fun. I wish my dad had Sega or Super NES but I’m not bored yet I don’t think because he tells pretty good jokes. Please call us before Tuesday. I love you. Oh. And I promise to bring you some fish because I’m going to catch lots of them.”

  I hang up the phone with a grin three miles wide. God, I love that boy! It doesn’t surprise me to hear about his dad being bigger because he was on his way to becoming the Pillsbury Doughboy when we split up. All that beer and party-size bags of nachos had caused that middle-aged spread to start chasing after his butt and apparently it finally caught up with him. I decide to call them in the morning and I’ll tell the truth: I’m taking a vacation. Got a problem with that?

  I can’t wait to pack. I went crazy in Macy’s, berserk in Nordstrom’s, and all I want to know is why don’t they have shopping carts in malls? And talk about bathing suits? I think I bought six or seven of them but I can’t be sure. And sunglasses. Sexy cotton bras and panties. Cute jogging shorts, tops, leggings. I was totally unable to resist those bright yellow luscious orange sweet pink ensembles in the windows of those specialty boutiques where mostly teenagers and young girls in their twenties with high-performance bodies shop but I went in with a young attitude and bought some of the hottest outfits a woman my age could tolerate because in the so-called misses sections of the major department stores all they had was that senior citizen type resort wear. Those tops are so big and loose they camouflage your breasts. I am very proud of mine and have no intention of hiding them since they still stand at attention when the air hits them. Those so-called T-shirts have M
ommie Dearest shoulder pads and rubbery sailboats or starfish or cups and saucers embossed all over the front and I suppose they are also designed to hide your pouchy tummy which I do not have thank the Lord and then those yucky elastic-in-the-waist shorts with the baggy legs that make you look fatter than you may very well really be. Either that or everything is appliquéd with some kind of silver and gold lamé sewn on and even in the shoe department they had tons of those dainty little flat white sandals with clusters of hard fruit or plastic floral arrangements at the toe or they were all pewter and bronze with no heels. All this stuff seemed geared for women over fifty who usually hide under their umbrellas and use number 80 sunblock and wear those cheap straw hats and those loud bathing suits with the flared skirts and they usually have varicose veins and gigantic breasts and they watch children play in the sand or they stare at young women with perfect magazine bodies and remember when they used to look like this and they don’t dare look down at their own bodies but instead go back to reading their Harlequin or Fabio romance novels while their husbands ignore them and watch young Swedish German French or Black women’s curves rock back and forth along the shore until they’re completely out of range. I don’t look like their wives yet. I know those days may be coming, but they’re not here yet.

  A sea of bags covers my bedroom floor and I’ve opened all the windows as wide as they will go, have the ceiling fan spinning on high, and the whole house is thumping with Montell Jordan’s “This Is How We Do It.” My son and I actually have some of the same taste in music. I buy some rap but not very much of that gangsta rap because I don’t agree with half the shit they’re saying and I don’t like hearing black women referred to as bitches and ho’s and I hate it absolutely hate it when they use the word “niggah” which we have never used and I do not allow to be used in our house. I do appreciate some hip-hop, a little SWV TLC Xscape R.Kelly Mary J. Blige Brownstone Boyz II Men Jodeci etc. etc. etc., and Quincy loves those other three young sisters with the bodies I wish I had but I can’t think of their names right now oh yeah Salt-N-Pepa. I also like a lot of music by white people, which a lot of my friends don’t understand. Quincy loves that rock group Green Day and Aerosmith and Hootie and the Blowfish and I kind of like them too and I love Seal even though he’s African but British and mostly white people buy his music and I love Annie Lennox Diva over and over and Julia Fordham and Sting and hell good music is good music.