How Stella Got Her Groove Back Page 8

  “How long do we ride?” I ask.

  “Two hours. You get your money’s worth, mon. I see to it. You’ll love it. Not to worry.”

  The stable is ugly and stinks and looks like the set of Bonanza on a bad-ranch day and these horses all look anorexic; at least six or seven Rastas with long hot dreadlocks are sitting around playing some kind of card game and I can smell that ganja because it is hard not to. They hardly notice when I walk up with the General who has chosen my horse already and his name is Dancing Dan. I sign a bunch of forms and he asks me for thirty-five dollars for two hours and I thought it was fifty for an hour so I think it must be a black thang and I am impressed that they are so organized and businesslike with all the waivers even though nobody seems to be doing anything.

  The General helps me get on Dancing Dan and off we go up a rocky red dirt trail lined with mango avocado and akee trees. Flowering bushes appear to be taking over the hillside and then we enter what looks like a real rain forest. The trees suddenly triple in size and density; their branches hang over the path so heavily that we often have to duck. At first it feels cooler and then it begins to feel like a greenhouse: sultry. I am also not exactly National Velvet and when the General begins to gallop I don’t know how to lift my hips in unison to Dancing Dan’s rhythm—they slap against that hard-ass saddle and not only does it sting but the breeze is causing all the General’s funk to fly right into my face. “I forgot how to gallop,” I yell out.

  “No problem, mon,” he says and turns his horse around. He explains to me how to do it and then says, “It’s too bad you don’t smoke, mon.”

  We lope along and I begin to see these tiny little square structures that look like shacks, some made of several different kinds and sizes of boards and wood just nailed on top of each other any old way. Most of these places have tin or aluminum roofs and maybe one or two little windows and I wonder why they’re up here in these hills out in the middle of nowhere when suddenly I see children playing outside of one and then a woman hanging clothes on a line at another and then right in the middle of the trail a young boy about sixteen has two tin pans of water, one with soap in it, and he is scrubbing some type of clothing with his bare hands and he says hello to the General and asks if he has a smoke and of course he doesn’t and it is obvious that they know each other. We saunter onward and some small children walk right in front of my horse and hold up an armful of red yellow and green beaded necklaces and I give them a twenty-dollar bill and they hand me all twenty or thirty of their necklaces but I shake my head no and take only a few because I don’t want to exploit their craftsmanship and they look at me as if I’m nuts and then they run off squealing in delight and I put my other fifty back in my pocket twenty of which I had planned to use as a tip for the General because I believe in the power of tipping but only if he stops stopping and posing on his horse right in the line of fire of what little breeze there is.

  “Do people actually live up here?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “Oh yes, mon. For certain.”

  I am in a state of disbelief because it does not look like more than one person could actually fit inside some of these shacks plus they seem as flimsy as the little clubhouses Quincy and his friends have built down by the creek near our house. It is difficult for me to accept the fact that grown-ups with children live inside these huts but I am trying not to pass judgment even though it looks like there might not be any running water or septic tanks or even electricity but I’m sure hoping I’m wrong. I mean even in Jamaica it is still 1995, isn’t it?

  As we pass one after another of these kinds of homes I find myself getting more and more depressed. This is how black people in the South used to live back in the twenties and thirties. I’ve got old photos of my grandparents sitting out on their front porches in front of rickety little shacks identical to these. I hate those pictures. My grandparents look worn out. Tired. Like they can’t do any more have done enough and this is all we get for it, and as Dancing Dan begins to pick up the pace all on his own I am so hot and sticky I wish I could get off this damn horse and sit down under a tree and find an ice-cold bottle of Evian or Crystal Geyser with lime. I pull on Dancing Dan’s reins to slow his ass down because I can see the emerald-green ocean that appears to be a few miles down the mountain through a forest and that’s when I ask: “General, when are we going to ride on the beach?”

  “Beach?”

  “Yes. Some of the people from my hotel said that they rode on the beach and I was wondering how much longer before we ride on the beach.”

  He laughs. “Oh no, mon. That’s Sopher’s Plantation, not Issy’s, mon. We don’t ride on no beach at Issy’s. We give you the mountain ride, mon, so that you can see the real Jamaica, how the Rastas live.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. “But I wanted to ride on the beach.”

  “You don’t like to see mountain life?”

  “Yes, it’s fine, but General it’s really hot up here and how much longer do we have to ride?”

  “Well, you paid for two hours.”

  “I know but we can cut it short, I don’t mind.”

  “No, mon. We give you your money’s worth and a good deal at Issy’s, right, mon?” He looks at his watch. “We still have well over an hour to go, but we stop for a drink soon, not to worry.”

  The General proceeds to point out a number of gardens filled with sweet potatoes and a slew of vegetables I’ve never heard of. As I look down at the dry red soil, the General explains why the plants aren’t flourishing: everyone is waiting for the rain which will be here for sure tomorrow afternoon and all I’m wondering is what Winston is doing as Mr. Meteorologist is now proudly pointing out quite a few unfinished brick structures larger than those we’ve already seen and he says many of these are going to be big three-bedroom villas but I can’t picture it. Every now and then he shows me what he defines as mansions which would not quite qualify as a Section 8 home in the hood at home and then I wonder something else. “General?”

  “Yeah, mon.”

  “How do these folks get home? I mean we’re like very high up here and these roads aren’t exactly smooth and I have not seen a streetlight yet.”

  “Who needs light, mon? Everybody knows their way home. No problem, mon. We live ’ere. Some people have cars and some ride bicycles and others walk. Nothing will hurt you here. We’ve got Ja looking over us and who needs light, mon, if you know where you’re going?”

  Good point. I am ashamed for feeling the way I do but it is hard not to. We pass a bunch of children playing in a small meadow which appears to be in the middle of nowhere and then a little girl with a backpack stops to stare at me like I’m a freak and I’m thinking what is she doing out here all by herself? Further up are more kids, shabbily dressed but clean and chasing each other around and some are digging something up from the ground and one is chasing a goat (I think it’s a goat) and they are all laughing and it suddenly occurs to me that these children look pretty damn happy like they are having big fun and I’m certain they don’t have Sega Genesis or Super Nintendo or five-hundred-dollar road bikes or Lightning Rollerblades at home and doesn’t look like any crack houses or drive-bys or gang-banging going on around here and these kids look like they know how to amuse themselves, something we have forgotten, and I understand they are probably better off much better off than I thought.

  “Would you like a Red Stripe?” the General asks as we stop by the fence of one of those little stores is what I guess they’re called.

  “I don’t drink beer, but I’ll take some water,” I say.

  To the right about a quarter mile up the hill I see an old black man sitting on a big rock and two little boys giggling. A pale gray horse stands right next to the man and all of a sudden the General yells out, “Hey Tanto!” and no shit, that horse starts galloping down that hill toward us and he looks like he’s going to run into the fence but then when he gets close he makes a sharp right turn and continues on about his business down the trail we were on until we
can’t see him anymore. “How did you do that?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Get that horsie to run down here like that—and where did he go?”

  “He knows his name, mon. On a good day I bring an apple but he knows when I have one and when I don’t. Come on in for a drink, mon.”

  Once again the local children stare at me and I smile at them and since there’s no bottled water I get a green bottle of Ting which is a wonderful sparkling grapefruit drink that is ice cold which of course means that they do have electricity up here and I am very relieved. The General bums a cigarette from the man who apparently sells a lot of different items such as beer and soft drinks and fresh vegetables and fruit and candy and even some household items and toiletries from this little store. A girl of about sixteen stands in the doorway of the little shack that is connected to the store. She looks like she’s going somewhere because her hair is greasy and slicked back and she is wearing freshly ironed old bluejeans and a starched white blouse and she reminds me of me thirty years ago. I remember that make-do look. As I take my bottle of Ting over to where the General is I can see another girl standing in her bra and panties inside the living room of the house, ironing something. Our eyes meet and there is something like disgust in hers for me. I sort of get it, but I go ahead and sit on a handmade wooden bench and drink my Ting while the General drinks two Red Stripe beers.

  We have the most amazing view of the tip of the island and the view of the ocean is pretty much surreal—no one would believe this. I don’t believe this. I am sitting on a live postcard. Miles of dark green clusters lead down to the blue-green sea, where I can see fishermen sitting in small boats, waiting. I see coral reefs shaped like navy blue states on a map of the U.S. The sky runs into the water. This is a good place to pray, I think. You would be more inclined to tell the truth from this altitude and someone might actually hear you up here I betcha. Even if I had remembered to bring my camera you would have had to be here to feel this to take it all in because a photograph even a video would not have the same impact. You always lose something when you try to recapture rename what you saw or felt and I am glad that I am here and I will remember all of this without a camera and when I tell people about it I just want to be able to recount enough of the beauty so that one day they will want to see it for themselves.

  The General smokes his cigarette slowly and we sit there in relative silence for which I am grateful and as the two young girls come out of their home and take a tiny little key and put it in the tiny little padlock on their front door and disappear into a clump of trees, I’m wondering again what Winston might be doing. I guess I look a little perplexed because I hear the General say, “They’re taking the shortcut to town.”

  On the way back I practice my galloping but it is still too hard to keep up with Dancing Dan and I’m too hot and I am tired of smelling the General and so when we get back to the stables I am anxious to give him that twenty-dollar American bill and he is happy as hell and I tell him to go buy himself some smokes and I want to say a can of Right Guard would be a good investment but instead I say, “I think I worked up a sweat so as soon as I get back to the hotel I’m taking a long hot shower so I’ll not only feel clean but will smell fresh too.”

  “I don’t blame you,” he says and walks me down to the bottom of the road where the van is waiting to take me back to the hotel.

  • • • •

  It is lunchtime and in fact I don’t smell so fresh so I take my afternoon shower and put on my navy blue and white one-piece swimsuit and some white shorts over it and head for the beach. I decide to secure myself a chaise first and then come back and have lunch. I have to walk past the dining room in order to get to the beach so on my way there I look inside. The white tables are filled with two or three hundred people but somehow in the middle of all those folks I see Winston sitting all by himself and he is simply looking at me saying hello with his eyes. I wave but keep walking.

  To my surprise I feel relieved to have seen him, and to be honest—be honest with yourself, Stella—I really am fucking ecstatic, because why else is my heart beating so fast, so irregular? I get myself set up and see a few of my favorite honeymooners sleeping and slurping and then head back toward the dining room.

  His table is empty. My heart plummets and I am suddenly embarrassed because now I am totally aware of what is happening to me: I like this boy. I look around as if everyone has just heard what I’m thinking and I shake off the whole notion by piling my plate with pasta and seafood and forcing myself to eat every drop of it without once looking up from my table to see if he will reappear.

  He doesn’t.

  I spend the next hour or so doing the back and forth sun and water thing and then I fall asleep under a palm tree for what turns out to be close to two hours and I wake up wet and hot and I run into the ocean right past a fuzzy-gray-haired black man who looks just like—I’m not kidding—the Creature from the Black Lagoon, without the scales and fins of course, and he is standing in water just deep enough to cover what appears to be a protrusion of extra skin in front of him and I assume he’s blind because of the way his eyes are sort of crossing.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it,” he says, and since I’m the only one in the water I assume he has to be talking to me.

  “It sure does,” I say and go on out a little further, do a few laps and my underwater ritual and then I head back to what is now clearly a deserted beach. It is siesta time for most of the drunks or people like me who get zapped from lying out in the sun all day. The old man is now sitting on the lounge chair right next to mine and I’m thinking I hope this motherfucker is blind and it would be nice if he were also deaf but be nice Stella he is old he could be your father but he is not.

  As I come out of the water I can see now that he is not blind because his eyes are without a doubt now hungrily searching my body for some lost treasure or something. He should stop before I get sick. I grab my towel and wrap it around myself, hiding everything I can. I take another towel and begin to pat exposed parts dry.

  “Hi, I’m Nate McKenzie and you are. . .”

  “Stella Payne.”

  “How many days you here for?”

  “Six and a half more,” I say, gathering up my Walkman books towels.

  “Me too. This is my eighth time here in the last three years.”

  I want to say, And am I supposed to care? Instead I just nod.

  “Yep. Retired from the air force a few years back. Live right outside Pittsburgh but I love it down here.”

  I am reaching inside my tote trying to find my shorts because I don’t like the way his eyes feel on my body.

  “You been over to the nude beach yet?”

  “Excuse me?” I say, turning toward him now. The first thing I notice are those bunions on his rooster-like feet and then that there is blood dripping down the front of his bow legs where he apparently has cut himself and I’m wondering if he’s aware of it. “Do you realize you’re bleeding?”

  He looks down over his swollen stomach. “Yeah, fell off a bicycle today. It’s all right. Have you?”

  “No I have not been to the nude beach. Why? Have you?” What is he getting at? He reminds me of a dirty old man who probably has to pay for all the pussy he gets. As I look more closely I realize he’s not really ugly but far from appealing and there is something vulgar about him. I think it’s his mouth, which kind of looks like a fish’s—like it stays wet and half open all the time.

  “Yeah,” he’s saying like he’s reminiscing or something, and then he comes back to the here and now. “This is my first time at this beach actually. You should come over to the nude beach. I think you’d like it.”

  “I have no desire to go to the nude beach.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t imagine getting any real gratification or pleasure prancing around in front of a bunch of white folks and dirty old men in particular with my clothes off and besides that I wouldn’t want to give white me
n the pleasure of seeing my black body considering they used to rape us when we were slaves or did you forget about that little part of our history?”

  He wipes his brow as if to say, Damn, you didn’t have to get all deep on me. But then, being the whore that I guessed he was, he says, “Why don’t you come over there with me?”

  Before I throw up I say, “I have to return my towels and I’m going over by the pool to get a drink so maybe I’ll see you later, Nate.”

  “Wait,” he says, struggling to get up. “I’ll have one with you.”

  Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

  When I get to the pool I am both delighted and relieved to see Winston treading water. He looks pleased when he sees me which thrills me even more. I drop my stuff on an empty chair and slide into the water before the old man can catch up. I can see him dragging his club feet through the sand and I feel bad for dissing him the way I have but not all that bad because he should find some young girl out here who needs a little extra cash to ring his bell and I am not that girl.

  I am now about three feet away from Winston and I whisper loudly, “Would you do me a big favor?” and he swims closer to me gradually emerging from the water and wow he has hair all over his chest and his shoulders are broader and wider than I thought and damn his body looks quite a bit like a real man’s and now his face is less than a foot from mine and I can smell that scent again and without thinking I say, “What is that cologne you’re wearing, Winston?” and he says, “Escape,” and I mumble, “I wish I could,” and he says, “Excuse me, I didn’t hear you,” and I say, “Boy, does it smell good,” and then I see the old man and I say, “Winston, would you just stand here and talk to me for a few minutes because that old man behind you but don’t look is trying to hit on me.” He turns to look anyway and then back at me and says, “I don’t blame him,” and I look at him like did you hear what you just said and I say, “Winston, please,” and he says, “What?” and I look at him and he is looking into my eyes again like he could walk right inside them and it feels like I am moving closer to him but I really can’t be sure because now his shoulders are somehow touching mine and this water is getting hot and I see the old man jump into the pool and head this way and I move closer to Winston which I can tell is a mistake because now I am beginning to feel as if I’m under the influence of something and whatever it is is pulling me toward this young man but I get a grip on myself and say, “What do you mean?” and he says, again, “Who can blame him?” and when I look at him he is looking at me for real like a man and I’m finding this all rather surreal and I say, “Winston, if I weren’t in my right mind I’d swear you’re trying to hit on me too,” and he says, “And you’d be right.” I let my head plummet under the water because I don’t even know how to respond to this and so I blow air bubbles and then I see his face appear in the transparent blueness and he smiles at me underwater and nods his head up and down as if to say yes it’s true it’s true and it’s okay it’s okay and then we both come up for air and I wipe my face and catch my breath and say, “Winston, I know you can’t be serious,” and he says, “Do I look serious?” and I look at him and damn is he sexy and it doesn’t seem as if he’s trying to be, this is simply who he is, and he is looking at me not like that old man with the watering lips but so tenderly as if he would really just like to kiss me on the cheek or something and I swear this water is beginning to boil and I’m trying my hardest to digest what is happening here and then I hear myself say, “Hold it. Wait a minute. Stop.”