How Stella Got Her Groove Back (35 page)

“Okay, if you really want me to,” he says.

“I’m just kidding. I wanted to see if you were listening. Turn that stuff down.”

He presses the volume control on the remote a few times.

“Anyway it’s nobody’s business where Winston sleeps, and if anybody asks you you tell them to come see your mom.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” he says.

We are silent for a while. I watch a few minutes of
Ren and Stimpy
. These are two sick puppies. “I wish he’d hurry up and get here.” I sigh.

“Me too,” Quincy says.

“Why?”

“Because I like hearing him talk and you just act a lot happier when he’s around and plus I bet he likes playing Sega and Super Nintendo.”

I don’t touch this.

• • • •

I haven’t talked to Winston in four days. I’m kind of freaking out about it because now that we have decided to see each other on my turf my domain my soil it is dawning on me that maybe I was set up or something. Maybe he is a real gigolo like Richard Gere was in that movie, and Winston did conveniently sit down at the table behind me, didn’t he? He’d probably been watching me waiting for me to do something that would prove I was some gullible middle-aged lonely broad from America who hadn’t been fucked in months and would probably drool at the sight of a fine young man such as himself. Maybe he sensed it. Maybe he had his little friend Norris steal my records from the hotel files and he found out all about me, like how much money I made, where I worked and how well I lived. So maybe he already had the rundown on me when he gave me that sexy sneaky grin that day. And now that I think about it, he was sort of following me around, wasn’t he? Everywhere I turned, there he was. And he certainly took to me quickly. Too quickly if you ask me. I know if some foreigner sent
me
an airline ticket I’d have to know every single detail about her before I got on a fucking airplane and flew to another country to see her. He must know somebody. He could be a fucking serial killer for all I know. I wonder what it is he really wants. I mean it’s not like I could end up being his girlfriend or something. So what could he possibly want from me, a woman old enough to be his mother?

I’m tripping too hard again so I decide to go on and call him even though I don’t like calling him so much because I don’t want him to feel pressured and I want him to feel good about this whole thing in general. I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night lately wondering if I really did send him a ticket and if he really is coming and will I roll over and there he’s going to be right next to me right in my very own bed. I get a little charge when I think about it but when he comes on the phone I hear a catch in his voice. I knew it I knew it I knew it. He isn’t coming. I can hear it. I knew this was too good to be true. Knew it knew it knew it. “Is everything all right?” I ask.

“Well, sort of,” he says.

“What’s wrong, Winston?”

“Well, my parents are kind of giving me a hard time about this.”

At the sound of “parents” I am reminded that he was still living at home before he got this job. Boy. When was the last time I lived with my parents? “A hard time about what?” I ask.

“About my coming there.”

“But Winston, you’re just visiting, not moving here.”

“I know that.”

“Well, what exactly did you tell them?”

“I told them that I met someone whom I really like and care about and that she is American and she sent me air fare to come visit and I’m taking a leave from my job and I’m going to California in five weeks’ time to see her.”

“And did you tell them how old this friend was?”

“Yes. Thirty-four.”

When he hears me laugh he laughs. “Thank the Lord,” I say and I do feel relieved because if he were my son I’d be a little skeptical about his traipsing off to America with a forty-two-year-old woman he’d only spent a few days with. Really.

“They’re worrying if maybe this isn’t some kind of scam.”

“What do you mean, a scam?”

“Well, my mother in particular can’t understand what it is you see in me.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. She says I have no money or anything so what could you possibly want from me?”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I didn’t know what to tell her.”

“Don’t you know, Winston?”

“I think I do.”

“And what do you think it is that I want from you?”

“Me?”

“That’s right. But let me tell you something. This morning I made you out to be a serial killer! I’m scared too, Winston, and I’ve been worrying whether you’re interested in me only because you have some sneaky self-serving reasons.”

“Stella, what could I hope to get from you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a green card.”

“But how would I go about doing that?”

“Never mind, Winston. Do
you
want to know what I see in you?”

“It would help.”

“You really want me to tell you, right now?”

“Yes,” he says and his voice is softening, becoming more at ease, more the Winston I’m used to hearing.

“Well, for starters, one of the things I find intriguing about you is that your eyes aren’t stale yet.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It means you haven’t been around long enough to have a warped and cynical view of the world and people or at least women and your way of looking at things is fresh and it is rubbing off on me and it is the way I used to look at things, at life, at people, and you’re not scared of the future and I am sort of regaining my virginity, if you get my drift. You’re still fascinated and overwhelmed by things and I find you refreshing and I’m glad I met you, in fact I’m grateful.”

“I’m grateful to
you,
Stella. I mean you are the one person I can actually talk to about anything and you don’t bite your tongue and I don’t have to pretend to be something that I’m not with you and you make me feel really good about being who I am. And you make me laugh. Not very many people, girls, women, can make me laugh.”

“I’m not finished,” I say.

“No?”

“No. I like the fact that you’re not worried about everything, that you’re still unsure of yourself but not plagued by insecurity. And I think you’re beautiful and I love looking at you with your clothes on and off. I love your voice. I think you’re sexy. I love your smile your laughter your shiny black eyes your bushy eyebrows and those thick beautiful lips of yours.”

“I’ve always hated my lips.”

“I know. I’ve hated mine too. But look at how things turn out. The very things we were teased about as kids—these big lips and round cheeks and full noses and everything—have turned out to be our best features.”

“You think so?”

“Well . . .”

We laugh.

“I love the way you kiss me, Winston, and I’ll tell you right now that no one has ever kissed me as good as you have.”

“I know that’s not true, Stella.”

“I speak the truth. And I’m not finished. I like the fact that I don’t know what you’re thinking all the time. You keep some things to yourself. I like that mysterious stuff.”

“Really?”

“Really. And I like the fact that you don’t know your own power.”

“What power?”

“That’s my point.”

“Are you finished?” he asks.

“Well, I like that even though you don’t know for sure what you want to do, you’re testing the waters.”

“Yeah, because I’m not totally convinced that I want to be a chef, you know?”

“No problem, Winston. But take it from me, if there’s ever going to be a time in your life when you can afford to take risks and chances and make mistakes it’s now, when you’re in your twenties, because you can always change your mind and go in another direction and the world won’t stop if you err.”

“See, that’s what I mean. No one ever talks to me like this except you, Stella.”

“And I like the fact that for some reason I don’t understand, you seem to be overlooking my age, and that you like me and not what I represent.”

“Your age is not an issue for me.”

“Well, go tell your parents all this stuff.”

And we burst into laughter again.

“They’re really getting on my nerves, to be honest, and I don’t understand why they’re making such a big deal about it.”

“Because they’re your parents, Winston, and they love you and they have a right to be concerned. Be glad they are. But the real question is this: What’s your biggest fear?”

“About coming over there?”

“Yes.”

“That you might not like me as much as you think you do.”

“Oh, really.”

“Really.”

“Well, let me put your mind at ease, Winston. I’m having trouble sleeping because I’m so excited.”

“Join the club.”

“I miss you a whole whole lot and it takes so much effort for me not to think about you I’m just getting to the point where I’m able to admit it openly.”

“And what about your sisters, Stella? How do you think they’ll receive me?”

“Well, Angela is pretty much on the same wavelength as your parents, but not to worry, you won’t be spending much time with her. Now my other sister, Vanessa, she’s got a nineties attitude, so she’s all for this and can’t wait to meet you.”

“And Quincy?”

“He’s geeked. He just wants to know if you’ll play Sega and Super Nintendo with him.”

“Sure I will, but tell him I’m not very good at it.”

“It doesn’t matter. But understand this, Winston. I don’t want you to think I want you to try to pretend to be his dad or anything.”

He snickers. “How could I when I’m barely ten years older than he is?”

Now I snicker.

“When does he start school?”

“In a few weeks.”

“And how will he get there?”

“I’ll drive him to the bus stop.”

“Could I take him sometimes while I’m there?”

“Sure. But Winston . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a driver’s license?”

“Of course I have a driver’s license.”

“Do you know how to drive on the right side of the street?”

“Yes. It’s just like driving on the left side.”

“And have you had any dental work done lately?”

“I have no cavities, Stella. What is this about?”

“What about fatal diseases? Any that you know of?”

“None that I can think of offhand.”

“Ever had an occasion to kill anybody?”

“Only twice, but I served my time for those crimes already.”

“That’s good,” I say.

“That should cover everything, I hope,” he says.

“Wait. One last thing.”

“What now?”

“Are you handy?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you fix things?”

“I can fix a
lot
of things,” he says.

“Name two things you know how to fix.”

“Just two?”

“Okay, three things.”

“Well, I can fix cars and bicycles and pretty much anything that moves, including you.”

“Okay, Mr. Smartypants.”

“So does that mean I can get clearance?”

“From me it does. I don’t know about your parents.”

“I’ll deal with them.”

“And what are you going to tell them now?”

“Nothing different really. They’ll just have to accept the fact that this is my life, that I’m a man and I’m doing what I want to do. And that’s it.”

“Is there a chance they could cause you to change your mind?”

“I doubt it,” he says. “I’ll be walking through that gate at San Francisco airport on the thirtieth of September.”

“That’s five whole weeks away, Winston. What’s a girl to do?”

“What’s a
man
to do?”

“You could always take up embroidering or knitting or sewing or quilting.”

“Look, Miss America, I’ll talk to you again soon.”

“Bye, Winston,” I say.

“Love you,” he croons.

“And I love you too, Winston,” I say, and I say it loud and clear.

I
T IS
L
ABOR
Day weekend. Quincy and I are driving up to Lake Tahoe for five days. What I’m really doing is killing time, counting the weeks and days left until Winston gets here, but it is also an opportunity for me to spend some quality time with my son alone with no distractions before he begins a new life as a junior high school student.

Phoenix, the dog, farts in the back of the truck all the way up and I am tempted to give him some Pepto-Bismol tablets. I know he will eat them because he is stupid and will eat anything you give him. Vanessa begged us to let Dr. Dre come to a week-long slumber party being thrown by their cat Milo, so we acquiesced, but only under the condition that the two kitties slept in separate beds. The Big Plan is to go Jet Skiing, fishing, rafting, anything we can do in, on or near the water.

Day one.
“Do you want to go Jet Skiing today, Quincy?”

“Not really, Mom. I just want to sleep in.”

“Okay.”

He sleeps in. It is noon.

“Do you want to go anywhere, Quincy?”

“Not really. Can we just rent some videos?”

“Sure.”

We rent some videos. I go to the grocery store. I buy some food. I cook some of it. We eat it. We go to sleep.

Day two.
A repeat of day one.

Day three.
Winston does not call. I gave him the number last week and he said he would call on Saturday and today is Sunday. I am not calling him. I cannot call him. We are too close to the beginning. I jog with the dog at six thousand feet and today the altitude is making me a little short of breath but I keep going. There are two-hundred-foot evergreens everywhere and the air is thin and crisp and I can see snow on the top of quite a few mountains. I love it up here. I feel healthy up here.

Quincy and I sit out on the deck and read for hours at a stretch. It is the most peaceful time he and I have spent together in at least two years. I used to lie on his bed for an hour before bedtime or on a Saturday afternoon and read to him and then when he graduated to books with chapters sometimes he read. I’d look over at him, at his entire body, which appeared to have grown in the last few minutes; his lips moved and his eyes danced and darted across the page and I’d think: My son can read; he can comprehend things, he is making discoveries and he will soon have even more opinions about the world. Sometimes when he felt me watching, smiling, he stopped reading and looked at me and maybe winked or grinned because he knew exactly why I was beaming and I’d lie there and imagine how much longer we had to do this, lie on his bed side by side and read aloud, my arms rubbing against his cotton pajamas. And how many more times would I be able to ask him if he’d like a lift and he’d automatically put his book down and move down to my feet which I lifted and pressed flat against his chest and took his hands and lifted him into the air above me where he laughed and we did this over and over. At other times we’d just put on a Beethoven CD that Quincy liked and we’d read our respective books and eat popcorn and he’d drink raspberry Snapple and I’d drink kiwi strawberry.