“When he called to talk about his findings I asked for your hand in marriage.” I withdraw my hand from his. He moves it to the steering wheel. “We talked about the possibility of you not being ready.”
I’m angry or disappointed or something that has a West Indian bad word as a name. I like knowing. I like being the one in control and when I’m not, I feel cheated. But I need him to know I get him and I don’t have to be comfortable with everything he does before he does it.
We pull into a parking space outside the B&B.
“Mark, as a mother I …” I stop, trying to find the right words. “I admire the respect and love you have for your parents,” I say slowly. “I understand the process even though I don’t like it. I don’t think my sons will ever hold me in such high esteem. My feelings will never matter to them the way yours does for your parents and I can appreciate that. It also says a lot about the kind of people your parents are and the level of their parenting skills.”
That night back at the estate, we sit outside in the car again and the house is even more beautiful with all the lights on. I’m not impressed by wealth or money, but for some reason I feel my heart as it pumps, which probably means my blood pressure is affected and that doesn’t lie. This will not make me love Mark more than I do now; in fact, the impact could go negative. We leave the car and I put my hand in his and once again we climb the stairs.
We sit in the kitchen for a few minutes and then Mark walks me to my room. This is good, I tell myself. It will give me time to think. He bends his head to kiss me. I kiss his cheek instead. He eyeballs me and I look away.
“Can you wake me up before you leave? It would be nice to share breakfast with you.”
“Nella, I love you.”
I smirk up at him. “Good night,” I say again as I open the door, step in and close it behind me. The light is already on; I drop my bag near the door and start casing the place. I pay attention to the details, the cream and green vine-decorated wallpaper above the cream chair rail and the pictures that are exactly the right size and shape for each wall. I move my eyes to the floor and bend to touch the carpet that matches the wallpaper; it’s unexpectedly soft. I cross the room and sit on the chair next to the desk that’s in the sitting area of the room in the turret. I don’t speak. Words would be an insult.
I pull off my boots and my socks and what do you know, the carpet is warm, probably heated by little veins of electricity running under the floor. I saw the room this morning, but now it’s mine and I am appreciating it. I look at the comforter and matching pillows then at the windows to make sure they did it right and yes, the curtains are in coordinating fabrics. I stand and start to take off my clothes. I should step out of them and leave them where they fall on the carpet. Better do that in the bathroom. I touch the lamp beside the bed and it comes on automatically, so I clap my hands for the overhead light and as commanded it goes off. I smile, well done.
In the bathroom it’s all marbleized, spit clean and gorgeous. I dare myself to leave my clothes on the floor. I back out and pick up my bag. I step out of my pants, leave it on the floor and drop the rest close by. The tiles are warm too. I appreciate that. I grab a towel, shower cap and body wash and step into the tub. When I’m done, I get over myself, pick up my clothes, brush my teeth and fall into bed.
If I grew up in this room I would be all I can be. I would snob a few people and I would marry rich, never a man beneath me and I would wear only the best. I’d be a guy too and I would marry Chloe and when she got on my nerves I would marry someone else … maybe someone like me, not Eunella but Ella, the wild one-night-stand girl, who lets some gigolo taste her goodies the first time. I smile; the memory is still fresh. I wouldn’t marry me, but I would definitely hang around for a while.
I touch the shade and breathe deeply in the darkness. The bed is comfortable. Mrs. Gagnon is right to guard the gates and make sure anyone entering is desirable. I will never do that to my sons. But then again, why should I. Firstly, they won’t let me and secondly, what’s to guard? I gave them the best thing I know how, an education, and the rest is entirely up to them, including a potential mate. A mate for myself is up to me too. The choice is mine.
I close my eyes and say my prayers and I actually get through it without falling asleep first. I wonder what Mark’s doing? What does he do when I’m not in his bed? Sleep like I do, except … I can’t sleep.
I hear the doorknob turn and my heart beats a little faster. What if it’s his father? I feel his weight on the bed and I remain silent. I smile; I smell Axe body wash. He settles himself and I wait.
“Either perform or get out of my bed,” I say, giggling.
He touches my arm and moves his hand down to my fingers. He takes my hand and kisses my palm. I move closer to him and a warm feeling travels over my heart.
I feel for his face and kiss him.
“You didn’t kiss me back,” I whisper, still touching his face.
I feel his smile.
“Can I smell you?” I ask softly.
“Yes,” he whispers and we kiss.
My phone wakes me up the following morning.
“Hello,” I say with my eyes still closed and the pillow over my head.
“Do you want to sleep or have breakfast with me?”
“What time is it?”
“It’s ten of six.”
“Do I have time to shower?”
“Yes,” he whispers.
I laugh and he laughs too.
“Fifteen minutes,” I say.
“Take twenty and I’ll meet you outside your door.”
“Okay.”
Twenty minutes later I’m dressed and he’s waiting. We hold hands and walk down to the kitchen where breakfast is ready and waiting. Mark is suited up and I am dressed in black, including a turtleneck.
At breakfast, I nod at Mark approvingly for what’s in my plate. He does the same then turns to the housekeeper.
“Mrs. Mayes, she approves.”
“Very good,” she says without turning. “You know your woman well.”
We eat and near the end the housekeeper lays out two more servings with coffee and juice, and right on cue his parents arrive and take their seats. They both greet us and the housekeeper.
“How did you sleep, Nella?” Mrs. Gagnon asks.
I smile like I have a secret and Mark kicks me under the table. I change my face and look at her seeming almost surprised by the question.
“I slept very well, thank you. I was gone as soon as my head hit the pillow.”
“Good, good,” she says and looks at her son. “Are you going to the office today?” she asks Mark, “and if so, may I have Nella as my companion for the rest of the day?”
Mark looks over at me as if it wasn’t all planned. I nod like the polite girlfriend should. “If it’s okay with Nella, she’s all yours,” Mark says.
“Nella?”
“Ah, yes, I’ll be happy to hang out with you today,” I say, giving her direct eye contact. “Do I need to change?”
“No, I would like to show you a little of Historic Victoria and maybe go shopping. I’m usually off on Thursdays and Fridays. Jacob is off on Fridays.”
Mr. Gagnon finally looks up from his breakfast. “Yes, yes, please wear her out today, Nella, so on Friday shopping will not be necessary.”
I laugh. “I will do my best, Sir.”
Mark stands and looks at his watch. “Mom, please take it easy on Nella, she’s not a shopper. Dad, have a great day.” They eye him as he walks around to me and bending, he lifts my chin and we kiss. “I love you, enjoy yourself and I will call you,” he says loud enough for his parents to hear.
I touch his face and mouth, “I love you too,” and he kisses me again.
“Bye all,” he concludes and leaves.
“I must be on my way too,” Mr. Gagnon announces as he stands and kisses his wife on the lips. I smile; I like that. It seems like a natural and frequent thing. “Nella, have a great day and li
ke Markham said enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you, Sir. Enjoy your day too.”
She is still eating. I grab Mark’s plate and scrape his leftovers into mine and stack my plate on his. I feel her eyes on me, so I look up.
“You don’t need to do that. Mrs. Mayes will take care of the table when we’re finished,” Mrs. Gagnon says.
“Is it okay if I have another cup of coffee?” I ask her.
“Of course, Mrs. Mayes will get it,” she says as she looks around for the housekeeper.
“Please don’t call her, I can get it,” I say, standing and taking my cup to the coffee pot. I feel her eyes on me.
“Nella, what type of dancing do you teach?”
I close my eyes tightly. I lick my lips, pour the coffee and cream and sit down.
“I teach a pole dancing class for women.”
“Pole dancing?” she asks quizzically.
I smile and breathe a little easier. Not knowing makes it simpler; she has no opinion.
“There’s a fire pole,” I say, using my hand to indicate from the ceiling to the floor, “and I show women how to exercise using the pole and have fun at the same time. We do it to music, thus the dancing.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“We use the pole for strength training. I climb up on it like a fireman, but instead of sliding down I may hold the pole with one arm and do a split parallel to the pole, or hold the pole with one leg at the back of my knee and sort of wrap it a little while my other leg is perpendicular to the pole as I slide downward.”
“What are you wearing?” she asks in amazement.
“I usually wear very short, stretchable shorts and a tank top or a workout bra, but women wear what they’re comfortable in. As they become more comfortable they may wear less.”
“What about exposure? I imagine with your legs wide open that would require a lot of …” she stops and looks at me with inquiring eyes.
Mrs. Gagnon is an ear, nose and throat doctor, so I explain comfortably.
“Yes, it requires that women keep up with their maintenance regularly and make sure they smell fresh when they come to class. We are women, we have different smells, but I cover that on the first day of class. We talk about not having unsightly hair, wearing a panty liner and actually trimming the liner to fit the underwear, so it doesn’t peek out. If I think I need it, I have a friend who’s a gynecologist. I bring her in to talk about self-care and smells. She is very friendly. Women warm to her quickly and talk openly about concerns they may have.”
“How many women, what do they do and why take the class?”
“About fifty different women, not all at once but over a year. Their ages range from about twenty … twenty-five to around forty-five, fifty. Most are professionals, some with families, others are single and a few are stay-at-home moms. They may start because they’ve gained weight or need to feel sexy for themselves or their significant other or they want to exercise without it feeling like work.”
“Why just women?”
I laugh. “Men see sex as soon as they see a woman standing next to the pole. When she starts exercising he cannot concentrate.”
She smiles at me and I like her.
“Do you recommend women get a pole in their homes?”
“I do. Most of the women who exercise with me have a pole and I have one in my bedroom.”
“Why come to class if you have a pole?”
“For the social occasion, to learn new routines, to be more advanced and to be out of the house especially if you have children. A lot of the moves involve pain where you hold the pole. Your hamstrings, your very core hurts and it involves a lot of patience.”
“I would love to see someone doing it,” she says, using her hands to help her. “Is it for me?”
“It’s for anyone with the desire. Start at your own pace and go as far as you would like to. I have a DVD in my bag that I can let you have.”
“I would like that. May I ask you something personal? You don’t have to answer.”
“Please ask.”
“Has Markham ever seen you work out?”
I laugh. “He has and he thinks it’s all about sex, so what you think happens does happen.”
She’s embarrassed, but she laughs out loud.
“Thank you for sharing so candidly with me.”
We spend the day visiting historic sites, China Town and Victoria’s Inner Harbor. We have lunch and talk as two friends getting to know each other might. I ask her about growing up in Jamaica. Her experiences were similar to mine except for the husband and children as a teenager. It turns out that her father was a member of the Peace Corps doing technical training and teaching at the university in Jamaica when he met and fell in love with Ellen Watts, Mark’s grandmother. He wanted to marry Granny, but she had no intention of leaving Jamaica and her father, Steve, intended to return to the States.
Granny got pregnant and two years after Gloria was born, Steve returned to the States. Luckily, Steve supported Gloria financially and when she was ready to go to med school in Canada, he paid her tuition too.
“Did Granny regret not marrying him?”
“I think so. I never asked her. He came to visit me for at least a couple of days every year. Even after he got married, they were still having sex whenever he came.”
“What?” I ask laughing.
“I was about ten when I caught them the first time. There she was having sex when she kept preaching to me to keep my legs closed until I got married. My dad blamed her. He said he still loved her and she was the one who refused to get married. While she was here helping me raise the children, he would visit and I’m sure they picked up where they left off. When he died two years ago in the States, she came to the funeral.”
“So you have siblings in the States?”
“I do. We’re not close, but we stay in touch. They live in LA.”
“May I call you Mrs. Gagnon?”
“Yes … yes. You can call me Gloria if you choose.”
“Thank you for sharing with me. Can I ask you what it’s like being married to a white man?”
She puts down her cup and turns her eyes on me. They are kind too and I imagine that happened over time.
“So you consider Markham a white man?”
“I do. I’m glad he is mixed but … I do consider him that.”
She nods. “You’re mixed aren’t you, your face, especially your nose and your hair? Do you have a relaxer?”
“No, no relaxer. Once it’s short I just wash and blow dry it, and yes I’m mixed, but I don’t consider myself that way. I am what you see. My sister, Zoi, has your skin tone and she does describe herself as mixed.”
“Markham has had some trouble over the years, but I would be insulted if he called himself a white man.” She looks at me for an explanation.
“When I was growing up, kids and adults alike would say I’m black like pot. It affected me negatively, but it also helped me to avoid an identity crisis. My Dad is white, but I didn’t grow up with him and … well … he just has to suck it up.”
She laughs. “Punishment?”
I laugh too. “Maybe.”
“Well, to answer your question it’s almost, I imagine, the same as if I were married to a black man. Whenever I feel discriminated against and I talk to Jacob about it I wish he were not white because I don’t believe he truly understands. He always listens and that helps.
“When we first got married I would take extra care with my appearance wanting to show them I’m good enough, so I’m not living the stereotype; but that wore off quickly. After a while, I didn’t remember he’s white. He’s my husband who gets on my nerves and I curse him in patois then thank God later that he didn’t understand me.”
“You don’t care that you have to explain a joke or the language to him?”
“No. I rarely have to do that. Any West Indians we run into usually speak proper English, and if we travel to the Caribbean they treat us like tourists
anyway. There are some things he understands and if I don’t want him to, I speak unusually fast and he understands what that means.”
My cell rings, “It’s Mark,” I say and answer it. We talk for about two minutes and after that Mrs. Gagnon and I get ready to shop.
We walk through quaint stores and I buy an antique-looking necklace for Zoi. Mrs. Gagnon buys art, she says for the gallery and exquisite handmade pieces to add to the family room. We end up in a department store and she offers to buy me a gift.
“Would you be insulted if I said no?”
“I would be, so tell me one piece of clothing that you love and let’s shop.”
I laugh. “I love charm bracelets.”
“Charm bracelets,” she repeats with sarcasm and an eye roll, but I nod.
Back in her Benz, I dig up courage from where I’m not sure, and ask the question.
“Mrs. Gagnon, why did you want Mark to go back with Chloe?”
“For the children,” she says.
“Have you changed your mind?”
“Yes, I realized that if Markham stays in New York nothing could prevent him from having an affair with you and still come home on the weekend. He loves you and the children cannot change that.”
“Did Chloe realize that too?” I ask.
“Chloe doesn’t love Markham, but maybe you can point that out to her.”
“She thinks she does?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Do I love Mark?” I foolishly ask her.
She laughs and I see Granny reflected in her face. “You came and behaved as if you’re twenty by putting up with all of our questions. I would certainly not have tolerated that from Jacob’s family, so yes, I believe you love him. The question is, are you going to marry him?”
“I don’t know … but I do love him … a lot.”
Back at the house, I watch Mrs. Gagnon place her carefully purchased pieces throughout the family room and suddenly realize that she decorated Mark’s apartment. I ask the question any way.
“I hired the decorator and some of the accessories that were here and fitted in Markham’s place I took back to help complete it on my last visit. I’m replacing them now.”
TAKE ME as I am Page 19