by Nikki Woods
“My uncle told me when he picked me up from the airport, but I didn’t have the guts to ask him any questions.”
“You’re such a chicken.” She paused and let the news sink in. “Well, I’ll be damned.” She, too, lowered her voice to a whisper. “I got news, too, but it can wait.”
“You sure?” I asked but was already betting money in my head that this was just going to be another installment of “The Keela and Dwayne Saga – Ghetto Love”. “I have plenty of time.”
“Later’s better. The kids are gonna’ be traipsing in here any minute.” As if on cue, the piercing school bell rang. “See,” Keela griped. “You could lose your hearing working here. I better go. Watch yourself, Kingston.” The tenderness in her voice almost made the tears flow again.
“Don’t worry about me.” I stood and tried to end the conversation with enthusiasm I didn’t feel. “Be good.”
“And you be better,” she answered, then hung up. In the twelve years we’d known each other, she had never once said good-bye. She didn’t believe in goodbyes—said they were bad luck.
Keela, Essence, and I met our freshman year at Howard University. Keela and I were roommates – occupying space on the third floor of Crandall Hall – the freshmen women’s dorm. Essence lived above us on the fourth floor.
The first night, Essence was so loud that Keela and I stayed up half the night debating what to do. We were finally so upset from having no sleep that we marched upstairs in our pajamas intending to deal with the problem. We banged on the door and this girl, with enough weave to put at least ten horses to shame, opened the door butt-naked! I don’t know whose mouth dropped to the floor quicker, Keela’s or mine.
“Are you going to join in or just enjoy the view?” she asked, causing some guy—who we later found out was the quarterback for the football team—to laugh in the background.
Our faces turned even brighter red.
“I can handle all y’all,” he drawled in an accent straight from Mississippi. His real name was Bernard, but his nickname was Slick.
We didn’t stick around to join in or watch, but took our new-to-the-big-city butts back downstairs.
“They don’t know nothing about breakin’ in a new place,” Essence said as she closed the door. When we returned to our room, the noise had resumed—it was her way of laughing at us.
And she was still laughing the next day in the cafeteria when she glided by us on the arm of yet another fine dude. She had shut us up and won our admiration at the same time. After that day, we became inseparable.
I sat quietly for a few minutes. It was getting late and I expected Bianca to be here by now. Even though the sun had set, the humidity still hung in the air. A moist film had covered my body for most of the day and was starting to wreak havoc on my hygiene. So I gathered the necessities for my nightly ceremony: herbal shampoo, conditioner, and body scrub, a loofah sponge, salt sea oil, almond body cream, and the vanilla-scented candle I always packed in case of an emergency. I slipped my neatly manicured toes into bright yellow flip-flops, hung a right at the kitchen and headed east in search of heaven—the outdoor shower.
Being a Cancer, I connect very deeply with water. At least that’s what the psychic told me when I called. And for a hundred bucks, I had to believe she was right.
Mom told me that around 1962, Papa broke down and installed a shower inside. She said he just got so sick of Mama Grace bitchin’ every time she had to haul one of the kids out back to scrub them down. Now I’m figuring around 1962, most of them kids should have been damn near grown so weren’t they old enough to wash their own behinds?
Standing outside, gazing up at the sky, the sweet tang of hyacinth in the air with warm water running down your body could be a very spiritual thing. It also could be a very sexy thing under different circumstances, of course. I sighed as I felt a familiar stir in my belly, knowing if I squeezed my eyes tight and pretended really hard, I wouldn’t be alone in that shower.
“Now is not the time, Miss Kingston.” I forced the knob until the water sputtered, then blasted full force from the showerhead. The temperature of the water was not as hot as I liked it, but the water caressed me as it cascaded down my body. Bending my head back under the stream of water, my scalp began to tingle. I massaged the silky lather into my skin, beginning at the base of my neck. By the time I reached my stomach, my legs were clenched together tightly. Keela was right. It had been too long since I had felt appreciated by a man. The kind of man whose appreciation keeps a smile on your face all day long and makes your soul jump in anticipation with the thought of seeing him. It had been way too long. I quickly washed my hair and rinsed off before wrapping myself in a fluffy brown towel.
There was a bit of bun and cheese in the fridge and that sufficed for dinner. I munched while pecking on my laptop—the two-finger tango—the faint noise of kids playing in the street mixed with horns honking and wheels screeching as neighbors rushed home from work. While I tried to drum up ideas for the proposal for Scooby’s debut album, I also worked on losing my eighth straight game of Solitaire.
A car engine cut off and Toy’s tail shot straight out, sniffing the air and barking in earnest, knowing good and well she wasn't gonna do anything should it be an intruder. I smoothed her slightly arched back reassuringly – thanking her for her loyalty.
A door slammed and a lilting high-pitched voice floated across the verandah into the front room. “Kiiiiiinnnnnggggston!” Bianca always managed to draw out my name and then end it on a sing-songy note. Too bad she was tone deaf.
I unfolded my legs, flung off my grandmother’s afghan, and set the computer aside. I’d always felt a little inadequate next to Bianca—my features considered a little too black, my hair a little too nappy. I checked my appearance in the hallway mirror, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind my ear and wiping some crud from the side of my mouth just as Bianca entered the house amidst a cloud of expensive perfume and stale ganja smoke.
“Bianca. It’s so good to see you, sweetie,” I said and meant it. She was by far the most genuine person I knew; and I needed genuine right now.
She put her bag down and rushed to embrace me. Her body was warm, her hug comforting, and for the first time since my arrival, I felt somewhat at ease.
“How ya do?” she asked and spun me around with one hand. “Go on girl, witcha bad self.
You looking damn good. You must have given up the sweets.”
I struck a pose and we both dissolved into laughter. It didn’t matter how long ago I lost my baby fat, family members still saw me as Mama Grace’s chunky granddaughter.
“Had to. And I have to give up more and more every year to stay this way.”
Bianca frowned, her light brown eyes assessing me. “I hope you aren’t doing anything crazy—not eating, throwing up, taking pills and everything! You know you Americans always take things to a whole ‘nother level.”
“You look good, too,” I responded, pulling her long ponytail. “And you’ve grown.” I poked her left breast and my finger hit a silicone wall. Bianca dissolved into laughter. Growing up, we would compare our bodies, standing naked in the bathroom, inspecting each other’s newly acquired assets. We would dissect like physicians and evaluate like men. “When did you get these?”
Bianca cupped both of her breasts and squeezed them together. “Last year. My birthday present to myself. Well, actually, Daddy paid for them, but he doesn’t know that yet. Remember when I went to New York? Well, shopping was only part of the reason. I came back with these and Daddy almost had a fit. He calmed down only after I told him some boyfriend had footed the bill.”
I nodded and smiled, imagining Uncle Lee’s expression—his rugged face somber, his fists clenched, but anger controlled. A prime candidate for a stroke, absolutely nothing made Uncle Lee happy and absolutely everything pissed him off. Breast implants could only fall into the second category. It may be status quo in the United States, but was still a bit taboo to older Jamaicans. “Yo
u like?”
I nodded again. “What size cup are you now?”
“I went from a B cup to a perfect size D.”
In my nonprofessional opinion, I thought a D might be a conservative estimate. Double D was more like it. They looked to be quite a bit bigger than my generous C cup.
“Are you happy with them?”
She giggled and shimmied her shoulders like Marilyn Monroe. “Don’t I look happy?”
“Perky is more like it.” I poked the right one this time. No give, no softness, no squeezability. The nipples popped out even through her shirt. Cuddling with Bianca could now be dangerous. Move the wrong way and you risked losing an eye. “You’re not worried?”
“Worried about what?”
“Worried that your boobs could explode! Don’t you watch TV? They just aired a special report on Dateline detailing the monstrosities that happen when silicone leaks into your system.”
Bianca crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “Nah. You can’t worry over every little thing. You know us women, anything to look good. Besides, I went to a really good doctor. He does a lot of models and movie stars in the states.”
When I realized that we were still standing in the doorway, I grabbed one of her bags. “ Let’s put your stuff in the back room. Did you eat? There’s not much in the ice box, but I’m sure I can scrape something together.”
“I’m not hungry, more thirsty than anything and I brought my own beverages. Let me change first, then we can catch up.”
As I picked up everything off the floor in the front room, I heard Bianca moving around and I imagined the room looked as if hit by a Saks Fifth Avenue tornado — clothes and shoes everywhere.
Bianca returned in a tank top and thong. Glasses clinked in her hand and she swung a bottle of wine. I spread a quilt in the middle of the floor.
“Oh, wait a minute!” I yelled and trotted back to my room. Bianca plopped down on the floor, already popping the cork.
I yanked my suitcases from underneath my bed and combed through the largest one until I found the stash of goodies I smuggled in from the states: potato chips, candy bars, pretzels, and cheddar-cheese popcorn. I swung by the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of hot sauce.
“All right.” I sat beside Bianca, stretching out on the quilt. I accepted a glass of white wine and laid my bounty between us. The glass was cool to my lips, the wine refreshing as I took a hefty swallow.
“Yeah, man!” Bianca broke open a bag of Frito Lay’s and shook some hot sauce right in the bag. “Let the pig-out fest begin.”
Two glasses of wine later, I was so relaxed I could no longer tell the difference between the floor and my body. Bianca had shared way too much information about her horse farm and the horse-breeding process. I never knew how much was involved in artificially inseminating a horse. I didn’t think it was the kind of knowledge that I would need anytime soon and the visual that I had now was not the most pleasant one. But to hear Bianca tell it, inseminating horses was the next best thing to playing God.
“I’m creating life!” She gestured with her hands, her brow wrinkled.”
It all sounded gross, but I had to give it to her, she seemed to know her stuff. Which was good because Bianca was known for never finishing anything she started.
I stuck a potato chip in my mouth, wiping the excess grease on my leg.
“What about the family?” I asked Bianca before she could start talking about horse sperm again.
“What do you mean, what about the family? What about them?” Her eyes narrowed and she freed her hair from the ponytail, mussing it with her hand.
“Anything new going on?”
“Nope. Them still crazy.” She flipped onto her stomach and picked a piece of lint off the blanket. I figured one more glass of wine was what she needed to loosen her tongue so I filled it to the brim and watched her take a healthy swig before adding, “Even crazier now that they know about Mama Grace’s letter.”
“You’ve heard about that already?”
“Who hasn’t?” She shrugged. I waited, but Bianca wasn’t giving up any information easily.
“I can’t believe how nosey Aunt Bea is. I just found out about it, and it’s my letter.”
Bianca finished her third glass of wine and poured a fourth. The first bottle of wine now bone dry, she bounced up and stumbled to the back, giggling stupidly when she stubbed her toe. “ Everyone’s vexed!” she yelled. A few minutes later she reappeared, a fresh bottle of wine in her hand. Her brown eyes were foggy from wine, but she took in my hurt expression. “Oh really Kingston, you can’t possibly be surprised? You had to know they would be pissed off! Has anyone stopped by to pay their condolences? Don’t families usually band together during a time like this? They’re not here because they feel that they’ve been cheated out of something. But mark my words, they’ll be at the funeral, showing a good face to the public – all done up in their mourning black, playing the role of the bereaved and they’ll definitely be here for the reading of the will. You better believe that! But I’ll be damned if they’re going to support you in private.”
Eyes shimmering with passion, Bianca took a deep breath and her words slowed. “All of Mama Grace’s children have a million and one reasons why she should have picked them to distribute her estate, even though none of them are qualified, not even Mommy. She’s sloshed ninety-eight percent of the time, but still thinks she’s capable of handling her mother’s business affairs. And why would she pick Uncle Paul? He wasn’t even talking to her when she died. He didn’t visit her while she was sick. He may not even come to the funeral.
“Nobody took care of Mama Grace like they should have, not even me. And now everyone is standing around with their hands out, mad because Mama Grace saw right through them. It would serve all of them right if she did leave everything to you. They don’t deserve a thing.” Silent tears dripped down Bianca’s face.
I pushed a stray piece of hair from her wet cheek. “Is that what they think, Bianca? That Mama Grace left everything to me? It’s not true! I’m just the executor of her estate. I just make sure her wishes are carried out. That’s all! None of us will know what the deal is until after the funeral.”
“Even if she did leave everything to you,” she began again and when I started to object, she raised her hand to stop me. “Even if she did leave everything to you, it would be right. For whatever reason, Mama Grace ended up with a messed-up bunch of spoiled children and grandchildren. Most of us are idiots and the rest are damn fools. But not you, Kingston, and certainly not your mother. You two were the sparkle in Mama Grace’s eyes. She was too kindhearted, her spirit too gentle to ever say something like that. But then, she really didn’t have to. We all knew and it still didn’t change the way we acted.” She sniffed and raked her arm under her nose, leaving a trail of snot that I dabbed at with a greasy napkin.
“Kingston,” she continued, her voice now small. “I live two hours away and I only saw her one time while she was sick. Rumor has it that some neighbor down the street cared more for her than her own children.” Bianca was sobbing now, and with her thin shoulders shaking, she looked so small. Her hair fell forward creating a veil around her face. She paused, wrapping her arms around her middle, trying to collect herself. “How many grandchildren does she have? Why are we the only two here? Where are her sisters? Mama Grace never did nothing but good to all of us.”
I took her in my arms. My tears mixed with hers and I tasted the saltiness of them as we consoled each other.
“Shhhhh!” I rocked her back and forth, her whole body shook with the force of her pain. “ It’s okay, Bianca. We do the best we can at any given moment. Mama Grace knows that.”
Suddenly, the sorrow turned to rage and Bianca rolled her eyes upward before looking square into mine. “That’s bull and you know it. Letting down the ones that love you when they need you the most is not the best you can do. I should have been here, Bumble Bee.” She hadn’t called me by my nickname since we were littl
e and she refused to call me Kingston because according to a five-year-old Bianca, no one is named after a city.
Guilt could be cruel and as much as I wanted to alleviate Bianca’s anguish, it was not for me to do. I agreed with everything she said; but not wanting to add to Bianca’s pain, I kept my thoughts to myself. Besides, I had my own pile of grief and regret to deal with. She should have been here. We all should have. I could have visited more, or made sure she had someone there at all times. Mama Grace deserved better than a bunch of no-good insensitive children and grandchildren. And regardless of what anyone else may think, I felt as if I had earned a spot in that group, too.
Americans flocked in droves to psychiatrists, therapists, counselors, and as a free last resort—talk shows—to share their problems with strangers across the world. But as dysfunctional as my family was, in Jamaica you didn’t talk about such issues. To my family, if you didn’t talk about it, well then, it did not exist.
My arms started to feel numb; Bianca had fallen asleep and was fast becoming dead weight. I jostled her and she stirred briefly before her head rolled back down. I laid her gently on the quilt, careful to avoid the debris of chips and popcorn.
The wine was causing an enormous amount of pressure on my bladder and I dashed to the bathroom, narrowly missing Mama Grace’s china cabinet.
When I returned, Bianca was sitting up, shoving popcorn into her mouth, scavenged from what was spread out on the quilt. There were little pieces of lint clinging to a few of the kernels.
I laughed and sat opposite her, legs crossed Indian style. Music blasted from a house down the street, horns and loud voices competed with the dance hall beats. “Your drunk up!”
“Not me. I can drink a lot more than this.” A hiccup punctuated her statement.
“I can see that.” I laughed and tussled her already-messed-up hair, feeling an overwhelming sense of tenderness for Bianca. “All right, now tell me the gossip in your life. A new boyfriend, perhaps?”