by Alli Curran
“Oh.”
“Thomas,” I said after reaching the top of the stairs, “we’re the only ones up here.”
“Yeah, just us and the dentist’s chair,” he said, forcing me backward onto a long, leather chair that looked like the kind you’d find in a dentist’s office. “Too bad I didn’t bring my handcuffs.”
“We don’t need handcuffs,” I gasped, as he threw his full body weight over mine. “I don’t want to escape.”
For some unknown amount of time, Thomas and I made out in that chair like a couple of horny teenagers. Kicking off my shoes, I wrapped my feet around his back, squeezing his torso tightly against mine. Despite Thomas’s thick jeans, it was easy to feel his giant erection pressing against my pelvis. Were we not in such a public place, his pants would’ve been ripped off ages ago.
“Oh, Thomas,” I said, “that thing you’re doing to my feet is awesome.”
“Emma,” said Thomas, “I’m not touching your feet.”
“You’re not?” I asked.
“Nope. My hands are nowhere near your feet.”
“Oh. Good point. Then who’s touching them?”
Thomas turned to glance over his shoulder, as I raised myself up on one elbow for a better view.
Standing behind the dentist’s chair, attending to my happy feet, was a hot, young, muscular blond guy wearing nothing but his underwear and a smile.
“Do you mind if I keep going?” he asked politely.
“S’okay!” I replied.
“Yes, I mind!” said Thomas in the same moment, shooting me a warning look. “This room is for couples only.”
“I noticed you guys heading up here and thought you might like a threesome,” said Mr. Foot Fetish.
“No thanks,” said Thomas definitively.
“Maybe another time, then,” said my new friend, who shrugged, turned and headed back downstairs.
“But Thomas,” I complained, “I was enjoying that. How often am I going to get a chance to have a threesome with you and another guy who looks like an underwear model?”
“Emma,” he said, “I’m surprised at you. Your behavior this evening is very naughty. I think it’s time to take you home.”
“Are you going to punish me?”
“Most definitely.”
“What are you going to do?”
“As soon as we get home, I’m going to tie you up and have my way with you.”
True to his words, Thomas followed through with his threats in a most delicious fashion. Yes, indeed. Working with ho hum Peter in the lab, I realize that when it comes to men, Thomas has permanently corrupted my value system. But who knows? Maybe there’s more to Peter than meets the eye. On second thought, probably not.
Before long lunchtime arrives, and Luciano saunters back in with Grace and Paula, offering to take the three of us out to eat. Momentarily I hesitate, remembering my last encounter with Paula.
Then I hear my stomach shouting, “Hungry, hungry, hungry!”
Enough worrying about upsetting Paula, I tell myself. I’m finally going to eat something other than abara!
“Let’s go,” I say. “I’m starving.”
After we’ve all piled into his car, Luciano speeds us off along the Bahian coastline.
“Wow,” I say, about 20 minutes later, staring down a rugged embankment to the sparkling ocean water below. “The view from up here is great.”
“It sure is,” says Luciano, who’s not looking out the window out all.
Instead, he and Paula are holding hands, mooning at one another like dreamy newlyweds. Hopefully this public display of affection won’t result in our car careening off a cliff. On the upside, my initial, tense interaction with Paula appears to be forgotten, at least for the moment.
Approaching a large edifice hugging the coastline, I ask, “What is that place?”
“Solar do Unhão,” Luciano says, barely glancing out the window. “It used to be an old sugar mill, but now it’s a modern art museum.”
“They put on a great folk dancing show at night,” Grace adds.
Paula chimes in with a comment that sounds vaguely spooky, and Luciano scoffs at her.
“What did she say?” I ask.
“Don’t listen to her,” says Luciano.
“I can’t, really, since I don’t understand enough Portuguese, but whatever she said sounded intriguing.”
“Paula said the place is haunted,” says Grace.
“Haunted?” I ask.
“Paula doesn’t actually believe in those legends,” says Luciano, “but some people think that the ghosts of murdered slaves haunt the old mill.”
“Every place has its ghost stories,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Luciano, “but it would be better if people around here were more scientific, and less superstitious.”
“Is superstition a problem?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, superstition—and suspicion—are both problematic,” he says.
“How so?” asks Grace.
“I’ll give you an example,” says Luciano. “When we started the leptospirosis project, sick people in the favela were being treated with a combination of Candomblé (pronounced ‘Can-dome-blay’) rituals and holy water.”
“What’s Candomblé?” I ask.
“It’s a polytheistic, Afro-Brazilian religion that originated here,” says Luciano.
“Sounds interesting,” I say.
Luciano shakes his head unenthusiastically.
“Initially, when we offered them free antibiotics and a chance to participate in the study, most of the families refused. I think they were afraid we were going to arrest them, and quarantine them in some sort of medical prison. That kind of nonsense drove me crazy.”
Luciano’s comment reminds me of an argument my parents had a number of years ago.
At the time, we were traveling to one of my dad’s softball games. While my mother drove, I sat in the back seat of her car, voraciously reading Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret.
“Larry,” my mom said, “that shirt is filthy.”
“No, it’s not,” said my dad.
“Excuse me, but did you look in the mirror this morning? The front is all covered with dirt, and some sticky stuff is smeared near the collar. What is that stuff, anyway?”
“Just a little grape jelly, from breakfast.”
“Not the purple stain. I meant the red gunk…on the other side.”
“Ketchup, I think.”
“Just tell me something, Larry. How many more games are you going to play before you wash it?”
“It’s my lucky shirt, Cecile. I’m not washing it until we lose.”
“In that case, I might have to curse the team,” said my mom.
“You wouldn’t do that….Would you?” my dad asked, sounding almost afraid.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You don’t believe in curses, do you Larry?”
“Yes, I most definitely do.”
“That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” said my mother.
“No, it’s not,” my Dad replied.
“You’re right, Larry. You’ve probably said dumber things in the past. But okay, tell me why you believe in curses.”
“In eighth grade, Belinda Cantrella cursed me when I wouldn’t take her to the annual Sadie Hawkins dance.”
“Belinda? Wasn’t she that really big girl who wrestled on the boy’s team in high school?”
“Yeah. That was her,” said my dad.
“You were brave to turn her down.”
“I know. Belinda could’ve easily knocked me unconscious. But I was crazy about Katie Homer, and I really wanted her to ask me out. Of course she never did.”
“And you think that’s because Belinda cursed you?” said my mom.
“No. Belinda didn’t curse me until later.”
“When was that?”
“On the night of the dance. We both went stag, and she cornered me in an empty classroom.”
“What
happened?”
“I’ll never forget it. In room twenty-three, where Mrs. Andrews taught French.…”
“Mrs. Andrews—the sexy one?”
“Yeah, the sexy one,” said my dad. “I still remember her accent. Not to mention her fabulous….”
“Larry….”
“Sorry. In room twenty-three, just as a full moon emerged from behind the clouds, lighting up the whole place with an eerie glow, Belinda pushed me into a chair. Then she stood up on a desk, pointed at me, and said, ‘In the name of the Cantrella family and all my ancestors, I curse you, Larry Silberlight. For the next ten years, anyone you ask out is going to reject you, just like you rejected me. You’ll be sorry you refused a Cantrella.’ Then she spit at me, which was really uncalled for.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much,” said my dad.
“Then her curse didn’t come true,” said my mother.
“What do you say that?”
“Because you started dating Lizzie Martin two weeks later. Then came Caroline Gumpert, followed by Honey Robinson and….”
“Yeah, yeah. So I dated a few girls. But after Belinda cursed me, I didn’t have sex for another ten years, and I’m certain that was her primary intention. So it did come true.”
“Eww, Dad,” I piped up from the back, “that’s gross.”
“Oh, Emma!” he said, nearly jumping out of his seat. “You were reading so quietly I forgot you were there.”
“See, Larry,” said my mother, “you’re setting a bad example for our daughter. So unless you want me to burn that shirt on a sacrificial altar, I don’t want to hear anything else about curses, okay?”
“Yes, dear,” he replied.
That evening my father’s softball team finally ended their 10-game winning streak, and I never saw the shirt again. I’m still not sure which one of my parents got rid of it.
Arriving at our destination, a quaint establishment hewn from cotton candy-colored stucco, standing atop a rocky hill overlooking the sea, I’m drawn back into the present. As I exit the car, I notice a group of tiny monkeys scampering about the walkway leading up to the restaurant.
“Ooh,” I croon. “What are they?”
The monkeys’ quarter-sized, perfect pink faces are so inquisitive they almost look human.
While I’m watching, one frisky rascal leaps onto Paula’s pocketbook, hangs there for a moment, and jumps back to the ground. Though my hands are petite, fitting one of these creatures inside my palm would be easy.
“Looking for food?” Luciano asks the spunky monkey, chuckling. “They’re marmosets,” he explains, “the squirrels of Brazil…only much cuter.”
Reaching into his backpack, Luciano pulls out several orange slices and tosses them to the ground. For a few minutes I delight in watching the marmosets nibble this juicy treat.
When we enter the restaurant and settle into our table, Grace and Luciano help me decipher the menu. Since my gastrointestinal tract is regrettably beginning to suffer from diet-related constipation, I’m hoping to order a salad or main course devoted to vegetables, but the dishes mostly contain meat, fish, rice, and/or beans.
“Do you like seafood?” Grace asks.
“Definitely,” I say.
“You could try the ‘moqueca de camarao.’”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Moqueca is a seafood stew, and camarao means shrimp,” Grace explains. “The kind they make here is pretty spicy.”
“What’s in it?”
“I think the sauce is made from dende oil and coconut milk,” says Grace.
“Don’t forget the onions, tomatoes, and cilantro,” says Luciano.
“That sounds great!” I say, drooling from the description alone.
Not only do I love the idea of eating vegetables, even if they are pureed, but I’m also a fan of coconut milk, since I eat a lot of Thai food back home. Shortly after placing the order, a huge portion of the orangey, bubbling stew arrives at our table.
Inhaling the steam rising up from the plate, I exclaim, “This smells amazing!”
Though my companions haven’t yet received their food, I can’t stop myself from diving into the platter.
“Sorry for not waiting,” I say between slurps.
“No problem,” says Grace. “You should eat while it’s hot. Here’s the rest of our order, anyway.”
The waiter has just arrived with three more enormous plates of food. Soon everyone else is eating, though none as quickly as me. Before my companions are even halfway done, every morsel of food on my plate has vanished.
“Still rushing, Emma?” chides Luciano.
“Old habits are hard to break,” I say.
They sure are. When I reach for my glass of water, a memory of Thomas tracing ice cubes across my abdomen flashes through my mind, but I force myself to ignore it. Once everyone else has finished, and I’ve managed to clear a number of subsequent forbidden images from my thoughts, the four of us continue to chat and laugh our way through a long, relaxing lunch. In contrast to my rushed, solitary lunches back home, this midday social extravagance is a pleasant surprise.
As we talk I learn more about my colleagues. One year older than me, Paula is a 26-year-old marine biology graduate student at the local university; while Luciano is a 30-year-old molecular biology PhD.
“How long have you and Paula known one another?” I ask.
“Since forever,” says Luciano. “We grew up on the same street in Salvador.”
“And you’re still living there, right?” asks Grace.
“That’s right,” says Luciano. “We’re both still living at home with our parents.”
The comment surprises me.
“Don’t you want to move out?” I ask.
“Not really,” says Luciano. “The rent is cheap, and the food is good.”
When Paula says something in Portuguese, Luciano smiles and translates.
“Paula would like us to move into our own apartment,” he explains, “but I don’t think her father would approve.”
Paula must have understood the English word “father,” because she laughs and tickles Luciano under his ribs, saying something else that I miss.
Luciano plants a quick kiss on her cheek.
“She says her father wouldn’t mind, if only I would give her a ring.”
“Look at you, Luciano,” says Grace. “You’re blushing.”
Ignoring Grace, Luciano continues, “At this point, we really can’t afford our own place. Most of our friends are in the same situation, still living with their parents. Some of them are in their mid-thirties, even their early forties.”
Paula bites her lower lip in a sexy, pouty way, shooting a disappointed look in Luciano’s direction. Though she doesn’t speak English, she obviously got the message: the lovebirds won't be moving in together anytime soon.
“Even if I wanted to live at home, my mother would never let me move back in,” I say.
Grace looks at me inquisitively, but I don’t elaborate. For a number of personal reasons, I generally avoid discussing the more intimate details of my family situation.
Which is not to say that I’ve always had a bad relationship with my mother. When I was growing up, we actually got along quite well. As a kid, if I needed a straight answer to a tough question, my mother was the first person I’d query.
A few months before my sixteenth birthday, for example, in the aftermath of a car crash that killed two students from my high school, I asked her whether she believed in God.
“Tell me the truth, Mom,” I said. “Do you think the Almighty exists?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “At least I think so.”
“Alright then,” said my mother. “In my opinion—which could change tomorrow, since I like to keep an open mind on matters of faith—God is an idea that people constructed a long time ago, in order to make themselves feel better about dying.”
&n
bsp; “Thanks for those uplifting thoughts, Mom,” I said. “I feel so much better now.”
“Emma, you asked me to answer the question, and I answered it as honestly as I could. If you’d like to hear another opinion on God, you could go and speak to your father.”
“No, I wanted to hear your opinion. But I’m pretty sure that the last time I asked you this question, you gave me a different answer—one that wasn’t quite so harsh.”
“That’s entirely possible,” she said. “When was the last time we discussed God?”
“A few years ago, I think.”
“That explains it,” she said. “I’m definitely getting more cynical as I age.”
Not to mention more irrational.
When I was growing up, my mom was always open minded about controversial social issues, such as affirmative action, women’s liberation, and gay marriage, to name a few. Even now, from a political standpoint, she’s still an extreme leftist, a bleeding-heart liberal to the core, just like the daughter she raised.
Oh, yes. Cecile Silberlight is a tolerant and magnanimous soul—except when it comes to dealing with me, her one and only child.
Nearly 10 years ago, the woman left me with these parting words: “Until you find some way to fix the mess that you’ve gotten yourself into, young lady, don’t even think about coming back home.”
Heading out the door, I ignored her lecture and never looked back.
“You and Grace are lucky to have such good housing in New York,” says Luciano wistfully, “so that you’re not dependent on your parents.”
You can say that again, I think to myself. And he’s right. For the city, our school provides particularly affordable accommodations.
“BJ and I might move in together once I get back home,” says Grace.
“Is BJ your boyfriend?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she answers. “We started dating six months before I came to Brazil.”
“You don’t mean BJ Lee?” I say.
“Yes!” says Grace. “Do you know him?”
“Yup. We live on the same floor in Laydon Hall.”
“What a small world,” says Grace.
I smile and try not to grimace. The last time BJ and I ran into one another was several weeks ago at seven a.m., right outside my bathroom door, when we both really needed to pee. Though I don’t know exactly what he’d been doing with my roommate all night, I’m pretty sure they weren’t studying biochemistry. The jerk didn’t even let me use the bathroom first.