An Untamed State

by Roxane Gay

  This is the Haiti of my childhood—my father building toy boats and pointed hats for us from palm fronds. He taught us how to eat sugarcane, how we had to peel the thin bark and suck on the fibrous core. He took us to an old woman’s house and bought dous, a sugary fudge, wrapped in wax paper. We ate so much of it our mouths wrinkled. Back in the States, he was always serious, always wearing suits and shiny shoes, rarely laughing, rarely home because he had to build and outwork and outthink the white men he worked with. In Haiti, my father was a man who eagerly removed his shoes and rolled up his slacks to climb a palm tree to gather coconuts. One by one he would throw the coconuts down. My mother held the fruit high over her head and slammed them down on a sharp rock and when the hard shell cracked open, she would pull the coconut apart and peel the coconut meat from the shell, handing each of us large pieces. We hated coconut but we ate it anyway.

  This is the Haiti of my childhood—my mother sitting with her sisters, gossiping about everyone they ever knew, their childhood friends and where those friends were now, their current friends and neighbors, former lovers, the people they worked with, their husbands, their fathers. My mother always glowed, her fair skin tanned, eyes bright, hair hanging down past her shoulders. Only in Haiti do I remember her laughing nakedly, talking openly, easily, in a way that was so foreign to us. Mona and I always hid nearby trying to hear every word of the adult conversation. Listening to my mother and aunts talking made us feel like we knew her.

  Driving through Port-au-Prince is a precarious affair. There are more people than room on the road. There is no order, no patience, no civility. Anytime we climbed into the backseat to go somewhere, I felt wound up with nervous energy. I sat between my brother and sister gripping their thighs as they held on to their door handles, their knuckles white. It wasn’t the wild driving that scared me, though. It was the angry mobs swarming our car whenever we slowed at an intersection or to make a turn from one narrow street to another. No matter where we went, our car was always mobbed at street corners by men and women and children, hungry and angry and yearning to know what it might feel like to sit in the leather seats of an air-conditioned luxury sedan. My father saw himself in those people. As we grew older, we saw ourselves in those people. The bones of our faces were the same. My father would open his window just a crack to throw out gourdes and sometimes, American dollars. He would try to pull away in the wake of the desperate clamor to reach for that money. I remember seeing a man with one leg and an enormous tumor beneath his right eye disfiguring his face and the way he slammed his hands against my window and stared at me with such disgust. I waved to him and he spit on the window, a thick globule of white saliva slowly sliding down the window. He shouted something I didn’t understand. My sister turned my head, held me in the crook of her arm. “Look straight ahead,” she said, and so I did. I looked straight ahead at the backs of my parents’ heads and the crowded street before us and I tried to forget how brightly the rage and frustration pulsed off the man with the broken body on the corner.

  We loved Haiti. We hated Haiti. We did not understand or know Haiti. Years later, I still did not understand Haiti but I longed for the Haiti of my childhood. When I was kidnapped, I knew I would never find that Haiti ever again.

  In the cage there was no time. I don’t know when I fell asleep. There were only the walls threatening to close in on me and the heavy stillness of the air. I lay alone on the narrow mattress, my body lonely for my husband. We had not slept apart in years.

  Michael and I met in graduate school—he was getting his master’s degree in civil engineering and I was attending law school. There was no reason for our paths to cross, but there he was, standing outside my office, looking for Kendra, the woman I shared a tiny office space with. Mutual friends set them up on a blind date and she was running late on her way from the law library to meet him. Michael leaned in the doorway, his large frame filling the space.

  He smiled, asked why he had never seen me before. I said something about the improbability of billions of people in the world. He asked me out right then.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. I said, “Are you really that guy?”

  “If it means getting to take you out, yes, ma’am. I am that guy.”

  I was lonely. I was not good with men or dating or interactions of any kind with other people. Until Michael, my hardly romantic history consisted of four men who were not memorable in any way. I leaned back in my chair and took my glasses off, set them on my desk. I pointed to the stack of books on my desk. I said, “I’m in law school. I don’t date.” My hands grew sweaty so I slid them beneath my thighs.

  Michael stepped into my office and leaned against the edge of my desk, close. Too close. I smelled his cologne and the soap he used. A strange warmth rose up through my neck. I looked up. “Have you heard of personal space?”

  He crossed his arms across his chest. “You are feisty.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s what men always say when women don’t fall at their feet swooning.”

  “Do women still swoon?”

  “If you have to ask . . .”

  He laughed, a full, throaty laugh that filled the small office.

  Before we could continue our banter, Kendra appeared, looked from me back to Michael and raised an eyebrow. Michael stood, awkwardly, hovering near my desk, but he never stopped looking at me or through me. He and Kendra introduced themselves, made small talk while she packed her bag so they could leave for their date. I was irritated. He still kept staring at me.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked.

  He gave me a look. I turned away. I thought about his hands, what they might feel like on my arms, against the small of my back, elsewhere. My irritation grew. Michael and Kendra left and I stared at the door for a few moments thinking about how his laugh and his smell lingered. I decided he had an unnaturally large head. Suddenly, he appeared in the doorway again. “I have to make this fast. Go out with me. There will be swooning.”

  Although most everything about him irritated me, from his arrogant smile to his Republican style of dress—a button-down shirt and sensible khakis—still, I accepted his invitation, said, “I will give you one evening to make me swoon.”

  He tugged on my elbow and took my hand and kissed my knuckles. His breath warmed me.

  I pointed to the door. “Go away. Your date is waiting.”

  He disappeared again, quickly reappeared once more. “I like that you are already jealous.”

  Hours later, I called Mona and told her about the arrogant American who asked me out while picking up another woman for a date. She laughed, said, “You’ve finally met someone you actually like. I hear it in your voice.”

  “I have not,” I said, stuttering.

  Mona laughed harder. I wished she would stop. “I’ll remind you of this conversation, someday,” she said.

  I ignored the fluttering in my chest and hung up on her. Ending phone conversations abruptly is a bad habit of mine.

  At the end of our first date, dinner, movie, ridiculous conversation, I stood just inside my front door. Michael stuck his foot between the door and the jamb, leaned in and kissed me. His breathing was loud and heavy, his breath warm on my face. He clasped my neck. His pulse throbbed against my throat. I sighed and he whispered, “I do believe you swooned.”

  Mona told me not to play hard to get when I told her about the date. “Girls have to put out, these days,” she said. “You know what to do, don’t you?”

  My tongue grew dry. “Of course,” I said. “I know lots of things about men and women.”

  “Miri, shut up. You are not seriously a virgin.”

  I hung up on my sister, my face burning hot.

  Michael and I had our second date at a popular bar downtown that used to be a theatre after I ignored him for a few days and he suggested I was playing hard to get and I tersely informed him I was not familiar with that game.

  As we sat waiting for the waitress to bring our drinks, Michael said,
“You never confirmed whether or not there was swooning.”

  I patted his chest. “Again, I say, if you have to ask . . .”

  I drank my first drink quickly—a stiff gin and tonic with a splash of grenadine for which Michael teased me mercilessly. “You’re basically drinking a Shirley Temple,” he said. When I tried to kick him beneath the table, he grabbed my ankle. His hand was warm. My eyes widened. He nodded smugly, said, “I have lightning-fast reflexes.” I tried to kick him with my other leg. He grabbed that ankle too.

  We sat there, my ankles in his hands. I continued to sip my drink, making enthusiastic noises. Finally, I said, “This is awkward.” Michael released my ankles. I immediately felt colder. We continued drinking and I looked Michael up and down, stabbing a plastic sword in his direction. “I bet you’re one of those guys whose bedroom at home is still decorated with all the trophies you won in high school, playing some macho sport like football. And you were the big man on campus, and you dated hot girls, and you’ve never been unpopular a day in your life.”

  He grinned. “Do they give trophies for football?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Wrestling.”

  “Come again?”

  “I wrestled in high school and college. And yes, my mom has kept my trophies and awards and such in my room at the farm. And yes, people tend to like me. Is that so bad? You like me.”

  I dropped an ice cube in my mouth, chewing it loudly. “I don’t even know you. So far, you are mildly tolerable.”

  “We can remedy that.” Michael leaned back in his seat and told me his life story, the good and bad of it.

  His openness was frightening. Americans are so fond of confession without considering the consequences. I didn’t tell him much about myself; there wasn’t much to tell. I had always been a good girl, focused on being excellent.

  Before long, the alcohol went straight to my head and I stopped making sense. I have never been good at holding my liquor. When the bartender threw us out at closing, Michael said, “I should get you home.”

  “Now would be a good time for you to take me to your place so we can wrestle.” I giggled and flexed my arms. “Maybe I will win a trophy.”

  I expected him to say something chivalrous. Instead, Michael opened my door and spilled me into my seat. As we drove, I sang along with the radio. I always sing along when I hear music no matter where I am—grocery stores, malls, dental offices. It is either a charming affectation or a terrible one, depending on whom you ask.

  “You have a nice voice.”

  I turned to look at Michael. I rested my hand on his thigh, my fingertips reaching inward. “You, sir, are a liar.”

  “No really.”

  I began singing more enthusiastically and lowered the zipper of his slacks, sliding my hand between the folds of fabric. I had seen it in movies. Michael stiffened at my touch. My hand tingled. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly. He sighed softly, and I squeezed my fingers around him but then I wasn’t sure what to do next so we stayed like that until we didn’t.

  Michael’s apartment was spare but clean—an old love seat, a large television, and an array of stereo components. In the spare bedroom, there was a drafting table, a futon, and lots of athletic gear—a basketball, dumbbells, a weight belt, some sort of cryptic-looking exercise machine that seemed neglected. We stripped as we stumbled to his bedroom and by the time we fell onto the bed we were naked. I could feel every inch of my skin. It was so strange but I didn’t want that feeling to go away. We were not shy. I kissed him wetly, running my hands over the muscles in his shoulders. I said, “You have such nice shoulders. You have very pretty shoulders. Did you know that?”

  Michael held himself above my body, his muscles flexing attractively. “How drunk are you?” he asked.

  I traced his breastbone with my fingernails. “Do you care?” Before he could answer, I rolled over onto my stomach and looked back at him. My head felt heavy and I buried my face in the pillow. I giggled and said, “Your shoulders really are so pretty. You are a pretty, pretty princess.”

  He pressed his thumbs along my sides and worked his hands up my back like he was trying to push me out of my own skin. I reared, tried to pull him into my body with my leg.

  “You have beautiful skin, beautiful brown skin,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  When I woke, the room was painfully bright. I covered my eyes with my arm, rolling away from the window. The bed was unfamiliar. I rolled to the other side, slowly moving my arm, taking in my surroundings. I tried to remember where I was. I tried to make sense of the thick, sour taste coating my mouth, my lips, my teeth.

  “Good morning,” a voice said.

  My own voice didn’t seem to work. I mumbled incoherently.

  I was naked and quickly pulled the sheet tightly around me, sat up and pulled my knees into my chest. One layer of fog evaporated. I slowly began to recognize Michael, those pretty shoulders, his ridiculously appealing hair, his face, open and eager to please. He brushed stray strands of hair out of my face and tucked them behind my ear. He kissed the tip of my nose. He said, “You are lovely to look at first thing in the morning.”

  My stomach rolled uncomfortably. I leaned back against the headboard and closed my eyes. “You didn’t take me home last night?”

  “You asked me to bring you to my place.”

  I buried my face in my hands, began rubbing my temples. “I drank too much. This is unusual for me but I don’t remember anything after you holding my ankles in the bar. And something about trophies.”

  Michael tugged on the sheet that had fallen around my waist. The throbbing in my head trumped modesty. “You were a wildcat. And you called me a pretty, pretty princess.”

  I shook my head violently, then instantly regretted that decision. I rolled out of the bed and began grabbing for my clothes. I dressed quickly and made an awkward goodbye with a half-assed apology. As I walked home I tried to reassemble my dignity. By the time I reached my house I had sweated most of the gin. My hangover stink was terrible. I needed to wallow so I fell onto the couch and passed out after cursing myself for my inability to interact normally with men.

  Hours later, a loud knocking at my front door brought me out of my still-drunken stupor. “I’m coming,” I said hoarsely, carefully finding my way to the front door while trying to maintain my balance. The sour stink lingered. I opened the door a crack and peeked out. Michael stood on my porch holding coffee, which he passed me through the narrow opening.

  He smiled. “I came to make you something to eat.”

  I accepted the coffee and inhaled the rising steam and waved my hand. “No food.”

  He pushed the door open and slipped inside. As I closed the door, I muttered, “What is it with you and personal space? Come on in, why don’t you.”

  Michael stood in the foyer, his hands shoved into his pockets. “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks. Tell me—when you come to the home of a one-night stand uninvited, is that stalking?”

  Michael laughed. “You’re the lawyer in training but I’m not a one-night stand.”

  I arched an eyebrow. He cupped his hand around the bottom of my coffee cup and raised it to my lips. “Drink.” I took a small sip. The coffee made my mouth taste even worse.

  “We didn’t have sex last night,” he said.

  I slapped Michael’s chest hard. My hand stung. I shook it loosely. “You could have told me that hours ago.”

  He shrugged. “This was more fun.”

  I turned to walk away, muttering, “Asshole,” but he grabbed me by my waist, pulling me into his arms. I dropped my cup and a thin trickle of coffee began to spill onto the beautiful wooden floors, something exotic the original owner said when my father bought the place for me. Michael pulled his fingers through my hair, stretching my face taut. He kissed me so hard I felt his lips in my spine. It was the kiss of a stranger and I wanted it and I wanted him. I have always played hard to get because o
ther people terrify me but right then, I didn’t have the energy for my usual nonsense. I reached for his waistband, drawing myself into his body.

  Between kisses, I said, “I look and smell hideous right now.”

  My eyes were dry and sore. My head continued to throb dully. Everything was fuzzy and distant and then it wasn’t. Michael started pushing me back toward the staircase. He bit into my neck and fumbled with his jeans, trying to shove them down with one hand while he pulled my pants down with his other hand. The edge of a step dug into my back painfully. I ignored it. Then he was inside me and I gasped as he opened my body, a sharp ache spreading up through my stomach and down through my heels and he was shoving his tongue into my sour mouth, groaning loudly while he fucked me steady and hard. His hair brushed my forehead and my neck and I arched into him like I was hoping to conjoin our rib cages. He showed me how little I knew about him.