An Untamed State

by Roxane Gay

  My mother has ideas about men and women. When a woman lives with a man before they are married, my mother believes she’s engaged in a concubinage. This sort of arrangement upsets her greatly. Michael and I pretended we were not living together until we married. During our first visit to the motherland, we had to sleep in separate rooms.

  When he realized this, Michael pulled me aside. “Seriously?”

  I squeezed his arm, kissed his chin. “You’ll be fine.”

  He pouted. “I can’t sleep without you. You’ve ruined me.”

  “I suppose you won’t be getting much sleep then.”

  My mother found us in the hallway, Michael’s arms around me, me on the very tips of my toes, my lips pressed against the hollow of his neck. She cleared her throat and we pulled apart, an uncomfortable heat spreading through my face and scalp. My parents do not know me as someone who is open with her affection. They do not know who I am with Michael.

  Forever the perfect host, my mother gave the grand tour as someone saw to our luggage. We walked across the marble floors, and once again, I took in the impeccable décor, the teak ceiling fans spinning lazily and filling each room with a strange hush, the bright and evocative Haitian artwork on almost every wall. Behind the house there was a sitting area with teak benches, a fire pit, an open, grassy area, a brightly tiled, rarely used swimming pool. The two housekeepers, Nadine and Wilma, shuffled quietly through the house, neither seen nor heard unless they were needed. I pretended such servitude didn’t make me uncomfortable, offered them kind smiles whenever they passed by.

  We sat on one of the teak benches across from my mother. Nadine brought us cold drinks. When my father came home from work, he joined us, performed as he always does for guests, creating from his imagination a Haiti that does not exist, or perhaps once existed and is fading away, a jewel in the middle of an ocean with white beaches and clear blue warm water and a strong, resilient people—a Caribbean Camelot.

  “I had no idea people lived in such luxury,” Michael said, gripping my hand tightly.

  It would not be the last time he made that statement. Americans have such strange ideas about the world beyond their borders.

  After dinner, I stood with my mother on a balcony listening to the mystery of the city around us.

  “You love this man.”

  An unexpected smile spread across my face. I looked down at my hands. “He’s the only man I’ve ever loved.”

  Before bed, I kissed Michael good night in the hallway just outside of his room.

  “Come visit me later,” he whispered.

  I shook my head and backed away. He refused to let go of my hands until he absolutely had to. I laughed. “You’ll have to be a big boy and sleep all by yourself tonight.”

  “You’ll miss me,” he said.

  “Not as much as you’ll miss me.”

  He peeked out of his door once more, his hair, which needed to be cut, falling into his face. “Damn right,” he said. And then he whispered loudly, “Please stay.”

  I wanted very much to sleep next to him but knew my parents would disapprove. They would think less of him and in the before, I cared about such things. I blew Michael a kiss and quickly raised my shirt, flashing my breasts. He flashed a lazy smile and began waggling his tongue. I skirted to my room before we got into trouble.

  My chest ached as I lay, alone, in the middle of my bed staring at the ceiling fan. An hour passed and I still could not sleep. I cursed Michael for making me that woman. The house was still and quiet. I paced until my calves grew sore, then slowly opened my door. The hall was dark and empty. I was thankful for the marble floors. I carefully made my way back to Michael’s room, every sound making me paranoid.

  He was lying on his side, asleep, facing away from the door. I stepped out of my pajamas and slid beneath the sheets next to him. His body, his warmth, and the smell of his skin were reassuring. I kissed his forehead, pressed my lips to the bone of his cheek. He stirred lightly, wrapped his arm around me, pulling me closer. I traced his lips with my fingers, so soft.

  Michael slowly opened his eyes and was about to say something but I said, “Shhh.” He slid one of his hands through my hair and kissed me with an uncommon urgency. He kissed me like he was trying to swallow me whole and I gave in to it, to him, his breath in my throat. I was feverish. He pushed me onto my back and dragged his fingers across my collarbones, touched me so softly. I brushed his hair away from his face and wrapped my legs around his waist and we lay like that for a long while, skin to skin, looking at each other. Normally we tear at each other when we make love but that night, we were different, we were soft, we were silent. I held him so tightly I thought our bodies might knot together. When I came, I cried. I was not used to crying. The tears felt strange as they streamed down my cheeks and down my neck, into my ears. It terrified me how much he made me love him, how much he made me step beyond myself and into him, into us.

  After, we lay together, hot, still fevered, sweaty. The air was thick with the smell of us. I faced away from Michael, my spine against his chest. I couldn’t stop crying. He kissed my bare shoulder.

  “Baby, what’s wrong.”

  I pulled his arm around me, holding him tightly, covering his hand with mine, sliding my fingers between his. I couldn’t explain what I was feeling. Finally, I pulled myself together, kissed his fingertips. Quietly, very quietly, I said, “You are the only man I have ever truly loved.”

  “Look at me.”

  I shook my head.

  “Look at me.”

  Slowly, I turned to him.

  He ran his finger along my hairline, down my neck to my arm. I shivered. I wanted him again. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

  I buried my face in his armpit. He smelled like soap and sweat. I mumbled, “You better not hurt me,” then I said, “If this isn’t serious, don’t you lead me on.”

  Michael raised himself onto one elbow and smiled. “I made my intentions known to you the first time we made love.”

  “I am terrified of loving you this much.”

  He kissed my neck and he sank his teeth into my skin and sucked so hard he would leave a bruise. I didn’t stop him, wanted him to mark me. We made love again. We were still silent but we were not gentle. As I drifted asleep, he said, “We can be terrified of this much love together.”

  Sometime later, Michael shook me awake. “I hate for you to leave,” he said, “but morning is coming.”

  I grumbled and grabbed his wrist, tried to make out the time on his watch.

  He leaned against the headboard and watched as I got dressed—my tank top, a pair of his boxers, so I could take something of him to my room with me. Michael cleared his throat. “When we get married, you won’t have to sneak out of my room when we visit your parents.”

  I shrugged, smoothing my hair. “If we get married.”

  I walked around the bed and he jumped up, stood between the doorway and me. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Shut down. I know how you feel about me and you know how I feel about you. We don’t have to play games.” He pointed to the bed.

  I planted my hand against his chest and stood on my toes to kiss him once more. “I’m not an easy woman to love,” I said. I’m not sure if I was apologizing or warning him. I rubbed my thumb across his cheekbone and left.

  As I crept back to my room, my mother cleared her throat. “You are a bit old,” she said, “to be sneaking around.”

  I made some silly excuse about walking around because I couldn’t sleep and quickened my step until I was safe in my room. Outside, the sky had turned a pale blue gray.

  At breakfast, Michael and I sat across from each other, flanked by my parents. They were both reading the newspaper, occasionally sharing an interesting news item.

  Michael poured two liberal scoops of sugar into his coffee, stirring lightly before taking a sip. “How did you sleep last night, Mireille?”

  That uncomfortable
heat returned to my face, the whole of my upper body. I narrowed my eyes. I wanted to kick him under the table but my leg wouldn’t reach. “I slept fine, Michael, and you?”

  He grinned widely. “Best sleep of my life.”

  I arched an eyebrow, stopped pretending to be irritated, leaned forward. “The best?”

  Michael leaned forward too. “The very best.”

  I took a sip of my own coffee, too hot, bitter, excellent. “It must have been the island air.”

  “I hope I sleep that well every night while I am here.”

  Even though my cheeks burned, I couldn’t stop myself. “I hope so too. I really do.” My fever returned.

  My mother set her newspaper down. “Honestly, Mireille.”

  Michael and my father bonded instantly over their mutual love of concrete and all things construction. That afternoon, we drove out to the provinces where my father was building an orphanage and a school in Jérémie for an American NGO. Jérémie is remote and isolated, about 125 miles from Port-au-Prince. It took hours and hours to get there—abominable roads. Michael and I sat in the backseat of my father’s Land Cruiser, sweating, our thighs sticking to the leather seats. It was too hot to even hold hands or sit close to each other. His hair clung to his face, which was even redder than it had been at the airport. My father had the air-conditioning on but it did little to cool us.

  My mother turned around, looked at Michael, and said, “Il est rouge comme une tomate.”

  I glared at her.

  Michael wiped his forehead. “Is it always this hot?”

  From the front seat, my father nodded. “We are blessed with a lot of sun.”

  The roads became narrower and narrower, less paved, jolting us back and forth. About thirty miles from Jérémie, we had to drive across a dry riverbed where children ran and played and chased our vehicle. A stray goat ambled by. Michael waved eagerly at the kids, his forehead against the glass.

  “When it rains, this riverbed floods,” my father said, “and then no one can get to Jérémie.”

  Michael and I looked out our windows and up into the cloudless sky.

  We walked through the construction site and my father puffed his chest out, shook Michael’s shoulder excitedly. “You see,” he said, “there is much work to be done but great things are happening here.”

  Michael smiled politely but as we drove through Jérémie to get to the construction site, he saw the run-down buildings, paint peeling, the streets filthy, and crowded with so many people mobbing our car whenever they could. He could only shake his head, over and over, muttering, “This is unbelievable.” He did not know how to make sense of any of it. Neither did I.

  My mother and I stood in a nearly finished classroom trying to stay cool while the men continued surveying the site, talking about the long-term viability of structural integrity and completion schedules and other matters that were beyond our understanding.

  “Your young man is nothing like your father,” she said.

  I smiled. “No. No, he isn’t.”

  On the drive back to Port-au-Prince, we passed the schoolchildren again, seven or eight little boys in T-shirts and shorts, playing soccer near the edge of the dry riverbed, shrieking happily as one scored.

  “Stop the car,” Michael said.

  We slowed. My father turned around. “What is it?”

  “I just want to get out for a minute.”

  My father frowned but stopped. Michael jumped out of the car and walked toward the children rolling his sleeves up. I got out and stood near the edge of the makeshift pitch, watching my boyfriend as I shielded my eyes from the sun with my hand. One of the young boys kicked the soccer ball toward Michael and soon he was playing with those boys like he was a child himself. When he scored a goal, he threw his hands in the air and started running around in a circle. The little boys followed, their hands in the air too. I took dozens of pictures, couldn’t help laughing. Michael came and grabbed me, and soon we were both playing soccer with the kids, stirring up small clouds of dust as we passed the ball back and forth. A group of older kids and adults began to gather around us. A tall, thick-bodied, blond-haired man was not a common sight in the provinces. The crowd cheered both teams equally, laughing loudly whenever one of the boys stole the ball from the blan. After a while, my father approached us, pointing at his watch. I sighed. We said goodbye to the small crowd, waving until our arms ached.

  In the backseat, Michael turned to me. His shirt was soaked all the way through. “I like it here,” he said.

  I did not care that we weren’t alone. I leaned into him and kissed his lips, my hand against his chest. “So do I.”

  For most of the trip, Michael was wide-eyed, trying to cope with the country and the startling contrasts—so much beauty, so much brutality. Everywhere we went, he stared, at the garbage in the streets, the complex webs of electrical wiring overhead, huge estates with unbelievably high walls around which bidonvilles, shantytowns, sprawled as far as the eye could see, and everywhere, so many people, desperate, angry, hungry, scratching. There was a promiscuity that was, when you spent too much time thinking about it, impossible to bear.

  I told myself he wasn’t afraid to see beyond the gritty surface of the city, because of how he would get out of the car and talk to the roadside vendors all over the city, selling everything that could be sold on brightly colored tarps, or standing near their merchandise hanging from concrete walls. He tried to be a good sport—loved the children, their youthful eagerness, how they all spoke like little adults. He loved the beautiful women and the music and the art and especially the food, which he made me promise to cook for him. I needed to believe that meant he loved me enough to love my country.

  Michael spent a little time each day at my father’s company, learning about my father’s business. He tried to hold conversations with Nadine and Wilma and they were instantly charmed. They mostly forgot about the rest of us. By the end of our visit my mother said, “If Nadine and Wilma even thought Mr. America was going to sneeze, they would be waiting with a handkerchief.”

  I said, “Michael is very easy to love.”

  We spent our afternoons at the beach, lounging on wide couches, drinking rum and eating fruit and swimming together in the warm salt water. Michael openly ogled the women in their bathing suits walking tall, looking good. Once, he whistled, and said, “Haitian women are the most beautiful women in the world,” and I said, “Obviously.” I buried him in the sand up to his neck and straddled his entombed body, teasing him as he struggled to free himself. When he finally did climb his way out of the tightly packed sand, he carried me over his shoulder and threw me into a crashing wave and then fell on top of me, and we lay there, in the surf, beneath the beating sun and he said, “I’m going to love you forever,” and I believed him. I believed in our happily ever after.

  My father took us on an overnight trip to Cap-Haïtien and we toured the nearby Citadelle, a mountaintop fortress built in the early nineteenth century by Henri Christophe, a man who once declared himself king of Haiti, a man for whom we would eventually name our child. As Michael and I stood on the roof, we could see straight to the ocean. There, on what felt like the top of the world, we were surrounded by green and blue and the sweeping peaks and valleys of the mountains around us. It was warm and sunny, but the air was thinner, easier to breathe.

  I held Michael’s arms, squeezed. “You see,” I said softly.

  He nodded, covered my hand with his but later that night he also said, “I am so ready to go back to the States.”

  We were standing in the driveway, while I smoked.

  I frowned. “You seem to be having a good time. You said you like it here.”

  Michael shoved his hands in his pockets. I watched as he tried to backpedal. “I am, I do, but you have to admit, this is a lot to take. Did you see the beggars at the market?”

  I stepped toward him, flicked my cigarette, and put my hands on my hips. “What, exactly, is a lot to take?”

/>   He looked up at the sky like he hoped something in the stars might offer him counsel on the right thing to say. “Never mind,” he said.

  “Right,” I said, stalking away. I did not sneak into his room that night. At breakfast the next morning, I refused to look him in the eye, ignored his attempts to make nice.

  On our last evening we walked along the street just outside my parents’ estate. Michael shook his head and rubbed his forehead. “How do people like your parents survive the guilt of living like this?”

  I looked around us, at the high, gated walls on one side and everything else on the other. I squeezed his hand. “I have no idea.”

  “I couldn’t bear it,” Michael said.

  I wanted to tell him I don’t think anyone can, not really. I wanted to tell him I saw the exact same things he did, that this country was a lot for anyone to take, but it was easier to pretend I didn’t.

  Back in Miami, Michael dropped to his knees and made a big show of kissing the filthy airport floor. He whispered, “Thank God we’re home.”

  I walked away in disgust. We didn’t speak on the flight from Miami to Omaha or on the drive from Omaha to Lincoln. We stopped in front of my house and sat in the car, silently. He tried to say something and I held my hand up. I got out of the car, struggling to pull my suitcase from the trunk. When he tried to help me, I said, “Don’t you dare. I do not need your help.”

  Michael didn’t leave, though. He sat in the car waiting for me to cool off. I watched him from my living room window, parting the curtains just an inch or two to see how long he would sit out there. This is how we argued in the early going, at a remove. It was well after midnight when I walked out to the car in my pajamas. I tapped on his window. He was asleep, his arms folded across his chest. I knocked on the window again. When he didn’t wake, I knocked louder. He opened one eye and I twirled my hand in a circle. He yawned and rolled the window down.