The Lesson

by Cadwell Turnbull

  Patrice sighed. The heat was sweltering, even with the windows down. She unbuttoned a few buttons of her uniform, rolled up the windows, and turned on the air conditioner. She turned the radio to 105 Jamz to drown out some of the sounds. It was reggae Thursday; Jamz was playing an old Buju song called “I Wanna Be Loved.” Patrice sang along, her head bobbing to the easy offbeat of the drums and Buju’s raspy voice, sweetly thick.

  She reached into her bag, took out the book, and opened it. She picked a page and started reading. It was an old Hindu creation myth. First, there was man, and he was alone in the void. He created woman from himself because he was lonely. Then they took many forms, each time giving birth to new beings, until the world was populated with all the beasts, the fish, the birds. They were happy at their work.

  Patrice read on.

  A loud buzz distracted her from her reading. Patrice looked down and saw that Dad had left his phone on the center console of the car. She assumed Mom was texting Dad to pick up something she had forgotten to put on her list. Patrice rolled her eyes as she reached for the phone. Now she would have to run inside and tell him. She hated having to do that.

  When she opened the text message, she was surprised to find that it was not her mother. It was a text from some woman named Lisa.

  • • •

  Five days before

  Did you get my message?

  Jackson texted back.

  No.

  He looked through his message history to find the last message he had gotten from Lisa before today. He had never seen a notification for a new message, yet there it was. Like it had already been read. And he had not been the one to read it.

  I’m sorry Jack. I was wondering

  if I could see you one last time. To

  talk. I need to be honest about a

  few things. I think you may need

  to be honest too.

  He thought for a moment. Then he texted her:

  I will think about it and

  get back to you.

  It was nighttime. Jackson leaned back in his usual chair on the porch, looking up at the black sky, the gray clouds, the glimmering white stars. The mosquitoes were out, and so were the bats. He scratched his new bug bites absently as he watched the bats in their haphazard flight, turning in quick angles through the sky.

  Jackson had always been afraid of getting old. That was why he had kept himself in shape. It was something he prided himself on. But even with his regular visits to the gym, age was catching up to him. He found that he was achy more and more, deep down. There was popping in his joints, and his bones creaked and moaned like rusted gears. He had found himself spending more hours at the gym and eating less of the food he loved. He had a little pudgy midsection that wouldn’t go away.

  He was a cliché, and he knew it. He had thought that when this time came in his life, he would be content, happy, grateful for all the opportunities he’d been given, for the family and the job he had been blessed with. But all he could think of was all the things he hadn’t done. His students didn’t do much for him anymore. He found that he couldn’t hold out for the few who wanted to be there. He had started phoning it in, half-assing.

  And his wife. They had been married a long time. This Lisa thing was the biggest cliché of all.

  He had once had other dreams: places he wanted to go, things he wanted to do, books he wanted to write. But he had trapped himself on this damned island, marooned himself in a stagnant existence. He had settled, and his life had passed him by.

  He felt like an hourglass, giving to the bottom by taking from the top. He didn’t have much else to give, and he found himself, in his worst moments, indulging in the most selfish thoughts: That he’d given enough. That a man should have the right to say he was done, with no hard feelings from the people he had devoted his life to.

  But that was not the way the world worked. You couldn’t go through life filling holes in yourself by digging them elsewhere. And wouldn’t that be even worse? Imagine what Aubrey would have to endure—the snickers, the little whispering voices as she passed by. He couldn’t do that to her. How could he ever forgive himself if he did? Still, he found himself thinking that there must be a middle ground, a way for him to have both.

  • • •

  Four days before

  “What?” Aubrey was having a hard time accepting the words she was hearing. “What are we talking about here?”

  “Aubrey. I need to do this. For me.”

  “It a little late for a midlife crisis, Jack,” she said, her St. Thomian English getting thick with her frustration. “And we can’t uproot our whole life here because you want teach in a foreign country.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “What?”

  “I want to do this on my own.”

  A part of her wanted to be more understanding somehow, more reasonable. But all she could hear herself saying was that this was crazy.

  “This is crazy,” she finally said aloud. Their room seemed smaller, as if the walls had closed in when she wasn’t looking. They both were sitting on their bed. The room was dimly lit, and she could see only the part of his face closest to her, the other half eclipsed in shadow.

  “I can wait a year until Pat is done with school. But then I’m going.”

  “Is this about these text messages you been getting late at night?”

  Jackson moved to say something but didn’t.

  “You think I ain’t notice? You’n marry no idiot, Jack.”

  “That’s not what this is about. We can talk about that later.”

  “Later? You gon’ even ask what I want? Or is that not a part of this marriage anymore?” She waited for him to answer, but he just stared at her in that stupid way he did when he felt backed into a corner. The thought of him feeling that way made Aubrey even angrier. She continued. “You not the only one that has been tempted, Jack. Most people get over it. They cheat or they don’t. They don’t pick up and go to a foreign country.”

  He glared at her. “Who is he?”

  “There’s no he. And you don’t get to ask me anything. I’m not leaving you.”

  “I’m not saying the marriage is over. I just need to do this. You can wait if you want.”

  “If I want?” Aubrey scoffed.

  “If you want. I can’t make you.”

  “How long?”

  “A year. Two, maybe.”

  “Two years? You can go fuck yourself while you at it.”

  Jackson tried to reach out and touch her, but she was way past being consoled. She felt sick at her stomach. She had prepared herself for this conversation. She had read the signs, but she wasn’t sure now what else she would do, what she would say. She felt powerless. She felt betrayed.

  “I don’t want you going,” she said.

  “I need to. I feel boxed in. I need to stretch my legs.”

  “Then, take a vacation!”

  “It’s more than that. Living here doesn’t feel like living anymore.”

  “Now, how that supposed to make me feel?”

  Jackson cleared his throat. In the dim lighting, he almost seemed like a whole other person. She could see the age on them both. Their years together stretched back in her mind. She couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t there. Even her memories before him seemed to be inhabited by him, like some hovering spirit. Yet, as she looked at him, he felt completely alien, as if he had never really been there at all.

  “This really isn’t about you,” he said softly.

  “No. It really isn’t.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  She looked up at him, anger flaring in her eyes. She wanted to burn her anger into him, somehow let him know, just with her eyes, how it felt to feel the way she was feeling now. “I don’t know.” She looked away, feeling something within her sh
ift, deflate, and said again, “I don’t know.”

  • • •

  Three days before

  Patrice was always afraid of the shadows, especially once her feet had kicked up enough sand to make the water surrounding her foggy. She moved unsteadily and uneasily as Derrick splashed around, completely at home. The sea breeze was light. Seagulls soared through the sky making their repetitive call, and they could hear the distant chatter of people a little way down Lindbergh Beach.

  Patrice loved the beach because it didn’t have a lot of seaweed. But lately, squirming little weeds were showing up, taking more and more space. She hated that more than any kicked-up sand. Worse, she couldn’t figure out why it was happening. The seaweed wasn’t there before. Ever. Not in her whole life.

  It was global warming, perhaps. Or maybe things were just changing. She didn’t like it, all this change.

  “I read some of that book,” she admitted to Derrick.

  “What you think?” Derrick asked, slapping his hands against the surface until the water turned white and foamy.

  “It’s interesting.”

  “That it?”

  “Made me think.”

  “Good. Thought it would.”

  “I don’t know if it is.” Patrice paused and gathered herself. “It’s confusing. It’s like he is trying to say we made the whole thing up.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. It seemed for a moment, the way his face turned away from her, that he had decided to say nothing else. But then he said, “A story time makes true.”

  Patrice nodded.

  “Well,” he said, “you want another one?”

  “No, thank you. I’m still working through this one.”

  Patrice thought she felt something brush up against her leg, and with a little squeal she jumped on Derrick, wrapping her legs around him. Usually, Derrick responded by taking her farther out, only making Patrice scream out more as he laughed. This time, he didn’t move at all. He just let her cling to him, his arms down, lightly brushing against her bare legs. Patrice had mixed feelings about his light touch.

  “You gon’ be just fine.”

  “How you so calm?”

  “Because me’n no punk like you.”

  “Yeah, okay. Whatever, boy.” Patrice was beginning to feel her thighs inching lower and lower on Derrick’s body. She wrapped her arms around his neck tight.

  “You think you ready to get off?” Derrick said, sounding a little uncomfortable.

  “Why? Something wrong?”

  “No. You’re just getting heavy.”

  “Please, boy. We practically on the moon.”

  Patrice smiled. She wrapped around him tighter, which seemed to be making him more uncomfortable, though he had stopped avoiding her gaze. She could feel every point of contact simultaneously. Her skin felt hot, her head light, and she leaned in closer to him, close enough to feel his breath on her wet skin. She took in heavy breaths. She felt the wild thumping of her heart.

  Something in her stirred, and she felt suddenly distrustful of the moment, suddenly suspicious. She allowed herself to slide off him. As her body slid down his, she felt something solid rub against her. Surprised, she jerked backward.

  Derrick didn’t say anything.

  Patrice decided not to comment on it, either. She recognized what it was from the few moments when boys had grinded up on her at parties. She never liked dancing with boys. They always put their hands in places they shouldn’t, and she would have to push them off. But this wasn’t a boy at a party. This was Derrick. She wondered how much of what she rubbed up against was meant for her. She had heard that sometimes these things happened by accident. And recently, she had had her trust in men shaken. She would never know unless she asked him. And she would never ask, so she would never know.

  The sky was beginning to change colors from blue to pink. The water was darker, and now there was no hope of seeing the bottom. “We should go.” Patrice moved to get out of the water.

  “Okay. Give me a second.”

  Patrice got out, grabbed her towel that was hanging on a nearby tree, and yelled back to Derrick, “You know we should be getting back with your grandmother’s car.”

  “Just let me swim a little, dread. I gon’ be out in a minute.”

  Patrice couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What you laughing about?” asked Derrick, still splashing around in the water.

  • • •

  One day before

  Aubrey was in the play area with one of the dogs, applying flea dip. Chewed-up toys and half-eaten mangoes that had fallen in from the neighbor’s yard lay scattered about the play area. Small streams of dirty water converged to form a murky puddle by the stairs that led up to the dog kennels. The air smelled of wet dog, mango, and chemicals.

  Aubrey let her thoughts drift as she scooped flea dip with a metal dog-food container and poured it on the unhappy dog. It was small, a mix of Yorkshire terrier and something else. Its long, unmanaged hair sagged and dripped with the white liquid. The dip gave off a scent almost like gasoline.

  The dogs in their kennels suddenly went wild with desperate barking.

  “How is everything back here?” Alice asked, appearing at the top of stairs, where the kennels and play area met. The dogs barked and jumped at the doors of their cages.

  “Good. You need something?”

  “No. No, I’m fine.”

  The dog Aubrey was cleaning barked at the other dogs. “Shhh,” she commanded, and the dog obeyed.

  Alice caught on and descended the stairs. The dogs slowly got quiet. Aubrey hardly ever saw Alice back here in the play area. Her scrubs glowed in the sunlight.

  “This is the last one,” Aubrey said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Oh,” Alice answered.

  They both were quiet now, and in the lingering silence, Aubrey thought of all the things that had changed and all the things that would. She looked forward through time, and the oppressiveness of it made her burn inside.

  “I was thinking,” she started, not completely knowing how she would finish, “I want to go on a trip. Nothing as big as a cruise, but maybe an island hop. Somewhere I’ve never been before.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Alice said. She wasn’t looking at Aubrey. Just staring down at the dog as it panted and shivered.

  “You want to join me?” Aubrey asked finally. “I think maybe we can make a weekend of it.”

  Alice looked up at her. She tilted her head just a little. Then a smile, not as large as her usual smiles, came to her face. She moved a stray curl of hair out of her eyesight. “When?”

  • • •

  The day

  It was another Saturday afternoon, the sun high up in the sky, the trade winds blowing in. The arms of the coconut trees moved back and forth as if waving.

  Jackson was leaning against the porch rail in his brown boots, white shirt, and khaki pants. A machete leaned against one of the porch columns, next to his feet, its blade freshly stained green from the yard work he had done. Unruly bush surrounded three sides of the house and had to be beaten back on occasion. Jackson inhaled the smell of cut grass, taking pride in the morning’s work.

  He was moving his phone from one hand to the other, fully aware of the smooth polymer in his hands, and the way it felt against his callused palms. His upper right arm throbbed deep within the muscle. His knee ached.

  Jackson watched as a cat strolled into the yard. The cat regarded him with equal awareness, staring right up at him. It didn’t move, its slender body tensed and ready, its fur slick black and shiny. Their porch was on the second floor, high above the yard; Jackson’s presence was no real threat.

  Still, they continued their stare-off. The cat was wild, had been wild its whole life, living off mice, lizards, garden snakes, young iguanas, and the occasional food sc
raps it could find. Jackson could tell all this just by looking at it. The cat had never been touched by human hands.

  It took another few hyperalert steps and lost interest in Jackson. Its head bobbed upward in a quick jerk, spotting something in the grass, and it gave chase. Jackson went back to moving his phone between his hands, thinking.

  The phone buzzed, and sure enough, it was Lisa.

  So about seeing you? We really

  should talk.

  Jackson pressed reply on his touch screen and began typing.

  • • •

  Patrice left her room to look for her father. She had a lot of stuff on her mind. Heavy stuff. She found him on the porch, leaning against the rail, pressing buttons on his phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  When her father heard her, he pressed a button and put his phone away. “Just canceling an appointment with someone.”

  “Oh. Won’t the person be disappointed?”

  “Probably,” her father answered distractedly, looking up from his hands.

  When he looked up, he caught sight of something. He leaned forward, squinting at the thing in the distance. Patrice followed his eyes to a little dot in the sky, growing bigger as they watched.

  “I’m confused,” Patrice said, following the dot as it moved across the blue, cloudless sky.

  “Oh?” Her father had a serious expression but was still paying attention to her. “About what?”

  “I don’t know,” Patrice answered. “Everything.”

  There were cruise ships in the harbor. The Disney Cruise Line blared its signature seven-note call of arrival, taken from “When You Wish upon a Star.” The sound of it pulled them momentarily away from the thing in the sky. But before long, they both were looking up again, following the object.

  “You’ll have to be more specific than that, Pat. What is that thing? Aubrey, come check this out!”

  “I cooking,” her mother yelled back.

  “Take a break!”

  No answer came from the house.

  “What were you saying, lil’ miss? What you confused about?”

  “I don’t know,” Patrice said again. Usually, these conversations were easier to navigate, but so many things had changed in her head. She didn’t know where or how to start. She knew what the words felt like but not what the words were. They drifted somewhere in the back of her mind, where she couldn’t reach.