The Lesson

by Cadwell Turnbull

  “You know she’s in Frenchtown right now,” Lisa said. “The ambassador. Heard some people talking about it outside. She over at Sandy’s.” Some thought occurred to Lisa, and she said, “Don’t go getting no ideas, now. I like you breathing.”

  Jackson took a sip of his drink and offered what he thought was a reassuring smile.

  Lisa shrugged and changed the subject. “So how are you really?”

  “I’m good.” He stirred his drink with the tiny straw and slid his finger along the outside of the glass, wetting his fingertips with condensation.

  “Just good?”

  He didn’t look at her face but could feel her eyes on him. “You know,” he said without elaborating.

  “I was wondering if you could look at my work. I miss your great feedback.”

  Jackson watched Lisa. She was smiling at him. He looked down at her hand and saw what he had missed. A wedding band.

  Lisa followed his eyes, her smile thinning.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. He swirled the ice in his glass, the watered-down remnants of his amber-colored drink sloshing at the bottom. “I’ll look at it. Send me an email.”

  Lisa opened her mouth to speak.

  “Can I pay for this?” Jackson asked the bartender. He slid a twenty on the table—way more than the drink required. “I have to head out. But send me that story when you can.”

  Lisa didn’t say anything when he got up.

  As he left the bar, the winter night air blew through him, giving him a chill. Jackson had been stateside only a few times in his life. He didn’t enjoy it. His blood was already too thin for winter nights in the tropics.

  Jackson walked over to his car and fumbled with his keys. Then he stopped. He put the keys back in his pocket and stared at his face in the glass, the image made clear by the gleam of the streetlight overhead. He chuckled at the scraggly old man peering back at him. He could feel his old knees groaning under the flesh.

  He swayed a little and considered the prospect of going home. To nothing. To no one. Only that stupid book. He felt the weight of it crushing him again. When he was a younger man, he had written essays and short stories. Aubrey liked them, urged him to do something with them. He didn’t. And she stopped pushing. He had unearthed them when he moved out of the house, rereading them just in case he could use them somehow. They were terribly dated. He wanted to ask Aubrey whether she thought they were worth revising, making new. But by then anger had fortified itself between them. Now, after all the years, all he felt was desolation and loneliness stretching on before him—a shadowed road with no one but him on it. And he was disappearing, too.

  Standing there, swaying under the streetlamp, Jackson entertained a dangerous thought. Perhaps he wouldn’t wait for Derrick to ask the ambassador. He tried the idea on and found that the voice in the back of his head, the one that warned against making stupid decisions, was tuned all the way down. Jackson realized something then. After so long in his marriage, that voice sounded just as much like Aubrey’s as it did his own. She had become that warning. They had become that for each other, a guard against the impulses of their worst selves.

  But she was gone now, and there was no use listening to ghosts. He turned and headed over to Sandy’s.

  • • •

  Frenchtown lay close to the water, right on Charlotte Amalie Harbor. Jackson could smell the sea, strong in the air, as he walked down the row of restaurants on his way to Sandy’s. He passed Rum Shandy, hearing laughter from the people inside, and the swell of the music from the speakers. Pie Whole was quiet from the outside, but the smell of fresh dough greeted him.

  Cars lined the street, packed tight together. Even on a quiet night, it was hard to find parking in Frenchtown. Jackson had gotten lucky and found a spot against the Griffith Ballpark fence. As he passed other cars, he looked inside the ballpark, where a group of expats were kicking around a soccer ball. A blond-haired guy with long legs shot the ball high into the air. A stout brunette girl with strong thighs and pronounced calf muscles whipped down the field in pursuit, spitting up dirt as she ran. On the bleachers, Jackson could see a few island boys sitting, lighting up, the smoke curling up from the ends of their blunts. The palm trees on the far side of the field swayed like dancers in the night breeze.

  Sandy’s was only a two-minute walk from Bella Blu, but Jackson took his sweet time getting there. He pushed open one of the double doors, and the sound of lively chatter greeted him. Sandy’s was a dive compared to Bella Blu, but it had a homey feel that made it much more inviting. Clever sayings and old-timey photos of St. Thomas hung on the walls. “Warning,” said a sign in big, bold letters. “The consumption of alcohol may cause pregnancy.” “No trespassing,” said another. “Violators will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.” A crocodile skull dangled from the ceiling. Jackson had no idea of its authenticity. In the back were two pool tables, which almost always had people playing on them. Tonight was no exception.

  The chairs that curved around the U-shaped bar were empty except for an older white man at one end, and a younger-looking woman at the other. The bartender was busy pouring drinks for a couple who stood near the door.

  Jackson watched the woman on the far end of the bar. She had her dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail of sorts, the thick knots falling behind her like the dormant limbs of some many-tentacled sea monster. She looked sullen but at ease, a Greenie in one hand. Even from where he sat, he could see those piercing light-brown eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the bar’s low light. Her skin was dark like Jackson’s, but it gleamed as if she were some goddess who had stepped into the world of men only the day before and had not yet begun to age. The softness of a child, the physique of a woman. Her black tank top exposed arms corded with muscles.

  Seeing her powerful arms, Jackson finally considered the prospect of losing his head. He felt the skin of his neck go taut, could almost feel her hands on him, the flesh tearing as easily as bread. He knew that the Ynaa were powerful and not opposed to harming humans, and he recognized the same self-assuredness, the same discreet threat, in the woman across the bar. Just like other Ynaa he had glimpsed on island, she carried herself with the promise of violence. But no one mistook Mera for just any Ynaa. No other Ynaa fascinated and terrified the islanders the way she did.

  At the moment, most of the people in Sandy’s seemed at ease with the ambassador’s presence, but Jackson knew better. He knew what hid under the smiles and conversation: the same quiet terror that was making his legs shake as he took his seat at the bar. He ordered a Greenie, and the bartender slid him a long-necked bottle of Heineken, cold and sweating with a little foam peeking from its lip.

  Jackson let it settle and then took a swig while giving the ambassador quick glances. Soon, he gave up all his ambitions, measuring himself against the intimidating creature and finding that he was not up to the task. There would be no confrontation, no revelations this night. His sane mind had prevailed.

  Sandy’s had tables all around. Most, but not all, were empty. The couple at the bar had gone into the back room to watch a group of older men play pool, but a gang of young people were talking loudly at a corner booth. Every now and then, one of them looked in the ambassador’s direction. Another couple ate their dinner quietly at the other end of the room, behind the ambassador’s back. They, too, kept their eye on her, sneaking furtive glances.

  The older white man smiled in Jackson’s direction, and Jackson recognized the dirty-blond hair and missing teeth. He was a friend of the bar’s owner. Jackson used to come into Sandy’s a lot when he was teaching at Charlotte. The man was always here then, chatting up the owner, an older white woman with a loud voice and a warm smile, whose name actually was Sandy. She had lived on island most of her life.

  The white man lifted his glass to Jackson. “Ain’t see you in here in a while,” he said in the island lilt.

  Jackson smi
led. The man was either a local Frenchie, which wouldn’t be surprising here in Frenchtown, or an expat who had lived here long enough to pick up the talk. Jackson figured it was the latter, since he could detect a bit of awkwardness in the way the words rolled off the man’s tongue.

  “Yeah, it been a long while,” Jackson said. “Been busier lately with all that been going on.”

  The man nodded and glanced at the ambassador. Jackson nodded back, assuming that the glance was intentional. The man tilted his head and smiled big, revealing a mostly complete set of teeth. Then he returned to his drink. Jackson quietly finished his beer and ordered two more.

  After the third Heineken, he switched back to a rum and Coke. Without meaning to, he continued his careful observation of the ambassador.

  “Another drink?” the bartender asked the ambassador. He was white and definitely an expat but had been working at Sandy’s for several years now. He had a laid-back disposition that Jackson liked. And he seemed completely at home with the ambassador, which impressed Jackson.

  The ambassador looked up at the bartender, smiled, and said, “Yes, give me another one.”

  The bartender nodded.

  Most other Ynaa could not pull off an act like this. Even in their human skin, they couldn’t be mistaken for the real thing. They were too slow, too jerky in their movements. Not the ambassador. She could pass for an islander if only her face weren’t so infamous.

  The bartender gave Mera the Greenie, and she held it in her hand as if to drink, but then put down the bottle. Jackson watched her do this, looking for something that would give her away, reveal what she truly was. He didn’t realize she had turned her eyes to him until it was too late.

  He felt cold dread move through him before his body reacted, and then he quickly averted his eyes. He felt the seconds tick by as he fixed his attention on a painting above the heads of the dining couple behind Mera. He waited. After some time, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he allowed himself a quick glance at her. She was still watching him, with no expression at all. Something in her gaze caught him. He had stared into her eyes and turned to stone. Ants crawled up his back, and he was powerless to stop them. The world around him disappeared into those eyes.

  Before he screamed, she pulled her attention away, releasing him. As if nothing had happened at all, she returned to her drink, staring into the middle distance between them, going back to whatever thoughts were occupying her mind.

  Jackson felt hot behind the ears. He looked around, embarrassed. No one was looking at him, but the room was quiet.

  He found a conspiracy in that silence. Perhaps he had drunk too much, but something broke in him then. His heart thumped with panicked rage, and the urge flooded back into him, filling all the spaces his terror had left. He wanted to run into traffic, to tip over a cliff, to slide the knife against flesh to watch it bleed. He heard Aubrey’s voice in the back of his mind, begging him not to. And he found himself arguing with the voice, shouting back against it.

  She had embarrassed him. And she knew she had done so. It was a very human thing to do—too human. How dare she! Who did she think she was? It was their Earth, not hers, not the Ynaa’s. Who gave her the right to be here? Who gave her the right to deceive them all?

  And who are you to lecture me now that you’ve left me? I loved you and you left me.

  The words came out easily, a continuation of the argument in his head. “You been here a while, haven’t you?” he asked, the question loud enough for everyone at the bar to hear.

  Mera turned her eyes and head slowly this time to look at him. Not quite normal. Not quite human. It was a deception. He knew the truth.

  “You been on Earth for centuries,” he said, pressing on.

  The bartender stopped polishing the glass in his hand. The older white man perked up, and the couple at the near table swung their attention Jackson’s way. The background pop rock music seemed louder now since even the young people at the corner booth had stopped talking.

  As if in answer, Mera got up and took a hundred-dollar bill out of her purse and put it on the bar, the movement so calm that Jackson shrank back in his seat, afraid of what would come. She smiled graciously at the bartender and moved slowly toward Jackson’s side of the bar. His body tensed, his heart thumping hard and fast. He closed his eyes, listening to the soft footsteps approach. He could feel her closeness as she walked behind his chair. He waited in that tense silence for what felt like a long time.

  But nothing happened.

  When he opened his eyes, she was already headed toward the door, her back to him. Before he understood what he was doing, he got up from his chair. He rushed toward her, reaching out and grabbing her by the arm.

  “Wait,” he said.

  She was careful when she turned. It was graceful. Slow. So human now. So painfully human. When she spoke, it was quiet, a secret for only the two of them.

  “You can go back,” she said, her eyes never leaving his. “You can take your hands off me and drink your beer. And I’ll leave in peace. Nothing else will happen.”

  Jackson’s eyes were wide. His body shook. Nothing about how she said this was odd at all. It was gentle. But he felt all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A chill slid all the way down to his legs. He let go.

  “Good night,” she said, and left.

  The room sat in silence for a few seconds longer. Then murmuring crept back into the space. Soon, talking, though hushed, had resumed. Jackson had no difficulty guessing the subject of that talk. He returned to his chair and sat back down, staring forward, too afraid to leave.

  Quietly he drank two more beers, his head low and shoulders high, sweat trickling down from his armpits. When the conversation in the bar felt as though it had returned to its normal tenor, he paid his bill and slipped out, the voices trailing behind him like a thunderstorm at sea.

  • • •

  Jackson slammed his fists on the door, too drunk to feel the pain, only the euphoria of his rage.

  “Who this Jeep belong to?” he asked, his voice quivering. “It hers? She in there with you?”

  It took several minutes before Aubrey answered his knocks, his yelling. The lights came on, and he heard footsteps inside the house. When she opened the door, she was in a nightgown.

  He remembered the gown from when he lived here. He remembered how it clung to the slender curves of her body. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized he missed it.

  “What you doing?” she asked. “How you get up here?”

  “I drove.”

  “You drove,” she repeated. She looked at him for a short while, then stepped out the door and closed it behind her. He made space for her, almost falling backward, steadying himself at the last moment. “Look at the state you in. How you driving on the government roads looking so?”

  “You worried about the government roads more than me?”

  She came close, making an effort to keep her voice low. “I worried about people,” she said. “People. You know, all those other folks sharing the road with you? What you thinking, Jack?”

  His mouth hung open at the use of that name. He quivered. “Why you do this?” he asked. “Why you let this fucking woman come between us?”

  Aubrey looked back behind her as if she expected Alice to be standing there. Then she turned back to Jackson. “It too late for you to be yelling. People trying to sleep.”

  “I not yelling!” His St. Thomian English was strong in his hot rage.

  “You are.”

  “I love you!”

  “Oh, Lord.” Aubrey reached out to touch Jackson’s hand. “Jack—”

  He recoiled at the touch, pulling away. “She in there with you, ain’t she?”

  Aubrey looked him right in the face. “Yes.”

  Jackson gaped. No words came for a while. He looked around himself as if just realizing
where he was. Tears burned in his eyes.

  “Let me come home,” he said, and when she didn’t answer, he repeated it again. “I want to come home.”

  “You want me to move out?”

  “No,” he said, his voice cracking. “No,” he repeated. “I want to be home with you. Not her. She don’t belong here.”

  Aubrey stared at him. It wasn’t a cold stare or an angry one. It was full of pity and sadness. “I don’t …” she started, and then she stopped. She tried to hold his hands again, and this time he let her. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m happy.”

  Jackson’s whole body felt hot. He cycled through a series of responses, finding none that could do the complex alchemy he needed. No words that he could find would make happen what he wanted. No words would undo what had clearly already been done.

  “I want you to be happy, too,” she said.

  He chupsed his teeth, making the long sucking sound that indicated complete annoyance.

  “We made a beautiful daughter,” she said, ignoring his frustration. Her eyes were intense on him. He remembered how much he loved that steadying intensity, how much he felt as if he were crumbling in its absence.

  “We did good,” she said. “Let’s keep doing good.”

  Jackson stared at her, not fully comprehending at first. Then, through the fog of his drunkenness, he understood what she meant. His body shook in rebellion. He did not accept this. He could not accept this. But then he gave up, from an exhaustion so deep it went beyond the body and deep into his soul.

  “Okay,” she said, understanding something he hadn’t communicated verbally. She held his hand tighter. “Come inside and sleep this off.” She pulled at his hand, leading him into the house.

  Quietly, the rage within him burned out at last, and he let her.

  • • •

  Through the night, Jackson’s dreams were filled with faces. It was as if the entire history of his island spoke to him from the darkness of his fitful sleep. Her voice was loudest of all. You can still go back.