An Untamed State (11 page)

He climbed on top of me. He bit my chin. I moaned, turned away from him. He told me to open my eyes, to see him. I refused. He bristled, said, “As you wish.” He said, “You shall not know kindness from me.” I planted my hands against his chest to hold him off, to save some piece of myself. He was a sharp blade. I was a tender wound. I couldn’t keep count. I finally surrendered to the pain, spreading sharply between my thighs and straight into my heart. I opened my eyes and inhaled sharply. As I passed out, the Commander hovered over me, smiling. Finally, I thought, as I drifted into a place where I felt nothing but still, somehow, ached. There was nothing left to count
.

M
ichael and I took our first trip to Port-au-Prince after dating for a year. Michael insisted on meeting my parents. I tried to prepare him. I explained how he would see things he might never see in the States, difficult and painful things. I explained that there is nowhere in the world both as beautiful and as ugly, as hopeful and as hopeless. He did not quite understand what I meant but he tried and I tried. I hoped he would understand he could not love me without loving where I am from.

In the weeks before our trip, Michael read travel books and surfed the Internet and took notes. He’d point to a hat and say
le chapeau
and in the driveway, he’d pat the hood of the car and say
la voiture
, and when we woke up in the morning he’d say
je t’aime
, the words always sounding square and strange wrapped in his thick midwestern accent. It was very charming. We had a lot of sex.

He filled an entire suitcase with bottled water.

As I watched him packing, I said, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t want to get sick.”

“We’re not going off the grid, Michael. My parents have plenty of distilled water. That’s all we drink.”

He shook his head, and zipped his suitcase shut. “Just in case,” he said, patting his bag proudly like he was making an intelligent decision.

Miami International Airport often feels like Port-au-Prince. It is crowded and hot and forever under construction though nothing seems to change. Everyone is irritable and sweaty and talking too loudly, often trying to carry too much to some impoverished country where the people have too little. As we stood in line, Michael kept tugging my sleeve, whispering into my ear loudly, “Look at that suitcase. Look at
that
suitcase. How are these people going to get on the plane?”

I laughed. “The rules are different for these flights. Haitians ignore the rules anyway.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and started taking pictures with his cell phone. We sat in first class and Michael grinned like a little boy; it was his first time. I squeezed his hand. His smile always brings out the best in me. Michael had a happy childhood and that helped him become a happy man. My parents love that about him; they love his joy, his red cheeks and his easy smile, the way he isn’t intimidated by anything. They call him Mr. America.

I tried to ignore my nervousness. I talked fast, so fast, trying to remind Michael of all the things he should and shouldn’t do.

He said, “Relax, babe. I’ve met the parents before.”

I leaned back. “You haven’t met Haitian parents.”

As we descended into Port-au-Prince, we switched seats and Michael stared down at the beautiful blue water and then the capital, sprawling in from the edge of the island.

“Are you ready for this?”

He nodded eagerly. I hoped for the best.

We walked across the tarmac, white heat billowing around us in waves. By the time we reached the terminal, where the air-conditioning wasn’t working, Michael was dripping in sweat, his hair clinging to his red face. We waited in customs for what seemed like hours, the line shuffling forward with people cutting at random or clustering when they saw someone they recognized or when they simply wanted to improve their chances of ever getting out of the airport.

Michael wiped his forehead and shook his head. “This is insanity.”

I held his arm. “Baby, this is the easy part.”

At baggage claim, my parents’ chauffeur, Nelson, waved to us eagerly. When he tried to take Michael’s suitcase, Michael said, “I’ve got this,” and Nelson frowned.

“Let him take your bag,” I said.

Michael let go of the handle and shifted uncomfortably. A fresh bead of sweat trickled down his neck. We followed Nelson through a throng of people gathered near the airport entrance, cabdrivers trying to grab tourists’ bags to hijack fares, vendors selling Haitian flags and straw hats, armed police trying to keep the chaos to a dull roar. Dozens of young men stood behind a fence shouting to people they recognized and strangers alike.

The drive to my parents’ house was long and bumpy, the sun-scorched concrete of Port-au-Prince stretching around us. Nelson spent most of his time with one hand on the horn and one arm hanging out the window so he could gesture angrily when someone cut him off or otherwise got in his way. I stared at Michael as we drove, saw his wide-open eyes, how he seemed to be holding his breath. Everything was as dirty and broken as I remembered until we entered my parents’ neighborhood and the city quieted. The streets were cleaner, more orderly, the cars nicer, the concrete walls towering even higher than the homes themselves. Michael relaxed visibly, loosened his grip on my hand. At the gate at the foot of their driveway, Nelson honked the horn and slowly, the steel gates opened. We drove up the long, narrow drive. As the house came into view, Michael said, “Holy shit, this is a castle,” and I said, “Welcome to Port-au-Prince.”

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.”