Bliss (23 page)

Silence and drinking and facing each other on a tiny balcony.

“You ever give in?”

“To what?” she said.

“Anything. Anybody, I mean.”

“I give in to you.” With an angry, sexy smile.
Fuck you and the eager Italian witches with their wack-ass singing group and their halter-tops they don’t even have the boobs for
.

“No.”

“I do.”

“You let me do what I want to you,” said Ron Lil’ John.

“Let you do what you want with me.”

Ron was supposed to be someone to have had sex with, to have stopped having sex with, someone to think about with small sadness when it was over. And when it was over, Eva figured she’d wonder, like she usually did about men that lasted more than a week, why it hadn’t evolved into a relationship, and then she’d decide that it had to be because in her heart of hearts she didn’t want a relationship, because she felt that if she did want one, she’d have it.

“I’m talking about, like, show your secrets,” Ron said. “Act your real fuckin’ self.”

“You know my secrets.”
As if. So you could do what you want with them—my mom. Dad. Other boys. The clinics? No
.

“Listen to me!” Drunk.

“Keep talking that loud,” Eva said. “See how far you get.”

“Listen to me. Sometimes, I feel like I could—”

“Could what?”

“Submit to you,” he said.

“Submit? For what? Sexually?” Eva was slurring her words.

“Whatever, just make it like you were important. Like you were worthy.”

“Nigga, I am worthy.”
I am. I am. Yes I am. Yes I am. Yes I am
.

“Comebacks. That’s all you have. Never give in.”

“So I give in, then you do.”
That’s the game suddenly? I’ve played it. Lost. Learned. It ain’t my tourney, white boy
.

“Tit for tat. That’s what you play.”

“Give to get. Tit for tat. It’s not a game. It’s the game.”
And so don’t hate the player, sweetheart. Do not hate me ‘cause I play as good as you
.

“T
here were cute guys there, right, Ron? And cute girls?” Eva was talking about the party celebrating the last tour date. They’d held hands in public. Had sex in an anteroom while the guys from Imperial Court banged on the door, yelling drunkenly for Eva and Ron to open up. “You niggas ain’t shit,” they said. “We can hear you!”

There in a room at Milan’s Hotel Principe, Ron nodded dumbly. Purple candles had melted into tonguelike shapes. Eva was sitting on his chest in a blue bra and nothing else, and he was on his back in gray boxers and nothing else, and they hadn’t had sex, but he’d held her and hugged her and gone down on her twice, and no, she hadn’t had an orgasm, but all that was right there for the morning when they had to make things happen quick because there were flights to catch
back to the States. Between them, he and Eva had had three bottles of champagne and various other cocktails.

“Cute girls and cute guys, right, Lil’ John?”
He’s looking at me like I’m the pretty one, and he’s the lucky one
.

“Yes, I said. Some of both.” Ron indulged today’s game, amazed at himself. Wondered if he’d found a girl he could respect. A girl he could attempt faithfulness with. A girl who’d leave him if he acted an ass too many times in a row. One who wouldn’t give him a pass on his lies because of the money he was starting to make. For Ron, Eva was the distillation of every Vanity 6 desire, every swollen bass loop, every pretty black girl who’d played him to the left wth an eye roll, every beautiful black girl who’d laughed at his jokes because she felt sorry for his corny ass at the bar, every aromatic, graceful, wild sister his dad had as mistress while Ron was a kid.

“And they didn’t matter, did they?” Eva was literally bouncing with glee.

“Nah,” Ron said. “They didn’t matter at all.”

And then the messy kisses were dewy as the Mediterranean air, apple tangy and long. His lips were slim pillows kissing her forehead and then sucking her tongue softly—not like he was trying to take it from her, not with any noise, not with one sound at all. But he pulled on it with a sure suction that made Eva spin into the warm belief that his arms were okay arms to lean into for a minute.

He’s the best kisser in the world
, Eva thought drunkenly.
But this is all a dream
.

Seven hours later, Ronald Littlejohn and Eva Glenn talked about love at Heathrow Airport. Her layover was four hours; his, one hour. Ron was going to Los Angeles International via Boston’s Logan, Eva direct to John F. Kennedy. They were seated in British Airways’ tidy first-class lounge. Eva was back on Giada’s turf, and Giada had Trix and Imperial Court doing some in-stores in Brixton that Eva wouldn’t be bothered with. Ronald hadn’t told Eva that he loved her; he told her that he could.

“You could,” she said. “Ain’t I the lucky one.”
Ain’t I the Lucky One
. Sounded to Eva’s ears like the B-side of a Stax 45.

“I’m saying that if we were … real people, with everyday lives—”

“Then what?” But Eva understood what he meant. She’d already begun to feel like her life wasn’t quite real. She made more dollars per year, at twenty-six, than her dad had made in any three years of his life. She’d been to twenty states, three continents, and six countries. She shopped with confidence and freedom. She had an assistant. Eva went, with decent seats as well as backstage passes, to the Grammys and other nationally televised award shows and concerts. This was her everyday. She knew celebrities like other people knew their coworkers or neighbors—closely and without intimacy. The thing most people did with celebrities—wonder about them—Eva’d stopped doing two or three years ago. They were as usual to her as were sacks of coffee beans or patients to grocers and doctors.

“I might,” Ron said, “think about trying to make it happen with you.”

His ambiguity was irritating and, Eva thought, plain lame. “Make what happen?” There was a crunched question mark on her face, like the idea of her allowing anything to
happen
with him was ludicrous, like he was bigheaded for even imagining it. Her frown was reflex.

“We could have, like, a sex house,” Ron said. “All the perfect shit for sex.”

A sex house?
Eva wasn’t thinking marriage, but … a sex house?
That’s trifling
. She felt disappointment—that was her ego. And a tiny bit of relief because she was back on familiar ground. Eva knew the rules of on-tour hookups. “Um, no, Ron. We’re road dogs,” she said without sadness. “And the tour’s over.”

“But that’s who really should be, if you think about it, together.” Ron was having a real revelation. “We roll well, don’t get on each other’s nerves. You understand my life as an executive. Watch when I get back. How shit goes down. Watch your boy as he blows up the whole spot. Flips the crazy corporate cheese. Watch.”

Eva felt she’d be watching. She thought,
White boy or no, he’s a nigga like any other
. In this case, Eva thought “nigga” to mean a man
acting in a way that disappointed her, a way in which she expected, though she’d hoped for at least the option of the opposite.

British Airways called his flight.

“You got all my numbers, right?” Ron held her hand tight, and looked in her eyes.

Eva was unmoved. “Yep, sure do.” She sounded overly bright, wanted him to suspect she was faking brightness so he’d suspect she was overcompensating for true nonchalance about their situation.

Ron, though, took her words to mean what they meant. He hadn’t asked for her numbers. Not like Ron couldn’t find her easily. But in Eva’s mind, he hadn’t asked her for anything, really, but that first blow job.

“So when you’re in Cali,” Ron said, using the abbreviation for California that Eva hated because it was used to mean L.A., like L.A. was the only city in California, “buzz me up. We’ll hang out.”

Buzz you up? The hell is that?
“If I get out there, I sure will.”
Suck
my
dick
.

They called his flight again. Last call.

“You will,” he said, walking toward the other stragglers. Men ruddy-cheeked and focused. Money Min with three shoulder straps and a half gallon of Evian. “I know how you do, Eva. You’ll be all at the Nikko Hotel, flossin’.”

“Flossin’ for sure.”
Why is he stretching this out? We know what this is. Must these people be privy to our tired-ass good-byes?
Eva thought to say,
I stay at the Mondrian when I’m in L.A
. But she didn’t. “Safe travels” is what she did call out.

“Call me.” Ron’s hand was in a hang-loose sign. He put it to the side of his face, pinkie at his mouth, thumb at his ear.

As if I would ever call. He doesn’t know yet that I’m not that girl
.

Eva didn’t call Ron. Not until she felt she owed him, at the very least, the courtesy of a conversation.

Cat Island

T
hey stood under a long wooden sign that read SMITH BAY.

“Miss, we are looking for a place to rent a car,” Dart said in loud, clipped tones.

The woman, harassed, pointed a finger curved as a question mark. “Down there.”

“Down where?” Dart moved into her space.

“There,” she said, taking a step back. “Not far.”

“Not far,” Dart said earnestly. He moved toward her again. “Be more exact than that.”

But the two women walked away from Dart and Eva, and toward Édouard and his boxes of peaches and condensed milk.

“WAIT,” Dart yelled after them. “Tell me.”

They stopped, and turned to him from about ten feet away.

“I’m looking for an Obeahwoman,” he shouted. “Or a man. I want to experience it.”

They looked at each other, and then back at him.

“You don’t have to give me a NAME.” Dart was suffering. “You can just POINT, like you did for the car.”

Édouard looked at Eva. She walked past the two women, and
over to Dart. “Dude. Let’s settle in,” Eva said, soothing and silencing. “Then we can ask around.” Eva turned to the women, hoping for a nod that included her in their sensibility. None came.

He has no finesse
. Eva wanted to apologize for Dart, but sensed the futility. She wanted to provide him with a more articulate energy, but knew the desire was her trip, and was vain, as well.

“The only way you can find out things,” Dart said to Eva, already ahead of her on the road, “is to ask.”

“That’s working real well for you about now.” Eva stopped walking. “Do you have your pills?”

“They’re not pills,” he said, still stepping. “They’re herbs.”

“Do you have them?”

“They don’t work like that,” he said, not even over his shoulder. “If you wanted a brother on meds, you missed that window.”

They walked, Eva behind Dart. The woman had pointed to a small white cottage with a closed door and an open service window. There was no lot.

“HELLO? Hello!” Dart yelled. “Anybody work here? HELLO?”

Eva, her mind made up to let Dart be Dart, slowly brought up the rear. Then Dart pounded a bell on the ledge three times.

“What the—”

“It’s why the bell’s here,” Dart said to her.

From behind the cottage a man in neat slacks and a thin shirt emerged. “I can help you?”

“Yes, sir. How are you? We need a car,” Eva said quickly, wanting to beat Dart.

“Your name? You reserved a car?”

“No,” Eva said, “we didn’t. Are there any?”

Dart stood next to her. Taking short, heaving breaths.

“I’m sorry. No car today. Maybe the day after tomorrow.” The man, unfazed by the yelling and the bell-banging, spoke to Eva, and looked at Dart.

“Where are the cars?” Dart was accusatory. “Where do you keep them?” Dart marched toward the rear of the cottage while the man watched and made no move to stop him.

“Where are you staying?” the man asked Eva.

He’s at least fifty. And he looks good
. Eva sat in a metal chair and stretched out her legs, now that she could connect with someone minus Dart’s histrionics. “We’re trying to figure that out now,” she said.

Eva reached in her bag for her cell, pressed ON, and watched the screen come to life. The notice flashed up: ELEVEN MESSAGES. Eva stared at it. Picked up the scrap of paper next to her phone.