How Stella Got Her Groove Back (31 page)

“This is not just about
him.
I’ve been doing everything according to the book for so long that I didn’t see how I’ve been living like I’m in a cocoon or something, like I’ve been in a walking coma.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“You don’t know how or what I feel inside! That’s part of your fucking problem—you only look at surfaces and that’s as far as you can see. Well, I’ve dug a little deeper and I realize I’m tired of missing out on opportunities for happiness that come my way. Sometimes you don’t know what form it’s going to come in but when it does come I’m learning that I should accept it.”

“Oh, so you think God
sent
this boy to you?”

“Maybe. But I don’t have God’s toll-free number so there’s no way I can like call and ask him or her, is there?”

“Him or
her?
See what I mean. Since when did you start being so politically correct?”

“Forget it, Angela. Look, my insurance guy’s coming over here in a few minutes to talk about my car.”

“You never did answer my question.”

“About what?”

“This business is over, isn’t it?”

“You mean with Winston?”

“Whatever his name is.”

“No. I think he might be coming for a visit actually.”

Those babies must be doing somersaults, because she grabs her belly and takes a deep breath. “You can
not
be serious!”

“Very.”

“And just when is he supposed to be coming?”

“I don’t know.”

“And how long will he stay?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what will you do, buy him a ticket?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, but it’s really none of your business, now is it?”

“And he probably calls collect, I suppose?”

“You know what? If I remember correctly, when you were chasing after Kennedy you paid for quite a few trips to go see him when he was in law school, now forgive me if I’m wrong.”

“That’s like comparing apples and oranges.”

“Oh, is it really? You spent a fortune on plane tickets and called him on the phone two and three times a day if I’m not mistaken.”

“So?”

“So what’s the difference if I were to send Winston an airplane ticket and let him call collect?”

“The difference is that I was making an investment in my future. Kennedy’s educated, smart and a good provider and we share things on an intellectual level that you couldn’t possibly dream about with a kid who’s barely out of high school. Come on, Stella! Wake up! What would your prospects be for marriage? And how about being a father to Quincy, have you thought about that? I mean, this could never become anything other than what it is: an island fling.”

“You just don’t get it, do you? First of all, you don’t know what we talk about and I’m not about to waste any time telling you. And who’s talking marriage here? Did you hear me say anything about marriage? And besides, I don’t need a man to anchor my future. I own my own home. I own another home in Lake Tahoe. I have stocks. Municipal and tax-free bonds. I own the cars that I drive. What did you own in your own name before you said ‘I do’?”

“That is not the issue. The point is I’ve got it now.”

“The point is that I don’t need a man for any of those reasons. What I need one for is love.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious.”

“Oh, so you think that all you need is some damn love?”

“Of course I don’t, but I’ll tell you one thing—I’m realizing that after coming up with my list of dos and don’ts and must haves: how tall he is and what he has to look like and how much money he has to make and all that kind of thing, it has dawned on me that no wonder I’m by myself, because it’s hard to find somebody who can fill in all those fucking blanks.”

“I found one,” she says.

“Yahoo,” I say.

“You really do think you’re Diana Ross or Cher or somebody, don’t you, Stella?”

“No I do not.”

“Then why can’t you act your age?”

“How am I supposed to be acting?”

“Like a forty-two-year-old woman.”

“Meaning?”

“You know what it means. Acting responsibly. Forget it.”

“Oh, you mean even though I feel pretty much like the same person I was at say thirty-two, even though I’ve seen and done a lot more since then because I’m like ten years older, I guess I’m just supposed to metamorphose into this middle-aged entity, this over-the-hill being, and reject anything that has to do with being youthful including having a youthful attitude toward life, and I guess because I still wear my bluejeans a little on the tight side with a bodysuit, because I don’t happen to be fat and slovenly and out of shape, and because I get my hair braided and let it hang down and whatever—if this is what you’re talking about—I mean you think that because I have a little zest and zing and break a few rules that I’m what, regressing? What am I trying to do, imitate twenty-two-year-olds? Is that it—you think that I don’t like being forty-two, that I’m just doing all this because I’m suffering from nostalgia, that I’m having secret wishes to go back in time—is that what you’re thinking?”

“I didn’t say it. You did. Just be careful is all I have to say.”

“Careful about what?”

“Does this guy know you have any money?”

“Not really. And so what if he did?”

“These guys from these foreign countries
all
want to find themselves a rich sugar mama so that they can trick you into marrying them so they can become American citizens. Everybody knows that.”

“What I’ve
heard
is that those kind of marriages are usually prearranged by two consenting adults, that there’s no trickery involved whatsoever. And like I said, who’s talking about marrying anybody?”

“Well, you’re acting like you’re suffering from dementia, so who knows how far you might go? I’m just forewarning you. And you can get mad and take this any way you want to: but don’t be a total fool and marry this boy without signing a prenuptial agreement, that’s all I have to say.”

With this I get up and walk Angela to the side gate and hold it open and my insurance man, Rodney, pulls up at the same time.

I say hello and then they say hello but I don’t bother to introduce them. Still in a huff, I shuttle him back through the gate.

“So, Rodney, what exactly is the problem?” I see Phoenix running toward us and lock the gate. I am not in the mood for being sniffed or for petting. Rodney is a giant. Used to be a linebacker, whatever that is, for USC in the early eighties but got injured and turned all his attention to security protection and coverage. He has his own office and can’t be much more than thirty and his hair is a big mass of tight brown curls and even though his face is twice the size of mine his horn-rimmed glasses are loose. He’s pretty close to being handsome.

I flop down a little too hard in a wooden chair and he basically leans against one of the posts that hold up the trellis.

“Well, this isn’t really all that big a deal actually.”

“You said over the phone it was sort of bad news.”

“Hold on a minute, little sister. Okay, this is the real deal. A recent law passed in the state of California requires that whenever a licensed driver is operating someone else’s vehicle and they have an accident the owner of that vehicle by virtue of their consent to the person they gave authority to drive that vehicle is responsible for any and all damages that may arise as a result of any accidents.”

“Are you saying that I have to pay for this?”

“That’s about right.”

“You’re not bullshitting me?”

“Wish I were. But it’s not all that bad. I mean we’ll take care of this, Stella, because the asshole she hit was driving a 1982 station wagon that isn’t even worth what his estimate came to.”

“Then let my sister pay him.”

“That’s not a smart thing to do, because if she pays him off, he can come running back next week or next month with some sudden debilitating illness and sue her.”

“So we’re just going to pay him and get my car fixed?”

“Yes, that’s better all the way around.”

“Then my sister’s paying the deductible, but what does this do to my rate?”

“It may go up a few cents. But Stella, please try to slow down. You got three speeding tickets just in the past year!”

“I can explain,” I say, chuckling.

“Don’t explain,” he says. “Look. Are you dating anybody right now?”

“Why, Rodney? Your girlfriend dump you?”

“No, I’m engaged. I’ve got this guy I want you to meet. He is the coolest guy. I play golf with him. He’s a judge. In excellent shape. A great sense of humor. Good-looking guy, really.”

“How old is he?”

“I don’t know. I’d guesstimate Spencer to be maybe fifty, fifty-one. Somewhere around there.”

I am already shaking my head no. The thought of going from twenty-one to fifty-one is making me nauseous. “He’s too old,” I say.

“You should meet him, Stella. He’s not your typical fifty-year-old guy, know what I’m saying? I mean I told him about you, how jazzy you are, and I mean the guy works out, he lives in Alameda on the water and he’s got like this boat and he has the best parties. His hair isn’t even gray.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

“Well, look. Would it be okay for me to like set up a lunch date where the three of us could get together? Totally innocent and out in the open?”

“I’ll think about it,” I say. “Fifty-one, you say?”

“That’s not so old, Stella.”

“It depends on how you look at it,” and I walk him to the gate.

• • • •

This is hard. I am spending so much energy trying not to think about him, and the harder I try the more it doesn’t work. I wrote him a letter last week and mailed it off priority and then couldn’t remember a word I’d said. But life goes on even when you can’t get what you want because you think you need it. All I can do is learn how to deal with this yearning and pray that maybe it’ll go away soon or that maybe I’ll meet myself a wonderful man—say a thirty-four-year-old professional who’s fun funny fabulous finger-licking good and who will rock my world ten times harder than Winston did. This could happen, I suppose.

• • • •

I am taking Quincy to the mall where he will meet two of his friends and they will cruise the place for two and a half hours while I go see
Batman Forever
since Quincy’s already seen it three times and even though he only has twenty dollars in his pockets with which to go on his shopping spree he will probably not be ready to go home after I come out (he swears that he does not come to the mall to look at girls).

“Quincy,” I say, as he is pressing the CD button to change from Annie Lennox to Warren G one too many times. “Give me a break, would you?”

“Mom, we always listen to your music. Isn’t it fair to let me listen to a personal song of my own every now and then?”

“Be quiet, would you? I need to tell you something.”

He turns the sound down, which I think is pretty considerate, considering, and leans back in his seat. “I’m all ears and please no jokes today, Mom.”

“I don’t have a job anymore.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s pretty cool, huh? Does it mean you can stay home during the day like Jeremy and Jason and Justin’s moms do?”

“Well, not exactly. Sort of. Maybe. But not really.”

“Which is it?”

“Well, their moms all have husbands. We don’t have one in our house.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I didn’t like my job all that much.”

“So why’d you go there every day?”

“Because I used to like it and it helps us live the way we do.”

“So did you like quit and just say, ‘Hey, guys, I’m like outta here’?”

“Not quite. They basically fired me.”

“You mean you got canned?”

“Yep.”

“Awesome, Mom. I can’t wait to tell Jere—”

“This is not something you go blabbing to your friends about because then they tell their parents and it’s really nobody’s business but ours, you got that?”

“Yes, Mom. But it’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

“I didn’t say I was ashamed, did I?”

“No. So tell me, are we going to have to get on welfare?”

“No.”

“I can get a job to help out with the bills if you want me to.”

“Well, if you can find a job, that would help some. That five-dollar-a-week allowance really puts a dent in things.”

“Mom, you hardly ever give me an allowance!”

“I give it to you in lump-sum payments, but believe me, I count the weeks and I make deductions when you don’t clean your room or when I have to ask you to do something more than once.”

“Don’t remind me. So are you going to get a new job?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to work for another corporation.”

“So work for yourself.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. You always tell me that one day I’ll be able to pick and choose what I want to do because I’m multitalented. You have lots of talents too.”

“For instance?”

“Well, let me think.”

I’m waiting. I’m hoping. Maybe he knows something I don’t.

“You cook really great dinners.”

“Go on.”

“You can sing.”

“I can’t sing and you know it.”

“You can paint.”

“I cannot paint. You can’t count painting old furniture. That’s not a talent, it’s just a hobby. I do it for fun and fun only.”

“Well, we have lots of it in our house and I like it, and Mom, what about those weird earrings you make sometimes? And what about that thing you made out of that wire stuff? I mean you’ve got talents you don’t know you have. Listen to your son! I speak the truth!”

“This is all very sweet and thoughtful, Quincy, and in a perfect world I could do like that Demi Moore thing in
Ghost
and sit home all day and just throw and spin clay and make pots and cups and somehow all the bills would get paid. I have enough money to last us a while, but I have to figure out what I want to do that’s fun for a change, and something that’ll make ends meet. Do more than make ends meet actually.”

“You’ll find it. Just take your time, as you always say. And Mom. Can I ask you something?”