How Stella Got Her Groove Back (33 page)

“What?”

“Hell, I think you should send him a ticket. Get him here as fast as possible.”

“Are you serious, Maisha?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. How often does this shit happen? I mean what does his age have to do with anything?”

“A lot.”

“Only because you’re making an issue out of it. But seriously, you like him, huh?”

“I like him a lot, Maisha.”

“Then I’d go for it, and don’t worry about what anybody says. This is your life, girl. You’re not going to get another chance to come back and do it over. Enjoy yourself. Hell, enjoy him.”

“I sent him a ticket,” I say.

“
That’s fantastic!
Now that’s the way to do it, girl. To hell with the do-the-right-thing shit. Besides, I really don’t see any difference in what you’re doing and what men have been doing for years. I mean if you were a man and you happened to have met some young chick on an island and she didn’t have a career and all that bullshit and any money but she made him feel good and he sent her an airline ticket do you think anybody would be tripping? I doubt it. So fuck this double standard shit, girl. I mean really.”

I am so glad she feels this way. Deep down I feel this way too but the world is still the world. I just have to learn to get over it. And so far I think I’m doing a pretty good job. Because after all, I did send the ticket, didn’t I?

“Stella, let me ask you something else, though, girl.”

“What’s that?”

“So like what’re you gonna do if he gets here and you guys hit it off and everything is still magical and you don’t want him to go?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if you guys are like madly in love and shit and he doesn’t want to leave and you don’t want him to leave—what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

“I think you should.”

“How can I think about something like that?”

“Because it is a possibility, that’s why. Shit happens when you least expect it.”

“Yeah, but understand this, Maisha. I don’t want to marry the man. The truth is I
am
old enough to be his fucking mother.”

“But you’re not his mother, Stella.”

“I know that. But I’m not having any more kids. And it’s not like we can plan this long life together. I mean there will be no wedding no babies no picket fences. None of that.”

“How do you
know
that?”

“Fuck you, Maisha. Don’t you get it?”

“Get what?”

“I’m not going that far with him.”

“How do you know
that?
Who are you to predetermine how far your heart wants to go?”

“I don’t mean it that way. All I mean is that I don’t exactly know what this is but I do know that he makes me feel extra good inside and I miss him and want him here and if all I get is three weeks then I’ll take three weeks of bliss versus three weeks of nothing.”

“I hear you, girl, but I want to tell you something else. You know my mama has lung cancer, don’t you?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” I groan. “I’m sorry to hear that, Maisha.”

“It’s okay. I’m dealing with it. You know me and my mama ain’t never got along too tough.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Basically, she’s a conniving wench. Always has been, always will be. She’s got nine kids and out of all of us there’s only three who even bother to call or visit her.”

“But she’s still your mama. Be glad you’ve got one.”

“I know that, but the point I’m trying to make is this. She must be the most coldhearted person I’ve ever met in my entire life, and after she divorced my father some twenty-five years ago she has been one lonely miserable woman. My mother is seventy-three years old and I doubt if she has had so much as a date in all that time, not to mention sex and love, which is why she’s probably so hard. She became very bitter after he left, and you know what, she’ll probably die lonely and hard like this. Now, I’m going to be the one who takes care of her. I’ve accepted the responsibility and it’s okay, I’ll do it, but the point I’m trying to make here is that listening to her and watching her and knowing she doesn’t have much time left on this earth in this world, Stella, if you can get ten minutes, ten weeks, or ten months of happiness, take it.
Anytime
you can get it, take it, cause some folks check out of here and don’t even get that ten minutes because they were either too scared to open up to other possibilities or only saw problems as problems or made them problems instead of opportunities. You don’t have tomorrow promised to you. You just don’t fucking know.”

“I know,” I say. “But I’m really sorry to hear about your mama, Maisha. And you be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do, cause I don’t have one to complain about or help.”

“I know, baby. But hey. Let’s get off this dreary subject. So anyway, you know what?”

“What?”

“Stop acting like such a fucking grown-up, Stella. Do you realize that as women we’ve been programmed to do the right thing since we were little girls and even when we were in our twenties and tripping hard with these fools we were in love with—remember when we were all doing drugs and hanging out partying?”

“Of course I remember. Well, sort of.”

“Anyway, my point is: even back then when we were supposed to be footloose and free spirits and shit, who was the one in the relationship who made sure the rent and stuff was paid on time?”

“We did.”

“Who made sure shit got taken care of in general?”

“We did.”

“So my point is we’ve acted responsibly for so long that I think we could’ve had more fun than we did and in fact I believe we’re entitled to a whole lot more so I think now is the time for you to enjoy what the fuck you missed.”

“Never thought about it that way.”

“Think about it. And think about this. What if Win-ston really falls in love?”

“And?”

“First of all, a lot of young men fantasize about being with an older woman because who better to learn the ropes from? And also, if they’re able to please and satisfy you, then that’s a feather in their ego cap. Some of them use this experience so they go out and trample all over these hot young girls, but some of them actually do like older women and some of them do fall in love.”

“But I can’t do anything about that.”

“Just remember that this isn’t just about you, Stella.”

“I know,” I say. “But stop, Maisha. I can’t think straight as it is.”

“This is one of the signs,” she says.

• • • •

When we get to her house, Rudy is there. He is a jazz musician. A saxophonist who has played with the best, including Miles Davis. He also teaches jazz theory and composition at the university. He is cooking and Maisha frowns when she sees him in the kitchen and shakes her head back and forth to me as if to say disaster disaster and when he turns around she smiles in pure delight. “Rudy! Making dinner again!”

“Yep. This is something special I had when I was in Brazil, if I can remember the shit right, but I’ll know it when I add enough of these spices to it. Hey, Stella. What’s the deal with all the hair?”

“Shut up, Rudy. I bought it.”

“Yeah, and who had to die in order for you to get it?” He laughs. “Is everything all right down at the gallery?” he asks Maisha.

“Everything’s ready to go,” she says. “I was telling Stella here she ought to do some more of those tables and what is that stuff you use to make them smooth and brassy looking?”

“Gold leaf.”

“Yeah. And what else have you made lately that you keep hidden in the garage?”

“Well, I made this thing which I brought down here just for you.”

“You brought me something? Oh where is it, go get it, please, you give me the best gifts a girl could ever have. What is it? Earrings? Stella, you should sell those damn things. I could sell them from the gallery, you know. Come on upstairs.”

We run up the stairs of this house that looks like something out of
Interior Design
because even though the furnishings are sparse the artwork dominates and what is in here is jamming.

I open up my garment bag and pull out something I call wearable art. It is a crop-top sweater made of copper thread that I have knitted together and bordered with rust-colored angora.

“Don’t stand here and tell me you made this?”

“I am standing here telling you I made this. Started it over a year ago, finished it this spring—remember when I got that virus and was stuck in bed?”

Maisha nods though I know she doesn’t remember.

“Anyway I didn’t have anything else to do and to be honest I’d forgotten all about it until I was packing to come here.”

“Girl, you ought to quit. This is beautiful! I love it. I want some more of them. Make some for the gallery. Please. Where did you come up with the idea? What is it made of?”

“Copper thread, sort of. Put it on.”

“Are you crazy?”

“You can wear it, Maisha.”

“Oh no, baby. I’m not wearing this. I’m putting this on my wall. No, I’m going to put it in the gallery. Today. Would you mind?”

“It’s yours. Do whatever you want to do with it. I’m just glad you like it.”

“Like it?” And she walks over and gives me a big hug. “You are better than you think you are, girl. And that is a good thing, but you need to wake up.”

“Oh, guess what else?”

“What?”

“I got fired.”

“Good,” she says. “It’s about time you got out of that dreadful place. You did it long enough. So now I guess you can finally be the artist you were meant to be, right?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You’ll see,” she says. “You’ll see how far to go.” And then in the next breath: “Girl, I think Winston sounds wonderful and I hope you fall hopelessly in love and that he blows your mind because Lord knows you’ve been in a slump since your divorce. Enjoy yourself. So do you love him? Tell me the truth.”

“I don’t know!”

“Bullshit. You do know.”

“I guess I do but it’s kind of embarrassing to admit.”

“What’s to be embarrassed about, girl? He’s a man. You’re a woman. Whammo.”

“All I know is he feels like the Lieutenant of Love and I feel resurrected or something.”

“Well, girl, you sure look good and I can’t tell if it’s the hair or what but whatever works, work it.”

“I’m trying,” I say. “But Maisha, this is scary, you know.”

“So what?”

“I know. But to be honest, don’t think I haven’t thought about what I’d do when he gets here and I can’t stand the idea of his leaving. I mean what would I do?”

“Ask him to stay,” she says. “Simple as that. Now come on, we need to go downstairs and pretend to eat Rudy’s nasty dinner and girl just nibble on it and I’ll distract him long enough to toss the shit out and then we need to get dressed.”

• • • •

Rudy’s meal is fabulous and as a matter of fact we all take seconds. Maisha is so proud she hugs him twice. We all get dudded up and head for the gallery, where people are already trying to find parking spaces. Maisha has my sweater in her hand and as soon as she gets into her office she makes a tag for it and finds a small spot on the wall near the door to the garden, where long tables are filled with fresh flowers and cheese and fruit and wine. This show is a retrospective of about twenty African American artists’ work and within the next hour the place is swarming with two hundred plus people. Checks are being written. Credit cards are being whipped out. Little red dots are placed on pieces that hang on the wall or stand on the floor.

Maisha saunters over to me. In her pale yellow suit, she looks great, smart, funky. “Girl, eight people have asked me about your piece. We are going to have to talk some more about this. I mean it. You should pay attention, for real. Isn’t everything just gorgeous?”

“Everything’s gorgeous,” I say and walk her over to what appears to be a very old photograph of a black family that somehow has been transferred onto glass by the artist Mildred Howard—and I look on my price sheet one more time—it’s $3,500—and knowing I can’t afford it, I ask, “Maisha, can you please put me on the friendly payment plan? I
have
to have this. These people could be
my
family.”

She gives me a big hug and then whispers in my ear. “Girl, don’t look, but that guy over there has been asking Rudy about you all evening and he wants to meet you, girl.”

I turn to look and I must admit that if it’s the one I think she’s talking about he is rather splendid in appearance. “Is he the one with the baggy pants and white shirt?”

“Yep. He’s a sculptor and those are two of his pieces over there. You want to meet him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, it won’t hurt. Just meet him. That’s all.”

“Okay.”

I stand there feeling pretty naked. Maisha goes to get him and he is looking at me as he walks over. He is really distinctive looking, like maybe he could be a model or something, because his features are pretty much perfect. I am beginning to notice lips more than I used to and his are thick and smooth and shaped like they would be pleasant to kiss. He looks to be forty maybe and he is about six one and dark dark brown and his skin has almost a satin sheen to it and he has a zillion baby dreadlocks which make him look more like an African prince than What’s-his-name I met in Jamaica who was actually from Senegal.

“Ralston, I’d like you to meet one of my longest and dearest friends. Stella, Ralston.”

“Hello, Ralston,” I say.

“Nice to finally meet you, Stella. I’ve been asking about you pretty much since I got here.”

“Really?”

“Really. And I love your work. But why is there only one piece of yours in here?”

“It’s a long story. I love
your
pieces. Wish I could afford one.”

“I could make you a deal,” he says and he seems to mean it. He is also looking at me like he’s looking inside me with those beautiful big obsidian eyes and I am feeling a little weird about this so I turn away.

“I’m really on a tight budget,” I say.

“Maybe we could do a trade sometime.”

“Maybe we could,” I say.

“And where do you live?” he asks.