News of the Spirit (19 page)

“What’s the name of these islands again?” I ask, and Larry tells me, “The Grenadines.” “There is a drink called that,” I say, and Larry says, “Is there?” and kisses me. He is such a hard worker that he has missed out on everything cultural.

Kissing Larry is not really great but okay.

“Honey, you need some sunscreen,” I tell him when he’s through. He has got that kind of redheaded complexion that will burn like mad in spite of his stupid hat. “You need to
put it everywhere, all over you, on your feet and all. Here, put your foot up on the chair,” I tell him, and he does, and I rub sunscreen all over his fat white feet one after the other and his ankles and his calves right up to those baggy plaid shorts. This is something I will not do after we’re married.

“Hey, Larry, how’d you rate that kind of service?” It’s Bruce Ware, now in cutoffs, and followed not by his wife but by some young heavy country-club guy. I can feel their eyes on my cleavage.

“I’m Chanel Keen, Larry’s fiancée.” I straighten up and shake their hands. One of the things Larry does not know about me is that my name used to be Mayruth, back in the Dark Ages. Mayruth! Can you imagine?

Bruce introduces the guy, who turns out to be his associate Mack Durant, and then they both stand there grinning at me. I can tell they are surprised that Larry would have such a classy fiancée as myself.

“I thought your wife was coming,” I say to Bruce Ware, looking at Larry.

“She certainly intended to, Chanel,” Bruce says, “but something came up at the very last minute. I know she would have enjoyed being here with you and Larry.” One thing I have noticed about very successful people is that they say your name all the time and look right at you. Bruce Ware does this.

He and Mack sit down in the deck chairs. I imagine their
little bowhead wives back in Atlanta shopping or getting their legs waxed or fucking the kids’ soccer coach.

Actually I am relieved that the wives stayed home. It is less competition for me, and I have never liked women much anyway. I never know what to say to them, though I am very good at drawing a man out conversationally, any man. And actually a fiancée such as myself can be a big asset to Larry on a business trip, which is what this is anyway, face it, involving a huge mall and a sports complex. It’s a big deal. So I make myself useful, and by the time I get Bruce and Mack all settled down with rum and tonic and sunscreen, they’re showing Larry more respect already.

Bruce Ware points out interesting sights to us, such as a real volcano, as we cruise toward Saint-Philippe, the little island where we’ll be anchoring. It takes three rum and tonics to get there. We go into a half-moon bay which looks exactly like a postcard, with palm trees like Gilligan’s Island. The Negroes anchor the yacht and then take off for the island in the dinghy, singing a calypso song. It is
really foreign
here! Birds of the sort you find in pet stores, yachts and sailboats of every kind flying flags of every nationality, many I have never seen before. “This is just
not American
at all, is it?” I remark, and Bruce Ware says, “No, Chanel, that’s the point.” Then he identifies all the flags for Larry and me. Larry acts real interested in everything, but I can tell he’s out of his league. I bet he wishes he’d stayed in Atlanta to make this deal. Not me! I have always envisioned
myself on a yacht, and am capable of learning from every experience.

For example, I am interested to hear Bruce Ware use a term I have not heard before, “Eurotrash,” to describe some of the girls on the other yachts. Nobody mentions that about half the women on the beach are topless, though the men keep looking that way with the binoculars. I myself can see enough from here—and most of those women would do a lot better to keep their tops on, in my opinion. I could show them a thing or two. But going topless is not something which any self-respective fiancée such as myself would ever do.

The Negroes come back with shrimp and limes and crackers, etc. I’m so relieved to learn that there’s a store someplace on this island, as I foresee running out of sunscreen before this is all over. While the Negroes are serving hors d’oeuvres, I go down to put on my suit, which is a little white bikini with gold trim that shows off my tan to advantage. I can’t even remember what we did before tanning salons! (But then I
do
remember, all of a sudden, laying out in the sun on a towel with Darnell and Luanne, we had painted our boyfriends’ initials in fingernail polish on our stomachs so we could get a tan around them. CB, I had painted on my stomach for Clive Baldwin who was the cutest thing, the quarterback at the high school our senior year, he gave me a pearl ring that Christmas, but then after the wreck I ran off to Nashville with Mike Jenkins. I didn’t care what I did. I didn’t care about anything for a long, long time.)

“You feel okay, honey?” Larry says when I get to the top of the stairs, where at first I can’t see a thing, the sun is so bright, it’s like coming out of a movie.

“Sure I do.” I give Larry a wifely peck on the cheek.

“
Damn
,” Mack Durant says. “You sure
look
okay.” Mack himself looks like Burt Reynolds but fatter. I choose to ignore that remark.

“Can I get some of the Negroes to run me in to the beach?” I ask. “I need to make a few purchases.”

“Why not swim in?” Bruce suggests. “That’s what everybody else is doing.” He motions to the other boats, and this is true. “Or you can paddle in on the kickboard.”

“I can’t swim,” I say, which is not technically true, but I have no intention of messing up my makeup or getting my hair wet, plus also I have a basic theory that you should never do anything in front of people unless you are really good at it, this goes not just for swimming but for
everything.

Bruce claps his hands and a Negro gets the dinghy and I ride to the beach in style, then tell him to wait for me. I could get used to this! Also I figure that my departure will give the men a chance to talk business.

There’s not actually much on the island that I can see, just a bunch of pathetic-looking Negroes begging, which I ignore, and selling their tacky native crafts along the beach. These natives look very unhealthy to me, with their nappy hair all matted up and their dark skin kind of dusty-looking, like they’ve got powder on. The ones back in
Atlanta are much healthier, in my opinion, though they all carry guns.

I buy some sunscreen in the little shack of a store which features very inferior products, paying with some big green bills that I don’t have a clue as to their value, I’m sure these natives are cheating me blind. Several Italian guys try to pick me up on the beach, wearing those nasty little stretch briefs. I don’t even bother to speak to them. I just wade out into the warm clear water to the dinghy and ride back and then Larry helps me up the ladder to the yacht, where I land flat on my butt on the deck, to my total dismay. “It certainly is hard to keep up your image in the tropics!” I make a little joke as Larry picks me up.

“Easier to let it go,” Bruce Ware says. “Go native. Let it all hang out.”

In my absence, the men have been swimming. Bruce Ware’s gray chest hair looks like a wet bath mat. He stands with his feet wide apart as our boat rocks in the wake of a monster sailboat. Bruce Ware looks perfectly comfortable, as if he grew up on a yacht. Maybe he did. Larry and I didn’t, that’s for sure! We are basically two of a kind, I just wish I’d run into him earlier in life, though better late than never as they say. This constant rocking is making me nauseous, something I didn’t notice before when we were moving. I am not about to mention it, but Bruce Ware must have noticed because he gives me some Dramamine.

Larry and I go down below to dress up a little bit for
dinner, but I won’t let Larry fool around at all as I am sure they could
hear
us. Larry puts on khaki pants and a nice shirt and I put on my new white linen slacks and a blue silk blouse with a scoop neck. The Negroes row us over to the island. I am disappointed to see that Bruce and Mack have not even bothered to change for dinner, simply throwing shirts on over their bathing trunks, and I am further disappointed by the restaurant, which we have to walk up a long steep path through the actual real jungle to get to. It’s at least a half a mile. I’m so glad I wore flats.

“This better be worth it!” I joke, but then I am embarrassed when it’s not. The restaurant is nothing but a big old house with Christmas lights strung all around the porch and three mangy yellow dogs in the yard. Why I might just as well have stayed in eastern Kentucky! We climb up these steep steps onto the porch and sit at a table covered with oilcloth and it
is
a pretty view, I must admit, overlooking the harbor. There’s a nice breeze too. So I am just relaxing a little bit when a chicken runs over my foot, which causes me to jump a mile. “Good Lord!” I say to Larry, who says, “Shhh.” He won’t look at me.

Bruce Ware slaps his hand on the table. “This is the real thing!” He goes on to say that there are two other places to eat, on the other side of the island, but this is the most authentic. He says it is run by two native women, sisters, who are famous island cooks, and most of the waitresses are their daughters. “So what do you think, Chanel?”

“Oh, I like it just fine,” I say. “It’s very interesting,” and Larry looks relieved, but frankly I am amazed that Bruce Ware would want to come to a place like this, much less bring a lady such as myself along.

“Put it right here, honey,” Bruce says to a native girl who brings a whole bottle of Mount Gay rum to our table and sets it down in front of him, along with several bottles of bitter lemon and ice and drinking glasses which I inspect carefully to choose the cleanest one. None of them look very clean, of course they can’t possibly have a dishwasher back in that kitchen which we can see into, actually, every time the girls walk back and forth through the bead curtain. Two big fat women are back there cooking and laughing and talking a mile a minute in that language which Bruce Ware swears is English though you can’t believe it.

“It’s the rhythm and the accent that make it sound so different,” Bruce claims. “Listen for a minute.” Two native men are having a loud backslapping kind of conversation at the bar right behind us. I can’t understand a word of it. As soon as they walk away, laughing, Bruce says, “Well? Did you get any of that?”

Larry and I shake our heads no, but Mack is not even paying attention to this, he’s drinking rum at a terrifying rate and staring at one of the waitresses.

Bruce smiles at us like he’s some guy on the Discovery Channel. “For example,” he lectures, “one of those men just said, ‘Me go she by,’ which is really a much more efficient
way of saying, ‘I’m going by to see her.’ This is how they talk among themselves. But they are perfectly capable of using the King’s English when they talk to us.”

I make a note of this phrase, “the King’s English.” I am always trying to improve my vocabulary. “Then that gives them some privacy from the tourists, doesn’t it?” I remark. “From people like us.”

“Exactly, Chanel.” Bruce looks very pleased and I realize how much I could learn from a man like him.

“Well, this is all just so interesting, and thanks for pointing it out to us,” I say, meaning every word and kicking Larry under the table. He mumbles something. Larry seems determined to match Mack drink for drink, which is not a good idea. Larry is not a good drunk.

But unfortunately I have to go to the bathroom (I can’t imagine what
this
experience will be like!), so I excuse myself and make my way through the other tables, which are filling up fast. I can feel all those dark native eyes burning into my skin. When I ask for the ladies’ room, the bartender simply points out into the jungle. I ask again and he points again. I am too desperate to argue. I stumble out there and am actually thankful to find a portable toilet such as you would see at a construction site. Luckily I have some Kleenex in my purse.

It is all a fairly horrifying experience made even worse by a man who’s squatting on his haunches right outside the door when I exit. “Oh!” I scream, and leap back, and he says
something. Naturally I can’t understand a word of it. But for some reason I am rooted to the spot. He stands up slow and limber as a leopard and then we are face to face and he’s looking at me like he knows me. He is much lighter-skinned and more refined-looking than the rest of them. “Pretty missy,” he says. He touches my hair.

I’m proud to say I do not make an international incident out of this, I maintain my dignity while getting out of there as fast as possible, and don’t even mention it to the men when I get back, as they are finally talking business, but of course I will tell Larry later.

So I just pour myself a big drink to calm down, and Larry reaches over to squeeze my hand, and there we all sit while the sun sets in the most spectacular fiery sunset I have ever seen in real life and the breeze comes up and the chickens run all over the place, which I have ceased to mind, oddly enough, maybe the rum is getting to me, it must be some really high proof. So I switch to beer, though the only kind they’ve got is something called Hairoun which does not even taste like beer in my opinion. The men are deep in conversation, though Mack gets up occasionally and tries to sweet-talk the pretty waitress, who laughs and brushes him off like he is a big fat fly. I admire her technique as well as her skin which is beautiful, rich milk chocolate. I laugh to think what Mack’s little bowhead wife back in Atlanta would think if she could see him now! The strings of Christmas lights swing in the breeze and lights glow on all the boats in the
harbor. Larry scoots closer and nuzzles my ear and puts his arm around me and squeezes me right under the bust, which is something I wish he would not do in public. “Having fun?” he whispers in my ear, and I say, “Yes,” which is true.

I am expanding my horizons as they say.

This restaurant does not even have a menu. The women just serve us whatever they choose, rice and beans and seafood mostly, it’s hard to say. I actually prefer to eat my food separately rather than all mixed up on a plate which I’m sure is not clean anyway. The men discuss getting an eighty-five-percent loan at nine percent and padding the specs, while I drink another Hairoun.