Lisa Allen-Agostini - Trinidad Noir

“I am not a Dora. God, my mother says that shit.”

“Mother know what she talking ’bout.”

“You don’t know that woman. And lemme tell you, she wouldn’t like you if she knew the sexual deviancy you engage in, encouraging me — her one girl-child who she hoping will provide her with some picky head grandchildren. That woman would cut your tail. Anyway, what the ass going on with #1? Tell me stop seeing #2, ride out in super-stealth mode, can’t reach home or answer phone since. I gone looking for him, and his goldteeth Rasta partner take me for some obedient little wifey to just hustle out the bar talking ’bout I shouldn’t be there, boldfaced enough to try and send me home, and know my address to boot. You said #1 could handle my stories, and he say the same thing when we put down ground rules, so wha’ he acting up for now?”

“Dread. I don’t know. All I saying is he fine, paying the bills, he have goals, he love you, you already living together in the house you own, so just fucking commit to your life already. You don’t even have to give me up. He’ll find it hot if we just let him watch, and you know I don’t business.”

“But #2 think the sun rises and sets in my eyes.”

“Yes, yes. I get all that Roberta Flack shit, but look. He’s a child, can’t do nothing for you, and when you get older faster than him, he’ll stray anyway. Plus, you only act a little interested in monogamy, #1 might think the sun rising and setting in your damn eye, too.”

I trailed Kaya home, tormented both by the now pervasive aroma of bake-and-shark (even with a bellyful of goat) and knowing her beautiful body would have to wait while I made some considerably less enticing calls. Since Face was tracking those tracking my car, I wanted him on Fidel, goldteeth Rasta, and darkers-wearing mystery lady one time. At least we’d find #1. Who still didn’t answer his phone.

I finally sat on the bed, reexamining the details with Kaya’s naked bottom. “And why Fidel and fancy-darkers follow me from quite Diego to accost me by Hundred Steps just to say they watching me, no particular reason? They reporting to #1 if I see #2, or wha’?”

The bottom I was admiring dimpled attractively as Kaya lifted her head just enough to speak. “Obviously goldteeth Rasta in something with #1, and whatever it is deep enough that he know ’bout you. So his people musta recognize your car from when you park in Charford — or maybe they following you since you leave home, or regular, since he clearly know where you living — and they tell him you coming before you reach the bar. They know you only know one place to look for #1. But hear what — I really don’t care. What I care about is why you still wasting time wearing so much clothes.”

“Sorry, babes. I coming.”

“You better be. And then you will.”

I quickly unwrapped myself for her. No further thought of men, mothers, or their mysteries distracted us as she undid the strings around my neck, back, and hips.

Hours later, watching the sun drop below the window frame as the coquis’ evening refrain built harmonies, I tried his phone again. No answer. I buried my face in Kaya’s armpit and allowed myself to sleep a little as the evening expanded.

My mobile woke me. Two messages. I hadn’t called #2. He was worried. Nothing from #1.

I called Face back first, creeping out of bed without stirring Kaya, to pace through his questioning, for the first time in years of surreptitious encounters, whether my relationship with #1 was other than idyllic. I liked the interrogation flip even less when he interrupted my hesitantly edited account of our status.

“Hear what, Star. I not minding your business. Just trying to make out the big picture. If you don’t tell me everything, info don’t link. No context.”

I didn’t tell Face about #2. Divulging my arrangement wasn’t an option. I couldn’t have informants passing judgment (or information) on my personal life. Knowledge is power, and my working relationship with Face depended on his lack of power over me.

I turned to my notebook. Things always made more sense on paper:

—#1 told me to end it with #2, then left.

— same car outside hawk and spit and Hundred Steps.

Fidel just happen to be idling on Henry Street night before, or is darkers-wearing mystery lady goldteeth Rasta’s accessory as well as #1’s?

— thus, who’s included in “we” watching me? they watching me for someone specific?

Too many questions. I stared at the page, willing the words to morph into a graphic explanation of what the fuck was going on. Appended: or am I being watched for reasons unconnected to relationships/arrangement and #1’s demands?

Tried #1 again. Still no answer.

Time to reassure #2. I told him I’d see him as soon as I could without making hard plans. He was happy just to hear my voice and knew better than to expect more. He loved me, wanted to be with me, was worried about me. With his chatter in one ear and Kaya’s breathing in the other, I realized I might as well be entertained if I had to listen to the whining. I sat on the edge of the bed again, reaching out to touch Kaya’s sweet spot. The naked body turned toward my hand, eyelids cracked slowly, and a tiny smile formed. I pointed at the phone pressed to my ear, then beckoned closer and met her halfway. Kaya snuggled up, throwing an arm across my lap. I took her extended hand and pushed it between my thighs. The hand obliged, fingers instantly making the voice on the phone less bothersome. I relaxed, legs falling further apart.

As the afterglow waned, I wrapped the conversation. He’d deal. He was #2.

Ordinarily, there was a constant, nearly relentless demand on my attention. I needed to get home where I could be alone with my thoughts — a too-rare occurrence. I gently pushed Kaya off my lap. “I hadda ride, babes.”

“What?”

“Sorry. I have to figure out what going on with #1, and if I stay here I’ll be completely distracted by you.” Silently self-congratulatory over the quick cover.

“I’ll leave you alone. You don’t have to go.”

“I do.” Breathe. “You’ll see me soon.”

“You coming to the club tomorrow night?”

“You know I will unless I can’t. How many times have I not been there?”

“I just know you have other priorities right now.”

“I promised I would, right?”

For the 2:00 a.m. ride, I pulled the emergency smoke from my hidden compartment. Mellowed to the strains of 12, now turned down low: stop living your life like you born to dead...

With temporary peace of mind, I relented and redialed #2 to take advantage of the situation under the pretext of making up. His unprecedented hesitation made him suddenly sexier than he’d ever been. As I pulled up to my house, I breathlessly informed him that in exactly half an hour my front door would be unlocked, inviting him inside for the first time, where I’d be naked, glistening, smelling of chocolate and mangos.

I leaned back in the driver’s seat finishing the spliff, my spinning mind casting a loose net for relevance: brooding over #1’s sudden unexplained resistance to one of my boys; considering #2’s limitless adoration, manifested in zero-notice availability and loving gifts that transported me back to college relationships; wondering what business interest #1 shared with goldteeth Rasta to fund his art... and as the last of the smoke dissipated, I saw. I’d been looking at the wrong lover.

Over goldteeth Rasta’s shoulder in the dim corner under the hawk and spit’s darkened windows, #2 — poorly lit, out of context, thus unrecognized. Bossman ordering minions. Déjà vu — hesitation before my wrist swiveled and I pushed the door hard, then pushed it again. “I’m here.”