Unchained Melody

Part 14

Tfrosted, and they were tied back with an elastic band. A diamond stud gleamed in his ear. After Tariq, I hadn’t had a relationship with another man. There were hook-ups, yes, with men and even a couple of women. In fact, I’d only been able to afford the plane ticket because I’d recently accompanied Adrienne, the Upper East Side blue blood whose apartment I sometimes cleaned, on a weeklong trip to Atlantic City so she would not be bored while her husband was away on a business trip. The meet-ups with these men and women were, for want of a better word, transactional. I never had sex because I just wanted to. Those feelings died with Tariq. I worked on and off in a number of minimum wage jobs – waitress, dog walker, maid, assistant at a vet’s clinic – waiting for my big break in music. Always with my nose pressed up against the window of some big opportunity that never quite came my way. The singing gigs I had, even though I was excited to get them, were small potatoes. They led nowhere.

Now, when I looked at this guy sitting beside me in the freezing terminal, I smiled. Something inside me separated; I could feel it. And I just knew it — whatever it was — was starting again.

~

The plane was making its final descent into Montego Bay. Mid-afternoon and the sunshine fell across everything outside making it pristine, vibrant, and unreal. The earth was green and lush. Like something on an artist’s easel. Through the windows of an airplane New York did not, could not, look like this. Without meaning to, a thrill rumbled through my stomach. I could barely believe it: I was back in Jamaica again. New York was only four hours away but it already seemed like another world.

The passengers erupted into spontaneous applause just as we skidded to a halt. They kept it up for a few minutes. I couldn’t help joining in. My heart beat, rhythmic as a drum; I was as grateful as the others. First, I never thought I’d ever go back on a plane after the awful September attacks. And I’d never believed I would be back on this soil; Jamaica represented everything that had been negative in my life. Why, then, was I so excited to be back?

I pulled off my jacket just as the stewardess announced what the temperature was. “Enjoy your stay, and thank you for flying Air Jamaica,” she said, and I told myself she was talking specifically to me.

I looked across at my seatmate, who was staring at the bag that contained his duty-free liquor, which was perched daintily on his lap. I hadn’t needed that to tip me off that he was a big big ’baller, shot caller, as the kids today say. Within a few minutes of meeting him at JFK, I realised he was a very important man. The way he spoke, you know. The way the airline staff responded to him. Adrienne had sprung for a firstclass ticket for me. I was a fraud there in first class. I felt everybody could see it.

I was supposed to stay on board the plane then move on to Kingston. But I changed my mind — he convinced me to. He was spending some time at his home in Mobay. Why didn’t I spend a few days in the Second

City too? His home in Mobay? I figured there was one in Kingston too. I guess what they say is true: You always know a rich man. Then, when I found out he was an entertainment lawyer/artiste manager, it was game over. I told him I was a singer, and that I was going to Jamaica with the hopes of finding fame and fortune. At any rate, the source of the music that was locked inside my bones.

“My father was a musician,” I told him. “And my mother was always singing to me. This trip is like going to Mecca. This country is what started my love affair with rhythm. Sound.”

“Oh, baby,” he said, winking slyly at me, the way men do when they’ve locked you down in their minds. “You’re talking to the right man.”

But that wasn’t the main attraction. I really felt this animal magnetism. It was on. And he wanted me too. He stroked my hand, brushed my cheek, looked right into my eyes. All that flirting. For the entire duration of the flight he treated me like I was with him. With him-with him. It felt the way I imagined it would feel to be out with him – like Carrie and Mr Big – at a restaurant. And I, a nobody, for the first time in my life, felt special. So special that for four hours I was itching for the plane to land, for us to get off and find some motel room, which we both knew was going to happen.

Neither of us had to wait at Customs. He had a car waiting for him and we left for his home. I was surprised; I imagined there would be a wife tucked away there. A girlfriend, at least. I’d been quite fine with us locked up in a rented room somewhere.

As it turned out, his pad was the most humongous thing I’d ever seen in my life. Like one of those Hollywood Mcmansions you see in magazines. Split-level. Painted white. In the front seat of the Jaguar I gawked. We drove slowly up a long driveway and he told me that it had been a slavery great house. The fresh smell of jasmine slid through the open windows. Rolling lawns, greenery everywhere. What would his Kingston house be like, then?

Staff bustled around. I was escorted to a guest room that was as big as my apartment.

A boy brought my backpack to the room. I sank onto the big, comfortable bed and looked around when he left. There was a vase of fresh flowers on the vanity. Glossy magazines in a wicker basket on the floor next to the bed. I reached over and plucked one out, lay back and started to thumb through it. My mind kept wandering, though. What was I doing here? Was I crazy? I was in the home of a stranger I’d only just met earlier that day.

I got up. I would make up an excuse, I thought, and leave. Catch a cab, maybe. Whatever. I was suddenly afraid. This is how young girls disappear, I said out loud, and tied my jacket more firmly around my waist. I stuffed the magazine into the side of my backpack.

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door.

He pushed open the door. I backed onto the edge of the bed. He’d showered and changed; he was now dressed in white loose-fitting clothes, looking sexy as all hell.

He came slowly towards me...

Rorie Atkinson

Mail: TO BE CONTINUED

Janice Johnson Richards