Chapter Nine - Marsha

I had fallen head over heels in love with Jeremy and become addicted to making love with him. Before my first time, I was terrified of sex. I thought it would open a toxic can of worms, and I’d heard more bad things about sex than good. I heard women complain tirelessly about clueless men failing to satisfy them. Yet and still, they craved to do it again and again, and it seemed to be the thing that held many couples together. This didn’t make sense to me until my first time. 
I daydreamed about our Valentine’s night. My nerve endings tingled at Jeremy’s touch, and chills danced down my spine when I thought about it. I was already intoxicated by the mixture of his natural body chemistry and the scents he wore, layered with lotions, and inhaling him while pressed against him, skin to skin, was heavenly.
We were nearly inseparable since we’d started dating that summer before, and now we were only becoming more engulfed in each other. I found myself feeling more and more territorial and as possessive as Jeremy. I would follow him into men’s rooms if I could. All that was on my mind day in and day out was the way he made love to me, and I’d be damned if he was making anyone else feel the same way.
“Yuh different,” Sheila said to me one day as we strolled through the supermarket doing our weekly shopping.
“How so?” I asked, not too thrilled about being taken out of my thoughts of Jeremy’s hands on my body.
Sheila shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess you was just shy, likkle Marsha, but now you move like a woman.”
I laughed. “Sheila, I am a woman.”
“Yeah, but—” Sheila stopped and assessed my face. She stepped back and took in my entire stance from head to toe.
It made me self-conscious.
“Hm,” she said, before giving her attention to a head of cabbage. 
I noticed carrots were on sale, and took that as an opportunity to brush off Sheila’s comments. I went to grab some.
Once we were home, putting away the groceries, Sheila returned to the topic. “Mi know what it is.”
“Huh?” I’d actually forgotten all about it.
“Mi say, mi know what it is.” Sheila sounded stern.
“What now?” I asked as I stood upright from cramming cans of corned beef and mackerel fish into a lower cabinet. 
“Yuh not a virgin anymore.” Sheila’s eyes squinted as if her eyes could squeeze the truth out of me.
I giggled. “What yuh talkin?”
“I knew it. Puppa-Jeezus!” Sheila cried out to God. “Him done spoil muh cousin!”
“Sheila, what yuh talkin?” I asked again.
Sheila walked up close to me, and I for sure felt exposed. “Yuh look different, yuh talk different, yuh even ah walk different. Yuh let him breed you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Tink wha yuh want. And even if him did breed me, is that not what couples do?”
Sheila looked as though she could break down in tears right then, but she stiffened up. “What yuh usin?”
“How yuh mean?”
“What yuh usin fa birth control?”
“Nothin’,” I truthfully lied, “cuz there is no reason for that. Mi neva did say him ah breed me.”
Sheila sighed and stepped back. “Condoms ah sell everywhere. So don’t come in ya tellin me yuh carryin a Haitian pickney inna yuh belly.”
“Don’t worry yaself,” I sucked my teeth, something I never did. I knew I was different though, and I couldn’t help myself.

*****


It had been an unseasonably warm day in April, but the night blanketed New York in an icy chill, which was normal for the city’s spring weather. New Yorkers could start their day in jackets and sweaters, survive midday without outerwear at all, and finish their nights with electric heaters plugged in. Rain, sleet, or snow, though, Jeremy and I were bound to be seen out on the town. By now, Sheila had filled my head with worry that now that Jeremy had gotten what he’d wanted, he would either become complacent or disappear altogether. 
“They get lazy,” Sheila warned. “They have all kinda expectation, but yuh betta still ah cook and tek care of he. The gifts stop come too. Yuh soon see.”
I reveled in the fact that, against Sheila’s expectations, we still hadn’t missed a beat.
“Where we goin’?” I asked, elated to be at Jeremy’s side.
“Dinner. With my parents.”
I paused. Jeremy’s parents spent most of their time in Miami and Haiti. At this point, I had only met a few of Jeremy’s cousins. His only sister, Lovelie, was five years older than him. She lived in Miami with her husband, Ricardo, and children. She and Jeremy spoke occasionally, and that was all I knew of her. 
Jeremy actually spoke to his parents quite often, and to my knowledge, he’d even told them about me. I’d never spoken to them, and the idea made me nervous. They spoke mostly Creole, which I barely understood. When I asked Jeremy what they did for a living, he said, “They own a few businesses in Miami. Y’know, a bar-restaurant, a barbershop, and a mechanic shop.”
Jeremy was as vague about his parents as he was about his finances, and I wondered if the two were linked. Could it be true what everyone says? I thought to myself. Are they really gangsters?
“You nervous?” Jeremy asked with a smirk, breaking into my thoughts.
I shrugged as I pretended to be interested in the other cars cruising beside us on the I-95.
“You don’t have to be nervous. They’re nice people.” Jeremy could be so matter-of-fact about things that were a big deal to me.
I looked down at my light blue jeans, the hem just meeting the black suede ankle booties I wore, and thought about the black cold-shoulder turtleneck sweater I wore, covered by my black spring leather. I hoped I looked appropriate. I glanced at Jeremy, who was dressed similarly in a black Vanson, loose jeans, and Timberland construction boots. His skully cap was somewhat cocked to the side. He looked so New York; how could anyone know he’d only been in the country a few years?
 I took a deep breath, though, and figured if I didn’t look the part, he would surely tell me so. We always accidentally matched, and I always said, “Great minds do think alike.” I figured if his parents would accept his look, they would accept mine as well. 
Traffic meant nothing to Jeremy as he whizzed toward the Van Wyck Expressway. We’d often taken this route, traveling to different Haitian restaurants. I hoped that wherever we were going, they would have the black rice I’d come to love. If not, I’d settle for white rice and black bean sauce—diri avek sos pwa. Jeremy always ordered extra pikliz, the spicy cabbage condiment that I had fallen for when I couldn’t get my hands on some Suzie’s Hot Sauce. 
In less time than it should have taken, Jeremy and I were entering the restaurant. Jeremy spoke briefly with the hostess and then waltzed straight to the back, and I followed on my toes to keep up. I nearly bumped into his back when he stopped abruptly at the table where his parents sat. As well-known as my own parents were on our little island, I felt like I had never been in the presence of such regal people. Both were tall and deeply brown-skinned, Jeremy’s father with broad shoulders and big hands, his mother super shapely with an ample bosom and hips that were sure to fill her husband’s broad embrace. I felt that I could be swallowed up and lost amongst these great oak people. I forced my nerves downward and a smile upward when Jeremy stepped back and introduced me to the designers of his existence. 
“Bonswa,” his father, Augustin, briefly embraced me before looking me over.
“Bonswa,” I replied in nearly a whisper.
“Bonswa, kijan ye?” his mother, Madeline asked.
I cleared my throat, “Mwen la, merci.”
“Jeremy is teaching you Creole?” His father let out a roaring laugh behind his question.
“Yon ti kras,” I nodded.
“Well, good, good. You should learn,” his mother said as she returned to her seat. 
I looked at Jeremy, who smiled at me and pulled out the chair for me to sit. 
Pleasant greetings and all, I ended up spending the next two hours a hot ball of confusion. Their conversation carried on in Creole, and they rarely acknowledged me. Whenever I looked up from my plate, I would catch Jeremy’s mother watching me closely. I got so nervous I could hardly enjoy my food. After a while, I noticed their plates were clean, while mine was still half full of fish and black rice.
“Sli te manje, li pa ta tèlman mèg,” Madeline said to Jeremy with a sly look on her face.
I recognized the word “manje,” and knew whatever she said was about how little or how slowly I ate, and very possibly my weight. I was ready to go at that point. As intently as Jeremy’s mother watched me, followed by the comment, I knew we would never get along, and I was disappointed. I loved Jeremy, and I thought his mother was beautiful. I wanted to be liked by her, but I knew in that first meeting that that would never come to be.