“You have the most beautiful teeth.”
Tracy’s hand was still on her chin, slightly tilting her head up, and Kamara felt, first, like an adored little girl, and then like a bride. She smiled again. She was extremely aware of her body, of Tracy’s eyes, of the space between them being so small, so very small.
“Have you ever been an artist’s model?” Tracy asked.
“No … no.”
Josh came into the kitchen and rushed to Tracy, his face lit up. “Mommy!” Tracy hugged him and kissed him and ruffled his hair. “Have you finished your work, Mommy?” He clung to her hand.
“Not yet, honey.” She seemed to be familiar with the kitchen. Kamara had expected that she would not know where the glasses were kept or how to operate the water filter. “I’m stuck, so I thought I’d come upstairs for a little while.” She was smoothing Josh’s hair. She turned to Kamara. “It’s stuck right here in my throat, you know?”
“Yes,” Kamara said, although she did not know. Tracy was looking right into her eyes in a way that made Kamara’s tongue feel blubbery.
“Neil says you have a master’s degree,” Tracy said.
“Yes.”
“That’s wonderful. I hated college and couldn’t wait to graduate!” She laughed. Kamara laughed. Josh laughed. Tracy riffled through the mail on the table, picked up one envelope and tore it open and put it back. Kamara and Josh watched her in silence. Then she turned. “Okay, I guess I better get back to work. See you guys later.”
“Why don’t you show Josh what you’re working on?” Kamara asked, because she could not bear the thought of Tracy leaving.
Tracy seemed taken aback by the suggestion for a moment, then she looked down at Josh. “Want to see it, buddy?”
“Yeah!”
In the basement, a wide painting leaned against the wall.
“It’s pretty,” Josh said. “Right, Kamara?”
It looked like haphazard splashes of bright paint to her. “Yes. It’s very nice.”
She was more curious about the basement itself, where Tracy practically lived, the slumping couch and cluttered tables and coffee-stained mugs. Tracy was tickling Josh and Josh was laughing. Tracy turned to her. “Sorry it’s such a mess in here.”
“No, it’s fine.” She wanted to offer to clean up for Tracy, anything to remain here.
“Neil says you’ve only just moved to the States? I’d love to hear about Nigeria. I was in Ghana a couple of years ago.”
“Oh.” Kamara sucked in her belly. “Did you like Ghana?”
“Very much. The motherland informs all of my work.” Tracy was tickling Josh but her eyes were steady on Kamara. “Are you Yoruba?”
“No. Igbo.”
“What does your name mean? Am I saying it right? Kamara?”
“Yes. It’s a short form of Kamarachizuoroanyi: ‘May God’s Grace Be Sufficient for Us.’”
“It’s beautiful, it’s like music. Kamara, Kamara, Kamara.”
Kamara imagined Tracy saying that again, this time in her ear, in a whisper. Kamara, Kamara, Kamara, she would say while their bodies swayed to the music of the name.
Josh was running with a paintbrush in his hand and Tracy ran after him; they came close to Kamara. Tracy stopped. “Do you like this job, Kamara?”
“Yes.” Kamara was surprised. “Josh is a very good boy.”
Tracy nodded. She reached out and, again, lightly touched Kamara’s face. Her eyes gleamed in the light from the halogen lamps.
“Would you take your clothes off for me?” she asked in a tone as soft as a breath, so soft Kamara was not sure she had heard correctly. “I’d paint you. But it wouldn’t look much like you.”