Under the Bali Moon

“Right, Zena. You’re right,” he concurred.

* * *

Bellies filled with so much rice and pork—even Zola had eaten her share—and everything else at the table, the foursome ambled to their rooms to shut it down for the night. Though they’d chatted about an evening stroll on the beach and even planned a midnight pool party, the days of travel, gross sensual demands of the new environment, good eating and the ocean breeze around them had everyone feeling completely exhausted or so thoroughly relaxed they could fall asleep at any moment.

While Zola, who announced that she didn’t want to sleep with Alton so she could be “chaste” before the wedding, had her own room in the main house, she opted to share a bed with Zena in the flat she’d selected toward the back of the property. The si

mple architectural offering was elegant and mysterious. Four walls of cool black polished concrete came together to create a kind of human-sized cocoon made for perfect sleeping.

When Zena got out of the shower, she found Zola sitting on the edge of the king-size bed wrapped in a towel. Zola’s hair was completely covered with leave-in conditioner. She’d split it into four sections and was busy twisting.

“What are you going to do with your hair for the wedding?” Zena asked. She was naked and standing before the vanity a few feet away from the bed. She’d discovered two mosquito bites on her arm and was dutifully applying Skin So Soft, a bite repellant and remedy Lisa had passed down to her daughters.

“I don’t know. I was thinking you could cornrow it up into a goddess knot or something. Like how you used to do when I was younger.”

“I don’t think my braiding skills are wedding day worthy,” Zena said.

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

“Ahhh. The black-woman travel dilemma,” Zena confirmed, laughing. “No one to do your hair.”

“Exactly.”

“You never know. There must be one hairdresser in all of Bali who can do braids! Some of these people here have some coarse hair!”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Plenty of folks look surprised to see us, though. It’s like they’ve never seen black people, period.”

“Alton said some guy at the airport asked to take a picture with him. Can you believe that?” Zola revealed. “Then after taking the picture, the man gave him a thumbs-up and said, ‘Michael Jordan!’”

“Ahhh. The black-man travel dilemma,” Zena confirmed, laughing again. “Everyone thinks you’re an athlete.”

Zola laughed, and then the sisters were silent as she finished her third braid.

Zena brushed her teeth and looked at her hairline. She’d plucked three gray hairs. While Lisa kept telling her not to pull them out, that the aggressive action would only invite more, she just couldn’t stand the sight of the white hairs.

“You hear that?” Zola said, looking at the door.

“What?”

“Listen.”

Zena stopped moving and listened, but she heard nothing.

“What?”

“It’s crickets.” Zola smiled. “Crickets!”

Then Zena could hear them, too. It was a simple buzzing that sounded like nothing until she tuned in, and then the crickets were chirping all around.

“Night crickets. Just like in Georgia,” Zola observed whimsically. “It’s beautiful. We’re literally on the other side of the world but still at home.”

Zena slid on her nightgown and headed toward her side of the bed.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Zola started, rather abruptly changing the subject. “About the things Alton and I should have said about one another when we listed what would make a good husband or wife.”

“I didn’t say you should’ve said anything. I said what you revealed was enough.”