“The Fix”

by Alexia Tolas (The Bahamas)

You want to know how she did it – how she got the fisherman. She who don’t know pigeon peas from black beans. She who don’t know basmati rice from jasmine. You want to know how she, that wutless woman, claimed his heart.
Bring me seven coco plums and I’ll tell you.
She got him with a loose tongue and looser panties.
She got him with a climax and a promise of more.
But any woman can do that. You can do better. I’ve tasted your benne cake. I’ve tasted your okra soup. You can steal his heart with the right recipe…
You want me to tell you? The secret to his heart? You want to learn how to take him? I can’t say for sure what will happen. Obeah is a fickle thing. Too much of this or too little of that and the whole spell can run afoul. Can kill. I can only tell you what has worked for those before you. Bring me seven soursop and I’ll tell you…
This is how you take him.
With sweet coconut tart.
When you can’t stand the yearning for his mouth any longer, chuck some coconut from your tree. When you can no longer hide your envy as he holds her hand in church, grate the flesh. When all you can think about are his hips surging between your legs, measure the flour. Have the tart baking when he passes your window. Let him smell the nutmeg –
– sweet like clove…
– vanilla –
– creamy like satin…
– coconut –
– rich with rain and earth…

Let the filling bubble in the pot. Simmer in his blood. Tickle his groin. Let his eyes trace the space between your breasts as you stir the coconut. Let him watch you from the window as you press into the dough. As you knead into the fat and butter. Let him imagine what else those hands can do…
This is how you take him. With a clean slice of tart. When he comes to your backdoor, make sure he can smell you, and make sure you smell of coconut and nutmeg. Mix them together and dab a bit on your pulse points. Let your heat cook the paste on your wrists, behind your ears, at the base of your throat. All the places you want his tongue.
Cut him a slice of tart and feed him. Touch the crust to his lips on your porch. No harm in that. No harm in the crumb peppering his beard. Ain’t no sin in him licking the butter crisp from his fingers. It won’t hurt his appetite. Not your cooking. Your cooking should quicken the flesh. Drum the heart. Make his blood vessels throb. And if you listen to me well, his skin should boil at the scent of coconut and nutmeg.
At the scent of you…
Let him take a bite of your coconut tart and forget the cold hamburger she has at home for him in a brown paper bag, greasy and stale. When his cock lies limp in her hands, he’ll think of your sweet coconut tart, and he’ll come again.
And when he comes again, offer him tea. Any kind will do. Remember who he is. A simple man. An island man. Don’t scare him with chai or turmeric. Fever grass or black tea is fine. Just as long as it’s hot. Remember that your essence must steep.
Offer him a seat where the breeze is rank with salt. Let his belly groan for the love hidden in your tart. And while he’s busy on the porch with the sea breeze kissing his face and his tongue working the dough between his teeth, slip your hand into your slickness and pluck.
A fresh strand is best. Not from your head. You want the spell to be strong. No time to be squeamish. This is how you take him. With a strand of your lust. Unfold the sachet. Slip the hair between the tea leaves. Tie it tight. Steep it long. Let your essence bleed into the water. But make sure he doesn’t see. Obeah won’t work if he knows. So, when he brings the tea to his lips, try not to smile. But when you hear the knock at your backdoor tonight, let him in.

So, you’ve tasted the fisherman, but you’re not satisfied. You are his secret. He tiptoes to your backdoor after dark. He only kisses you with the curtains closed. He makes love to you with the lights off. He leaves your bed to sleep in hers. You want more. You want to keep him all to yourself.
This is how you keep him.
If you want him to use the front door.
If you want him to kiss you at the market.
If you want to scream his name at night.
If you want to wake up with his cheek on your pillow.
Make him cuckoo soup.
Now, don’t try nothing fancy. No bisques or chowders. No leeks or minestrone or anything you can’t pronounce. Remember who he is. A simple man. An island man. Remember that he eats grits in the morning and rice at night. Remember that he eats soursop, not chocolate. That he drinks switcha, not wine. Remember that he is a man who has spent the day hauling fish into his boat, and she only feeds him chicken from a box. Give him what he knows. What he wants. What you make well.
Make him pea soup.
But keep it secret. Remember, obeah won’t work if he knows. Pick the thyme from your garden. Crush the tomatoes with your own hands. Get the pork fat fresh from the butcher. Soak the pigeon peas overnight and boil them in the morning. Peel the potatoes under the casuarina pine. Brown the meat with onion and bell pepper when the sun goes down. Knead your dumplings with the curtains closed – and make them big. Big enough to keep his mouth busy so his mind won’t wander to her text messages.
Timing is key. You want him to smell the soup when he walks through your backdoor. You want the pork –
– salty and gamey…
– to wet his tongue.
The peas –
– nutty and soft…
– to slake his guilt.
The dumplings –
– thick and doughy…
– to fill his belly.
And if you listen well and you time it just right, he’ll smell you in the vapor rising from the pot.
Because this soup isn’t cuckoo soup until you take it off the stove, place it on the floor, and take off your panties.
This is how you keep him. Straddle the steaming pot and stoop. Let your desire for him run down your legs into the broth. Don’t screw your face. This is what it takes to kiss him in the sunlight. To hold his hand in church. To make love to him with the lights on. To wake up with his breath on your cheek. This is what she won’t do to keep him. She who won’t even fry a grunt. This is what it takes to make you his home.
So, let your love drip into the pot. Stir your lust into the soup. And when he walks through your backdoor and smells the richness of your lust, be ready. There’s no cure for cuckoo soup.

Still not satisfied, I see.
And why shouldn’t you be? You have the fisherman. He sleeps in your bed. He sits on your front porch and kisses your hand. What more do you want?
Oh, you’re jealous. You’re jealous because he tips his hat at her in the yard and gives her peace in church. You’re jealous because he still gives her fish. What you expect? For years, he was hers. Cuckoo soup don’t wipe away the memories. But he is yours now, child. I promise you that. Don’t fear her low-cut blouses or her pouted lips. My spells are stronger than a woman’s wiles. Don’t sour your happiness when she catches his eye from her porch. She can’t help but pine for him. She can’t help but mourn the loss of his lips on hers or the weight of his hips in her palms. Remember her pain as she sneers at you from her window next door.
You won’t have it, eh? He is yours? Well, just to be sure…
This is how you make him yours.
Go to the market, but not your regular market. Not where the hawkers know your face. Not where your fisherman sells his catch. Find a market on the other side of the island where the fishermen don’t know you. Where your loyalties mean nothing to them. These men will sell you anything. They will sell you week-old conch. They will sell you a shad and call it red snapper.
Choose a hawker who is young. A boy who is still learning the sea. Look for a fish with brown flesh and spines on its face. A fish that no fly will touch. Don’t correct the boy when he tells you it’s grouper. Just pay him and pay him well.
Remember that your man must not see you, so you must be quick. Take your orange-handle boning knife and slice into the dorsal fin. Cut the fillet from the spine. Skin the meat. Be careful as you snip the spines. You want the bones to hide in the flesh.
Season the fillets how he likes it. Buy fresh goat pepper from the market. Cut off the stem and gut the pepper. Remove the webbing and the seeds. You want the flavor, not the heat. Mince the orange fruit. Rub the paste into the flesh with good native limes. Key limes are best. You want the meat zesty and sour.
Don’t use table salt. Use local rock salt from the salt pans. Salt from the pans is that much sweeter, rich with soil and mangrove rank. Massage the salt into the pink meat. Make sure the crystals dissolve. Don’t stop until your fingers are numb from the pepper and lime. But watch out for the spines.
When the fish is seasoned and the scent of lime and goat pepper hangs low in the air, place the fillets in a Thank You bag like he does and tie it tight. Mark it with a black spot and place it in the corner of the freezer.
An island man likes his fish on Fridays. Remember this and remember to keep it simple.
This is how you make him yours. Take out some grouper. Coat it in flour. Fry it in your cast-iron pan. Squeeze fresh lime over the crust. Sprinkle the meat with pepper sauce. When he comes home, you want his mouth to water from the tang in the air. You want his nose tickling from the goat pepper. You want the meat –
– sweet and moist…
– to melt on his tongue.
Serve it with white rice –
– fluffy and starchy…
– to coat his teeth –
And coleslaw –
– tangy and sharp…
– to fill his belly.
Have him sit by the backdoor where the breeze blows in through the screen. Let the sun warm his hands through the window. Give him more when he asks and be generous. Let him chew as she waves from her back porch. Let him make the choice.
And if he makes the right choice –
If he closes the backdoor.
If he comes up behind you as you wash his plate.
If he takes the dish from your hands and leads you into the living room.
If he lays you down into the couch and pushes your skirt up over your thighs –
Then when he’s done thanking you, you can take the Thank You bag with the black mark from the freezer and toss it into the trash.
But if he makes the wrong choice – if he waves back at her, then what happens won’t be your fault. It will be his choice to visit her. His choice to give her the rockfish you bought from the young hawker. You can only hope your man doesn’t eat, and if you listen well and do what I say, he won’t. He’ll be too full.
I can’t say for sure what will happen. If she cooks the fish well and her system is strong, she will live. You won’t see her for a few days, but you will hear her. Her bathroom is so close. She’ll blame him and he’ll blame himself, and they’ll never look each other in the eye again.
But we know her. She who don’t know pork chop from lamb chop. She who don’t know bonefish from barracuda. You know she won’t cook the fish well. And if she don’t…
Either way, he’ll be yours…