The Importance of Being Dangerous (15 page)

“I sing. Relax. Pray. Belly-dance sometimes. Just unwind.”

“Oh, you belly-dance?”

“Sometimes.”

“You're built for it,” Belinda was quick to say, gesturing toward Sidarra's much wider hips and softer tummy. “Kind of Victorian shape. I bet you're good.”

“This is a goddamned casbah, child,” Darrius said.

“Can we borrow it sometime?” Koob asked.

“You so stupid,” Marilyn laughed. “It's very peaceful, Sidarra. I like it.”

Belinda strolled up to the shrine to Sidarra's parents, a stranger at the altar of her tears, and Sidarra's stomach tensed up. Belinda quietly studied and scrutinized the wall, the pictures of Sidarra's family and the Yoruba sculptures.

“I'm sorry, Sidarra, but I'm a little curious,” she said. “Why would you have a fertility totem?”

Sidarra was near the limit of her hostessness and good nature. “What are you talking about?”

“This is Yoruba, isn't it? From Nigeria.”

“Yeah.”

“Right. I have a great interest in these kinds of pieces, and this one's beautiful. The condition is remarkable. It's just that it's a fertility piece. See?” Belinda pointed to two symmetrical carvings on the sides that vaguely showed a coital embrace between male and female forms. “And, of course, these are breasts,” she added, pointing again.

“Of course,” said Darrius, barely concealing his sarcasm. “You're good.”

“Not good really,” Belinda shot back. “I just know what I'm talking about. I love this stuff. I studied this stuff for a few years. There's nothing wrong with a little fertility at our age, Sidarra. I just wondered why.”

“Because I like it. I find it very powerful. I mean, prayerful,”
Sidarra said, unable to hide her embarrassment about her possible confusion. She'd put a lot of hope and money into that shrine. It was like the guy who boasts the Chinese character tattoo all the way down his arm, only to learn from a Chinese friend that it didn't mean “Never say die” after all. It meant “Soup, five yen a cup.”

“Well, all I'm saying is you might want to watch who you dance with in here unless you want Raquel to have a little brother,” Belinda added with pleasure.

Yakoob and Marilyn were still wrapped together in the doorway and looked privately into each other's eyes. They said nothing out loud, but the idea of dedicating a space to fertility prayers was nothing to laugh about. It was like stumbling together on a hope they had been a very long time without.

“Who's hungry? I know I am,” Darrius said.

He headed out of the room for the stairs. Before Marilyn and Yakoob followed, Marilyn turned to Sidarra and said, “That's the most beautiful room I've ever seen. Congratulations, girl. I don't even know how you did it.” Her eyes searched Sidarra's face more plaintively, then she smiled. “Do you think the fertility thing from Nigeria probably works?” Sidarra didn't have the words to fill the long, awkward pause, which only made Marilyn ask if maybe Sidarra didn't need the sculpture and might sell it or give it away to friends interested in its powers.

“I'll think about it, sweetie,” Sidarra told her. “Or maybe you and I can go find you one together.”

That suddenly left Griff, Belinda, and Sidarra together, a troika of pure tension. Before leaving the floor, Belinda had to suggest a good place for Sidarra to put in a gym for herself, particularly an ab machine, maybe a treadmill. Sidarra shook it off. They started down the stairs toward the third floor while the others continued on to the kitchen. At the landing, there were two oak doors. One led to Raquel's bedroom, which Sidarra proudly showed them.
The other led to Sidarra's master suite. When they got there, she opened the door and let Griff inside. When Belinda started to follow, Sidarra filled the space with her body and stopped. She stood in the doorway and leaned her arm against the jamb, keeping the Yoruba expert in the hall.

“You're pretty knowledgeable,” she turned and told Belinda, who needed a second to realize she'd been banned. “If this were stock advice, I'd probably owe you the place by now, huh?”

Belinda only smiled and waited awkwardly in the hallway, unsure whether to go back downstairs.

While Sidarra held her at bay, Griff stood inside the long room and scanned the luxurious comforts. His eyes widened in awe at the beechwood California king on stilts with its sheer cotton canopy drooping like a sail. A stone fireplace sat within a few feet of it. The walls were sponged in terra-cotta, and the several rugs lying around like clouds were lamb's wool. A long wall of bookcases full of books covered the side next to the door, and at one end, beyond two wicker chaises, was an open bath with marble Jacuzzi, bidet, and a regiment of candles in every size holder.

Sure that Belinda couldn't see him, Griff kept making faces of wild approval toward Sidarra, pointing to things. The moment was a little surreal for her, too. She had Griff exactly where she had imagined him a thousand times since beginning her renovations—beside her bed, undressing in her dressing area, entering her bath—and here he was with his wife just outside. Griff regained his composure and returned to the doorway. “Dope floor tiles, Sid,” he said calmly, and winked at her.

Sidarra was first down the stairs. Belinda held Griff back for a moment of marital confidence. When she was sure Sidarra was a good five or six steps below them, she turned to her husband and whispered through a laugh, “Have you seen a single fucking book in the whole house?”

“I'm sorry,” Sidarra called up the stairs at her. “What did you just say?”

Belinda had trouble with her own cool then, but got it back in time. “Oh, pardon my French. I asked my husband if he'd ever seen such a fucking renovation. We've been through it, and you obviously had much better luck than we did. Contractors will kill you.”

“Okay then,” Sidarra said, turned, and walked off the stairwell.

Q was not playing about the food. Gone from the ribs, the steak, the chicken, and fish was the bonanza of salt Michael favored. Sidarra missed him by now, but she was glad to see a backyard of satisfied friends, their heads spinning with Tanqueray, their mouths full of good food and laughter. Marilyn liked old-school music, and she took over the stereo. Darrius and Justin wanted Raquel to show them all the latest fourth-grade dances in repetitive detail, and she was happy to take them to school. Jeanette could groove too. Soon, only Belinda, Aunt Chickie, and the construction crew sat playing bid whist while the Gap Band, Isley Brothers, and Peabo Bryson got jiggy with it. The sun passed beyond the rooftops, and the yard soon turned to shade. Twenty minutes after firing up a blunt outside, Yakoob was half asleep in his wife's familiar lap. Sidarra had answered all the house questions and could be her own self again with braids down. After a while, folks found their way back inside the living room. Belinda cornered Sidarra and Raquel about schools, wanting to know why an educator like herself had taken so long to put her daughter in private school. Griff called her off with a distraction. Darrius and Justin stole her seat, and eventually the voices got loud again. Over it all, the doorbell rang.

Sidarra jumped up and excused herself. Raquel, sure that Michael had finally arrived, ran after her mother and disappeared into the vestibule. It wasn't Michael. It had been many months of care
ful, even calculated avoidance, but there in the well-lit doorway, behind the glass, was Tyrell.

“Party still goin' on?” Tyrell asked through decorative bars on the glass door.

“Tyrell,” Sidarra said. Then she felt Raquel at her side. “Go on back inside, honey.” She watched her frightened daughter move back to the living room doorway but stay within sight of her mom. “Tyrell, you can't come here, you know that. You can't come to my home like this, man. C'mon.”

His expression lingered between hope and mischief. He was dirty again. His breath smelled awful. He was wearing too many clothes for such a hot night, and there was no telling what he hid under his layers. “Just let me in for a minute. I just wanna talk to you.”

Though Sidarra had had to admit Tyrell's dangerousness to herself as he got older, this amount of boldness—coming to her door when she probably had guests—could be special trouble. He was probably high, too. Sidarra searched his eyes. She wanted to show good faith and to appear cool, so she opened the door as wide as the chain would go. “Can you hear me now? You gotta go.”

From a little ways down the block, Raul squinted his eyes and watched intently as a conversation started to unfold.

“Miss Sidarra, Miss Sidarra,” Tyrell repeated. “You s'posed to talk to me, right? Right?”

He wouldn't budge. Gin had foiled her wits somewhat, but she wouldn't do anything stupid. She didn't have to. The shadow that suddenly rose up behind her was Q's.

“Excuse me, baby,” said Q, muscling his frame in front of her. All she could see was a great wall of back. She stepped aside further and watched his bicep tighten as his hand reached back to pat a service revolver tucked into his waistband. “Whatchoo want, blood?” he asked sharply with a menacing flatness.

Tyrell looked up into Q's eyes. Q was gonna make this quick. “No need, dog. This really ain't your business, man. Me and my teachah got something to work out.”

“Your teacher? Uh-uh.” Q raised his huge arm up to lean it against the doorframe, which made Tyrell step backward and also put one hand a lot closer to grabbing anything the intruder pulled out. “Check this out, youngblood. It don't happen tonight. It don't happen here. You wit' me?” His baritone never wavered. Tyrell hadn't faced such a clear choice in years. Q turned slightly to Sidarra, but his eyes never left the junkie. “I got this, baby. Go on back inside.” She backed away. Q's eyes turned mean. “Now, look at me, motherfucker, because I will take your life if I have to. Quick. Am I clear?”

“Yeah, dog. We cool.”

“Nah, we ain't cool. We just clear. Now back your stank ass off the stoop.”

Tyrell was gone with a quickness. Not far behind him were most of Sidarra's guests—with a description from Q and a light warning to watch their backs on the way to the subway. Koob and Marilyn were first to go, with Marilyn hugging Sidarra extra hard and promising she'd take her up on her offer soon. They were followed immediately by Belinda, who had reached the limits of her graciousness, and Griff, whose still-anxious eyes appeared to be busy trying to put the whole experience in a distant place. Q already had. He just had a good time, kissed Sidarra on the cheek, and headed out with Jeanette on one arm and a bag of leftover desserts in the other.

Darrius and Justin were in no hurry to leave. It was only nine o'clock, and they needed more coffee before they were set to go to another friend's party that night. So they helped Sidarra and Aunt Chickie clean up and wanted to talk about the other guests. They started with the contractors and saved the best for last.

“I'm sorry about Miss Clairol,” Darrius said from the couch.

“By the way,” Justin began, “Belinda was wrong about your sculpture. I hope you don't mind, but Darrius took me up to see it. I work with collectors all the time. Your shrine is beautiful, but it's not a fertility piece. It's often used to commune with dead ancestors. There's a great history to those pieces. I have a book about them if you want to borrow it.” Sidarra could not hide her relief.

“See?” Darrius beamed. “See what happens when you bring along your own whiteboy?”

“What'd you think of Griff?” she had to ask.

The two men looked at each other from over the coffee table. “Well, first of all,” Darrius said carefully, “the man does brown like the Lord himself. And he's fine enough to clone. Little serious, but you'd be too if you came home to
that
every day.” Sidarra enjoyed a guilty smile that her Aunt Chickie looked disapprovingly at. Darrius seemed to check with Justin before he went on. “And secondly, the man's nose is wide open for you, sweetie. I'd hate to be his insides. He's gonna sleep all day tomorrow, all the work he did today—unless she kills him first. 'Cause she may not be the most likable legs in suede, but she's no dummy, that's for sure.”

Sidarra didn't need to hear anymore. Raquel was dozing off to sleep on her lap, and she herself was nearing the time when she just wanted to be alone with a glass of wine in her room and think back on the day. Darrius and Justin left her kisses and a few final words of skin care encouragement. Then off they went into the night.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sidarra said to her aunt as she was about to lift Raquel into her arms and put her to bed.

“Because your friend is right.”

“About what?”

“Not all of it, but some of it, it seems to me. That Belinda is a horrible girl. She's mean, kind of calculating. She's one of those siddity girls who gets humbled late.” (Aunt Chickie could have been talking about herself, Sidarra thought.) “You can hear how
she's uncomfortable with what we used to call the ‘vernacular.' I can't even tell where she's from, her accent going back and forth, back and forth. Anyway, I'll just say this. I don't think she and that Griff are in love either. But I don't believe it's the host's role to publicize a fact like that. And in your own way you did. Now, I'm going downstairs to bed. It was a nice time today. Nice people. Good night, baby.”

Raquel's sleeping body weighed a ton on the stairs up to her room. Sidarra struggled with her while she rewound her aunt's words. As she undressed her daughter, it seemed to her that both Darrius and Aunt Chickie had her confused for somebody that gave a shit what Belinda thought. Griff's interest in her or lack of interest in his wife was the province of the man, and she bore no responsibility. All she did was open up her home. It was time for wine and dreams.