When the party ended late that morning and Sidarra was forty and almost a day, she realized that being a queen had never felt so good. Only Raul would never get to see that. For that night was the last time Sidarra would ever lay eyes upon him.
24
ONE NIGHT OUT OF NOWHERE, but just as Griff once predicted, thugs multiplied.
Three young men, one of them a juvenile, were viewed on a hidden security camera as they crept one by one through the vestibule of an apartment building on East 112th Street in Spanish Harlem, each wearing jackets too bulky even for the early morning temperature. A fourth man played lookout from a doorway across the street. No one but Manny, Raul’s dealer friend, was inside at the time, and he almost didn’t catch the figures twitching across the black-and-white surveillance monitor. He wasn’t expecting anyone to come to his lab that late, so when he heard the knock at his door, he assumed a crouch in a place he had established for that purpose and tripped off the safety on the Tech-Nine. The TV was on. “¿Qué?” he called out over it. Manny never should have spoken. When he did, they started stomping the door. The steel frame and deadbolt held them for several rounds until one of them sprayed the door with gunfire. A few more crashing blows and the door flew open. One by one as they stepped inside, Manny blasted away with the automatic rifle. Some fell but did not die. One got inside and rolled to behind a wall. Gun smoke filled the room. Shrieks and screams rang out across the building. Somehow immediately, sirens cried near. The bullets splashed and battered plaster, ricocheting into limbs and bone. In a minute they were coming from all directions, from downstairs into the hallway, from the hallway down the stairs and into the apartment, and in the apartment everywhere. A cop was hit, but he did not die. Manny was shot through the side, but he would not die either. He killed one intruder. The cops killed the other two, and the lookout tried to get away but couldn’t get far.
That was Tyrell, who, after he met Raul, was still many years from ever walking well. Which is why eventually Tyrell was allowed to be in the same Manhattan criminal courtroom with Manny awaiting arraignment even though they were on opposite sides of the same crime. Manny had a private lawyer. Tyrell was assigned to Griff by the court. The charges against Manny were going to take some time. Although it is illegal to have an exotic drug laboratory in your apartment and to fire and possess an unlicensed assault rifle, a lot would depend on exactly what drugs they were, how much, and why the weapon was fired. There were still many tests to perform and several trails to follow. Yet as much good doubt as his lawyer sowed in all the confusion, she couldn’t get Manny out of police custody in the hospital. As soon as he was well enough to leave, he’d go directly into a holding facility, probably Rikers Island. Tyrell was already being held at Rikers. So far, the charges were pretty clear. He was part of a violent felony conspiracy to commit a robbery in which a cop was shot. That linked him to a gun he never fired. There was no bail to make and little Griff could do for him.
“I don’t envy your situation, young man,” Griff told him the day they met before the brief court appearance. It was their first private conversation. “How you feeling? You scared?”
Whatever cool Tyrell used to have had been pretty well whupped out of him by Raul the night of Sidarra’s Labor Day party. He was thin from drugs, his face permanently crooked, eyes bloodshot, and his leg was swelling up again. His sullen demeanor roamed between indifference and resignation. “Why should I be scared?” he whispered. “’Cause I’m going up?”
“Nah, son,” Griff answered. “That would be good news. You should be scared about trying to rob a well-connected chemist who’s gonna want to make you dead wherever you go.”
“Yeah? I didn’t know, man,” he said, looking adrift in the cramped wooden chair of the interview pen.
“You didn’t know the cats you were helping?” Griff asked in mock disbelief.
“Not really. I know ’em like you know somebody in a crack house or a pool hall.” There was nothing to see on the pale green walls, and Tyrell’s fidgeting eyes could barely focus anyway. “I’m just hurt, man. See my leg? It don’t work. I just needed drugs, that’s all I wanted. Manny the only one got that crazy WeeWah dope. This shit right here don’t never stop hurtin’.”
Griff remained firm, but his eyes softened a little with compassion. “Then I’m afraid you’re gonna have to be the nicest guy in the infirmary, Tyrell. And I don’t know if you pray, but, my man, if you do, you need to pray they don’t find out more about what your dead friends were really into.”
“Don’t even ask me, yo. I don’t even know.”
Griff didn’t ask him what the hell WeeWah was either, because he really didn’t need to know yet.
HE WORE HIS SUNDAY-BEST charcoal suit. She wore a long gold satin robe.
“How ’bout that Mike Tyson?” Sidarra asked Michael as she sat across the breakfast table from him. They had not been together the night before; they had not been together at night for a long time. But Michael had cornered her into what he called a very important brunch at her home, one he tried for weeks to have with her. Sidarra was still riding her birthday high, joking more than usual, unable to hide the acute attractiveness of a woman in love. Michael didn’t know why. What explanations he had were his own concoction. The busier she became with the new life she was making, the deeper he thought their love could be. Today, while Sidarra was giddy, he was nervous. When Michael felt nervous, he wasn’t funny or very interesting; his thick skin hung heavy from his face, and he just looked old. He watched her pore over the sports section as if nothing were up.
“Iron Mike back in the news?” he asked.
“Does he ever leave it?”
“I wish he’d leave me some of his money.”
She glanced above the page at Michael for a second. “Me too,” she said. And he’d make a worthy joint, she thought.
Lots of things about Sidarra moved Michael. He sat there re-enchanted with her clear, soulful voice, how her hair pulled back that way opened her cheekbones to morning light and the full lemons of her lips. She was a mother like his had been, a friend to her daughter with a whip in her pocket. She was a civil servant, but unlike him, she must have had a plan. Michael had gotten over what that said about him. Sidarra was young; she still had the best to make of herself. Yet now the fact that she actually read the sports section, well, that’s a wife. No sooner did he see his chance than Sidarra grabbed the first section of the paper from him.
“You through with that?”
“Sure, darling. Sure I am.” He watched her smile and relieve him of the newspaper, not sure how he was gonna change the moment. “Nothing but awful in the world today,” he added.
But the moment sure changed on its own as soon as Sidarra’s eyes reached the lower right-hand corner of the front page. “You gotta be kidding me!” she exclaimed, putting a hand over her mouth. “Did you read this, Michael?”
“About that schools chancellor, Jack Eagleton?”
Oh no, Michael thought. Whatever it is was only gonna make this harder. Any other day he would want to make up for lost weekends discussing the news of the world with Sidarra, but not this one. “I glanced at it briefly,” he said. “Guy’s still dead, ain’t he?”
“This says they think he was murdered, Michael.” Sidarra read on with interest. Michael’s heavy eyelids followed her eyeballs as they moved back and forth across the page like an old typewriter. “They did an autopsy, which raised a few questions at the time but nothing ‘forensically indicative,’ the medical examiner said.”
“Meaning what? Natural causes?”
“That’s what they thought at that time,” she answered, still reading the page. “But somebody ordered an investigation, and it’s been open for months. Going on almost a year now.”
Michael was trying hard to care. “So what’d they find out?”
“Wait a minute,” she said, squinting over the words and reaching to turn to the page where the story continued. She read on. “Nothing. Th
ey found nothing certain. But now they think they discovered a trace substance in his blood, a drug it says he was not known to take.”
“But that’s how it always is, isn’t it? You got this fine, upstanding ofay. Rich as Rockefeller, been to all the best schools, ran a bunch of colleges, pillar of the community, skybox, first-table, black-tie guy. What happens? He’s a pedophile. He’s a pill-popper. Spied for the Commies. Always somethin’ like that. Those guys are never what they make ’em out to be, you know, Sid?”
Sidarra had gone away in her thoughts. For a fleeting moment she was stuck in the flashback she had imagined of Eagleton’s wife coming home to her husband dead on the floor. For months—who knows how long—the woman must have lived in the shadow of his death, in his clothes-hanging idle, his saliva still staining certain glasses, his voice lingering in the air. But now somebody else was there with her. Now that Mrs. Eagleton knew he hadn’t died naturally, he may not have died alone. It was all too much for Sidarra to think about right away.
“Sidarra, honey, there’s something I’ve been thinking about. I want to tell you, but from the look on your face right now, I’m not sure this is the best time.”
“What, Michael?” she snapped out of her daydream. “There’s never a good time.”
“Well,” he started, then thought better. “I gotta say. I don’t remember you having this kind of reaction when the guy died the first time.”
“He was murdered!” she yelled. Her voice echoed up the high walls and surprised them both. Michael blinked hard. “I mean, he was murdered, sweetie. That’s different than dropping dead. And, you know, there’ll be gossip in my office now that they’re investigating this. This is all anybody’s gonna talk about.” Her eyes dropped as she considered her next thought. “They’ll probably want to talk to folks at the Board. I don’t know. But that’s all, Michael. I didn’t mean to shout at you. That’s all it is. Just shock. Now, talk to me about whatever it is you wanted to say.”
There is a reason Michael had never done this before in fifty-three years of living, and this was probably it. He cleared his throat and looked at her. When the intensity of his gaze failed to match the intensity of hers, he looked away and cleared his throat again. Then he coughed.
“Want some water?” she asked.
“No, I’m all right. Well, maybe so.” She handed him the glass beside his plate. He drank hard from it, slurping and spilling a little as though it were stronger than water. He looked over at her again and smiled. Then he took a deep breath and fished inside the pocket of his blazer. Whatever he took out he covered more quickly than Sidarra could see. He clasped it in his trembling hands and reached across the table to hers. “Your Aunt Chickie thought me babysitting was birthday present enough, but I knew better. Here you go, Sidarra. I hope you like it.”
It was a small black box about the size of his palm. An odd feeling breezed through her, and her eyes opened wide. However, the sight of the thing did the trick he had intended, distracting her from seeing him drop down on one knee beside her. She opened it. Michael scooted closer to her lap.
“Michael!” she gasped.
“Look, I know it’s nothing compared to what you can do for yourself these days. But I promise there’s more where that came from. In my heart, I mean.”
“Oh, Michael.” She stared for a while at the delicate gold ring afloat in a blue velvet pond. The stone was no more than half a carat, but it had its brilliant little eye on her. No diamond had ever looked at her that way.
“Listen, Sid.” His eyes nearly shut with sincerity. His lips still trembled slightly. “I know I haven’t been the best guy to you all the time. I’ve been stubborn sometimes, and I know you think I was trying to hold you back. But I wasn’t. I was learning. I was trying to learn from you, but I couldn’t always keep up with you, to tell you the truth. Now, I realize that’s not the best recipe. But folks do stranger things in this world. I know. I’ve been in it a bit longer than you. And I already know I’m not the prettiest man and that sometimes you might want that. I could be a lot smarter. But the thing I got on a lot of fellas is how you’ll never wonder if I’m there when you turn around. I got your back, woman. I wanna be there all the time. You mean the world to me, Sidarra. I would do anything if you say you’ll be my wife, darling. Please?”
“Oh, Michael,” she repeated. Sidarra really didn’t know what to say. There are songs for moods like this, but few words she could muster. She passed her eyes lovingly over his face and down his bent frame. Michael looked so gentle and gallant and pure just then. She smiled and leaned down to kiss him softly on the edge of his lips. He closed his eyes. She lifted herself away a little, and her gaze returned to the ring shining up into the late morning light. “I wish I knew what to say. I know I want to say thank you. I know I want to disagree with a lot of the things you just told me, but now I can’t remember them all. You’re a lovely man. You’ve been a prince to Raquel. She loves you. I love you.” He waited and waded through her words, hoping to reach the other side with her. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you will, Sidarra. It’s easier than you think. People grow old saying other things, baby.”
“I can’t.”
He paused. “Then don’t. Don’t say nothing now. Think about it. Don’t tell me today. I’ve made you wait almost four years. I can wait. We’re not going anyplace, right?” She nodded. He paused again. “Would you at least do me the favor of trying it on?”
“Why, Michael?”
“Why?” He scratched his head. “Well, because for one thing it might not fit and I’ve been dying to know.”
She looked at the tempting jewel glistening against the dark background. Sidarra wanted to free it from the box and see it cover her finger, but that might turn a long-held fantasy of hers into the start of a true story for him. “I’m not sure I can do that just yet, Michael. That doesn’t feel like the right thing to do now.”
He sat back over his heels on the kitchen floor, a little crestfallen but ready to be mature about it. Michael clasped his hands together and rested them on his lap. “You call it, Sid. I respect whatever you want to do.”
25
THEY HAD TO GET AWAY TOGETHER. While Michael waited for Sidarra’s answer, somebody else would have to look after Raquel. Sidarra had never been more than an hour away from her baby, let alone in another country. Aunt Chickie was fast becoming the master of the house and, offended by the notion that she couldn’t care for a ten-year-old, agreed to watch Raquel while Sidarra took a weekend away with Griff. It was her first vacation in many years. Griff explained only that he was starting to get a bad feeling and thought they should escape for some fun. When she asked what he thought of the news about Eagleton’s death, he was quiet. Without mentioning Manny or Tyrell by name, Griff vaguely mentioned his suspicions about a botched robbery and shoot-out at a drug lab in Spanish Harlem. It was just a bad feeling, he said, and Raul seemed to have something to do with it, since he grew up around the block. Sidarra wanted no part of bad feelings. She wanted only the feeling of being in love. To share it, they chose the one place Griff said he wanted to visit before he died: Belize.
The world visible below the clouds seemed to bend beneath her eye as the plane crossed borders she’d only heard existed. Short notice prevented them from getting a direct flight, so they had to connect through Chicago and travel straight down the continent. You could not see the border separating Mexico from Texas, but the pilot announced that it was there below. She held Griff’s hand most of the way, though they sat in their dark shades and light colors and said very little. Behind their glasses, they looked worried and married; before them, cool. Sidarra stared downward at the earth. Her fingernails recorded everything new against Griff’s palm, a huge glistening sea, a long deserted beach, sparsely covered mountains that dipped and tailed and peaked, then a vast flatness of scrappy greens and broken roads.
Griff leaned over and looked out for a minute with her. “It looks like the Sout
hwest,” he said.
“I’ve never been.”
“I went there once, and I’ve crossed over it a few times on West Coast flights. Like it wants to be desert, but occasionally the plants win out over the dirt. It’s almost ugly.”
“I wonder,” she said. “I have two brothers in the Southwest.” Sidarra tried to imagine what her own flesh and blood was thinking, living every day in a landscape like that.
Belize was not ugly. Whatever gnarled tropical woods preceded it was but a greater power’s preparation. The lazy sands were multicolored, and the beaches free and unpeopled to the water. Miles of long, bending palm trees contorted and competed to touch the aquamarine waves first. When Griff and Sidarra reached their villa, a small bungalow nestled not far from the shore, they undressed and made love. The small, mosquito-netted bed squeaked and squealed under the humid dance of their bodies. Afterward they drifted in the warm buoyancy of the water and let the sun impress them with a souvenir shine.
Sidarra had never been the curvaceous bronze figure strolling with the dark, handsome statue man on vacation commercials. She had not even prepared herself for that. The only thing they knew about the trip beforehand was that they had to go. They needed distance and clarity and, as Raquel would say, comfort. Undisturbed, they could think. They could be married or whoever they wanted to be. They could be wiser than fate as things changed back home, and they could talk about them.
But they didn’t talk much. Not because Sidarra was afraid to know how Eagleton was killed, but because she was deliberately distracted. She and Griff went into town and watched people. They ate foods they should not have and lived to laugh about it. They raced each other in the sand. They held each other’s body aloft in the water. They found simple things they’d never seen before in each other’s faces and in the faces of the people walking proudly and slowly among them. The people walked so slow. The foliage raged supreme. The days lasted only as long as they were supposed to, and then the sun burned its way out again. That didn’t seem to bother anybody. Sidarra had never known that. Why couldn’t black folks all over do this? she briefly wondered. Then it was time to make love again.
The Importance of Being Dangerous Page 24