Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  “Chill, girl.” His voice rolled lazily over her. “No law against hanging with my newest bandmate.”

  Sidra narrowed her eyes. As far as she knew, Evie was his newest bandmate. Unless the lineup had changed since he’d decided to mate with her.

  “Hi, Sid.” Seamus strolled out of the kitchen, shirtless. Her brother had a slice of bread smeared with peanut butter in one hand, folded over rather than cut. In the other, the quart of milk she had bought just yesterday.

  “Seamus is in your band now?” Sidra asked incredulously. Seamus chugged milk from the jug innocently, clearly unruffled about being in league with Satan. “Who quit? Or did you kick someone else out?”

  Lucifer’s lady-killer laugh struck again. “Relax, Sid Vicious. He’s not replacing anybody. He’s joined the road crew.” Sidra watched as her ex gingerly placed his newly strung guitar into its case with the same kind of care he used to lavish on her. How many songs had he played for her—hell, written for her on that old thing? Songs those new strings would probably never know, she realized, his fingers never quite falling on them in the same formation. The thought slammed Sidra’s emotions into protective lockdown, undoing hours of heart-opening yoga.

  “Seamus. On your road crew,” she echoed hollowly.

  “Yep. The Bold O’Danahys are hitting the road this summer. Someone’s gotta hawk the merch, and we’re gonna be too busy playing.”

  Idle hands were the devil’s workshop, yet Charlie was ever so busy forming and re-forming rock bands, using his father’s popular tavern on St. Mark’s as a base. His latest version was an Irish party band he called the Bold O’Danahys, a play on the old traditional folk song “The Bold O’Donahue.” Sidra would be the first to begrudgingly admit it: The band was good. But they weren’t good enough for her brother to waste his time on.

  Seamus may have lacked ambition these days, but he certainly didn’t lack musical prowess. Put any type of percussion in front of him and he could play the hell out of it. He had marched with the Boston Crusaders throughout his years at Harvard, effortlessly maintaining top grades while in the elite drum corps. Putting him behind the merch table instead of behind the kit was just another way for Charlie to keep Seamus under his thumb. And to sadistically push Sidra’s buttons.

  “We’re going all the way to the World Music Fest in Vancouver, Sid.” Seamus’s well-chiseled arm arced overhead, sandwich in hand. Sidra didn’t have the heart to call him out on his pathetic personal pronoun usage. She admired his sheer faith and love for the band, but not his illusions of being a real part of it. What was it Uncle Sully would always say? You can put all your hopes and dreams into the stars, but that doesn’t make you a constellation.

  “You’ll be selling T-shirts, Seamus. And bumper stickers. What about your jobs here?” And Dad, she thought. And me? She couldn’t imagine getting through the summer without Seamus here.

  “I’m sure the Naked Bagel can find someone else to bike their bagels around.” Charlie ruffled Seamus’s blond locks. “And Mikey will be psyched to cut two less paychecks at Revolve for us. It’s only a matter of time before Sully sells that wreck of a building out from under him anyway.”

  “My uncle would never sell.”

  Would he?

  Charlie shrugged. “Everybody has their price, doll.”

  His words stung. That wreck of a building had been in her family for three generations. But what did Charlie Danahy know about legacy? He didn’t care about long-term or the test of time. And he certainly didn’t care about her.

  She’d hoped that the growing income from the yoga classes, combined with the cushy pay from her suburban day camp job, would convince her uncle to keep the building in the family, or to at least let her lease-to-own. She hadn’t shared her plan with any of her family yet. And she certainly wasn’t about to say anything in front of Charlie, who was currently prodding three fingers into her brother’s ribs like a trident.

  “Come on, Shay. You haven’t even told her the best part yet.”

  “We’re opening for Anam-Atman!”

  Another thorn spiked in Sidra’s side. Another memory tainted by Charlie. He had been the one to discover the energetic Indrish East Village band, but Sidra had connected with them on a cosmic level. “Their name means soul in Gaelic. And Hindi,” Charlie loved to proclaim.

  She didn’t need him to tell her what it meant.

  Anam-Atman fused bhangra and Celtic music into a fantastic sound track, one that had run through Sidra and Charlie’s first summer together. She had finally gotten used to listening to her favorite band without him, and now they were going to be joined at the hip, on the road, with him—and Evie?

  “You’ll come see us, right?” Seamus asked eagerly. “The first show is at Irving Plaza next month.”

  “Then on to the Trocadero in Philly, the 9:30 Club in DC, the Middle East in Boston . . .” Charlie began ticking the itinerary off his forked tongue, but Sidra was done listening.

  She willed herself to let it go. Let it be the death of thoughts, of feelings that do not serve you; the release of everything you don’t need. But it was hard to embrace a mantra when Charlie’s eyes were on her, grinding her focus down to brittle dust. He leaned back smugly on her cheap IKEA stool, and Sidra wished it would collapse to tinder under him. Then catch fire. Burn in hell, Devil Man!

  She spied her lone flip-flop, the sole survivor from her adventure in the elevator with Mr. Import a couple weeks ago, in the jumble of sibling footwear by the front door. “Where’s our hammer, Shay?” she asked, plucking it from the pile.

  “Kitchen drawer, by the microwave.”

  Both men watched her as she marched past them, retrieved the hammer and a nail from the junk drawer, and made a beeline for her bedroom. While it would give her immense satisfaction to smack Charlie with the shoe—or with the hammer, for that matter—as she passed by, she refrained. She had bigger plans.

  Good. Riddance. Two strikes of the hammer punctuated her thought and impaled the thin rubber to the wall above her bed. At least Charlie would be out of her hair—and nowhere near her zip code—this summer.

  But Seamus, too? She hated the thought of exporting one of the good guys along with the bad.

  She hoped the borough would make up for it somehow. Manhattan owed her one.

  Sidra

  Goddess of Nighttime

  Sleep wasn’t coming easily. Sidra rolled her body to face the ceiling, listening for any evidence that her father was still awake upstairs. She had heard uneven footfalls and the squeaky protest of bedsprings about an hour earlier.

  It was the anniversary of a much noisier evening.

  Sidra sighed, kicking the sheet down before bringing the bottoms of her feet to touch each other. She kissed her shoulder blades together and let her arms fall away to a forty-five-degree angle. Inhaling deeply and exhaling fully, she felt her knees slowly sink to the bed. This was the pose she recommended to her students when they complained of insomnia. It went by many names: Supta Baddha Konasana, which was fun to say, or Reclining Bound Angle pose, which sounded technical. Sidra’s favorite choice of words was Nighttime Goddess Stretch. Her mother taught her this, her first pose, when Sidra was just five. Nervous to start kindergarten the next day, she had climbed into her parents’ bed, wriggling down like a worm between her mother and her father to inhale both their comforting scents. Her father was Old Spice, plain as that. Her mother was more complicated, a delicate balance of vanilla and cardamom-infused honey.

  “Oh, honey,” her mother had whispered when Sidra complained she couldn’t sleep. “It’s time you learned about the Goddess.” Although she had just barely opened them, her mother’s eyes were shining. “Jack . . . Jack. Out you go. Girls only!”

  Sidra had giggled as her father smacked sleepy kisses onto both their cheeks and stumbled to Sidra’s bedroom for alternate sleeping quarters. The bed was so big now, with a large warm indent. “This is now our island,” her mother had said. Sidra felt her dad’s abse
nce and missed him, but was excited to be marooned with just her mother. “Do you feel the moonlight on your face, on your belly?” Sidra did. “Do you hear the gentle waves lapping near your feet, your hands?” She did. Following instructions, she pressed her tiny feet together, splayed her little arms, and let all nervous thoughts drift away in the water. All that was left was a big goddess and a little goddess, relaxing on the sand. “We are the Goddesses of Nighttime.”

  She opened her eyes. Her dad was definitely sleeping now, as she heard the distant snores through the plaster and drywall. It wasn’t an irritating noise to Sidra at all, and wouldn’t keep her from sleeping. Her thoughts, on the other hand . . .

  A pale green light surrounded the doorjamb. There was either an alien abduction on East 5th Street or Seamus had fired up the Mac in the living room. Come summer and its humid nights, the door would swell enough to block the glow of his nighttime Internet trawling. Then again, come summer, Seamus would be gone.

  Sidra pushed her feet into slippers and padded down the hall. “Hey,” she said softly.

  Her brother greeted her with a distracted grunt. His broad shoulders concealed the screen, but she had no doubt he was checking the online dating sites. He belonged to all the popular ones, but spent most of his time and energy on the Indian-specific ones: Shaadi, Indian Cupid, and the one that made Sidra laugh the most: Simply Marry. As if there were anything simple about deciding who, when, where, and why to marry in the first place.

  Poor Seamus. He sounded so promising on paper—or, rather, on screen as bindaasboy76. Indian-Irish male, 31, vegetarian, Harvard-educated. But many of the Indian girls—or rather, their more traditional parents—were often shocked to find Seamus Sullivan, the blond-haired, light-skinned, hunky man-boy, at their door. He had stayed at Harvard long enough to pick up the Boston Irish accent, but not long enough to get a diploma or a high-powered career. In person, Seamus was often dismissed as quickly as pardesi, a foreigner no doubt out to snare a desi girl to cook and clean and cater to him without complaint.

  It made Sidra’s blood boil to think the majority couldn’t see beyond all that to notice the warm, dark eyes he’d inherited from their mother, herself a one-and-a-half-generation Indian-American. His steady, slim, artistic hands, also so like hers. And the dazzling smile she’d passed down to both her children. Sidra’s brother was loyal, sweet, crazy-smart, and interesting, with a heart of gold. And according to most of Sidra’s girlfriends, totally freakin’ hot. Pity none of them were Indian.

  “Sorry, did I wake you?” he finally thought to ask, tearing his eyes away from the screen.

  “Nah.” Plopping into the winged chair beside him, she added, “Hadn’t gotten that far yet. So, anyone new out there? What are your intentions?”

  Seamus let out a belly laugh. “Oh auntie, please!” It was their usual give-and-take banter, poking fun at and twisting the endless needling Sidra had received from various female relatives and family friends over the years. The questions had dwindled to the occasional hypothetical during her years with Charlie. Sidra had expected them to resume with a vengeance once they split, but it seemed most of the aunties had since given up hope; Sidra had, after all, hit the magic age considered the unmarriageable marker that year: thirty. And there were a bevy of younger cousins to benefit from such attentions, much to Sidra’s relief.

  Seamus’s finger tapped the wireless mouse as if he were sending out Morse code to the masses with the hope that just one sensational someone was out there to understand him. “I was just taking a look at some profiles out west. You know. It might be nice to chat with someone for a while and have someone new to meet up with when we hit Vancouver.”

  Sidra nodded, bit at a hangnail that was too short.

  “Spit it out, Sid. What’s up?” She knew he wasn’t talking about her finger maintenance; they were just ten months apart and closer than most siblings ever cared to be.

  “Did you remember what today is?”

  His eyes flicked to the clock above her head. There were just five minutes left to figure out today before it became yesterday. “May . . . ?”

  “It’s the day Mom told us she was pregnant.”

  Both of them immediately glanced where they always did when the topic came up: to the mother dove sculpture sitting on the console table behind the couch.

  The dove sculpture was one of the only remaining pieces left of their mother’s. And it was both of their favorite. There had been a heartbreaking tug-of-war over who should take it when the siblings had lived in separate quarters. But once Charlie moved out and Seamus moved back in, it became a moot point. Like the Blessed Mother statue that sat on Uncle Sully’s lawn (or Mary on the half-shell, as their cousin Mikey called her), the mother dove was a revered household fixture. Something silently considered, but rarely talked about.

  “Damn, remember the racket? You grabbed my hand and we ran, hid down here.”

  Sidra nodded. Mr. Rosenthal, their parents’ longtime tenant and friend, had recently vacated the furnished ground-floor apartment. When their dad got to shouting, it became a good place to seek refuge. They had hidden behind the nubby brown-and-gold plaid couch after the first piece of pottery smashed on the hardwood floor above. They had cowered as more burst against the walls and their mother begged him to stop. He wasn’t happy at all with her news, but the Irish Catholic in him felt powerless to do anything about it.

  “How the hell did you remember it was today?” Seamus demanded, running his hand through his thick locks. It was a nervous habit going on almost three decades. There were times Sidra had to take the shears to his head just to release his fingers; his hair was that thick, and tensions were often that high.

  “I always remember it was Akshaya Tritiya,” Sidra murmured. She remembered her mother’s excitement upon discovering her happy news coincided with one of the luckiest days on the Hindu calendar, her eyes shining like black-gold star sapphires. It’s a day for a new journey, my love. Both the moon and the sun are at their brightest on Akshaya Tritiya.

  At ten years old, Sidra solemnly absorbed what her mother told her about the auspicious day and made promises to her mother about it. Promise me when you find the man who makes you happiest in your heart, you will choose Akshaya Tritiya as the day to marry him. You will love him, like I love your father, forever and always.

  Akshaya meant endless.

  It had been the wrong journey for their mother.

  Sidra stared hard at the mother dove. She had been fired in a beautiful white, almost translucent glaze, and in the dim computer light appeared luminescent. Her breast was puffed full and proud, and at her wings, although not completely under them, sat two smaller doves, gazing up lovingly at her. Sidra loved the way her head wasn’t bowed in one particular direction or the other, as if she didn’t want to play favorites, and loved them equally.

  Why hadn’t two been enough for her?

  “Whoa, wait . . . wait. That means today—it’s also your anniversary with Charlie, right? Shit, I’m sorry, Sid. I never would’ve had him over today if—”

  “It’s okay. I broke up with him, remember?”

  “Yeah, but still. Jeez, I can’t even remember Akshaya Tritiya. And I call myself desi?”

  Sidra smiled. “It follows the lunar calendar. So it doesn’t always fall on the same day.” But this year it did. Just like it did the year she met Charlie. Omens and opportunities, as their mother would say.

  Seeing Charlie in the rain that day, of all days. Normally the city-bred chick in her would’ve blown right past some stranger trying to pick her up under an umbrella. But it was Akshaya Tritiya.

  Omens and opportunities.

  People clamored to marry on Akshaya Tritiya, to start a new venture. It was a day to buy gold and wear gold. And a day to do charitable acts. Sidra usually spent it with her aunts, volunteering in soup kitchens on the Bowery or raising money for AWB Food Bank, a project in India similar to Meals on Wheels. But the holiday was always a bittersweet one f
or her.

  After meeting Charlie, she had been happy to shift some positive connotation to the day. And she always remembered her promise to her mother. When Charlie proposed a year ago, she reached for a Hindu calendar to plan their happy day. So much for planning . . .

  “Dang, I should’ve been on these sites earlier then!” Seamus bemoaned. “Tons of action on Akshaya Tritiya.”

  “No doubt.” Sidra laughed. “Well, there’s always next year. We’ll don some gold bling and take you out on the town. Till then, you always have the west.”

  His whole demeanor changed. “Oh, Sid. I am itching for the west! A change of scenery will do me some good. I feel bad leaving you and Jack, though.”

  Both children had begun referring to their father by his first name several years ago. Never to his face, mind you. But in mixed company, saying “Jack threw up on the rug again” or “Jack didn’t sleep in his bed last night” sounded more harmless, as if scolding the family dog. “You’ll never believe what Jack did yesterday.” In unspoken agreement, they just left any mention of a father figure out of it. They loved him, but he wasn’t much of one once summer rolled around. He was fine during school semesters, when he took his role as distinguished NYU professor seriously, but come the heat of the summer, he fell apart. He refused to take on summer classes, to go on sabbatical, nothing doing. It was his time to mourn. And remember. It had been like that every year since their mother passed, and they knew to expect it.

  “Jack will be fine. Besides, you and Charlie handled him for a month last summer while I was away at my yoga retreat, so it’s my turn. My camp day ends at two o’clock, and I’ll be back in the city by four. I’ll make sure there’s food in him each night after yoga. And on weekends, too.” She didn’t need to waste her free time at the beach anyway. She’d fit in more yoga classes this way, maybe even a kids’ yoga workshop. There was money to be had in the prenatal baby yoga craze right now.

  “Molly’s called. The credit card for his tab expired and he won’t give them a new one.”