Loving Day

by Mat Johnson

  The writing, the proofreading, the balancing of directness over noncommittal pleasantry, it all takes an unexpectedly long time. I send it and head to the kitchen to find food scraps to sustain me for the next few hours, when my phone pings and Roslyn’s text comes through.

  Come see me, honey.

  There’s no way she could have read a word. I check the time stamp on the phone with the one on the laptop still in my hand. Two minutes. So maybe she could have read the whole thing, but there is no way in my understanding of reality that this happened.

  Are you free in one hour? I text back to her.

  Come to me now, my warrior child, she texts back to me so fast I think at first it’s an automated reply.

  I put on a blazer before I go over there, because I am not a child, I am a man, a grown-ass one. A crisp shirt with a tag inside that says, DRY CLEAN ONLY. I take an extra ten minutes to iron my jeans as well, until their starched legs become my armor, for I am a warrior. I look at myself in the mirror. Then I take the whole thing off and put on a suit. And a tie.

  —

  “Look at you, all cleaned up and some such.”

  “You look lovely as well.” She does. Roslyn looks more formal than I do, a full suit with pants, a silk shirt, hair pulled back in an aerodynamic slick perfect for lunging.

  “You look like you mean business, Warren. So let’s do business. Come in.”

  Her cottage-looking trailer is set off at the farthest end of the Halfie Heights, the Victorian country house of RVs. The roof has wooden octagon shingles, stained so you can still see the grain. The cedar siding of the little box is vertical, in the New England fashion. Past the intricate white latticework of the porch railings, I see she’s painted its ceiling haint blue. I move through her open door. The whole living room is a card table with two seats.

  One, a Shaker chair, sits by a ladder leading up to a cubby loft of a bed. The other seat doubles as a windowsill, and when I crawl into it I have to be careful not to lean back and burst through the glass.

  “Let us have coffee. Something about the aroma, it reminds me of professional efficiency. Don’t you agree?”

  I don’t, but do. I can already smell it, and I don’t feel particularly efficient at the moment. I feel a bit confused. I’ve been largely avoiding this woman since she moved her people here. I’ve seen her, but rarely alone, and now we’re crowded into a room so tightly we’re like twins in a wooden womb.

  When she finally sits down Roslyn has, in addition to coffee, two binders in her hands.

  “Well, I read your email, and I reviewed your initial asking price. And I found it interesting.” She picks up her coffee with both hands, takes a sip from it, and holds it there. Smiling. I wait for her to say something more. She doesn’t. She just grins at me. I unpack her words for her, because they’re the only ones I have. Initial. She leaned on it too, just enough to get it noticed. And she’s still staring. Still smiling.

  “I mean, it could be adjusted. If you’re interested—and I think things have been going very well and people are getting settled in and making a home here. So I’m sure we can come up with something fair for the whole family.”

  My emphasized word is family. Because that includes me too.

  “I know, and poor Tal—so sorry for her loss. I understand she might be going to a private college in Washington next school year? That’s so soon. I understand what a burden that will be for you.”

  She has so much concern that it compels her to take her hand off her coffee mug and grab my fingers, which had been tapping loosely on the table. Roslyn holds my thumb up to the light. “You need to cut your nails,” she says, before I can release myself.

  “The thing is,” she tells me, “I’ve been thinking about other options. Not only in this area, but nationally. We can only afford to buy one property. Just one. So we have to ensure it’s absolutely the right one, do you understand? For the betterment of our community.”

  The other hand puts down the coffee, pulls over one of her folders, and hands it to me. It’s full of maps. I turn a few of the pages, find Wikipedia articles in there too. Places. Towns, counties. Yellow highlights over “Population Density” and “Racial Makeup.” I know these articles. Because I’ve read them. Because I’ve given them to my students. They’re tri-racial isolate locations.

  “I don’t think—I mean, Natchitoches Parish, Louisiana?” I say pointing one out.

  “Such a beautiful natural landscape. Right on the Cane River, Creole country. So rich in history. And we’d fit in well there. Visually, at least. We could have an amazing Loving Day celebration, out in the fields. Spider’s leaving to scout it as we speak.”

  “Yeah, but it’s also in the middle of nowhere. Look: ‘230 miles to New Orleans.’ You’re trying to build something. You want to be in the middle of a vibrant territory. Conveniently located in a major metropolitan area, easily commutable to New York City, Baltimore, and Washington, D.C. And for the price I’m talking about—”

  “A million dollars to live in a ghetto?”

  “I find that term offensive,” I tell her. “A million two for a mansion and seventy acres in the fifth largest city in the country.” I pause. I have dropped $100,000 off the asking price to win an argument. I am amazed and infuriated by my own magnanimity. The sigh, I let it go. Mixed with the CO2 are my dreams. And then I suck it back in, because it’s all a tell, and I must show her nothing.

  “I love your passion. Look at you, the fire! I’m so proud that you’ve moved past your, you know, sorrow.” I blush. The reddening of my cheeks is a breach in my defenses, but I’m helpless. “If you ever need a good cry again just know that I’m here for you.”

  “Germantown is an up-and-coming neighborhood!” actually comes out of my mouth.

  “I agree. For eight hundred thousand, I could make the argument that it’s worth the risk of seeing to the truth of that. It’s not the safest of places, is it, though? The pathology of poverty, of all that’s been done to our fellow black people. The effects of institutional racism. It’s all just past the fence.”

  “Not one person has been mugged, robbed, attacked, or otherwise harmed in the months that you guys—that we—we all moved here.” This is actually a true statement. Not once, not one reported assault of any kind. It’s a miracle, really. God protects fools, horses, and mulattoes.

  “You’re right. Nothing’s happened. And we are all so thankful for that, and for you giving our clan the opportunity to be here—”

  “And I’m happy you’re here, and I want you to stay and thrive forever,” I say with all the earnestness I feel about this statement. I don’t want to be here with them, or for Tal to be—or Sun, I want her with me—but I would love to see them stay here. Except Spider; it’d be cool if he came with us, if he wants.

  “But to make it truly fit, it would mean making substantial changes. Significant investment. Turn to the end of the book.”

  I do, and I can feel her watching me. I struggle getting the thick sheets over their little rails, curse in the process, but in all that time Roslyn is unmoving, focused on the pages.

  “This is here,” I say when I see it. A map. A map of Loudin Estate. I recognize it from the shape of the property, the names of streets to the north and east. But the house placement is all wrong. And there are other structures as well, ones that don’t exist outside this ink. “Why is the mansion over here, in the back?”

  “Because that’s where we’d have to move it. It’s the only way we could maximize the site for further construction. That house is hogging all the space, don’t you agree? It’s a simple process, really. Workers cut the building into smaller pieces, then snap them together like LEGOs, apparently.”

  “It’s got historical restrictions, you can’t just—”

  “If they can move Alexander Hamilton’s house, twice, we can move a house once owned by somebody nobody remembers. That’s not just my opinion either, that’s my lawyers’. My lawyers are amazing. But expensive.
So you see why I couldn’t possibly offer you a penny over nine hundred thousand dollars.”

  “No. No, that’s not, that’s not the range we’re talking about here. A million one, maybe. But I can’t just give this away.”

  “It’d be a shame if we had to go away, I agree. But you must see, Mélange could thrive in any of the places in that binder. There’s even an island in there. Sometimes, I think our own island would be the best place for us to be.”

  “The First Couple says different.” I thought, in the moment “The First Couple” passed my lips, that it would sound silly. Overly momentous. But it doesn’t. It sounds like scripture. It sounds like canon. Still, Roslyn smiles wide, wraps one hand around her waist, the other to her chin, pulls back to take in the whole of me. “And they are in that house, nowhere else. I saw them,” I continue. In this moment, I don’t know which of us is infidel, which is believer.

  “Your daughter sees and believes in them. Others are listening, I’ll give you that.”

  “They are. And Tal’s going to college next year, and I have to take care of her. And if it means selling this whole place to someone else, ghosts and all, for one point two million, I’ll have to do it. You see the bind I’m in here. I want this for you.” I reach out my hand toward her and hold it there, wait for her to take it. Roslyn looks at it like it’s an appendage she’s never seen before, then relaxes and finally grips it before I can prove myself a fool. “For all of you. For all of us. Our clan.”

  “Tal is us too, now,” Roslyn says, and I smile because who cares what she means by this. It’s positive, so we’re going in the right direction.

  “Look. A million one. Say one word, one syllable, and we can make this happen,” I tell her.

  “One million,” she says, and my relief is so great I don’t care that she smiles like she’s won.

  —

  When I call Sirleaf to go over the details, I remember to ask him if Tosha has been in contact about her divorce, which of course she hasn’t. A few texts later, Tosha agrees to let us all meet at her house, a compromise only reached after she first tries to decline based on needing a sitter. So, two hours later, when I arrive at Tosha’s door, bottle of the best champagne that can be bought on Chelten Avenue in hand, I expect to see them both, and do. What I don’t expect to see is the image of Sirleaf Day, on Tosha’s couch, getting his foot massaged. By Tosha. Right there in her living room.

  “Do you really want to do that?” I ask her, putting the bottle on the coffee table.

  “What’s wrong with my feet? This is a legitimate exchange for my expert legal advice,” Sirleaf protests.

  “Did you actually get any divorce advice?” I ask Tosha.

  “Not now. I’m taking a five-day training course in Kansa Vatki. I have to practice.”

  “That’s right, she has to practice!” Sirleaf insists. Tosha looks over at me only to roll her eyes, then gets back to rubbing like the last hope for the universe can be found in this old man’s corns. Sirleaf moans, lifts the couch pillow he’s holding off his face just long enough to look at me, moans again, and drops it to the floor.

  “We carry our stress in our feet,” Tosha tells me. “Or our feet carry it, or something, shit, I don’t know—I’m only two days in,” she adds, when my look of confusion doesn’t dissipate. Both sentences come with a frown, because she knows me well enough to anticipate my response without me having to say it.

  “Sirleaf? We got to talk about the finances,” I say. This at least gets Sirleaf to stop moaning and open his eyes again.

  “Everything’s fucked, son—excuse me Natasha, forgive me. I should say ‘FUBAR,’ to use the polite acronym. Because, I’m not going to lie to you Warren, it is definitely ‘fucked up beyond all repair.’ ”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “She’s gonna leave me, man! Can you believe this shit?”

  “What? Look, can we just handle my business first?”

  “My woman wants us to move to fucking Brazil!” He stops himself again, looks to Tosha. She ignores his cursing, puts his foot down, shoots more oil into her hand. “First, she starts talking about us going on a couples counseling trip to Bahia. Afrocentric couples counseling! Can you believe that shit? I give in there; next thing you know, she’s talking about moving there. We haven’t even gone yet. Brazil! To find herself! Woman’s sitting right there!” Sirleaf screams, as if stabbed.

  “You gonna work it out,” I tell him. I don’t believe it. I believe she’s going to leave him, because I believe that is the way of the world. But I believe he will love again, because he’s Sirleaf Day. And I feel optimistic in this moment too, because I thought the FUBAR had to do with my personal finance. “Well, we got an offer on the house, so at least things are working well on the business side. It’s low, but after we pay the bank, there will still be enough for Tal.” I can’t help the cheer in my voice, because it’s so simple now. Not as much money as an insurance payoff, but so much less risk. No literal flames, just metaphorical ones.

  “That’s fantastic! Because it turns out your ex-wife really is suing you.”

  He means it. “Becks?” I ask.

  “How many ex-wives you got?” He’s not kidding. He’s just curious.

  “But you said she couldn’t since she’s not an American citizen.”

  “She will be soon. She married an American. Name’s Albert Jackson, got a law office in Manhattan and everything. But it’s cool—”

  “It’s not cool. It’s the opposite of cool. It’s specifically a hot mess. I don’t have the money I owe her yet. It’s—”

  “Calm down—we just sign the property over to your daughter. No problem. That will protect you.”

  Tosha looks at me, to gauge my reaction. I don’t have one yet to give to her. The fact that Becks is remarried stirs no part of me that hasn’t died already. The idea of my daughter, my future, getting my future, seems a minor adjustment of formality.

  “Your father’s will already states it belongs to you or your descendants. We give it to her in a trust till she turns eighteen. When’s Tal’s birthday?”

  “In May sometime. A couple of weeks.”

  “Perfect, so we got no problem. Trust me, I’m not about to let someone steal Craig Duffy’s legacy. Ain’t gonna happen. Paperwork’s already done.”

  “And this will limit my liability?”

  Sirleaf cannot be bothered to answer such silly questions. Instead, he motions to the coffee table. I get up, go to get the paperwork. Tosha gives Sirleaf the tap on his feet to say her work is done, and rises up next to me.

  “My hands.” Tosha frowns when Sirleaf leaves, hustling to the sink and letting it run hot. After five minutes, she’s still standing there, rubbing them down, reapplying soap.

  “If it’s that nasty for you, why?”

  “Jesus washed feet. It’s got a strong tradition,” Tosha says, repeatedly rubbing down her hands with a full-sized towel. She won’t look up at me. “I have to grow. I need to be more nurturing. I need to be more giving, as a person.”

  “Do you actually believe that? Because that seems like some bullshit. That seems like some George bullshit, specifically.”

  “Don’t say anything about him. Don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. George came over, last weekend. He spent the night.”

  “Okay. So is he leaving the other woman?”

  “Thanks for the whole faux boyfriend thing. It worked. Men are so possessive.”

  “Right, but is he leaving the white woman?”

  “I can rescue this,” Tosha answers by not addressing my questions at all. “I just have to give him what he wants. It’s that simple. He wants nurturing: I give him nurturing. That’s what a wife is supposed to do. No biggie. That’s the only thing I can do. I can’t just leave. I want to. I’m so sick of his shit. But the kids,” Tosha says, and lets the sentence fragment explain itself.

  “He already left. If he leaves her and comes
back to you just out of duty, do you really want him?” I ask her, and she avoids me by going to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine, and pouring it all the way up to her glass’s edge. “You can end something that’s hurting you,” I answer for her. “You can. You’re allowed.”

  “Well, you are the expert on divorcing,” Tosha tells me, but there’s no malice in it.

  “I am.”

  “Divorce isn’t the answer for everyone. Every problem looks like a nail when you’re a hammer.”

  “Yo, some problems are fucking nails.”

  Tosha pours me a glass too, a shallower one. I pull out my phone, go to YouTube and Tal’s video, and in explaining it give us both a chance to talk about something else.

  “Crackheads,” is what Tosha says when it’s done.

  “That’s what I said!” Tosha gets me. We know. We know Germantown. And we know there is nothing exotic here. We know Philly.

  “They must have had a ladder or something. Who knows? They’re crackheads. Or meth heads—one of them’s white, you never know, she could have hooked that brother. Probably trying to break in through the second-floor window.”

  “You can’t see in the tape too well, but they did look like they were fucking. It was crazy.”

  “Crackheads are crazy. You definitely got a crackhead problem.” Tosha walks me back out to the couch, lies down on it. I follow, force her to stay in the moment.

  “No, I don’t have a problem, the Mélange Center for Multiracial Life has a problem. Once we do this deal, we’re gone. Tal’s off to Washington, and I’m free to follow.” It’s this that gets Tosha to turn around.

  “That’s who you’re selling to? Are you serious? They’re going to be here forever?”

  “Okay, they’re a little kooky, granted, but they’re harmless. Nobody cares about their little Mulattopia. Nobody is even going to notice them.”

  “Did you see how many views it got?”