by Janice Sims
“Service starts at eleven,” Nick told her. “I’d better pick you up at 9:30. That’ll give us time to go by and pick up Mom and Nona and still hopefully find a parking space.”
“I’ll be ready,” Belana assured him.
Taking her face between his hands, Nick looked deeply into her honey brown depths. “Do you know what you’re getting into? Dealing with a teenager is like walking a tightrope over the Grand Canyon without a harness.”
Belana smiled encouragingly. “Let her give me her best shot, I’m ready for her.”
Nick pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly. He hoped so, because he was beginning to envision a future with Belana Whitaker.
On Sunday morning Odell Clark Place, which was formerly known as 138th Street, was crowded. Belana had done a little research after Nona had told her she attended Abyssinian Baptist Church with her grandmother. The church had been founded in 1808 when a group of black New Yorkers and Ethiopian seamen refused to be relegated to the segregated section in the First Baptist Church in the city of New York. After over two hundred years the Gothic and Tudor-style church stood as a testament to the strength and resilience of its members and was one of the most famous churches in New York City.
After she, Nick, Nona and Yvonne were seated on one of the pews in the front of the edifice, Belana glanced up at the stained-glass windows. They were beautiful depictions of Bible scenes. Nona was right, she decided, you do feel closer to God in here. She’d read that in 1937 this church had the largest congregation of any church in the United States with over 4000 members. At that time, Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. had been the pastor. Nat King Cole and his wife, Maria, had been married here and a host of other couples, famous and otherwise.
Belana turned her head to observe the long aisle down the middle. Yes, she could envision a bride walking down it, resplendent in white.
While Belana was admiring the building, Nona was observing her. What am I going to do? she wondered. This thing with her and my dad won’t last. She’s a star, and he’s…well, a lawyer. She thinks I don’t know who she really is but I found her on Google. I know she’s some kind of heiress. Her daddy has millions, probably billions. What is she doing with my dad? Sure, for a while they’ll act like they’re all in love and everything but when they wake up they’ll realize they have nothing in common and I’ll be the casualty. Dad will go back to ignoring me. She glanced at her dad who was smiling at Belana. Look at him. He looks like a fool. She’s got him flying so high right now it’s a wonder his nose isn’t bleeding. But that’s not the only thing that’s gonna be bleeding in a little while because she’s gonna rip his heart out. Why do grown-ups have to be so stupid? Don’t they know their behavior affects us?
The Rev. Dr. Calvin O. Butts, III began his sermon and everyone listened raptly. Nick, on Belana’s left, held her hand, and Nona, on Belana’s right, also held her hand. Belana wondered what, if anything, this meant. Were they simply trying to make her feel welcome or were they both claiming possession of her affections? She was sure she would find out sooner rather than later.
Yvonne, sitting on the other side of Nona, looked at her son and her granddaughter both holding on to Belana, and turned her eyes heavenward. She knew one thing: trouble was brewing. She could feel it in her bones. She just hoped that in whatever form it came they would all emerge the better for it. It had been her experience that trials and tribulations often had that effect. Nona and Nick had suffered enough already. Nona tried to appear tough, but she had a sensitive soul. As for Nick, Yvonne was happy he was in love after all this time. He hadn’t told her he was in love, but she’d known him all his life. She knew. She thought he’d never feel for another woman what he’d felt for Dawn who had been his first love. He was the type of man who loved forever. Like his father, Nicolas, before him. Her Nick had been gone for nearly fifteen years. Yes, there had been enough pain in this family to last a lifetime.
With a smile on her pretty face, she turned her attention to the good reverend’s sermon.
After the sermon concluded, nearly two hours later, the foursome stood up to join the other churchgoers in the center aisle but were waylaid by old friends who wanted to know who their visitor was. Introductions were made, and Belana found herself shaking hands with, and occasionally being hugged by, some of the friendliest people she’d met in a long time.
One woman, who appeared to be from Nick’s mother’s generation, hugged her to her ample bosom. “My name is Lyla Daly. I saw you dance two weeks ago,” she said, grinning. She had such a chubby, rosy-cheeked brown face that her eyes nearly closed when she smiled broadly. “My, you’re talented. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but I used to dance. Arthur Mitchell, who was the first black dancer with the New York City Repertory Dance Theatre, said I had great promise. Unfortunately, I broke my right leg in three places in an accident when I was nineteen and that was the end of my career.”
Belana was so touched, she hugged Lyla again. She imagined her spirit had been crushed, even worse than her leg, to have been denied the joy of dancing.
“That must have been devastating for you,” she sympathized.
Lyla shrugged. “What can you do? I went on and discovered something I was even better at.”
“I should say so!” Yvonne exclaimed. “She owns the best bakery in New York City.”
Lyla kissed Yvonne’s cheek for that compliment. “The check’s in the mail,” she joked, as if she paid her good friend to promote her business.
Nick, seeing a break in the long line of parishioners leaving said, “Let’s get in line, shall we?” He ushered all four ladies in front of him and then stepped in the aisle himself. Belana was right in front of him, Nona in front of her, Lyla in front of Nona and Yvonne leading the way.
“The hard part about going to a popular church,” he said in a soft voice to Belana, “is getting out of the church when the service is over.”
They kept up a lively conversation all the way to the front steps of the church where Lyla hugged Yvonne goodbye and said to Belana, “It was lovely to meet you and I hope to see you again next Sunday.”
“It was lovely to meet you, too,” said Belana with a warm smile.
Lyla wiggled her fingers at them as she hurried off. Everyone waved goodbye.
After only a few minutes outside, the August heat started to make them perspire. The sun was high in the sky and lately the daytime temperatures had been in the low nineties.
“Ooh, it’s hot out,” Yvonne said as they walked down the street, heading to Nick’s late-model SUV. Parking near the church was first come first served, and they had gotten there early enough to find a space across the street from the church.
As they crossed the street they looked like a family of four in their Sunday best—Nick in a dark summer suit and tie with a crisp white shirt and black wingtips, and the ladies in light-colored summer skirt suits with heels, Belana and Yvonne in stylish hats, Nona with her short black hair in dreadlocks.
“Belana, you don’t have to go straight home, do you?” asked Yvonne. “I was hoping you’d come to an early dinner.” It was half past two in the afternoon by then.
Nick had only mentioned church last night, so Belana was surprised by the dinner invitation. Although, it would afford her the opportunity to talk with Nona, who had been generous with her affection since Nick had picked her and her grandmother up this morning, but hadn’t said much. Plus, she was hungry.
Belana looked up at Nick to try to gauge his reaction to his mother’s invitation. He smiled at her, and mouthed the word, “Please?”
“I’d love to, Mrs. Reed,” Belana said.
“Wonderful,” said Yvonne, pleased her invitation had been accepted.
“Yes!” cried Nona. “I’m dying to show you my collection.”
“Your collection?” asked Belana, intrigued.
“My ballet memorabilia,” Nona explained. “I’ve even got newspaper articles and magazine articles about you.”
/> Belana had been interviewed in magazines about the arts a few times, and there had been stories about City Ballet that had appeared in New York area newspapers in which photos of her in mid-dance had appeared. “How sweet of you,” she said to Nona.
Nona smiled up at her, obviously suffering from a bit of hero worship, which made Belana feel unworthy.
Nick got to the car first and rolled down all the windows, letting the hot air out, turned on the AC, and rolled the windows back up as the ladies got in. Once everyone was buckled up he pulled out into traffic and headed to his mother’s house, which was less than a mile away. When the weather didn’t induce heatstrokes his mother was known to walk to church on Sunday morning.
He had to drive slowly because of the congested traffic, both pedestrian and vehicle, so it took them fifteen minutes to get to the three-story brick row house between 138th and 139th Streets.
The first thing Belana noticed upon stepping into the well-kept, air-conditioned home was the lovely oak floors. Then she raised her eyes and took in the workmanship of the crown moldings and other architectural touches that must have been a part of the original structure. She was sure that renovations had been done over the years—it wouldn’t look this fresh otherwise—but she felt as if she’d stepped into a 1920s Harlem row house like the famous houses on Strivers’ Row where Harlem notables like musicians Eubie Blake and W. C. Handy, and actor Bill “Bojangles” Robinson once lived. “What a beautiful house,” she exclaimed, which elicited a blush and a grateful smile from Yvonne. She tried her best to keep up the house that had been in her husband’s family for so many years.
“Thank you,” she said to Belana. Everyone started removing their lightweight jackets or sweaters, and in the case of Yvonne and Belana, their hats, and hanging them on the hall tree. “When you’re here, you’re family,” Yvonne told Belana. She turned away. “I’m going to see about dinner. Please make yourself at home.”
“Come on,” Nona said excitedly to Belana, taking her by the hand. “Let’s go to my room.” Then she looked up at her father. “That is, if Daddy can do without you for a few minutes.”
“Sure,” said Nick. “I’ll go help Mom.”
Belana allowed Nona to lead her upstairs, gazing back at Nick, who stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up at her. Her brows rose in a quizzical expression as if to ask him what his daughter was up to. He shrugged his broad shoulders. He apparently had no idea.
Nona’s bedroom was large and very neat. She had all the electronics that teens could not live without and her interests were on display, especially in the posters of ballet dancers on her walls. She had dancers from the Dance Theatre of Harlem, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Judith Jamison, Arthur Mitchell, Alvin Ailey and several current dancers from ballet companies around the world. Belana winced when she came to the section devoted entirely to her mother. However, when Nona moved around and could see her expression, she painted on a smile. “I see you really like Mari Tautou,” she casually commented.
Nona lit up. “I wish I could see her dance just once before I die,” she said fervently.
Belana remembered when that had been her wish, too. But the real Mari Tautou was nothing like the fantasy Mari Tautou. She wasn’t, however, going to enlighten a starstruck fifteen-year-old. What if Nona’s dreams of one day becoming a prima ballerina were somehow connected with her high opinion of Mari Tautou? She didn’t want to be the one to disillusion her. It occurred to her that Nona would find out that Mari Tautou was her mother one day and then Belana would feel obligated to reveal her true relationship with the famous dancer. She would postpone that day as long as possible.
“She is one of the best,” Belana allowed. “But don’t you think Judith Jamison’s career was even more phenomenal? I saw her perform when I was about your age. It was an experience I’ll never forget. She was my idol, and still is.”
“But Mari is so mysterious,” Nona said, smiling wistfully. She went over to her walk-in closet. “I’ve got to get out of these clothes and put on jeans or something.” She glanced back at Belana. “Would you like to change, too? I’m sure I have something that would fit you in here.”
Belana doubted that. She was two inches shorter than Nona and definitely fuller in the breasts and the hips. Nona had the type of figure ballet masters loved to see in ballerinas—slim, tall, small waist and with legs that seemed to go on forever. “I’m fine,” she told Nona. “I will take off these shoes, though.”
She sat down on the bed and began removing her three-inch-heeled, spectator-toe pumps. After she’d removed her shoes, she got up and stood in front of her mother’s posters, frowning. Mari was so tiny and perfectly formed. When she danced she made it look so effortless, the audience was transported, completely buying into whatever illusion she was selling. Her opinion of her mother might be a little biased.
Nona came back into the room fastening the top button on a pair of jeans. She was barefooted and wore a sleeveless Tee in royal blue. “I’ve looked her up on Google so many times and I still can’t find out anything about her personal life except she married a French choreographer named Henri Tautou and that’s how she got her last name. And she was born in the United States. It doesn’t even say which state. Isn’t that unusual?”
Belana wanted to tell her that Mari hid her past because she didn’t want her many fans to find out she had left her husband for that French choreographer and abandoned two children. That sort of information would tarnish her precious reputation.
“She’s become very popular by being an enigma,” Belana said, turning to smile at Nona. “Everybody loves a mystery.”
“I saw an online interview of her that was done about five years ago,” Nona said, “just before she retired. It was all in French.” She laughed shortly. “That’s so cool.”
“Look at Mikhail,” Belana said, hoping to change the subject. “I swear that man could fly!”
“You didn’t do too badly yourself the other night,” Nona complimented her.
Belana was warmed by her words. She smiled at Nona. She felt it was time she got down to business. “Your dad tells me you’re concerned that if things don’t work out between us I’ll stop mentoring you.”
Nona turned away. “Why’d he have to tell you about that? He’s so lame!”
Belana went to her and gently took her by the arm. Nona faced her. “I’m glad he told me,” Belana said, “so I can assure you that I’ll continue to be your friend no matter what happens. I was your friend before I ever knew you were Nick’s daughter, remember?”
Nona’s brows knit in a frown. “I’m so embarrassed. That’s not something I wanted you to know about me. It makes me sound so childish, and I’m not. I have a real reason to be angry with Dad. I could be living with him, but he keeps making excuses to avoid taking responsibility for me like any dad would. I don’t like being a burden on Momma Yvonne all the time. She’s still young enough to have a social life, but her social life is cut in half because she always has to consider me before making plans. Dad doesn’t think I think about things like that, but I do. I’m sorry, Belana, but the fact that you’re dating my dad gives him yet more reasons to not be there for me like he should. You will take up his time, too.”
Belana was momentarily speechless. Nona had some good points. As a daughter herself, she was sympathetic. She, too, had felt jealous on occasion when her dad was in the dating pool. She remembered thoroughly despising a couple of the women whom she immediately pegged as gold diggers upon meeting them. When she’d gotten older, though, she realized that her father had a good head on his shoulders and he didn’t need her meddling in his affairs.
It was also obvious to Belana that Nick hadn’t had time to talk to Nona about moving in with him. She was glad she hadn’t inadvertently mentioned it to the girl.
She was going to have to talk with Nick, and soon.
“You’re just stuck in the middle of an ongoing battle between my dad and me,” Nona continued hotly. “And it wasn’t fa
ir of him to bring you into it.”
“He just wants you to be happy,” Belana said, sounding lame even to her own ears.
“Well, he knows what will make me happy,” Nona said. “It’s as if my feelings don’t matter to him!”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Nona yelled.
Nick stepped into the room. “I could hear you all the way downstairs, Nona.” He closed the door behind him and went to stand in front of his daughter, his arms akimbo. “If you want to yell at someone, yell at me.”
Belana was pulling on her shoes. “I think I’ll go help Mrs. Reed.”
“No,” Nona said, grabbing Belana’s arm as Belana made her way to the door. “I want you here. If Dad wants to get everything out in the open, you need to be here for that.”
Nick nodded toward the door. “Go if you want to,” he said, “or you’re welcome to stay, your call.” Belana stayed.
Nona let go of her and folded her arms across her chest like her father. Belana noticed how much they looked alike, both as stubborn as mules. “I’ll stay only if you let me referee.”
“What?” Nona asked, puzzled.
“A fight needs someone to warn the fighters when they’re hitting below the belt, or getting out of line in some other way,” Belana explained.
This elicited a giggle from Nona. “It sounds weird enough to work. Okay, you can referee.”
Belana went to stand between them. “Okay, only one person can speak at a time.”
She smiled at Nick. “Ladies first.”
When he’d been downstairs helping his mother with dinner by making the salad, Nick had been compelled by her to put on an apron that read Kiss the Cook. He felt silly in it so he took it off and tossed it on to the bed. “All right,” he said to Nona. “Let me have it.”
“You shouldn’t have told Belana how I felt about your relationship. Now she’s going to think I’m a selfish brat.”
