Mat Johnson - Loving Day

“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.”