—
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?”