Backstitch by Idrissa Simmonds-Nastilli

Author:Idrissa Simmonds-Nastilli [Simmonds-Nastilli, Idrissa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

Sometimes, Tati forgot she was Tati and not Grace. She could feel her sister’s bones inside her body, as if she were a Grace skeleton wearing a Tati skin. Sometimes, she caught a glimpse of her sister on the street, or in a neck at Dynasty’s, or in the walk of a woman stepping off the city bus. For the first time in years, she wanted to tell someone. She wanted to tell Toussaint. Sit across from him cross-legged on his bed and tell him about her marasa the tire machet fighter, the revolutionary, the troublemaker. Of course she could not tell him, but still she came to him day after day, played house in his apartment. And the words she could not say turned into a nastiness towards him that only seemed to make him more gentle with her, more kind.

He was unflappably earnest, and she hated it. He had a kind word and vigorous head nod for everyone from the boy who bussed the tables at the night club to the clerk at the grocery store. What had once been endearing about him had begun to grate on her nerves. His niceness struck her as cloying and too precious, and she would now snap at him after a moment when a hearty “thank you” or “good morning” to some person they had just interacted with would pass his lips. In these moments when Tati’s anger would boil over, Toussaint would eye her, then continue on his way. His ability to turn the mirror towards her only doubled her anger. She would make love to him furiously on the days when she felt particularly maddened, burying her teeth into his shoulder and digging her nails into his back.

Toussaint knew these were all attempts to draw him away. He noticed what he thought might be fear in Tati’s eyes when she would snap at him. He was growing frustrated with her antics, but ego made him double down: whatever was going on with Tati, he trusted himself. His God-given intuition. He did not lose sight of the abiding truth of his life - everything that happened to him was destiny, purpose, divine intervention. She would open up to him – he just had to hold steady.

He wanted to take her to his manbo in the Bronx. She could help. He wanted a blessing for their relationship. But Tati refused with such thunder, almost crying as she said no, that he did not bring it up again. Vodou was misunderstood, he knew, but Tati never talked about church or Jesus. She had excused her unwillingness away with a vague dislike of the Bronx. He knew there was more to it than that, but in typical Tati fashion she kept him at arm’s length.. One night, laying side by side in bed, neither yet asleep, he reached out a hand and tapped her on the forehead.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on in there?” Toussaint said.

Tati stared up at the ceiling.

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