The Incurables

Security

Security The day before Sonya was to leave for South Africa with her two-year-old son and sixteen-year-old stepdaughter , her husband said he had something important to discuss with her. It concerned Gia, who he knew wouldn’t be content to go to bed at eight every night with her half-brother or hang around the house to talk politics until midnight with her great-grandfather. “She’ll want to go into Cape Town with her cousins ,” Marcus said. “Since I won’t be on the trip, I’ve hired her a bodyguard—a security guard—an armed escort—whatever he’s called. He’ll come at eight every night and stay on duty until one, which is the latest curfew Poppy would consider. I’m using the best agency in the country—Poppy agrees, by the way— but I want you to have a look at the man they send. Make sure he looks suitable.” 97 _ Security 98 Sonya was surprised by Marcus’s concern for his daughter, who, for as long as Sonya had known her, slipped in and out of their house like a cat and to whom Marcus paid only rare at­ tention. “What does suitable look like?” Sonya asked him. “Make sure he looks like he’ll protect her.” “Do you mean make sure he looks strong?” “Listen,” Marcus said, “I don’t want this to come out the wrong way, but some agencies, even good agencies, are hiring blacks. Stop it. I know what you’re going to say. But someone at the agency might remember Poppy’s newspaper columns and his books and decide to punish him.” “By hurting Gia?” “By sending someone who’s unqualified, who won’t feel the need to step in if a dangerous situation arises, who might even be a party to such a situation.” There was a pause, and Marcus looked her over. The first time he’d looked her over, his eyes had moved with the delib­ erateness of an elevator savoring every floor. “Never mind,” he said, frowning, his gaze settling on something behind her. “Nothing will happen.” He turned to her again and gave her a bright, reassuring smile. This was the familiar Marcus, confident the world would bless him. “Everything will be fine.” _ Exactly three minutes after Sonya, Jared, and Gia arrived at Richard’s house via car service from Cape Town International Airport, the bodyguard or security specialist (Sonya refused to think of him as an “armed escort” because it conjured an image of a gigolo with a revolver) showed up to introduce himself, a day in advance of the start of his official duties. Damon was, to Sonya’s guilty relief, white. His broad chest and bulging arm muscles were a contrast to his diminutive stature. If he was more than two inches taller than Sonya, who was five-five, she would have been surprised. But Marcus hadn’t mentioned short stature as a disqualifying trait. Damon, who was from Durban, wore a Security 99 short-sleeved, button-down white shirt, khakis, and black sunglasses . He showed everyone the pistol strapped to his right shin. He said he’d never had to fire it. “I hope that doesn’t mean you aren’t prepared to,” said Richard, who, at eighty-four years old, was an imposing man— more than six feet tall, with widow’s peeks in his snow white hair. His skin color seemed like a sunset, pink in places, red in others, white across his forehead. “On the contrary, sir,” Damon replied. He removed his sunglasses and to Gia, who, despite having slept during most of the three flights and twenty-two hours of their trip, seemed about to tumble over with fatigue, said, “You’ll have the safest vacation possible.” After Damon departed in his red-and-white hatchback with the Armed Response eagles on the hood, Richard gave them a tour of his house, then invited them into the dining room. It had tan walls and three ink drawings of lions in gold frames above the buffet. A black man who looked even older than Richard shuffled from the kitchen to the dining room bearing plates with spaghetti and meat sauce. “His wife’s the cook,” Richard­ explained after the man departed, “so keep your criticism of the food to yourself.” Sonya caught a glimpse in the kitchen of a freckled, brown-skinned woman in a red kerchief. She reminded Sonya of...