TAIYE’S FLAT WAS A CONVERTED ATTIC in the home of a Trinidadian widow in her late sixties named Cherelle Baptiste. Cherelle was kind to Taiye, if slightly overbearing. Although a narrow flight of wrought-iron stairs led to her own entrance separate from the main house, Taiye tiptoed to keep from alerting Cherelle, who routinely rapped on the window, waved Taiye toward the front door, and talked about the joys of her relationship with Jehovah, and the brilliance and generosity of her son: Kevon, a very handsome engineer. By the time Taiye undressed and bathed the night and sex, and holy smoke,
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