The Talking Drum

by Lisa Braxton

  Malachi folded his arms around Sydney. “What would you say is your favorite part of the house?”

  “The bathtub,” she answered without hesitation. “You know how much I like a good soak.”

  He chuckled. “You looked a little flustered when I started running the water.”

  She loved it when he teased her. “I was thinking that the tub was a nice size, that’s all.”

  He nibbled at her earlobe. “A nice size for what?”

  She laughed. “A nice size for us both to fit.”

  He stood up. “Then we should try it out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He got up and walked to the front door. When she didn’t follow, he turned around. “Are you going to join me?”

  Sydney loved his spontaneity. He held the door open for her. As she crossed the threshold, he gave her a playful smack on the rear end.

  CHAPTER 2

  FROM THE SECOND-FLOOR kitchen window, Della had a perfect view of the Victorian across the street. She watched Malachi and Sydney get up from the porch steps and head to the door. Kwamé had already crossed the street. He must be downstairs in the record shop.

  Sydney resembled Diahann Carroll. She had the same complexion, and her teeth were perfectly straight like the actress’s, too. Sydney had probably worn braces when she was a kid, a rich young missy like that—Della bet Mommy and Daddy could easily afford to get her braces. Della didn’t realize how attractive Sydney was when she and Kwamé were at the wedding. Sydney’s gown had a full skirt that concealed her shape. The fancy “up-do” and fake eyelashes made her look much older though she couldn’t be more than twenty-three or twenty-four. Malachi must be around thirty-two, a year or two younger than Kwamé and her.

  Sydney seemed devoted to Malachi. Maybe Kwamé would leave this one alone. The last thing she needed was another tramp to deal with.

  She plugged in the electric skillet and scooped out a big chunk of Crisco shortening, plopping it into the pan. She tore the butcher shop paper from the pork chops she had left on the counter earlier to thaw.

  She couldn’t help but feel a bit distracted by Sydney’s arrival. Della decided not to get too comfortable about her just yet. Women could not be trusted. Della had learned that the hard way, a long time ago, when her husband was still alive.

  Kwamé seemed to have a thing for blondes, but he could always switch up and go for a suburban black girl. Della would give Sydney a few weeks to unpack. Then she would invite her over for lunch. Perhaps Della would find out what she was dealing with.

  Della could hear Jasmine whimpering in her room down the hall. The child was thrashing around on the bed, her hands balled into fists, muttering in her sleep. Jasmine had seen more in her young life than anybody, child or adult, should have to witness. If Della could roll back time she would have sent Jasmine to her mother’s for the weekend the first time Jasmine’s dad—her husband, Tucker—beat her. Many other beatings had followed and Jasmine had witnessed the horror of it all.

  Della had grown up thinking that marriage was blessed by God. Hers certainly wasn’t. After everything she had gone through with Tucker, she was done. She knew the church elders clucked behind her back because she was “shacking up,” but she didn’t care. She had to do what was best for her and her daughter, and her living arrangement was none of their business. She would never marry Kwamé, not only because of her bad experience with Tucker, but because she knew Kwamé would never be faithful.

  Della unclenched Jasmine’s fists and climbed into the twin bed with her. “It’s okay, Jazzy. It’s okay,” she whispered, rocking the little girl until she calmed down and went back to sleep.

  A moment later, Della heard Kwamé put his key in the lock. When she met up with him in the kitchen, she put a finger to pursed lips to let him know not to wake Jasmine.

  “Been a long day, and I’m glad it’s over,” he exhaled. “Had some meetings before I went to the airport. Malachi and Sydney are settlin’ into the house.”

  “That’s fine,” replied Della, “as long as you ain’t settlin’ into her.”

  Kwamé slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. “Woman, you need to stop that.”

  She stood over him, a hand on her hip. “No. You need to stop it. Don’t take me for no damned fool, Kwamé. Don’t think I don’t know about all the little bitches you got coming in and out of the record shop. I know what you’re doing when you hang that ‘out to lunch’ sign on the door. You’re doing it right under my nose. I’m not blind and stupid. I’ve got people who tell me things.”

  He leaned back in his chair and stroked his goatee. “Who you going to believe, them or me?”

  She went back to the counter and turned on the skillet. “Stop the bullshit or get out.” She seasoned the chops and then shook flour onto a paper towel and dredged the meat with it. “She’s a pretty little thing. I just don’t want any mess out of you.”

  He got up from the kitchen table and grabbed her hips from behind. “But not as pretty as you. She don’t have the curves you got.” He pressed against her, so she could feel the bulge in his crotch.

  “So what time should I meet y’all at The Stewed Oxtail tomorrow?” she asked.

  He let go of her. “We’re not doing that now.”

  She turned around. “Why not? I was going to take the afternoon off for that.”

  “The Professah has to go back to the university to pack up some things. Sydney has errands to run, to get the house together. You know how you women are.”

  “Just as well,” she said, carefully placing the pork chops into the hot oil. “Library’s got a book sale tomorrow, and Maggie is sick. If I don’t go in, they’ll be up a creek.”

  The meat sizzled and the hot grease began to pop. She lowered the heat. Kwamé had distracted her. “They don’t know what they’re getting themselves into, do they?”

  Kwamé reached into the refrigerator for a beer. “What you mean?”

  She laughed. “This neighborhood?”

  “Now don’t go getting all negative on me, Dell. Once they build that civic center, this place is gonna light up. We’ll get restaurants, high-priced shops. We’ll make a killing. Malachi and Sydney’s bookstore, the record shop, Tovah’s Bridal shop, Jake’s Tavern—hell, your library will get more patrons.”

  “You’ve been telling yourself that, huh? It’ll take a lot more than a civic center and a few shops to turn this neighborhood around. If I didn’t have the tenants upstairs, I’d have to shut down Rhythm and Blues. I bet you can’t even remember the last time you had a customer.”

  “Now why you got to go and say that?” He took a sip of beer and set it down forcefully on the counter. “You thought more about what we discussed?”

  She knew he would get around to it. For weeks he’d been trying to convince her to take some equity out of the building, her building, and give him a loan to bring in a new line of inventory to create an electronics department.

  “The answer is still no,” she said. “Let’s drop it. I’m done talking about that.”

  “Oh, come on, Dell.”

  She raised the lid on the chops and pushed them around with a fork to keep them from sticking to the skillet.

  “I’m not pulling out my equity. That’s my decision. I bought this place, and I’ll do what I want with it. If I decide to pull some money out it would be to do some upgrades in the building, not throw money out the window.”

  “I have a right to that money, Dell.”

  She flipped the chops. “The hell you do.”

  “I help pay the taxes. I paid for the new water heater. I even kicked in money for that dishwasher so you’d stop complaining about standing at the sink all day.”

  She wiped her hands on a dish towel and turned around to face him. “Tucker’s insurance money paid for this building. I’m not gonna waste my equity on your fa
ntasy.”

  “So this building is a shrine to your dead husband.”

  “You shut the hell up!” she hissed.

  They both heard a thud, like a hammer against the wall coming from down the hall. Della turned down the skillet and headed toward Jasmine’s room. Kwamé went to the living room. “We ain’t done talking about this, Dell,” he shouted to an empty hallway. “Not even close.”

  CHAPTER 3

  SIX BLOCKS AWAY and across the Bellport River Bridge in Petite Africa, Omar Bassari read the notice that his wife Natalie held inches from his nose. The Bassaris had to pay three months’ back rent by the end of the month—including late fees—or be evicted.

  “Il est un idiot,” Omar muttered as he returned his attention to the peanut paste he had cooking on the stove. “Fullerton does not care a fig about us.”

  Natalie flung the notice, along with the rest of the day’s mail and her canvas book bag, onto the kitchen counter. An accounting textbook, The Bellport Gazette, and some sheet music slid out. She tugged at the sleeves of her goose-down jacket and hung it on a hook in the hallway. “I knew a rent strike was a bad idea,” she fumed. “Why did you listen to those people?”

  The Bassaris rented a cramped two-bedroom apartment in The Commonwealth Arms, a pre-World War I building on King Street, in the heart of Petite Africa, owned by white businessman James Fullerton. They’d moved there six months ago when a fire burned down their three-story rooming house on the corner of Pleasant and Garfield avenues five blocks away.

  Omar’s uncle Mustapha had found them their first apartment a year and a half ago when the couple moved to town after they both had dropped out of Howard University in Washington, D.C. After the fire, Mustapha stepped in again, negotiating a reduced price from Fullerton for the couple to live at The Commonwealth Arms. This allowed Omar to cover most of the household expenses with the thirty to forty dollars a week he averaged from his drumming performances.

  Natalie was studying to be an accountant but dreamed of acting in theater and film. She had white classmates at Bellport Community College who got experience and a little extra money doing bit parts in television commercials. But casting companies rarely chose black performers. So she settled for jobs doing voiceovers and singing jingles for radio. She barely made enough to pay for her college courses and private voice and acting classes. Little was left over for anything else.

  The Commonwealth Arms was in worse shape than the other building they lived in. The plumbing periodically backed up. The oil heat worked off and on. To Omar, the building’s problems were minor inconveniences. Growing up in Senegal, he knew nothing of utilities, landlords, rent, or groceries. He spent his childhood in the family ker, a compound of mud huts with thatched roofs. There was no plumbing, running water, or electricity. Pit toilets were kept at the far end of the ker. At sundown, villagers lit paraffin lamps or candles, or sat in the dark and told fables.

  Once, Omar got workers to fix the boiler, but within days it broke down again. He went into Liberty Hill and bought fan heaters for the apartment. Natalie had to heat water on the electric stove for bathwater. She complained that they weren’t living much better than villagers from his community.

  Then one night, the elevator broke. Tenants got stuck between floors for hours. Natalie was forced to haul her books and groceries up six flights.

  All of the tenants were fed up with the conditions. One night, they met in the stairwell to vent about the building’s problems. They decided on a rent strike. They would not pay Fullerton until repairs were made. Natalie saw the strike as a waste of time. She thought there was no way Fullerton would budge and that she and Omar should simply pack up and move. Declaring “the jungle is stronger than the elephant,” Omar overruled his wife. Today, all the tenants found eviction notices taped to their doors.

  On the stove the peanut paste was beginning to bubble. With a long-handled wooden spoon, Omar scooped up the paste and folded it in with the beef cubes, broth, and tomato paste warming in another pot. Normally, Natalie wouldn’t be home in time for dinner, but her appointment with the voice coach had been canceled. To mark the occasion, Omar used some of the tip money from his drum performances and went to Bamba’s Africa Food Market down the street to get the ingredients for mafé, or groundnut stew, one of the few Senegalese dishes Natalie would eat. Being an American, Senegalese dishes were unfamiliar to her. Bamba Toukou was out of goat meat, so Omar was using beef as a substitute. He ordered half the amount the dish called for so he could also buy a jar of herbs he needed.

  “We shall not let this man chase us from this building,” Omar declared. “We have the right to be here and to have good services. He cannot possibly put all of us in the road.”

  Natalie glared at him. “The man has no heart. What does he care?”

  She lifted the cover and peeked inside the pot, sniffed at the contents, and warmed her nose over the rising steam. Then she whipped around and marched down the hall toward the bedroom. The cowrie shells woven into her braids made light clicking sounds as they bounced against each other.

  Omar was glad to have her home. Since the fire, she had scheduled more classes, more coaching, more voiceover jobs. He had gotten into the habit of leaving a plate in the oven at night for her. She came to bed when he was asleep and left in the morning before he was awake. She claimed that she was trying to make up for credits she lost when she dropped out of Howard, but he wondered if she was telling the truth. She never talked about the miscarriage. It had happened a few days after the fire. They had had little conversation about anything since then and they no longer touched each other in bed. But tonight would be different if his plan worked.

  Omar added water to the stock pot to loosen the ingredients and get the stew to the proper consistency. He watched the pot a while, then put a lid on it and left the stew to simmer.

  Natalie came back into the kitchen. “Where are we going to live?” She sounded exasperated. “We’ve only got a couple of weeks to find something else.” She’d changed out of her college clothing—bell-bottom pants, a blouse with a bow, and wraparound sweater—and into a jogging outfit, dark pants with a white stripe running down the outside of the legs and a matching jacket that zipped. “If you would knock it off with that silly drumming and those daydreams about playing with the Duke Ellington Orchestra and get a job that paid something, we could move to a decent place.”

  Omar felt deflated. Natalie didn’t believe in him and his dream. The day he reunited with his musical hero, she would shut her mouth. He poked around in the stew with the spoon. The mixture had gone from buttery to brothy. He covered it again, and then grabbed a dish towel to pull the lid off a sauce pan of couscous simmering on a back burner. He fluffed the couscous with the wooden spoon. The aroma of peanuts, tomato paste, and garlic filled the apartment. “You know I have no desire to get a regular job, not after the boot factory.”

  He’d worked the assembly line of the Nathaniel Hawthorne Boot Factory along the Bellport River when he and Natalie first moved to the city. Every day he feared his mind would rot. He ran the shoe eyelet machine and feared punching a hole in his finger instead of the fabric. The work was so boring. He was glad when the company shut down and moved out of the country. “I keep telling you that the drumming institute will give us the income to be comfortable.”

  Natalie smacked the counter with her palm as if she were killing a cockroach. “You have to stop that nonsense.”

  “That is why I do not tell you about it. You shall not listen.”

  “Am I talking to a child? You’re not being rational, Omar, not you or your Uncle Mustapha.”

  Omar shook his head. “Uncle believes that the drumming institute will open, and uncle is a smart businessman.”

  Natalie cut her eyes at him, then picked up The Bellport Gazette from the counter and looked over the front page. He glanced over her shoulder. A photo showed Bellport Mayor Chaunc
ey McShane standing next to architectural plans for an arena that was the centerpiece of the Harborview Redevelopment Project. The caption told of plans to take Petite Africa and surrounding blocks by eminent domain, meaning that the government could seize private property and claim it for public use. Omar visualized the day when the news story would come out about how Uncle Mustapha would go to court to stop the project.

  “The city says we are a blighted community, a ghetto.” Natalie declared. “Fullerton has nothing to lose by evicting us. He’s going to coast until the city takes over the building. He’ll make a fortune selling it to the city.”

  Omar wished Natalie had left the newspaper at school where she’d found it. She was not in the mood for love. Ever since the miscarriage she had been angry. Lately, Omar would reach for her and she would act as if she’d been stung by a wasp. She’d start to cry and smack him away.

  They each relived the fire. Omar woke at least twice a night, listening for the crackling of burning wood. Natalie tossed for hours most nights and cried. She could doze only after checking the street below. The fire had killed her feelings for him, Omar thought.

  He lowered the flame under the pot. He would add the herbs to the mafé. “We shall not go anywhere,” he announced. “Uncle Mustapha shall file a lawsuit to stop the project. Fullerton shall rethink his ways. I know this.”

  “Your uncle is as delusional as you are,” she muttered.

  Omar was offended but swallowed his anger. “They have been talking about taking over this building, taking over Petite Africa, for years, and nothing has happened, ma chère. And do you know why?”

  “No, I don’t,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Because the people of Petite Africa are protected by a force much greater than a city or government.”

  She rolled her eyes and plopped down onto a kitchen stool. “Will you stop with that?”