by Lisa Braxton
“This does sound like an important story,” she said, flipping through the clippings. “We saw a fire truck race down our street toward Petite Africa the day my husband and I moved in.”
“There you have it. Take some notes and talk to people afterwards. You’ll be fine.”
He walked her to the door. “Glad you came in. You’ll start to get a feel for what’s happening by covering the news conference. Right now, the big stories around here are the redevelopment and the fires.”
Sydney felt goose bumps. Max seemed like a person who was plugged into an outlet. It wasn’t until she was on her way back to the car that she realized that she hadn’t asked him about the pay.
CHAPTER 8
EVERY FEW BLOCKS Omar glanced at the map he had spread out on the passenger seat of the 1972 Lincoln Continental he steered toward the voice coach’s house in Peabody. Uncle Mustapha had marked in dark blue the roads that he should take to get there.
“Jarbaat,” Mustapha had said, using the Wolof word for nephew, the day Omar told him about his visit to Swift Moore Estates, “When the branches of trees in the forest are fighting, the roots are kissing.”
Omar always hated it when his Uncle, like Khadim, spoke in Senegalese proverbs. They confused him. He had finished drumming for the lunchtime crowd at Le Baobab Restaurant and was sitting in a booth across from his uncle during the conversation.
“What are you saying, Uncle?”
“There is nothing more about Fullerton to do. Do not go back to his house. A Senegalese man has his pride. But there is something about your wife you can do.”
Like Khadim, Uncle didn’t approve of Omar’s marriage to Natalie. He never called her by her name.
“You investigate. See whether she cheats with the voice coach. You must know.” Mustapha knocked on the table with his knuckles to make sure Omar got the point.
Omar sipped his ginger beer. “She does not talk to me about that man.”
Mustapha leaned across the table. “You are not needing to talk. You are catching her.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mustapha threw up his hands and walked through the kitchen doors shaking his head. He came back a few moments later and dangled a set of car keys in Omar’s face. “When next she has voice class?”
Omar told him.
“These keys are of one of my renters. He is here two months. He wants reduced rent so I tell him let me use the car. Next time you go pick up your wife from voice lesson. Early get there.” He pointed a bony finger at him. “Find out what goes on. You are sleeping better then.”
Now, with his hands on the steering wheel, he was grateful that Uncle allowed him to borrow the renter’s car even though he had never driven a car as bulky as a Lincoln. It reminded him of a small bus. The front end was so long. He worried he would rear-end another car.
He was glad he took Uncle’s advice and left early, so he could arrive long before Natalie’s lesson was over. It was best that he know for sure whether or not Natalie was cheating.
He leaned across the seat in an attempt to smooth the creases in the map. When he got to the block that Uncle had marked with a big, blue star, he started checking the house numbers on the mailboxes by the side of the road. The homes were hidden behind tall hedges. He parked by the mailbox with the voice coach’s name on it: “Kostopoulos.” Omar walked carefully, his ankle still sore from twisting it weeks ago in Fullerton’s front yard.
As he stepped onto the porch, his heart pounded. He pressed the doorbell. A speaker emitted classical music.
Standing at the door reminded him of the moment on Fullerton’s landing when he was waiting for someone to answer. He was fairly sure he didn’t have to worry about a police cruiser chasing him out of town, but he feared that coming to the voice coach’s house could be unsettling for another reason. It could make clear what he already felt—that his marriage was falling apart.
No one answered. He squeezed the handle on the double doors and pushed slightly, just to test them. To his surprise, the doors opened. He stepped into a brightly lit foyer with a glass chandelier hanging high above his head. He thought about stepping back onto the porch to ring the bell again or calling out to someone but decided against it. He heard sound coming from the second floor. Giggling. It was Natalie. He was sure of it. Omar slowly climbed the sweeping, carpeted staircase, careful not to make a noise.
When he got to the second floor landing he stopped and listened, holding his breath. He heard a man’s voice. The sound was to his right. His palm sweaty on the banister, he followed the sound all the way to the end of the hall to a large room with dark, hardwood floors. It wasn’t a bedroom. He breathed easier. When he peeked in, he saw the voice coach, his dark, curly hair resting on his shoulders, sitting at a grand piano, facing away from the doorway.
Natalie was standing next to the coach, looking over his shoulder at some sheet music, her back also to the door. She was holding a glass of white wine. Another wine glass, half-filled, was on top of the piano. The voice coach leaned over to her and said something. In response, Natalie threw her head back and laughed harder than he’d ever heard her before. Her shoulders shook. He tried to think of what to do next. He stepped into the room. Then he took another step. An uneven floorboard creaked. Natalie stopped laughing and swung her head around. Her smile dissolved and twisted into a grimace.
The voice coach looked up at Natalie and then turned around on the piano bench toward Omar. “How did you get in here?” he shouted in staccato fashion in his heavy accent.
Natalie touched the man lightly on the arm and explained that Omar was her husband. “I’ll talk to him,” she said.
Omar was incensed. Natalie had an apologetic tone in her voice, as if Omar was a pest, a bug that had to be swept away.
“Why are you here?” she whispered loudly after she hurried to meet him in the doorway.
“I wanted to surprise you. Take you out for a dinner meal.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re lying. When was the last time you took me out?” She looked back at the voice coach and raised a finger indicating that she’d be back momentarily. Omar followed her out of the room.
“I know why you’re here,” she snapped when they got to the curb. “You’re spying on me. You have these ideas rolling around in your head.” She pointed at her temples with her index fingers and rotated them. “What you need to be doing is finding us a better place to live.”
He gestured toward the Lincoln. “I appear in this nice automobile, and you do not even appreciate it.”
She folded her arms across her chest and looked the car up and down. “Where’d you get this from?”
“Uncle let me borrow it.”
She smirked. “You think I’m gonna get in that thing? That gangster ride? You must be crazy.”
Before he could respond, she turned on her heels, went back into the house, and slammed the door.
CHAPTER 9
THE FORMER Nathaniel Hawthorne Boot Factory, was on Atlantic Avenue on the banks of the Bellport River. It was a five-story brick and stone structure with a flat roof and a clock tower that chimed on the hour. The old building housed a daycare and provided space for artist studios and community meetings. The cafetorium was where the Liberty Hill Neighborhood Association met monthly. Today, city police and firefighters had the space for a briefing on the fires in Petite Africa.
When Sydney and Malachi arrived, the room was nearly full. Sydney noted a seating pattern based on people’s attire. Petite Africa people sat left of the center aisle, and Liberty Hill people were on the right. Onstage were Mayor Chauncey McShane, Fire Chief Patrick O’Connell, and Police Chief Francis Tolerico. To their right was Petite Africa resident and restaurant owner Mustapha Mendy. Sydney had seen his picture in the newspapers. Mendy appeared to be in his late sixties, bony, with heavy bags under his eyes and grey, coiled hair and be
ard.
At the back of the room were tables filled with toiletries, blankets, stuffed animals, and canned goods. Sydney picked up a can of corned beef. “What is all of this for?”
“The Neighborhood Improvement Association’s Relief Effort,” Malachi replied. “Whenever there’s a fire or we find out about a needy family, people go shopping or bring things from home. Then they come here and put together care packages.”
“We should go through our things to see if we can donate anything.”
Malachi grinned. “As stuffed as your closets are, I’m sure you’d find something.”
Sydney playfully poked him in the side. “I could say the same for you.”
She spotted Kwamé, dressed in a grey, pin-striped three-piece suit. He swaggered as he worked his way down the aisle, shaking people’s hands and clapping men on the back. His smile broadened as he strolled over to them. “Glad you two could make it,” he said.
Sydney told him about her assignment to report on the meeting for Inner City Voice.
“Cool. So that worked out for you,” Kwamé said. “Max is good people.”
“Looks like you’ve got a full house,” Malachi stated, looking around.
Kwamé nodded, and puffed out his chest. “We did what we had to to get the word out. I’ve been telling the mayor for weeks he needed to have one of these. I said, ‘Mayor, my man, we can’t keep people in the dark. It’s not fair to them. Lives are in jeopardy. They need to know what’s going on’.”
Sydney rolled her eyes. More big talk from Kwamé, she thought. She and Malachi found two chairs near the back of the room by the tables of donations. “I’m sure Kwamé’s inflating his level of influence with the mayor or making up the story entirely,” she said.
“Not now,” Malachi whispered, tightness in his voice.
She pulled her camera out of its case. As she took out her reporter’s notebook and a pencil, a hand grabbed her shoulder. It was Max sitting in the row behind her. “I didn’t tell you I was going to show up because I didn’t want you to get nervous,” he said in a loud whisper. “Just pretend I’m not here. If you need anything, you’ll know where to find me.” He got up and took a seat near the front of the room. She appreciated that. This was a big story and she wanted to do a good job. He wouldn’t be looking over her shoulder. But he’d be close enough that if she needed some guidance, he’d be right there to help.
Once the clock tower chimed at seven p.m., the mayor rose to the podium and gave brief remarks. He introduced Kwamé. While Kwamé strutted to the stage, people resumed their conversations. When he go to the podium and slammed the gavel five times, more than was necessary, people quieted down. He introduced the other men on the stage and then sat down. Chief O’Connell stepped up to the podium. He was a burly man with thick, white hair, gin-blossomed cheeks, and a mixed-grey handlebar mustache. For some reason, as he opened his mouth to speak, he focused on a spot near the ceiling. Sydney took notes in her own version of shorthand.
“We want to bring you up on what we got with the fire investigation,” he said slowly in a Boston Irish accent, pronouncing “are” like “ah.” “We got different kinds of fires here in Bellport. Some are accidental, caused by residents. Some are acts of God. The fire where lightning struck the cupola on the Ukrainian church two years ago is an example of that. Some were caused by bad wiring, and some were set. They were deliberate.”
He paused, as if waiting for the crowd to react. Chief Tolerico joined him at the podium and cleared his throat. “We have an arsonist setting fires. Petite Africa is being targeted. It may be the work of one person. There may be several. Whoever is doing this, we’ll catch them. That’s why we put together a special arson squad. Personnel from Bellport Police and Fire, plus the state police will work together. We’ll have helicopters and patrols covering the neighborhood. In the meantime, we want people to be careful, and Chief O’Connell will talk about that.” Tolerico sat down.
“We want you to protect your homes,” O’Connell stated. “First of all, lock your doors.”
Snickers went up in the audience. O’Connell raised a palm to get people to quiet down. “Now I know that sounds obvious, but when our fire investigators come around, the residents are telling them that they leave their doors unlocked. A simple lock can keep an arsonist out. Dead bolts are good. Lock the windows, too.”
A man in a Boston Celtics jersey stood up. “That’s part of the problem. The people down there in Petite Africa don’t believe in locking their doors, nothing personal, but they need to be told.” Sydney made a mental note to talk to him after the briefing. The man looked around at the room. “I’m not passing judgment on anyone, but there’s a difference in the way they do things down there.”
The room filled with the low hum of conversation. “Oh, no. Here we go,” Malachi muttered under his breath.
“This might be a better story than I thought,” Sydney responded.
Kwamé came to the mike. “Y’all need to quiet down and let the chief respond.”
O’Connell nodded a thank you to Kwamé. “There’s no point going into who locks their doors and who doesn’t. The point is, we want everyone to lock their doors. We also want people to install lights outside of their homes. Those of you who are renting, ask your landlord to do it. Floodlights near your doorway will discourage an arsonist.”
Malachi leaned over and whispered in Sydney’s ear, “We should get those lights for our place, too.”
O’Connell turned around to say something to Mendy. The restaurant owner slowly stood up. People on both sides of the aisle clapped as he walked to the podium. A few whistled.
“To find people starting these fires, we must work with arson squad,” Mendy stated in an accent Sydney could barely understand. “Criminals destroy our community. This community is, how do the Americans say, a place of incubation. Before we pioneer the rest of America we come to Petite Africa. Without the neighborhood, we lose this. We cannot let arsonist steal our launch pad.” People applauded. Mendy waited for quiet before continuing. “I know that many in my neighborhood do not have money to pay for bolt lock and motion light. I have sponsor taking care of these things. See me after.” Mendy sat back down.
“Arson is a crime of opportunity,” O’Connell said, returning to the podium. “We need to remove piles of leaves, paper you don’t need, bags of trash, anything an arsonist can use to start a fire.”
A woman stood up on the Liberty Hill side of the aisle. “Petite Africa is a mess. If they haven’t cleaned it up in all this time, what makes you think they’ll start now? They live in filth down there.”
A woman on the other side stood up. “What about the gangs?” Her accent sounded West Indian to Sydney. “The gangs from up on The Hill are coming down to Petite Africa. It’s those gang members in Liberty Hill. They shoplift. They pick people’s pockets. They steal cars. I bet they’re setting the fires.”
A man stood up on the Liberty Hill side. “And Petite Africa doesn’t have gangs?” he shouted. “I know there are at least two Jamaican gangs over there.”
People started yelling at each other, some of them jumping to their feet. Sydney trained her camera on the activity. Kwamé shot to the podium and slammed the gavel. “Blame won’t fix this,” he pleaded into the microphone. The crowd didn’t give him much of a chance. If anything, they grew louder. Some shook their fists at each other and shouted across the room. Sydney thought the news conference might become a riot. Chief Tolerico grabbed the gavel from Kwamé and slammed it down so hard that the handle broke off in his hand. “Can we have order?” he shouted. Then he shouted, “Order!” again, and the people quieted down. He took out a handkerchief and wiped it across his sweaty brow.
“All right then,” he continued. “We want everyone to notice their surroundings,” he continued. “If you see someone who looks suspicious or see some suspicious activity, tell us. We’ve been
working with the city on boarding up the vacant buildings, but sometimes squatters pry them open and move in. They start fires to stay warm. If you see anything like that, let us know. We need you to be our eyes and ears. We can’t do this on our own.”
After the fire and police chiefs fielded more questions, Mayor McShane directed people to a table in the lobby. “Take a flyer. It’s got the arson hotline listed and some fire precautions everyone should take. Chief O’Connell, Chief Tolerico, and I will be giving regular updates on our investigation in the newspapers, on TV stations, the radio. If necessary, we’ll meet here with you again in person.”
After the meeting adjourned, Sydney looked around the room, deciding which residents to interview. The police and fire chiefs and Mendy were surrounded by residents who climbed onto the stage to talk with them. She would get fresh quotes from them after the crowd thinned. Max was in a conversation with Kwamé
“It’s a shame,” said Malachi as they stood up. “We do so much for Petite Africa. We do charity work. We collect food and clothing for the poor families. But still, we fight.”
Sydney decided her husband had just given the perfect angle for her newspaper article.
CHAPTER 10
“POOR WOMAN.” Bernadine was standing at the second- floor picture window, looking down at the street and shaking her head. “She can’t get her child under control.”
“That’s Della, mother,” Sydney explained, carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres into the living room. “You met her at the wedding.”
“I thought she looked familiar. Does this happen all the time?”
“Pretty regularly.” Sydney placed the tray of sliced French bread topped with tomatoes, basil, mozzarella cheese, and garlic on the coffee table in front of her stepfather, Martin. “Della takes Jasmine to a kindergarten at the end of the block. Sometimes she’s fine. Sometimes she kicks and screams the whole way.”
