by Lisa Braxton
Drumming ambassador. The words had excited him. Sometimes he wished he could relive that day, when his future was wide open before him. He didn’t want to leave his daydreams, but at that moment he heard Natalie opening the bedroom door and coming up the hall in heels that slapped the floor. Even now he could feel the jerking and jolting of the train that took Fama and him to the Port of Dakar that humid day in summer 1967.
With tears, Fama handed him two earthen pots she had baked in the kiln to take with him to America. “Give one to Mr. Ellington and the other to your Uncle Mustapha,” she said in Wolof. Uncle Mustapha was her brother. He had gone to technical school in Dakar to learn how to run a hotel but now lived in the United States. Omar knew little of his uncle except that he operated a restaurant in a city called Bellport, somewhere north of New York City.
“My heart will cry out for you every night,” Fama exclaimed when they got off the train. Her lips were trembling. “But your uncle will look out for you.”
He promised his mother he would write letters. Fama relaxed, the creases in her aging face disappearing momentarily. “There is a lady in the marketplace, Ndeye, who reads and writes English,” she said. “I will have her read your letters to me, and I will tell her words to write to you.”
He was pretty sure he could remember the rest of the conversation with his mother, but Natalie’s hand gripped his shoulder, distracting him. “The hot water’s not working.” she grumbled, her hands on her hips.
“Bu … but … I used the shower earlier,” he sputtered into the couch cushion.
“I don’t care,” she snapped. “I just went in there to try to take a shower, and the water is ice cold.”
Omar rolled over to face her. “But it has been working since I talked to Fullerton’s wife. And I paid the back rent.”
“It’s not working now,” she hissed and began pacing the floor. She stopped when she saw Duke Ellington on the screen. She smashed the power knob off with the side of her fist. “Idrissa moved out, you know.”
He sat up. “Idrissa?”
“He and his sister. They’re gone. I saw them this morning, packing their things in his sister’s beat-up car. They said they’re moving to Stamford, Connecticut. They have relatives there. The building’s half-empty, Omar.” She started shouting. “If you were a husband, you’d find us a place so we could move, too.” She spun around and walked away. “I’m getting out of here.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not staying here,” she shouted from down the hall. “I’m going to Beverly’s. She has a hot shower, and everything works. She said I can stay with her as long as I want.”
He liked Beverly. He had met her once at a cocktail party she had invited them to in her downtown Bellport apartment. Natalie and Beverly had met in an acting class.
He followed her into the bedroom. She was zipping up her makeup case and had started on a small suitcase, tossing in sweaters, jeans, panties, bras, a lint brush, and nail polish remover. She zipped the suitcase and grabbed it and the makeup case.
He rushed to the bedroom door to block her path. “You shall not leave, ma chère. A wife shall not leave her husband if she values her marriage.”
“You’re one to talk. If you valued the marriage, if you were a grownup, you would have gotten us out of here.” She brushed past him.
He followed her to the front door. “If you leave, I shall file for divorce.”
She turned around and choked back a laugh. “Go ahead!”
After she left, he stood there, staring at the door. He didn’t think she’d be gone long. Maybe after a few days she’d calm down and come back, especially if he got Fullerton to fix the heat again. He put the chain on the door and turned the television back on.
After a commercial for Maxwell House Coffee, Duke Ellington was back on, smiling at the camera as he performed. The musician would never believe the path Omar’s life had taken since the day they had met in front of Amity Arena in Senegal. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Ellington would expect him to have a recording contract by now, to be touring nationally, not stuck in a rundown building in jeopardy of being torn down, with a cold wife who wanted to leave him, and a stalled career. No, Ellington wouldn’t expect that at all.
CHAPTER 12
FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS, payable to the order of Sydney and Malachi Stallworth.
Sydney sat at her desk in the guest bedroom on the second floor, looking over the check to the hum of the IBM Selectric typewriter. It was the high point of an exhausting afternoon. She’d sifted through rejection letters that had come in the mail from talent agents and then typed new ones, hoping that among the few well-known writers, poets, actors, or musicians left on her list, someone would agree to appear at the grand opening of The Talking Drum Bookstore and Cultural Center. She didn’t have much time left. It was June, four months before the grand opening. Malachi fretted. He insisted that they try to get “a draw,” an attraction that would bring in a good-sized crowd and favorable coverage in the local papers.
Bernadine’s flowing, elegant script and Martin’s co-signature were on the check. Sydney reread the note her mother enclosed. She and Martin wanted the money to be used to purchase inventory, fixtures, and supplies, it said.
The check meant more to Sydney than just money. Bernadine and Martin had been against her leaving school but had relented, ultimately respecting her wishes. She knew it had been hard for them to accept the fact that she was taking a break from her studies, especially for Bernadine.
A rumbling sound came from the stairway. It was either Malachi or Lawrence coming down the stairs. They’d been up on the third floor all day finishing renovations on Malachi’s poker room.
Lawrence peaked in the doorway. “Miss Syd, can you come upstairs?”
She switched off the typewriter and tucked the check back into its envelope. “So I’m finally going to get to see it,” she said. “Are women even allowed up there?”
Lawrence laughed. “Professor Mal and I have a little more work to do, but you’ll get the general idea.”
When they got upstairs, Lawrence turned the doorknob that led into the room they had been working on.
“Is a door really necessary?” Sydney asked.
Lawrence turned around and grinned. “Poker games can get pretty loud, Miss Syd. You’ll be glad we put this in.”
He let the door swing open and gestured for Sydney to enter. Malachi was smiling as she swept past him. It was a large room that looked nothing like she imagined. Long, narrow work tables lined the walls. A couple of wooden stools were tucked underneath one of the tables. Rows of trays and a cutting board were on top. What looked like a wardrobe, or standing closet, was against a wall. Sydney and Malachi stepped through a door at one end of the room that led to a much smaller room, which had a counter, a deep sink almost three-feet wide, more trays and a storage cabinet. Rubber mats covered much of the floor’s carpeting.
“What do you think?” Malachi’s eyes bore into her.
Sydney slowly led the way back into the larger room. She was clearly puzzled. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Lawrence,” Malachi called over Sydney’s shoulder. “Sydney, here, doesn’t know what to think of all of this.”
“Really?” Lawrence grinned. “Ain’t that a shame? We put a lot of work into this.”
Malachi turned to Sydney. “What did you think it was going to look like?”
Sydney knew they were having fun with her and decided to go along with it. “Well, I thought I’d see cocktail glasses lined up on a long counter or bar, some shelves on the walls filled with wine and liquor bottles, a few ashtrays here and there, a poker table, maybe a couch or two, a small sink. This sink is way too big for a wet bar.”
Lawrence reached into the wardrobe and pulled out three wine glasses and a bottle of Blue Nun. Malachi poured. “In honor of the occa
sion, we got a bottle of your favorite.”
Sydney took a long sip. She liked Blue Nun’s fruity flavor. It reminded her of white grape juice with a shot of liquor added. She walked over to the cutting board “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you were building a photo lab.”
Malachi and Lawrence slapped palms. “Bingo!” exclaimed Malachi.
“And that’s the darkroom.” Lawrence gestured with his glass toward the smaller room, a wide smile on his face.
She was puzzled. “But why would you do this?” she said to Malachi. “When was the last time you even snapped a picture?”
“Don’t you see? It’s for you, Miss Syd,” Lawrence said.
Sydney walked around the room, speechless.
“I did some research before I started the work,” Malachi continued. “The instructions say that a good darkroom has a wet side and a dry side.”
“You read manuals?” she asked.
“Parts of manuals. And I relied on Lawrence. He has a lot of know-how when it comes to carpentry.”
She smiled at Lawrence. “Thank you.”
He took a slight bow.
She walked over to the trays on the counter. “These are my print trays?”
“Yes, baby, and take a look in here.” He opened the double doors of the storage closet. The shelves held boxes of film, a photo enlarger, and a timer.
Tears welled up in her eyes. “When I first walked in, I assumed you got this to hang up your buddies’ coats.”
Malachi beamed. “Surprised?”
She carried the enlarger over to one of the work tables and placed it next to the cutting board. “I can’t believe it. My own photo lab.”
“I’m gonna get some rubber strips and put them over the doorway to block out the light,” added Lawrence. “There’s some heavy black paper we use in some of the plays on campus. I can get that to cover the windows.”
The doorbell rang. “You expecting someone?” Malachi asked.
She shook her head.
“I’ll check it out,” offered Lawrence.
“You don’t have to do that,” said Sydney.
“I gotta get going anyway. I have to cut grass for a couple of my customers in the neighborhood,” Lawrence explained on his way out of the room.
Malachi took her in his arms. “After all of the sacrificing you’ve done for me, leaving school, coming here, I wanted to do something for you. I remember all those nights that you spent in the photo lab at Whittington, developing your own pictures. I can tell that you’ve been missing that.”
She stood on tiptoes and gave him a peck on the lips. “My own darkroom in my own home. Thank you!”
“It’ll be more than that.” He crouched down at one of the storage cabinets along the perimeter of the room to pull out a large black case.
She undid the buckles. It was a light kit, which came with light stands, bulbs, reflectors, and umbrellas.
“This will be your studio,” he said, gesturing with a sweeping motion around the room. “I know how much you enjoy taking portraits of people. You can do that right here. I’m going to have Lawrence make you some backdrops, curtains probably, get some chairs, a couch, maybe a mirror. You can let me know what else you need.”
They left the floor and headed downstairs. When they got to the foyer, Sydney was surprised to see Kwamé there with a couple who appeared to be in their seventies. Lawrence was gone.
“Miss Sydney, how you be?” Kwamé stretched out his arms for a hug. She sidestepped him and stood next to Malachi. Kwamé gestured toward the couple. “This here’s Inez and Willie Taylor, some old friends.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Willie said. He was a broad-chested man wearing a lightweight three-piece suit. A deep purple handkerchief was tucked in his top suit pocket. He tipped his hat, a derby, then removed his wife’s sweater cape from around her shoulders. He placed his hat and the cape on the coat tree. Malachi looked around. “What happened to Lawrence?”
“Oh nothing, man,” replied Kwamé. “Said he had to get to his grandmother’s house.”
“He told me he had to cut customers’ grass,” Sydney said.
“One of your students?” Kwamé ignored her remark.
“Yeah, man,” Malachi said. “I’ve been knowing him for years.”
“What a charming house you have,” Inez said. She was not quite five feet tall, at least a foot and a half shorter than her husband. She reminded Sydney of a delicate bird as she moved about with her silver-handled cane. She spoke each word distinctly, much like her husband, as if she was demonstrating elocution. “Reminds me of my Aunt Harriet’s place on the South Side of Chicago.”
“That’s where we’re from,” Willie added.
“We left there a long time ago.” Inez waved her hand in the air dismissively. “We’ve lived all over the world, you know—Europe, China, the Western U.S., Africa.”
“Traveling school teachers,” Willie continued. “Retired a few years ago, settled in Darien, Connecticut.”
Sydney didn’t know that black people lived in Darien. The upscale bedroom community outside of New York City relied on property taxes to balance its budget, which priced most working-class and middle-class people out of the market. Sydney’s thoughts must have shown on her face.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Willie grinned. “There are a few of us down there.” He chuckled.
Kwamé led the couple into what would be the bookstore’s reading room. Sydney and Malachi started to follow them, but Kwamé held them back. “You ain’t rented the basement yet, have you?” he asked in a low voice.
“No. Not yet,” Malachi replied. He turned to Sydney. “Has anyone come by to see the unit yet?”
“I’ve gotten a few calls about it, but that’s it.
“So it’s still available?” Kwamé said.
“Yes, but…”
“Good.”
“Why?” Malachi asked.
“The Taylors need a place.”
“But didn’t they just say they live in Connecticut?” Sydney asked, puzzled.
“She’s got health problems,” Kwamé added. “They want to be up here, not far from the hospitals in Boston. Connecticut’s just too far away.”
“Then why don’t they move to Boston?” asked Sydney.
Kwamé stepped back from her and grinned. “Look at you, Mrs. Twenty Questions.”
Sydney didn’t care for his condescending tone.
“Yeah,” said Malachi. “Why don’t they get a place in Boston? We’re twenty miles away and public transportation up here is unreliable.”
“They know people around here. Is that enough of a reason?” Kwamé seemed defensive.
“That sounds good, man, real good,” Malachi said. “We’ll have them fill out an application, check their references.”
Kwamé stroked his goatee. “References? I go way back with Willie and Inez. I can vouch for them.”
“This is not your apartment, Kwamé,” Sydney said. From the foyer she could see Willie flipping through a volume from Collier’s encyclopedia in the reading room from a set Malachi had ordered to sell in the bookstore. “We need to check them out. That’s standard procedure.”
Malachi looked at Sydney. “She’s right. We need to check their backgrounds.”
“Backgrounds? Professah, with all due respect we don’t need you to do a dissertation on them. Just rent them the apartment.”
“I hear you, man,” Malachi answered after a moment, “but no background check, no apartment. Like Syd said, that’s standard. Know what I’m saying?”
Kwamé waved him off. “No, I don’t know what you’re saying. They would be insulted.”
They stood there saying nothing, and Malachi asked, “How do you know them?”
Sydney fumed. Malachi was about to cave into Kwamé
. Why wouldn’t he listen to her?
Kwamé’s eyes brightened. “Willie used to run the state NAACP in Connecticut a few years back. Inez was recording secretary. When the city was gonna let the feds take Liberty Hill for redevelopment, Willie and Inez rallied the troops, bussed in two hundred protesters. Professah, you were…”
“I know, I know,” Malachi interrupted. “I was in my ivory tower at Whittington University.”
“We owe them, man,” insisted Kwamé. “If not for them, there would be no more Liberty Hill.”
Malachi nodded. “I see your point, brother.”
“What are you saying?” asked Sydney, but neither man responded.
It occurred to Sydney that Kwamé had elbowed his way into the apartment deal. She was glad she had made it clear to him that he had overstepped his boundaries. She looked over at Malachi. He stared at the ceiling and scratched his head, rather than meet her eyes.
Kwamé smiled broadly. “Okay. Let’s join them down the hall.”
The two men clasped hands. Sydney was furious. Kwamé led the way. Sydney let Malachi walk ahead of her to give her a little time to cool down. She was determined not to let this go. Kwamé was up to something. She was sure of it.
Inez was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs. Willie stood at a bookshelf, flipping through another volume of Collier’s. Sydney sat in the chair next to Inez’s, while Kwamé and Malachi sat at opposite ends of a couch across from the women.
“Why do you want to move to Liberty Hill?” Sydney asked in a business-like tone.
“We put the house on the market,” Willie replied.
“It was just too big,” Inez added.
“We’re getting older,” Willie continued. “Boston has the best hospitals around. If either of us gets sick, we could be at Beth Israel in twenty minutes.
“You can’t beat the hospitals of Boston,” Kwamé chimed in. “They’re the best around.”
“I had a stroke,” Inez explained, tapping the top of her cane with her fingertips. “Happened a few years ago. I took early retirement from the school system. All I need is this cane to steady myself, and I get around just fine. But you never know.”
