The Talking Drum

by Lisa Braxton

  CHAPTER 19

  “WHAT WE DOING here, Dell?” Kwamé let the menu of Le Baobab’s specials drop onto the table. “Anything we need to talk about we can talk about at home.”

  Della wished he would lower his voice. She scanned the room to see if they were drawing the attention of other customers, but no one seemed to notice. She leaned across the table and spoke softly, hoping he would follow her example. “We can’t talk at home because you’re never there. Besides, I can’t remember the last time you took me out.”

  He lit a Viceroy. “We could have stayed in the neighborhood. Jake’s restaurant isn’t bad. I need to talk to him about something anyway. Or we could have gone to The Bell Tower.”

  It had been years since Kwamé had taken Della to the upscale steakhouse on the top floor of downtown Bellport’s main financial building. The rotating restaurant had windows on all sides, from which patrons could see the sailboats moored in the harbor.

  “Only reason you’d take me to The Bell Tower would be to see your political cronies. I’d end up eating by myself while you worked the room, as usual. At least here, you don’t know nobody.”

  Since the first time Della visited Le Baobab, with Sydney and Jasmine, she had wanted to come back. She wanted to hear more of Omar’s drumming, try Le Baobab’s famous mafé, lamb stew, and chat with Uncle Mustapha. Waitress Marie Thérèse had told her that Mustapha was down the street at the mosque for evening prayer and wouldn’t be returning. At least Omar was there. He and Khadim were setting up their drums for the night’s performance.

  “Know what you want to order?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” Kwamé was staring at the drummers. They were tightening the ropes on their drums and patting them softly, to check the sound. Della thought Kwamé was enjoying watching The Fulani Sound warm up, until he turned back around to face her, scowling.

  “You got me here, so what you want to talk about?”

  “Can’t we enjoy a night out, listen to some music?”

  He took a long drag on the cigarette. “Mierda, Dell. You got something on your mind, you might as well come out with it.”

  She hated when he used his Spanish profanity. “I want to go back to college.”

  His eyebrows gathered in a knot. “What for?”

  “I’m halfway to my bachelor’s degree. If I finish, I can go for my MLS.”

  He blew out smoke. “What’s that?”

  “Master of Library Science.”

  “What you need that for? You’re already working at the library.”

  She didn’t know if Kwamé was dense or being difficult. She decided that it was both. “I know, but with the MLS, I can be a librarian, not just a library assistant.”

  A loud volley of slaps on the drums signaled that The Fulani Sound was beginning its performance. Omar and Khadim stood at opposite ends of the stage performing a drumming duel. Khadim seemed to be the showman, flinging his head back and forth to send his dreadlocks flying around, reminding her of an amusement park swing ride. He squeezed a little drum under his arm as his biceps flexed. Omar had his drum strapped to his waist and played an intricate set of beats. In the end, the audience clapped the loudest for Omar, declaring him the winner.

  “Where you get an idea like that from?” Kwamé stared at Della, paying no attention to the show.

  “I was talking to Sydney and…”

  He flicked his cigarette over an ashtray. “Sydney? What she know about anything, walking around with that silver spoon jammed in her mouth?”

  “You didn’t feel that way a few months ago when you two were sitting all cozy in The Stewed Oxtail.”

  His eyes widened, but he said nothing.

  “Thought I didn’t know about that, didn’t you?”

  “Oh Dell, she wanted to learn about the city, the history of Liberty Hill, that kind of thing. I just wanted to spare you from being bored. And, anyway, that was a long time ago.”

  “Uh huh. You think I’m stupid.”

  They sat there in silence.

  “How much?” Kwamé snapped. Omar and Khadim began their next number.

  “What?”

  “How much is this schooling you want gonna cost?” he shouted over the drumbeat, drawing looks from the next table.

  Marie Thérèse brought Della a glass of bouye juice and Kwamé a scotch and soda. She brought two glasses of water too. The drummers lowered their volume and continued to play. “I have the money for the classes,” Della declared. “I just need you to spend more time at home, babysitting Jazz.

  He stubbed out his unfinished cigarette, pressing it into the ashtray hard enough to drive a hole through it. “When you need me to babysit?”

  “Most of the classes are at night.”

  “Can’t do it with the hours I keep at the record shop. I need to be open most evenings.” He swirled his drink and took a sip.

  “She could sit in the office and play.”

  He choked on his drink. He put it on the table and grabbed a glass of water and downed it to stop the coughing. “And what if she has one of them fits? You expect me to leave my customers and try to control that kid while she’s wailing and crying?”

  She got up and went to his side of the booth and forced him over. She moved close so that she could talk directly into his ear. “You’re full of shit! That’s not the reason you don’t want Jasmine in the store.”

  “You need to watch yourself, Dell!” he hissed in a guttural tone.

  “Why you need to keep the store open all those hours anyway? You’re not making any money. You don’t have any customers. The place is like a ghost town.”

  He elbowed her to get up. Della returned to her side of the table. “You have no business talking to me like that, Dell. What do you expect me to do? Close up just to take care of Jasmine?”

  They turned to watch the drummers for a while.

  “Dell, the times I don’t stay open late, I’m at community meetings, or seeing the mayor.”

  “You’ve been meeting with the mayor at three in the morning?” Or the mayor’s blonde assistant? That’s what she wanted to say, but stopped herself. She knew the conversation would deteriorate if she pushed the subject of his female friends. She checked her watch. Jasmine was with Sydney and Malachi. They agreed to watch her until nine o’clock. It was already eight.

  “Why should I do this for you when you haven’t done what I want?” Kwamé tucked a toothpick into the corner of his mouth.

  “I told you, I’m not comfortable with it. That property is all I’ve got. Every cent I got from Tucker’s insurance policy I put in that building.

  He sipped his drink. “You keep saying that.”

  “We’re not even married, Kwamé. Your name is not on the deed. I want to keep it that way.”

  He shrugged. “Then let’s get hitched. Let’s make it legal.”

  “So you can get at the equity? No thanks.”

  He leaned across the table, closer to her face. “I have a right to have my name on the deed. Who’s been helping you with the mortgage? Who got you that new furnace when the other one broke down? How about the washing machine and dryer in the basement that everybody in the building uses? I’ve been putting my money in this property, and what am I getting for it? A bunch of nothing.”

  Della took a sip of her juice. “You operate the record shop rent free. Now you want to throw more of my money at it.”

  Marie Thérèse returned. Kwamé waved her off.

  “If you knew anything about running a business,” he said, “you’d know that these days you need to do more than just sell records. You need to sell everything people need for entertainment—record players, stereos, tape recorders, microphones, Super 8 cameras, projectors.”

  “What about the time you bought all those reel-to-reel tape machines? You sold a couple, and then you couldn’t give
them away. You got stuck with three boxes of them. People weren’t even buying them anymore. They’d moved on to cassettes.”

  “Those machines weren’t a mistake. We just got into the market late. It happens.” He finished his drink and slammed his empty glass on the table. He tossed the car keys on the table. “I’m tired of yapping about the same thing over and over and getting nowhere. I’m outta here.”

  Della was stunned. “Where are you going?”

  He slid across the bench and stood up. “For a walk. If I get tired I’ll catch a cab. You can drive the car home when you’re ready.”

  As she watched Kwamé leave, she could feel the tears coming. She didn’t count on Kwamé being so surly and responding so critically about the idea of her going back to school. Not only did he try to deflate her, he had focused on what he wanted—the loan. Della looked around. The restaurant was packed. She put a twenty-dollar bill on the table and rushed to the bathroom where no one could see her crying.

  Kwamé would not let go of having his name put on the deed, but she would never agree to it, no matter how difficult he became. After what she went through with Tucker, she vowed that she would never let a man have control over any part of her life again.

  She’d married Tucker because she’d gotten pregnant with Jasmine. She knew that he had other women, but she thought providing a father for her child was the right thing to do. If she had known that Tucker would pull a gun on her, kick her around, and beat her she would never have married him. She would have had Jasmine on her own. There were times when he was so loud when he was beating her that Jasmine woke up in the middle of the night, ran to Della screaming her head off and tried to punch Tucker in the legs with her fists to defend Della.

  In some ways, it was a relief when Tucker pulled a knife on a cop and the cop shot and killed him. She didn’t have to deal with the abuse anymore.

  But Jasmine was scarred. Della regretted that her daughter had been exposed to Tucker’s abusive behavior. She knew that her little girl relived the abuse in her nightmares.

  Della left the bathroom stall, looked in the mirror and dabbed at her tears, careful not to smudge her eyeliner. She smoked a cigarette, which helped calm her down. When she sat back down at the booth, the twenty-dollar bill was still there. This puzzled her. She was surprised to see Marie Thérèse approaching the table, holding a small round tray with a glass of white wine on it.

  “I didn’t order that,” Della said.

  “From Omar,” Marie Thérèse said as she placed the glass in front of her.

  Della looked over at the bandstand. Without missing a beat as he patted the drum, Omar smiled at her and then winked.

  CHAPTER 20

  SYDNEY POURED lavender eucalyptus bath salts into the tub, which turned the water a purplish pink. She’d already been lolling in the clawfoot tub for about twenty minutes and decided she’d stay there until either her fingertips began to shrivel like raisins or the votive candles she had lit burned all the way down. She could feel herself beginning to doze and welcomed it because she had slept little the night before. Malachi kept her up tossing and muttering as if he was holding a conversation. Once he rolled on top of her, hugged her and then flipped to the other side. Sydney thought he had jitters about the grand opening next week, although he had not openly shared with her any of his concerns about starting a business. Sydney had a few anxious moments herself.

  She sank lower in the tub, letting the water lap at her shoulder blades to relieve a tightness that had been building there for days.

  When the water had begun to cool she reached for the hot water nozzle and cranked it to full blast, kept it there until her skin stung. She ran an index finger down the headlines on the cover of an old issue of Look magazine she’d propped up in the bathtub caddy. Industrialist Howard Hughes was pictured in 1939, along with a frightening artist’s illustration of how he looked last year in 1971. Sydney decided to skip that story and instead read the piece about how Warren Beatty and Julie Christie were “together at last” as the headline read. She didn’t know if that meant that there was a romance or they were making a movie. She flipped pages. It was a shame that Look has ceased publication last year. She’d try to be careful not to get the pages wet. It could become a collector’s item someday.

  As she got to the article on Warren and Julie, who were in fact just making a movie together, the warmth of the water lulled her into a daydream. After a while she heard familiar footsteps. As Malachi came through the door, she opened her mouth to ask him not to turn the ceiling light on, but before she could form the words she realized she didn’t need to. Clutching an 8-track player/radio under his arm like a football, Malachi walked across the checkerboard floor to the far end of the bathroom. He plugged the radio into the outlet and twisted the dial, stopping at the local soul station, WCLL, “Cool Radio.” The deejay was playing The Temptations’ song, “Just My Imagination.” Malachi left the room momentarily and returned holding a bottle of Blue Nun and two wine glasses.

  He poured the wine and handed her a glass. Sydney took a sip and closed her eyes. “This is the right music for the mood I’m in. I just want to relax.”

  Moments later, water sloshed around in the tub as a now undressed Malachi climbed in. Bathed in candlelight, the sight of his body, taut and sculpted from his college track-and-field days, always got her attention.

  He settled into the opposite end of the tub, facing her, then raised one of her feet and caressed it with a soapy washcloth all the while keeping his eyes on her. After massaging the balls of each foot and rinsing them, he placed her toes in his mouth, one-by-one, massaging each one with his tongue. His touch tickled her, making her twist in the water until she splashed some over the sides.

  “I’m not playing the radio for the music,” he mumbled, one of her toes in his mouth.

  She lifted herself up slightly. “Then why’d you bring it in here?”

  Malachi switched to her other foot. But this time, he sucked on her heel. “They’re supposed to start making announcements about the grand opening.”

  She giggled as he licked the arch of her foot. “I love it that we’re getting free advertising.”

  “I went down to the station yesterday and talked to The Young Turk. Kwamé put in a good word for us. We’ll get some free commercials about The Talking Drum if we agree to keep his station coming out of the speakers during business hours.” He tipped his glass so that wine trickled into the space between her first and second toes. Then he licked the trail.

  “Shouldn’t we wait until we see how the grand opening goes before celebrating?” she asked.

  He sat up. “Baby, it’s an achievement that we got this far. I’m having my celebration now. The Young Turk said he’ll mention us two or three times a day until the grand opening ends.”

  The news came on—a bulletin—FBI agents linked the Watergate break-in to the Nixon re-election. After a series of other news bulletins, the program went to a commercial break for Schlitz Malt Liquor and Ultra Sheen Hair Care Products.

  After that came the raspy voiced Young Turk. “Listen up, y’all. A revolution is coming to Bellport. We’ve never seen anything like this in the community, and I don’t think we ever will again—a bookstore in Liberty Hill.”

  “He’s talking about us,” Sydney said, raising herself to a sitting position.

  Malachi raised a palm to shush her.

  Next, The Young Turk gave his listeners The Talking Drum address and invited everyone to come hear The Fierce Warriors. Then he went onto a commercial promoting Mister W’s, a men’s clothing store.

  Sydney grabbed the washcloth floating in the water. She wrung it out and draped it over the side of the tub. “This grand opening is going to be a hit.”

  “Baby, people are going to talk about it for months.” He drew her close, planting kisses on her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and both ear lobes. Sydney s
hut her eyes and focused on the sensual feel of his full lips and the tickle of his mustache.

  “Do you think Kwamé was being honest with us when he said he thought we could make a profit with this place?” she asked.

  “I do. He’s a smart businessman. He wouldn’t steer us wrong, Syd.”

  “But he’s not doing much business at his place. Della told me he barely gets any customers.”

  “Every business goes through a slump. What Kwamé’s been saying about the extra foot traffic we’ll get is true.”

  “I hope so.”

  “And on top of that, Lawrence has some ideas for discussion groups we can host in the bookstore’s lecture hall. We could pull in young people, high school and college students.”

  “You think that’ll bring in money?”

  “He shrugged. They may not spend a lot on books, but they like to read, so we should get some sales from it. Lawrence thinks we should open a snack bar for the groups that meet, serve coffee, sodas, fruit, cookies, that kind of thing. We can mark up the price enough to make a few dollars that way.”

  Another news bulletin came on the radio station—another house fire in Petite Africa. Sydney and Malachi sat motionless, listening. The fire was considered suspicious. There were no injuries, but three families lost everything except the clothing they wore, fleeing the building. Witnesses said they saw a car leave the back of the house minutes before the blaze started. The announcer stated that this was the fifth fire in the past two months in Petite Africa that appeared to be suspicious and that the frequency of the fires had increased.

  “They must be scared to death,” Sydney said. “Uncle Mustapha, Hallima, I wonder how they can sleep at night with those fires so close.”

  “I’m not surprised that the pace is picking up considering that the groundbreaking is scheduled for April. That’s only six months away. If this is part of an insurance scam, then there’s not much time left for the crooks to put in their claims.

  Malachi climbed out of the tub and put an 8-track tape into the player, the Stylistics’ “Betcha By Golly Wow.”