The Talking Drum

by Lisa Braxton

The phone rang, startling them both.

  “We’re going to have to take it off the hook,” Sydney sighed. “I made the mistake of answering it earlier, and it was a reporter from The Bellport Gazette asking for a quote from me about Lawrence. She badgered me so much that I had to hang up on her.”

  “I know what you mean. Two TV reporters were camped out in front of the jail and got in my face on my way out this morning. They followed me all the way to the car.”

  Sydney peeked out of the window. Percy, wearing his usual snorkel jacket permanently discolored by filth, was walking by with Bridgette. He made a prolonged stop in front of the house as the dog squatted on the sidewalk. He continued down the block without scooping up the dog’s business. Down the street she saw two television news vans. “Seems they followed you here.”

  “Not surprised.”

  “We’ll have to wait it out. They can’t stay out there forever.”

  She lay back down in the bed. “So what’s Lawrence going to do for a defense?”

  “I heard that the congregation at Nehemiah Baptist is raising some money to hire a good lawyer.”

  “At least he’ll have that.”

  Malachi pressed his thumbs against his closed eyelids for a moment to push back tears. “Lawrence said he had no intention of anyone being hurt in the fires, let alone dying.”

  “He did a stupid thing.”

  “I know, Sydney. Not only was it stupid. He’s ruined his life and the lives of a bunch of other people too.”

  CHAPTER 34

  FOR THE FIRST TIME in his life, Omar was completely alone. Uncle Mustapha was gone. Khadim had moved to Rhode Island. When he had gone to City Hall to apply for a housing voucher, Khadim was told that there were none left. Then Khadim asked about apartments in Chelsea and Malden advertised in the newspaper. But when he went to see them, he was told that the apartments had been rented. Omar had heard stories from other Petite Africa residents of being turned away by landlords who didn’t want to rent to them and suspected that his friend was receiving the same treatment.

  Khadim resorted to moving two hours away from Bellport to East Warwick, Rhode Island, where he had a distant cousin, Aziz, who owned apartments.

  Omar had been living in the YMCA in downtown Bellport for the past two months since his uncle died. He had a two-burner hotplate that he never bothered to use. When he got hungry he’d go to the waterfront and order food from the canteen that served the construction crews. The Harborview Redevelopment Project was on schedule. Groundbreaking was a month ago, April 1st.

  He spent his days wandering around the perimeter of what used to be his neighborhood and recalled his friends, Bamba Toukou, who loved to call him “drummer man,” and Junio Ortiz whose bakery ovens sweetened the neighborhood. He wondered where they had gone. He wiped away tears as he approached the spot where Esmé’s Africa Wear Shop used to be. Esmé, who was long dead now. If the fire hadn’t happened, Esmé would have been searching for another location to sell her racks of clothing, souvenirs, and knick knacks.

  Now, back at the YMCA after another walk on the waterfront, he heard a knock on his door. It was Della, who he hadn’t seen in a week. She was dressed for church, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, flowing dress, and high heels. She was carrying a large shopping bag, which she plopped onto the bed. She reached in and pulled out a sleeping bag. “I went and got this from the Army/Navy Store. “It’s got a built-in pillow in it,” she said.

  He had forgotten that he’d complained to her about his cot’s thin mattress.

  “I shall make good use of it.” He unrolled the sleeping bag on top of the mattress. “Thank you ma chère,” he said, taking her in his arms and giving her three quick kisses on the lips. She didn’t resist, which encouraged him to kiss her again, this time longer.

  Then she pulled away.

  “No, Omar. You’re going too fast.”

  “But you want to.”

  She shook her head. “I know, but let’s take it slow. No rush. Okay?”

  “Very well then.” Omar smiled and let go of her.

  Della looked around the room. “You ought to get a TV in here. At least a radio. You been following the news about the fires?”

  He shook his head.

  She reached into the shopping bag and handed him the day’s edition of The Bellport Gazette. On the front page was a story about the continuing investigation into the set fires. It included a file photo of Lawrence Briggs under arrest in March. Omar read to the end of the article.

  “That should be a load off your mind, shouldn’t it?” she inquired.

  “It is progress.”

  Della balled up the shopping bag and crammed it into the room’s tiny waste-paper basket. “I hear the ‘but’ in there, but you ain’t saying it.”

  “Uncle Mustapha thought that Fullerton was burning down buildings for insurance money.”

  “James Fullerton? The landlord? As much property as he owns in this town, why would he?” Della checked her watch. “I have to get over to church. I’ll see you at the book factory this afternoon?”

  “I will be there.”

  Just thinking about the memorial service for Uncle Mustapha made him feel empty. Uncle’s death was still felt fresh. Omar had put himself in charge of the service. He’d rehearsed his remarks, which he would keep simple. It had taken him weeks to track down Petite Africa people who’d been displaced by the fires and eminent domain. Because the mosque in Petite Africa was demolished with everything else, the memorial service would be held at the former Nathaniel Hawthorne Boot Factory. Uncle would like that. The factory was on the banks of the Bellport River, facing what used to be Petite Africa, the cafetorium spare, without decoration. The only music performed would be a drumming interlude by Khadim.

  Omar climbed into his sleeping bag. He regretted not spending more time with his uncle in the months before his death instead of running around playing at drumming gigs. He didn’t realize how much the fires and the fight to save Petite Africa were damaging Uncle’s health.

  If he had been paying better attention he would have encouraged Uncle to take a vacation, to relax. But then Omar realized how unrealistic this would have been. Uncle never slowed down. Not ever. Petite Africa and Le Baobab were his life, particularly after Aunt Samir had died.

  Hours later, he stood in the lobby of the former boot factory, shaking the hands of attendees of the memorial service as they left. He was pleased at attendance. The cafetorium had been filled. Extra folding chairs had to be brought in from the storage room.

  Malachi and Sydney approached him. He shook hands with the couple. “This was a lovely service,” Sydney said. “Your remarks were so touching.”

  “I thank you,” Omar responded.

  “Your uncle did so much for us, putting up fliers about our grand opening, giving his customers discounts to shop with us,” Malachi said.

  “Yes, he was a good friend,” added Sydney.

  Malachi cleared his throat. “Your uncle caught us at a bad time when he asked us to rent to you.”

  “You do not have to explain,” interrupted Omar.

  “Please,” said Malachi, “let me finish. Your uncle meant so much to us. We want to be there for you. We want you to move into our apartment.”

  “Where are you living now?” asked Sydney.

  Omar told them about his room at the “Y.”

  “Please consider staying with us,” Sydney said. “We’d love to have you.”

  Omar watched Sydney and Malachi as they walked to their car. For the first time since Uncle’s death, he began to feel happy.

  CHAPTER 35

  IT HAD BEEN a tough season, Sydney thought, as she sat at her desk, looking over a brochure for Suffolk University Law School. She and Malachi endured more tension than she imagined this early in their marriage. Her mother had told her that the honeymoon pe
riod for her and Sydney’s father lasted four or five years. For Sydney and Malachi, it had only lasted a few months.

  They were beginning the work to repair their relationship in light of the robbery by the Taylors, Malachi’s mistakes in running the bookstore, and his hiring of Lawrence, who turned out to be an arsonist. If Sydney had listened to her mother and not married Malachi, she’d be almost done with law school by now and preparing to sit for the bar exam, but she wouldn’t have been at her husband’s side as he launched the business.

  Malachi put his hands on her shoulders and massaged them gently. “Still looking that over, I see.”

  He spoke softly. They’d agreed to babysit Jasmine for Della. The child was asleep in the back of the apartment. She tossed the brochure onto her desk. “I’ve been reading about the concentration in civil rights law. I could go to work for a nonprofit, an advocacy group, work on discrimination cases. After watching what happened to Petite Africa, Uncle Mustapha, and Omar, I feel I can actually help people and feel good about what I’m doing rather than work in some corporation.”

  “You could do the same concentration at Whittington University. Suffolk is not in the same league as Whittington. It would be a big step down. ”

  “I know, but Suffolk is so close. It’s just down the road in Boston, about thirty minutes away.”

  He took her by the hand and led her over to the couch. “Syd, don’t do this because of me. Do what you want to do. You put your career on hold for me, and I love you for that, but now it’s your turn. Besides, The Talking Drum is doing just fine. We’ll be fine, even if you’re on the other side of the state for a year and a half. We’ll deal with it.”

  “But things are finally getting better between us,” she said. “I don’t want anything to interfere with that.”

  “It won’t. Trust me. Go back to Whittington if that’s what you want. It’s ranked as one of the top five law schools in the country, and it accepted you and gave you a fellowship. Do you know how many people wish they could even make the waiting list there?”

  She sat there and thought about it for a while. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll call the dean.”

  “Do that. I’ll work it out on this end, hire some part-time help, and drive out every other weekend. When you have a long weekend or semester break, you can take the train out here.”

  The doorbell rang. “Must be Della,” Sydney said and looked at her watch. “Jasmine’s been napping for just over an hour. She should be waking up any time now.”

  “I’ll let Della up on my way out,” Malachi replied.

  Della sat down on the living room couch and kicked off her shoes. “I’ve been on my feet all day,” she shouted to Sydney, who was in the kitchen when she arrived upstairs, “re-shelving books, checking out patrons at the circulation desk. We were short on staff today, so I had to take up the slack.”

  “How’re your classes going?”

  “Ain’t bad. We’ve been studying archiving. There’s a lot more to it than I thought.”

  Sydney rolled the tea service into the living room.

  “How’s your new tenant doing?” asked Della, smiling.

  “Maybe I should ask you that.”

  Della chuckled.

  “He pays on time, and keeps to himself,” said Sydney.

  “Sounds like it’s working out.”

  Sydney poured Earl Grey from a silver teapot. “It’s working out very well. Uncle Mustapha would be happy.”

  “I still can’t believe he’s gone,” said Della.

  “I know,” Sydney said, blinking back tears. “The only time I hear anything from downstairs is when Omar’s practicing his drumming. He plays during the day. Never in the evenings. The customers enjoy it.”

  Della took a sip of her tea. “He’s playing that loud?”

  “They can hear him through the dumbwaiter. The sound goes right up the shaft. Customers walk around the shop bopping their heads to the beat. I think they like that better than what The Young Turk plays on the radio station.”

  Sydney sat down across from Della. As they sipped their tea, Pumpkin, now full grown and pudgy for a cat, leaped onto the back of the sofa and nuzzled Della’s neck.

  “What a sweet cat,” Della said. “That’s the one silver lining to renting to those awful people.”

  Mention of the Taylors brought Sydney back to that day when she and Malachi realized that the Taylors were brazen thieves, not the genteel couple they had pretended to be.

  “You can have her if you want her. I don’t understand why she can never sit still. She’s always leaping on something, scratching at something, digging up my African Violets. They’re half-dead now.”

  Della chuckled. “She’s just being a cat, Sydney.”

  “I wish those crooks had taken her with them when they took off. If I had known she’d be like this, I would have dropped her off at the shelter right after the Taylors skipped town.”

  Della put her teacup down. “You still can, you know.”

  “It’s too late. Malachi would never allow it. He adores Pumpkin. It seems to be mutual. She follows him all over the house, curls up next to him while he’s watching TV. She even sits on the vanity while he’s brushing his teeth.”

  Della laughed. “So I guess you’re stuck.”

  Pumpkin jumped off the couch and landed next to the tea service. She stood on her back legs and stuck her snout on the second shelf where Sydney had put a plate of blueberry muffins. Sydney swatted at Pumpkin with a dish cloth, but the cat kept dodging the cloth and never got touched. Sydney moved the plate to the coffee table. “See what I mean?”

  Pumpkin crept up to the arm of the couch and stared at Della. Then she sauntered up next to her and sniffed at the muffin in her hand.

  “Pumpkin, get down!” Sydney cried out before rolling the cloth into a ball. She threw it at the cat and missed.

  “It’s okay,” Della said, chuckling. “Pumpkin is a nice distraction. She takes my mind off things.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sydney apologized. “I meant to ask how things were.”

  After several months and three interviews, Kwamé had been offered the job. He’d agreed to take it.

  Della vowed to stay in Bellport.

  “Kwamé still thinks when he moves down there, I’ll cave in and move too, but he’s wrong. I’m not leaving.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “I guess we’ll split up. I’m not following him.”

  They both turned at the sound of the creaky hinges of the bedroom door down the hall.

  Della gave a crooked smile. “I guess my little angel’s done with her nap.”

  Jasmine came running into the room, and flopped on the couch next to her mother. Pumpkin sauntered over to the couch armrest, sat on her haunches, and licked one of her paws as she stared at them both.

  “Miss Sydney told me you two had a lot of fun today,” Della said to Jasmine. The child didn’t respond.

  “I was telling your mother about the hook rug we were working on,” Sydney said.

  Jasmine was quiet with a blank look on her face.

  “Well,” Della said when she finished her tea, “I guess we best get going so I can start dinner. Kwamé claims he’ll be home at a decent hour this evening.”

  Jasmine sat up. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with Aunt Syd.”

  Della stood up and grabbed her daughter’s arm, but Jasmine pulled in the other direction. They were locked that way like two square dancers frozen in time. Finally, Della let go. Jasmine pulled away with such force that she stumbled, but she regained her footing and ran up the stairs to the third-floor photo studio.

  “We need to get her out of there,” Sydney said.

  “I know,” Della agreed wearily.

  Della brought Jasmine downstairs, clutching her shoulders. She k
icked wildly, but Della was able to dodge her kicks. She hissed a firm whisper in the child’s ear, “Now you behave.”

  Jasmine calmed down and stopped resisting. Sydney followed the two down the stairs to the front porch. Then tears welled in the child’s eyes, and she clung to her mother.

  “Baby, what’s the matter?” Della asked and then turned to Sydney, “I’m sorry about this.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for,” Sydney assured.

  Jasmine muttered to herself and tried repeatedly to pull away from her mother as they walked down the porch steps, but Della maintained a firm grip on Jasmine. Just then, Omar came through the front gate carrying a bag of groceries, his shoulders slumped. He stood up straight and smiled when he saw Della and Jasmine approaching.

  “What do we have here, the talented drummer?” he asked and crouched down so that he was at eye level with Jasmine.

  She rubbed at her eyes and nodded.

  He looked up at Sydney and Della. “How about all of you come downstairs. I would like to welcome you to my place.”

  “Can I play the drums, Mommy? Please can I play them?” Jasmine peered up at her mother.

  Della let out a sigh. “I guess it’ll be okay. But we can’t stay long.”

  Omar was grinning. “We shall all play the drums.” He took them to the side entrance leading to the basement apartment. It was spare and simple, with a couch and high-backed chair in the living room and a small, four-seater table in the kitchen. Folding chairs were stacked in the hall. One wall in the living room was lined with drums arranged by height. Some measured only a foot high. The tallest stood four feet and had a drumhead the size of a hubcap. Sydney had never seen a drum that large. Della seemed interested in the djembe. She ran her hand along the intricate carvings in the wood.

  “Reminds me of a pitcher,” Della said.

  Posters and framed pictures hung on the walls, including one of The Fulani Sound. Omar and Khadim were pictured side-by-side, their hands a blur. Sydney recalled the drumming duel she watched between the two at Uncle Mustapha’s restaurant. There was another framed picture with a crack running across the glass of Duke Ellington and Omar, autographed by Duke Ellington.