The Talking Drum

by Lisa Braxton

  “Dell! Dell!” Kwamé shouted as he stood over her. “Can you get up?” He held out his hand.

  She felt the back of her head and looked at her hand in the light from the streetlamp. “I’m bleeding.”

  They both turned at the sight of a dark sedan with flashing lights pull to the curb. Detective Wilson Stribling got out, along with another plainclothes officer.

  “Kwamé,” Stribling said.

  “Strib, man. Good to see you,” Kwamé said. “We were just having a little argument. It ain’t nothing, but Della needs to see a doctor.”

  Della glanced from Stribling to the other officer. “I just slipped on the pavement. It’s not his fault. It was an accident.”

  Kwamé helped her back to her feet.

  “That’s not why we’re here,” Stribling said and shifted his attention to Kwamé. “We need you to come down to the station to answer some questions.”

  “Questions?” asked Della.

  “Would you mind stepping into the car?” the second officer asked Kwamé. “Otherwise, we’ll have to cuff you.”

  Two police squad cars pulled up behind the first vehicle.

  “I’ll come. No need for cuffs,” Kwamé said in a barely audible voice. “I’ll get in the car.”

  Della’s heart was racing. Kwamé seemed to know what they wanted. “Kwamé, what is going on?” she pleaded. “What’s this all about?”

  Kwamé looked off in the distance.

  “Kwamé?” she asked louder.

  “You can tell her,” he said to Stribling.

  “We’re taking him down for questioning about the Petite Africa fires,” the detective responded.

  “What?” Della couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Arson? Why would they want to talk to you about that?”

  Kwamé looked away. Stribling put him in the back of one of the squad cars. “Take him to the station,” he said to one of the uniformed police officers.

  “Call Bobby,” Kwamé shouted to Della before the door shut, referring to Robert Jameson, the attorney who had represented Della when she bought the building. “He knows the kind of attorney I need.”

  Della stood in the rain as all three cars drove off. On shaky legs, she crossed the street to the Stallworths to get Jasmine.

  CHAPTER 38

  THE NEXT NIGHT, Sydney unfolded a copy of the late edition of Inner City Voice and laid it on the kitchen table in front of Malachi. She’d picked up the paper on her way out of the newsroom after an exhausting day spent at news conferences, interviewing police, city officials, and Bellport residents about the arsons and Kwamé’s arrest. Max worked the phones interviewing his contacts. Officials stated that they were confident that with the arrest of Kwamé, they had all of the individuals involved in the arson ring.

  The headline at the top of the page read, Bellport Activist Arrested in String of Arsons. The byline: By Sydney Stallworth. The story, which took up the entire front page and continued inside, included a head and shoulders shot of Kwamé and photos from the fires.

  “You’ve done a great job,” Malachi said after reading the article. “I’m proud of you, Syd. I just wish it wasn’t Kwamé. He’s the last person I’d expect to be caught up in something like this.”

  “I know,” she said. “I haven’t been able to eat all day knowing that Kwamé was responsible for ruining people’s lives and causing some people to die.”

  Malachi shook his head. “He had no business getting Lawrence involved.”

  Through her interview with Detective Stribling, she found out that when the fires first started a couple of years ago, James Fullerton had hired Kwamé to burn out the residents so that he could collect the insurance money and rebuild later under a city contract as part of the redevelopment project. But as the deadline loomed to get the residents out, so that Petite Africa could be leveled for the rebuilding to begin, Fullerton told Kwamé to pick up the pace, and to set more fires. Facing pressure, Kwamé hired Lawrence.

  “So, now we know why Kwamé took that job in Washington,” Malachi said, pointing to a paragraph in the article.

  “Right. He had two reasons, actually. The job with HUD was a political favor from the mayor for helping to revive Liberty Hill, for bringing people like you and me here to open up businesses. But Kwamé was only half interested, that is until Esmé Tavernier died after the fire at her shop, and the man who died in the fire that put Omar in the hospital. Then Kwamé started getting nervous. He thought if he left town, the police would be less likely to tie him to the arsons. It’s interesting that initially Lawrence gave up Fullerton, but not Kwamé. It took police a while to get Lawrence to admit that Kwamé had hired him.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Stribling wouldn’t tell me. He said off-the-record that he made it clear to Lawrence that it was in his best interest to tell them who the middleman was.”

  “Maybe they dangled a reduced sentence in front of Lawrence.”

  “That’s what I suspect.”

  “This whole thing blows my mind,” Malachi said, handing the paper back to Sydney. “And the dude never did go to ’Nam.”

  “Nope. He never set foot in Vietnam. He was at Oxbridge Correctional Center. He served two years there for armed robbery and passing bad checks.”

  “You think you know somebody. You grow up together, he’s got your back, you’ve got his back, but you really don’t know them.”

  Sydney walked into the living room and looked down at the street from the picture window. Two news vans were parked in front of Rhythm and Blues. A couple of reporters were standing in front of the building, one holding a microphone, the other with a notebook and pen.

  “She’s been holed up in there all day,” she said in reference to Della. “It must be awful.”

  “I’m sure she’s in shock,” Malachi said.

  She continued to watch as Omar left the basement apartment and walked across the street to Della’s building. At least Della and Jasmine would have a little company at this awful time. Omar waved off the reporters as he entered the building.

  When Sydney returned to the kitchen, Malachi had buried his head in his hands.

  “Sydney, I’m so sorry. I feel I’ve failed you as a husband. I changed our plans for the future after I didn’t get tenure, then you agreed to leave law school to support me opening up The Talking Drum, and then I forced the Taylors on you and didn’t check their references, even though you insisted. I hired an intern who turned out to be an arsonist. Over and over again, I listened to Kwamé’s advice over yours and on top of that, he turned out to be an arsonist too. I wouldn’t blame you, if you wanted to leave me.”

  Sydney sat back down across from him. “I thought about it. I thought about leaving. But I thought about my parents’ marriage. Back when my father was still alive I was too young to know what was going on, but they had some awful arguments. They’d go on for hours. But at some point things got better. They hung in there and worked it out. I remember them being very happy for a good while until my father got sick with cancer. With you and me, I think we’re both learning how to be married to each other and it takes a while. I had faith that if I hung in there with you it would get better. And it has.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “Sydney, thank you.”

  CHAPTER 39

  SYDNEY TURNED OFF the adding machine and skipped down the stairs to the main floor to tell Malachi the news. For the first time since they’d been in business, she was able to write checks covering all of The Talking Drum’s bills for the month. This was encouraging.

  It was February 1974, two months shy of their second anniversary in the house and she was making preparations to go back to law school at Whittington University. She could concentrate on her studies and not worry so much about the business. When she got to the parlor, Pumpkin was pacing back and forth along the front c
ounter as if guarding Malachi like a dignitary as he read a flyer.

  “It seems that someone’s trying to give us some competition. Why don’t we go check this place out?” He handed her the notice about a grand opening a week ago at Prologue, a bookstore on their street, three blocks down.

  She decided that now was not the time to tell him her good news. She would wait until after they had visited their competition. They bundled up in their winter jackets and when they reached the sidewalk, they were met by Omar and Della, who had come from the basement apartment.

  “Olele, my friends,” Omar said.

  “How’re you holding up?” Sydney asked Della.

  It had been four months since Kwamé’s arrest. Days ago, he was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter in the deaths associated with the fires. His sentencing was scheduled for the end of March.

  Della gave them a crooked smile. “I have my good days and my bad days. Omar has been there for me. He’s given me a shoulder to cry on.”

  Omar squeezed her hand.

  “How’s Jasmine doing?” asked Malachi.

  Della sighed. “She’s okay. She still has her episodes, considering the situation.”

  “She is a strong little girl,” Omar said.

  Della nodded. “I have her seeing a psychologist.”

  “That’s really good, Della.” Sydney said.

  “She told me something interesting. She thinks the reason Jasmine likes the drumming so much is because she’s using it as therapy.”

  “Therapy?” questioned Malachi.

  “Believe it or not, there are clinics for that. Patients hit the drum to calm their nerves. It’s called ‘drum therapy’,” Della explained.

  “It is good that we have little Jasmine in the drumming institute,” said Omar. “She talks to the psychologist and she plays her drums. She shall be good as new in no time.”

  “I’m taking the semester off,” Della said. “I want to put my attention on getting my little girl better.” She smiled broadly, revealing a mouth filled with metal.

  “You got braces!” Sydney exclaimed.

  “Girl, yes I did. I want to get my smile straight. My classmate’s father is doing this for me. He’s fixing me up real good at a discount.”

  Omar looked down the street. “We are going to the ice cream shop. Shall you join us?”

  Malachi told them about the new bookstore, which was in the opposite direction.

  “You think they’ll be okay, her and Jasmine?” Sydney asked Malachi after the couples parted ways.

  “I think they’ll be fine.”

  On their way down the street, they passed one, and then another young white couple pushing a baby in a stroller.

  “Where are they coming from?” Sydney asked.

  Malachi shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  In the months leading up to completion of the Harborview project, Sydney and Malachi had watched as one business after another closed up on Liberty Hill Boulevard. Some establishments would shut down in the middle of the night with the proprietor leaving town without a word. Building owners were hiking the rents, leaving many of the retailers with no choice but to shut down. Jake’s Tavern and After-Hours Club was gone, replaced by a fine-dining restaurant popular for its martini bar and humidor. Sydney had heard that it was nearly impossible to get a reservation.

  Malachi stopped short when they were half a block from Prologue. Puzzled, Sydney searched his face. He nodded in the direction of the bookshop. Cynthia and Renée, customers who’d organized The Talking Drum’s women’s employment support group not long after the bookstore opened, were coming out of the store. Cynthia was clutching a shopping bag that looked overfilled.

  “We haven’t seen them in a while,” Malachi said.

  “I know. It’s been months.”

  “Hello ladies!” Malachi shouted at the couple as they walked across the street. Both turned around, waved furiously at Sydney and Malachi, and then continued on their way.

  A wind chime cut the air as they walked into Prologue Bookstore and Café. Sydney could smell coffee brewing and freshly baked pastries.

  “Welcome to Prologue,” a red-haired, freckled woman called from behind the front counter. Her earth shoes were partially hidden beneath her bell-bottom jeans. “May I offer you two a complimentary carrot juice shake?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sydney said.

  “It’s fresh,” the woman replied. “Still in the blender.”

  “Okay,” Sydney agreed, “I’ll try one.”

  The Stallworths looked around the store. It had about the same square footage as The Talking Drum. Round tables were set up in one section with a coffee station. Beyond it was an elevated stage with a curtain. The woman returned with what looked like a pale orange milk shake.

  “What’s the stage for?” Sydney asked.

  “It will do double duty. We’ll have puppet shows during the weekends for the kids, and then playwrights and actors can try out their works in progress before an audience on weekday nights.” The woman led them to the café area. “We’re just getting started, but eventually we’ll have someone back here making sandwiches and desserts along with the coffee and the health drinks. This is my husband’s dream,” she continued. “We finally made it happen.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Sydney said and exchanged a smile with Malachi.

  “Are you two tourists?” the woman asked.

  “No, we live right down the street,” replied Malachi. “We own the bookstore and cultural center three blocks up, The Talking Drum.”

  The woman shook her head. “Never heard of it. Must be a small place.”

  “No, it’s just as large as yours,” Sydney countered. “We’ve been in business almost two years.”

  “Well,” the woman said, tacking on a smile. “Welcome again. Please come back to Prologue any time.” She turned and walked away.

  “That was strange,” Sydney mused as they left the store. “She just got here, and we’ve been here for years, and she’s acting like we’re outsiders.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me at all,” Malachi said. “People get territorial quick. How do you like that carrot shake she gave you?”

  Sydney turned up her nose. “Tastes like grass.” She tossed the cup in a trash can on the sidewalk.

  They walked past Deborah’s, an upscale art gallery that had just opened where Paradise Pawn Shop used to be. They turned around at the sound of the front door opening. Officer Robertson, the police officer who was Detective Stribling’s partner when he was a rookie, walked down the stairs and waved.

  “I wonder what the trouble is,” she asked.

  “There’s no trouble,” Malachi answered. “One of the police captains came to the Neighborhood Improvement Association meeting the other day and announced that the city is stepping up the police presence in the neighborhood. Walking patrols are a part of that.”

  “I have noticed more squad cars on the streets lately,” she sighed. “The neighborhood is changing.”

  Malachi nodded. “I know.”

  “The black businesses are closing shop.”

  “Not all of them,” he said. “In most cases it’s the ones who were renting. It’s a good thing we bought our place.”

  They arrived back home and sat on the front porch. A robin poked its head out of the bird house hanging from the sugar maple tree, chirped and then flew away.

  “Do you think we’ll survive?” she asked.

  He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Prologue is doing a lot of the things we’re doing.”

  He put his arm around her. “Doesn’t matter what kind of bookstore they put in this neighborhood. They’re never going to have what we offer. They’re not going to sell books by us or put books about us on the shelves. People who want to read black authors,
if they want to meet black poets, playwrights, and novelists, will have to come to us.”

  Sydney thought this over for a while. “But what about Cynthia and Renée? They used to shop with us all the time. Now they’re over at Prologue. If they go over there enough and spend enough money, the owners will start stocking what they want and give them no reason to come back here.”

  He smiled. “Sydney, you’re getting ahead of yourself. They’ll be back. Prologue is new. They’re just curious about it.”

  “But did you see that shopping bag Cynthia had? It was so full she had to carry it with both hands. Given more choices, black people will shop wherever they want. They’ll forget all about the black businesses.”

  “I believe that black people will support their own. That’s not going to change.”

  She wondered if he believed what he was saying or was refusing to admit to himself the distinct possibility that in time, The Talking Drum Bookstore and Cultural Center would lose its customer base. If that happened, they could end up in debt, Malachi would have to give up his dream, probably leaving him bitter, and the marriage would suffer more than it already had, assuming it survived. Her thoughts made her shudder.

  “And don’t forget about what the arena and the expressway ramp are doing,” Malachi continued. “It’s happening slowly but we’re starting to see some additional foot traffic in the store.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You weren’t there, but just the other day we had some people stop in who said they were coming from the basketball game at the arena. We’re going to see a whole new clientele coming into The Talking Drum.”

  She wanted to respond that one party of customers was no indication of a pickup in business, but decided not to. She was growing tired of being the skeptic.

  “Don’t forget, Sydney,” he continued, “the research center is still part of the plan. Besides out regular customers we’ll have scholars coming in, making The Talking Drum a landmark.”

  Sydney rested her head on Malachi’s shoulder. She had married an optimist and a dreamer. She was beginning to realize that now. The bookstore was financially stable for the moment. Maybe it wouldn’t falter as she feared.