by Lisa Braxton
She glanced at the Liberty Hill Boulevard street sign as they pulled from the curb.
“We call this Malcolm X Drive, although the name isn’t official,” he said. “The community is working on that.”
The buildings they drove by were old but well-maintained. They rode past a tavern and an after-hours club, a bank, library, ice cream shop, funeral home, pawn shop, and a bridal salon. A man walking up the street looked into the car and thrust his fist in the air, giving the Black Power salute. Grey, metal security shields covered some storefronts.
“Are these black-owned businesses?” Sydney asked.
“Except for the library and the bank, they’re either black-owned or managed,” Kwamé answered. “I took the shortcut to get you home yesterday. But now I’ll give you the grand tour. That is, if you’re up to it.”
“Sure,” she said, hoping the tour would be a short one.
Men in dark suits and bowties stood on a street corner selling tabloid-size newspapers. She recognized them as members of the Nation of Islam. She’d seen them in downtown Trenton, New Jersey, when she was a teenager spending summers there with her cousin Jocelyn.
They turned up Independence Avenue and slowed down as a patrol car approached from the opposite direction. The officer nodded at Kwamé as he rolled past. “Officer Wilson Stribling—our first ‘brother’—the first black police officer we’ve had patrolling Liberty Hill. We worked with the mayor to get him on the force, after we wore him down with picketing about Harborview,” Kwamé said.
The car’s rattling quieted but surged every time Kwamé slowed down or accelerated. The noise didn’t seem to originate in the body of the car but from something under the hood. Based on what Malachi had told her, Kwamé was running all kinds of enterprises—a handyman business, a small moving and storage company, real estate investments, and community organizing. She didn’t understand why he didn’t buy a decent car or get this one repaired.
A quick turn up Atlantic Avenue brought them to the Bellport River Bridge. The car swayed on the metal suspension bridge. Instinctively, Sydney grabbed onto the door’s armrest.
“You cool?” Kwamé asked as he glanced at her.
“Just fine.” Sydney knew her voice was tight and that she had responded a little too quickly. She tacked on a smile.
At the end of the bridge was a wooden sign on a utility pole with the words “Petite Africa” carved on it.
“Syd, this is the immigrant section the city wants to take for that project,” Kwamé said. “Some of the property owners are holding out, trying to save a piece of the neighborhood. I don’t know how much luck they’re gonna have with that, though.”
The streetscape was congested, reminding her of National Geographic footage of a village marketplace in an underdeveloped country. Putting aside the trip to Jamaica, she had never seen so many brown people in one place before. Women wore colorful head wraps. Men wore long shirts and loose pants. No one seemed to be in a rush to get anywhere. They walked slowly or stood around talking in clusters in front of rickety pushcarts and dilapidated hole-in-the-wall stores interspersed with aging, multistory houses. Most of the buildings were only a few feet apart.
“It doesn’t seem fair to evict them and take the land,” she said.
“It’s progress. City’s gotten millions in grant money to construct the arena project. Something had to be done. The city’s been on life support for too long. Property taxes have gone through the roof since most of the factories high-tailed it overseas. With this development, the taxpayers will get some relief.”
“But what’s going to happen to the people who live here?” Sydney asked.
Kwamé pulled a pack of Viceroys from the glove compartment and tapped it on the dashboard. He pulled out a cigarette and pressed it against the car lighter. “Housing vouchers. The city’s going to build projects. Or folks can get a moving allowance and move where they want.”
They came to a three-story wood-frame house on the corner of Pleasant and Garfield avenues. The roof was caved in. Soot splotches stained the siding like an ill-planned splash art experiment.
“What happened here?” asked Sydney.
“Rooming house fire, six months ago.” Kwamé slowed the car to a stop.
“Can we take a look?”
They got out of the car.
The first thing she noticed was the smell—scorched wood mixed with water, which surprised her because the fire had been so long ago. She stepped carefully across the muddy yard to the front steps.
Porch railings hung precariously on both sides of the steps. The backyard was visible from the front of the house because all of the windows were missing. A burnt-out van sat in the driveway next to a pile of charred wood. The trunks of two front yard trees as well as most of the branches had been burned.
“Did everybody get out?” she asked.
“They did,” answered Kwamé. He looked at his watch. “Don’t mean to rush you but…”
“Sorry about that,” Sydney said, and got back in the car.
“It was so bad they had to call in the Boston Fire Department,” Kwamé continued as he pulled away from the house. “I got the Neighborhood Improvement Association together to get them more blankets and food after the Bellport Rescue Society left. Some of the people are staying with family. The rest moved into an apartment building a few blocks over, The Commonwealth Arms.”
She had read in the newspapers that the neighborhood had had two other big fires in the past year. “Do you think the fires were set?”
Kwamé stubbed out his cigarette, lit another, and cracked the window open to blow out the smoke. “Fire department isn’t saying. But you’ve got a lot of possibilities here. The buildings are old, wood frame. Most of them were built at the turn of the century, and the electricity is shot. The heating systems are old. The other problem is that these are immigrants, from Africa and The West Indies. Until they can get on their feet, they’re living on top of each other, eight or nine in a unit when they should only have four or five people. You’ve got too many people in one space cooking, smoking, running heaters. They’re living in fire traps.”
They made their way back across the bridge into Liberty Hill. Kwamé took Sydney down Elmwood Street, one block over from Liberty Hill Boulevard. The car rolled past abandoned buildings and storefronts. Men stood in clusters talking in front of limestone row houses. Streetlights were smashed. Sidewalks were littered with nip bottles and soda bottle caps. She could feel her stomach tighten. She glanced at her door. It was unlocked. She was annoyed at herself for not thinking of locking it when she first got in the car. She covered the knob with her fist, as if she was merely resting her hand on the door, and gently pressed down so there’d be minimal sound, hoping Kwamé wouldn’t notice.
Kwamé laughed. “Ain’t your kind of place. I can understand that. That’s cool.”
“It might take some getting used to.” She tried to sound nonchalant.
“This neighborhood’s blowing your mind, ain’t it?” he said as if teasing her.
She stared out the window at another burned-out building.
“I could tell yesterday. I saw you scowl in the rearview mirror.”
She shifted in her seat. She hadn’t known she was under Kwamé’s surveillance yesterday as he drove Malachi and her home from the airport.
“I’ve been to your town before,” he continued. “I used to work at a summer jobs’ program. I caddied at The Old Prescott Country Club. The white man acts like you’re invisible, unless he wants something.”
Sydney wondered how her stepfather acted with the black caddies. Martin had been a member of the country club until he married her mother, Bernadine. Soon after the marriage, the club’s board of directors asked him to resign. Sydney remembered the day after kindergarten when Martin came in after work and told her mother about the meeting of the club’s board. Martin had said he
didn’t want to be bothered with a “bunch of cretins.”
“What part of Old Prescott you grow up in?”
Sydney tried to think of a subtle way to change the subject but could come up with nothing. “It doesn’t have sections. It’s too small for that.”
“I know it well.” Kwamé began speaking in his version of a clipped, British accent, his voice rising half an octave. “White picket fences, rolling hills, landed gentry. Horse country, isn’t it? Malachi tells me you were taking lessons. Which style? English or Western?”
Was he asking simply to show off his knowledge of riding styles? “English,” she said.
“But then you stopped.”
“Yes. I quit a few years ago.”
“Why?” he asked, soldiering on, apparently unaware of her discomfort.
“My horse died. I didn’t feel I could bond with another.”
Kwamé was silent for a moment. She was glad. When he finally spoke again, he’d dropped the affectation. His voice took on a soothing tone. “My apologies. What did he die of?”
“She had an illness. A respiratory disease. It happens to horses sometimes.”
They drove past a building with scaffolding on it. Sydney was surprised considering the dismal condition of everything else within eyesight.
“Pet clinic’s going in there,” Kwamé said. “That’s all you need, one new business can start a comeback…. What the fu…?”
The car skidded and spun halfway around as Kwamé jammed the brakes. A figure had darted into the car’s path. Kwamé threw his arm across Sydney to stop her from slamming into the dashboard. He had come within inches of mowing the person down. Through the foggy haze, Sydney could see a skinny teenager with an Afro pick sticking out of the top of his head. Kwamé pounded his fist into the steering wheel. “Carajo que lo que le pasa! Que imbecil! Look at that idiot,” he shouted, “Don’t even make no sense.”
The smell of burning rubber filled the car. Sydney’s heart raced. Thank goodness Kwamé had quick reflexes. The kid smirked and walked up to the front passenger window of a brown Volkswagen bus double-parked up ahead. A fading bumper sticker on the back read “Make Love, Not War.” The kid jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and strolled back in front of the Nova. He stepped onto the sidewalk and disappeared behind a dumpster.
“You okay?” Kwamé looked at her, his eyes wide.
Her hands were shaking. “I’m fine. Just glad you saw him in time.”
Kwamé stared at her a while. Then he put his hand on her thigh, just above the knee.
“Your husband would have my head if anything happened to you,” he said in a hushed tone. She expected him to take his hand back. He didn’t. She brushed it off her knee and then reached for the cross-strap on the seatbelt. Kwamé shifted his attention to the glove compartment and leaned over her to get another Viceroy. Cars went around them. Once he lit his cigarette, he turned the steering wheel hard to head them back in the right direction on Elmwood Street.
“Was that a drug transaction?” she asked after they’d gone a few more blocks.
He nodded. “That kid can’t be no more than fourteen. If we can get the cash flow we want here in Liberty Hill with the redevelopment happening, we can open a rec center, get young bloods like him off the street.”
They drove on.
Kwamé found a parking spot catty-corner from The Stewed Oxtail. Sydney didn’t realize how the near-collision had affected her. Her knees buckled when she got out of the car. She steadied herself by holding onto the door frame.
The Stewed Oxtail was a loud place—Caribbean music, patrons talking loudly, metal spatulas banging against the griddle in the open kitchen behind the front counter. Some customers sat in groups of five and six at the small, square tables in the dining area. Others shouted orders from the counter.
“Pick a table,” Kwamé said. “I’ll get us a couple of specials.”
She had no idea what “the special” was but nodded. After the car incident, she didn’t have an appetite. People’s heads popped up. They watched her walk through the dining area to an empty table by the window facing the street. Just her luck. It was wobbly. She spotted a couple of empty tables across the room but felt self-conscious with people noticing her. She sat down, her back to the window, facing the front counter. It was her first opportunity to take a really good look at Kwamé without him noticing. He was nice looking, his black Puerto Rican ancestry evident in the cinnamon-brown color of his complexion, his curly, auburn Afro and trim goatee.
A couple of men went up to him and clapped him on the back. After he placed the orders and was on his way back to Sydney, Kwamé waved at a woman on the other side of the room. He seemed to stand taller than a few moments before when he’d entered the restaurant. Sydney felt as if she were watching a politician working the room before an election.
“That’s Tovah Bright,” Kwamé stated as he sat down, “the owner of the bridal shop.”
Sydney remembered on their ride into the neighborhood yesterday seeing the woman with a tape measure around her neck in the display window arranging a wedding gown on a faceless mannequin.
“The sister’s been in business about two years,” he continued. “Struggled some to get customers, but things should pick up for her once the redevelopment comes in.”
Two police officers walked in. It was Officer Stribling and a white police officer. The white officer went to the front counter. Stribling strolled over to their table. She was surprised at how broad shouldered and tall he was, about six foot five she thought. She imagined that he was the kind of officer who lifted barbells in his spare time.
“Hey brother, what’s happening?” Stribling said to Kwamé.
Kwamé stood up and gave him the soul brother’s handshake. Then Kwamé introduced the officer to Sydney.
Stribling took a couple of exaggerated steps back. “I didn’t know Dr. Mal jumped the broom. Good to meet you.” He gave her a strong handshake. “What’s he been up to? Teaching college kids, right?”
“Up until recently,” Sydney answered. She told him about the plans for the bookstore.
Stribling grinned as he shook his head. “I knew Dr. Mal was going places. I knew he would make something of himself. I could tell even when we was kids.”
“How’s the gig?” Kwamé looked up and down at Stribling’s uniform.
“Not bad. The neighborhood’s respectful. They’re glad I’m here.”
“What about him?” Kwamé gestured toward the other officer.
“Robertson? I’m his new partner. He’s showing me the ropes.”
“He’s not giving you any static, is he?”
“No, man, he’s cool.”
Kwamé raised an eyebrow. “And the rest of the department?”
“Not a problem so far. They don’t know what to make of me, so they leave me alone.”
Kwamé eased back in his chair. “That’s good, man. That’s what I like to hear, ’cause if they were giving you trouble down there at the station….”
Stribling held up both palms. “I know, man I know. And I appreciate that. I hear they need more detectives. I’m thinking I might one day go for that.”
“I’m with you, man,” said Kwamé.
“Don’t get me wrong, patrolling is good. I don’t mind chasing the bad guys, but I’d like to get involved in investigations. That’s where the real police work happens.”
Kwamé turned to Sydney. “Your husband, Wilson, and me go way back.”
“Remember Sunday school, man?” Stribling’s eyes brightened.
Kwamé laughed. “Nehemiah Baptist Church,” he said, turning to Sydney. “Strib here’s mother taught our Sunday School class. We were always trying to sneak out before service started to get candy from the corner store.”
“But Moms always found out,” the officer added.
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“I know man. Either she saw us trying to cut out, or one of the deacons tipped her off.”
“Those were some good times, man,” Stribling continued. He narrowed his eyes at Kwamé’s army jacket. “What you wearing that for?”
“’Nam.” Kwamé responded stiffly.
The officer opened his mouth to say something, glanced at Sydney, and then stopped.
Kwamé tugged at his goatee. “How’s your mother doing?”
The officer exhaled heavily. “Moms is still the same. She’s hanging in there though, holding her own by the grace of God. Thanks for asking.”
Officer Robertson walked toward the door clutching a plastic cup with a straw in it.
“I’ll catch you later,” Stribling said.
He and Kwamé shook hands again. Then Stribling extended a hand to Sydney. “Nice meeting you, and tell Dr. Mal I’m gonna holler at him soon.”
“He seems like a nice guy,” Sydney said after the officers walked out the door.
“One of the best.” Kwamé stubbed out his cigarette in the tin ashtray on the table. “Wilson was all set to go to college, but then his mother had a stroke. He decided to stay here to look after her, thinking he’d go to college later, but he never did.”
“So he became a police officer?”
“Not at first. He did factory work for a while. Then when folks in Liberty Hill got sick of the cops bashing their heads in, I led some protests, and we got some of our people to study for the police officer’s exam. We had to put together study groups because the exam was rigged. Strib joined the study group, took the test, and passed. We’re trying to get more of our people in the pipeline.”
The waitress brought their orders: two plates of red snapper with plantains, Jamaican rice and peas, and collard greens. The waitress left and returned a few moments later with iced tea for Sydney and a cup of coffee for Kwamé.
He pulled back his sleeve. “You’ve been here now about twenty-four hours. You must have some questions about our fair city.”
She wasn’t sure if he had actually checked his Rolex or was looking for an excuse to show it off.