by Lisa Braxton
“I was about to resign myself to not having anyone for the grand opening, so this is a pleasant surprise.”
“There are about eight of them,” Della continued. “Drummers, poets. They’re all over the stage. The performances make you think. Thought music. That’s what it’s called. You’ve got to follow along real close to catch the meaning. That’s why I had Kwamé buy me the album afterwards.” She handed Sydney back the letter. “People should come from all around for this. Y’all might even get the papers to do a story.”
Sydney told Della about the meeting with Max.
“Then you’re way ahead of the game, working for Inner City Voice.” Della took a sip of tea. “So what you think of Liberty Hill so far?”
Sydney tried to choose her words carefully. “Even though we’ve been in the house for months now, I’m still having a hard time getting used to the neighborhood, cars and trucks up and down the street at all hours. Then there’s Jake’s Tavern.”
Della smiled. “That is a rowdy place.
“Did you hear it last night?”
“Can’t say I did.”
“About three in the morning I had to pull the covers over my head to try to block out the noise from Jake’s. It sounded like a fight, people scuffling and screaming. I shook Malachi awake, but he told me to go back to sleep, that it was always that way.”
“Malachi is right,” Della said. “Cops are called just about every night to break up a fight at Jake’s.”
“In Old Prescott,” Sydney explained, “I could open my bedroom window to catch a breeze without hearing sirens or cars.”
“When I was at your wedding, that was my first time in that part of the state. I could see that you grew up in a sheltered environment, nothing like Liberty Hill.”
Sydney thought she heard resentment in Della’s voice, but she wasn’t sure. “Does the crime in the neighborhood concern you?” Sydney asked.
Della sniffed. “It’s safe enough as long as you keep your wits about yourself and take care of whatever business you got before dark.”
Sydney hesitated to ask the next question, but then decided to go ahead. “I also wonder about raising children here. Not that Malachi and I are ready for that, but maybe someday.”
“I am very protective of my daughter,” Della snapped, her jaw tight. “She’s my number one priority.”
Della had taken her remark the wrong way. “I didn’t mean to imply that she wasn’t.”
“If I didn’t think she was safe I’d take her right on out of here. Besides, I’m not interested in raising some suburban pseudo-black Barbie doll who’s afraid to be around her own people.”
“Like you.” Sydney could hear the rest of the sentence in Della’s voice. Sydney regretted asking the question and tried to think of something to say to ease the tension in the room.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t join us for lunch that time,” Sydney said.
Della was about to take a sip but put her glass down. “What you mean?”
“When Kwamé and I had lunch at The Stewed Oxtail right after Malachi and I first moved in.”
Della’s eyes shifted from left to right. Then she turned the corners of her mouth up, forcing a smile. “Oh yes, a few months back. I’m sure I had some things I had to do. Did you have a nice time?”
“Kwamé introduced me to some of the other business owners around here. I also met the new black police officer.”
“Stribling? He’s good people, really looks out for the neighborhood.” Della folded the paper muffin cup into her napkin and leaned forward in her chair. “You didn’t run into Kwamé on your way up here, did you?”
Sydney thought about her brief visit to the record shop. She wasn’t sure how to respond. “I did.”
Della carefully crossed her hands and made a steeple under her chin. “Was he alone?”
They locked eyes for a moment. “No need to answer,” Della wiped crumbs off the table. “I know what Kwamé’s up to.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He thinks I’m stupid. He calls it politicking. He calls it being friendly. I call it alley catting.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
Della narrowed her eyes. “I just want you to know that’s the way my husband is.”
Why would Della want her to know that? Then Sydney realized what Della was suggesting. She backed her chair away from the table and stood up. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I only went to lunch with Kwamé to be polite. I didn’t want to go, but Malachi insisted. Sydney began stuffing the napkins she had packed back into the breadbasket with the rest of the muffins.
Della stood up. “Where you going?”
Sydney ignored her and retraced her path through the living room. When she opened the front door, the kid that Della had sent to the store was standing there with the carton of Kools. Sydney took the carton from him and turned around to toss them on Della’s coffee table on her way out, but Della took them from her.
“I can see that coming over here was a mistake,” Sydney said.
“No it wasn’t. Wasn’t no mistake at all.” Della took the change from the boy and then handed him back a nickel. After he ran back down the stairs, she turned her attention to Sydney. “Please don’t leave. Please.”
Sydney hesitated then thought it would be easier to sit back down and give the conversation another chance than explaining later to Malachi what had happened.
Once they had settled back at the kitchen table, Della opened a pack of cigarettes and gestured for Sydney to take one. Sydney said no.
“You don’t mind if I have one, do you?” Della asked.
Sydney shook her head.
They were both startled by the sound of something being slammed into a wall. Della went down the hall to investigate. “Just my little princess waking up,” she said when she returned, her voice a half-octave higher.
Sydney wondered if Jasmine was having another tantrum.
“I have to apologize,” Della said as she sat back down at the kitchen table. “Kwamé thinks of me as this country girl who didn’t have much education, and now he thinks he’s outgrown me. That’s my problem. It has nothing to do with you.”
Sydney wanted to get off the topic. “How’s Jasmine doing?”
Della forced a smile on her face. “Jasmine is Jasmine. Despite his faults, Kwamé has been good to me. He convinced me to come up here and get away from the South with all of that separate but so-called equal business, encouraged me to buy this building, got me to invest in this property, and he’s good to Jasmine.”
Della flicked a lighter on the end of the cigarette and took a long drag. “Kwamé tells me you were in law school.”
The sound of a second crash down the hall made Sydney flinch. Della rolled her eyes and left the kitchen. When she returned she seemed weary, sighing heavily as she sat back down. “Jazz had some static on the TV and wanted me to fix the rabbit ears. Now what were we talking about?”
“Law school.”
“Oh yeah.”
Sydney explained why she was taking the year off.
Della nodded. “You’re right. Why go spending all that money if you’re not sure that’s what you want to do. Besides, you got to stay with your man, support his dream. Starting a business is hard. Believe me, I know. If a man starts to doubt himself, he needs his woman to turn to. If he doesn’t feel good about himself, then he’s no good to you or nobody else.”
“I struggled with my decision.”
Della picked up a gingham shirt out of the bag of clothing, folded it, and placed it back on top. “Here’s another reason why you’re doing the right thing. If you let Malachi live here by himself, some of these hussies around here would start shopping at the bookstore and not because they were looking for something to read, if you know what I mean.”
Sy
dney shifted in her chair.
Della continued. “There are vultures out here just waiting. By you staying here for at least a year, you’ll be sending them a message: He’s off-limits, he’s your man.”
A door down the hall creaked open and moments later Jasmine ran into the room and climbed into Della’s lap. She buried her face in her mother’s chest. Della grabbed Jasmine by one of her Afro puffs. “Chile, look at this head. What you in there doing?”
Jasmine’s shoulders hunched up and down as she tried to catch her breath between whimpers. “Casper went off,” she whined. “Can’t find Leo. He’s not under the bed.”
“That’s Leo the Lion,” Della explained to Sydney. “You pull a string and he talks.” She brushed a thumb across Jasmine’s hairline. “Well, now you got all the dust bunnies all over your head.” Jasmine swatted at her mother’s hand.
“I’ve been trying to comb this stuff near a week, and she won’t let me,” Della said.
“Cuz it hurts!” Jasmine shouted.
“She used to sit still for me, but not anymore. She’s like a Mexican jumping bean. It seems the older she gets the more tender-headed she gets. I know what I’m gon’ do,” Della winked at Sydney. “I’m gonna shave it all off.”
Jasmine stopped rubbing her eyes and stared at her mother a moment. Sydney held her breath. The child started grinning.
“You give me no choice, little girl.”
“Then I’ll … then I’ll run away,” Jasmine giggled.
“What you know about running away?” Della asked, laughing as she led Jasmine back down the hall. When Della returned, Sydney stood up to leave. “I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
“I’m glad you stopped by.” Della walked her to the door. “I was going to college for a while, too,” she added.
“Oh?”
“Was working on my bachelor’s degree in Arkansas. Had to stop for personal reasons.”
“You could always go back and finish.”
Della exhaled. “You’re right. Sometimes when I’m at the library I think that I should be a librarian instead of just an assistant.” Her shoulders sank. “But I put all my money in this building, and then I’d have to find a sitter for Jasmine so I could take night classes.
“Kwamé could always babysit, couldn’t he?”
“Nah. Kwamé’s always out somewhere.”
Sydney thought for a moment. “There are scholarships, and there are babysitters. Back when I was in high school I earned spending money babysitting.”
Della’s eyes brightened. “So you have experience babysitting. That’s good to know. You’ve given me some things to think about.”
Sydney was glad she had stopped by but hoped Della wasn’t interpreting her remarks as an offer to babysit. She and Malachi had a lot of work ahead of them to prepare for the grand opening of The Talking Drum in two months, especially now that The Fierce Warriors were set to perform.
CHAPTER 15
TWELVE CANS of ready-to-heat lobster stew were lined up on the kitchen counter, Natalie’s payment for doing voiceovers for soul station WCLL. The Young Turk, one of the station’s on-air personalities, had told her about the job. The owner of the fledgling Harbor Islands Seafood Company couldn’t afford to pay for radio spots but could give the station free cases of stew. Natalie had agreed to take the job with the payment of one case.
She spooned the contents of two cans into a saucepan. “Why don’t you wash up? This shouldn’t take but a minute,” she stated.
Omar shut the refrigerator door after finding nothing to drink that he could wash the stew down with and went to the hall bathroom. Anything that took only a minute to cook couldn’t be too tasty. But he thought it best to go along with it and eat the stew. After Natalie had come in with the case, he had slipped the new jar of herbs from Hallima into his pants pocket. Once heated, the stew would be thick enough for him to dissolve some of the herbs in Natalie’s bowl without her detecting it. This zepis was probably as useless as the earlier batch, but he thought he’d give it a try. If nothing happened, he’d return to Hallima, this time for his money.
Natalie returned from Beverly’s apartment two days after Omar performed with Khadim and the others at the rally. Beverly’s boyfriend was moving in, forcing Natalie to move out. Omar didn’t know why, but, by coincidence, the heat and electricity had worked consistently in their apartment since she’d returned. As he washed and dried his hands in the bathroom, he wondered how he would distract her so that he could crumble the potion into her bowl.
“Next time you must insist that the client pay you cash money,” he said as he sat down at the table.
“It’s all about exposure at this stage,” she countered as she opened a carton of heavy cream. “Every time I do one of these gigs, I can add it to my demo reel,” she added.
They had not argued once in the week since Natalie returned. They stayed out of each other’s way and were polite on the rare occasion they did have to talk. Natalie spent much of her time, when she was home, cleaning out the bedroom closet, removing clothing she said she no longer wore, and giving it to the Neighborhood Improvement Association Relief Effort. Omar was relieved to have room for his things, like his boubous, without them getting wrinkled.
“They are giving me payment enough,” she added. “People all over the country eat this stew. If the company gets good response from my commercials, they say they’ll call me in again to cut a different version that could go national. It’s called ‘paying your dues.’”
He wanted to remind her that he knew about paying dues, like playing gigs at Le Baobab and the little clubs around town, but he figured that would start an argument. She would remind him that his priority should be to get a full-time job so they could move out of Petite Africa. So instead, he watched her pour the cream into the saucepan and stir it into the stew.
The stew began to bubble. The smell reminded him of raw fish left in the hot sun. Omar was sure that she was burning the bottom of the saucepan. He stayed quiet, rather than risk her accusing him of telling her what to do. He followed her into the breakfast nook. She was dressed for the hot weather in culottes and a tight, sheer blouse. He wanted to unfasten the hook on the lacy bra she was wearing, but knew that would invite a fight.
“Stop staring at me,” Natalie demanded as she placed a bowl of stew in front of him.
“What do you mean, ma chère?”
“You’re staring at my chest.”
“You are my wife.”
She sat down opposite him. He stuck his spoon in the yellowish-orange mixture. It was so thick the spoon would probably stand on its own if he took his hand away. He scooped up a spoonful and choked it down.
“What’s wrong? You don’t like it?” Natalie was sitting ramrod straight.
Omar tried to choose his words carefully. “I do like it. I would just like some pepper.”
She looked at his bowl and then up at him. “It already has pepper in it. It’s listed on the back of the can. You want more?”
He nodded.
“Is this something they do in your African village, use a lot of pepper?”
He ignored the remark and waited until she pushed her chair back and went into the pantry down the hall. He reached into his pocket for the jar of spices, undid the lid and crushed some of the herbs between his fingertips. But then he heard Natalie coming back up the hall. She returned more quickly than he anticipated. He hid the jar in his lap.
“Here,” she plopped the pepper grinder down in front of him.
He slowly twisted the top of the grinder to sprinkle pepper into the stew. As he ate a spoonful, which didn’t taste any better, he tried to think of another excuse to get her to leave the room. Then the phone rang.
“Can you get it?” she asked.
“No. It is usually a phone call for you.”
She let
her spoon drop into her bowl. “But I was standing up at the stove for the past half-hour. I’m tired.”
They stared each other down. On the fourth ring, Omar went down the hall to answer it. At first, he heard silence on the other end. Then, a brusque, “Let me speak to my sister.” Not Hello Omar, hi brother-in-law, or hey buddy. That’s the way it used to be with Natalie’s brother, Richard. Apparently Natalie had told him of the trouble between them.
Omar called up the hall to Natalie. When she took the receiver, Richard was shouting loud enough for Omar to hear him in a high-pitched voice say, “What are you still doing with that clown?”
Omar went back to the breakfast nook and unscrewed the jar of herbs. He could hear Natalie on the phone in a low tone to her brother. He grabbed a spoon and tried to fold the herbs into her bowl. But the stew was too thick. He stabbed at it repeatedly, trying to create an opening. Then he took a table knife and cut into a lobster chunk, figuring he could tuck some of the herbs there.
“What in the world?” Natalie was back, holding the phone away from her ear. She had stretched the cord all the way down the hall. The knife slipped out of Omar’s hand and clattered onto the floor.
“What are you doing in my food, and what are you doing with that?” She pointed at the jar in his hand. Then she put the phone back to her ear. “Richard, I have to go.” She rushed back into the kitchen and slammed the phone back on the receiver.
“It is nothing, ma chère,” he said calmly when she returned.
“Ma chère, ma chère, my ass!” She grabbed at the jar. He held it out of her reach, circled around her and went back to the kitchen, thinking he would put the jar back in the cabinet with the other ones. She followed him, grabbed him by the shoulder to get him to turn around, and tried to wrestle it out of his hand, squeezing his wrist with one hand and trying to grab the jar with the other. He easily pulled away. She wouldn’t retreat. He grabbed her in a bear hug to immobilize her. She wriggled free and stood glaring at him in the middle of the kitchen, breathing heavily. Then, all at once, she took all of her weight and pushed him hard in the chest with both palms, surprising him. He fell back against the refrigerator, and the jar flew out of his hand, hitting the wall and crashing on the floor.