by Lisa Braxton
“What was in that?” she shouted. “What is that stuff? You trying to poison me?”
“Of course not. I want to make love to you,” he confessed, out of breath. “The herbs shall put you in the proper mood.”
“Huh?” She was still breathing hard.
She pointed a shaky finger at him. “You crazy African. You’ve got all these witchcraft ideas from your little village, and you think you’re going to use them on me.”
“It is time for us to make a baby.”
Her hands rose to her hips. “What?”
“It has been a year and a half. I want to have a son.”
She looked as if she would vomit. “I don’t want to have a baby. I have a career now. I’m finally getting somewhere. I certainly don’t want to have a baby with you. I can’t even trust you. What kind of man slips drugs into his wife’s food?”
“The herbs are not drugs.”
“Don’t play word games with me. That’s exactly what they are. You stay away from me, Omar.” She backed out of the kitchen. “You stay the hell away from me or I’ll slip something in your food.” She rushed down the hall and shut herself into the bedroom. He could hear her sobbing. After a while he entered the room. The worst she could do was tell him to get out or push him again. She was in the bed under the covers, fully clothed. He climbed in behind her. Gradually, he inched closer to her and put his arms around her. “What happened to us, ma chère,” he whispered in her ear. “Please tell me: what happened?”
She sat up, pulling her knees under her chin. “Where did we go wrong?” she screamed. “There was the miscarriage, then the fire. Then we move here and we have no hot water. We have no elevator, no heat, your suspicions of my instructor, and I walk in on you sprinkling stuff in my food. It’s more than I can take, Omar. I want normal, a normal husband and a nice home. That’s what happened.”
CHAPTER 16
SYDNEY TOOK A BREAK from stuffing flyers about the upcoming grand opening into envelopes she would mail to businesses and organizations, giving them a couple of weeks to have the flyers posted on bulletin boards before the big event. She grabbed her grandmother’s quilt and headed downstairs to Inez’s. Even though Bellport was having a string of hot September days, Inez had said she was cold. Old people like Inez were apt to be cold. Plus, the basement was always ten degrees cooler than the rest of the house.
On her way down, she stopped on the first floor in the parlor to watch Malachi lift a large box onto the front counter. It was much larger than others shipped to the bookstore.
“Can’t believe it’s here already,” Malachi exclaimed. He sliced the packing tape and pulled out a thick, hardcover textbook layered with dust. Sydney read the gold lettering on the thick spine: The African and Black American Experience. She took the box cutter from Malachi and peeled the packing slip off the box. It was a three-volume set.
“What are we going to do with them?” she asked.
Malachi picked up one of the volumes and flipped to the back of the book. “Syd, you’ve got to look at these illustrations.”
She was growing impatient with him. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to sell this.”
This was her latest frustration with operating the business with Malachi. Malachi and Lawrence had barely gotten the fixtures and furniture in place for the bookstore when Malachi started ordering inventory. He’d bought the twenty-six-volume set of Collier’s Encyclopedias without discussing it with her. She insisted that he send them back, but he had refused. Sydney fumed. They were supposed to be equal partners in the business, but it was becoming clear to her that they weren’t.
Malachi grabbed a dust cloth and wiped each volume. Then he arranged them on a table near the cash register. “The right customer will come along, Syd, and besides, I’m just trying to help a brother.”
Sydney slapped the counter. “What brother?”
“He came by a couple of weeks ago, selling these.”
“You bought these from a traveling salesman? And you didn’t talk to me, your wife and partner first?”
“You were out.”
He rubbed the spine of a volume with the dust cloth. “The man was selling these to raise money to pay for his daughters’ college.”
“They always say that. He’s a salesman.”
She then looked around the store. They had more than enough books on the shelves for the grand opening next month. She could pick out a dozen books she knew no one would buy. “We don’t have the money to waste on merchandise that won’t sell, Malachi.”
“I hate it when you talk to me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You don’t, she wanted to say.
She smoothed out a section of tassels on the quilt she had bundled under her arms. “I need to get this down to Inez.”
Malachi looked closely at the quilt, a crocheted patchwork of blue, green, orange, and brown rectangles. “But Syd, that’s a family heirloom. Didn’t your grandmother make that for you?”
“I trust Inez. I know she’ll take good care of it.” She walked down the hall to the door leading to the basement. She heard Malachi say, “Why don’t you just give her a blanket. We’ve got plenty of them.” She kept walking.
In the couple of months since the Taylors moved in, Sydney had been downstairs to Inez’s apartment several times to play gin rummy, or listen to classical music with the woman. Sydney enjoyed Inez’s regal manner, which gave no trace of her background, growing up poor on South Side Chicago. Inez told Sydney stories of her childhood, as well as the early years of her marriage to Willie.
Sydney knocked. As Willie opened the door and greeted her, she felt something brushing up against her ankles. She looked down. It was a kitten, an orange tabby, its coat random swirls of light and dark orange.
“I didn’t know you had a kitten,” Sydney said as she entered the apartment.
He folded up his copy of the Wall Street Journal and set it on the coffee table. “Her name is Pumpkin. I think she likes you.”
The kitten looked up at Sydney with her big brown eyes, opened her mouth, and let out a chirp.
“You don’t meow?” Sydney said to the kitten in a child-like voice.
“We haven’t heard her meow yet,” replied Willie. “She chirps a lot and yowls sometimes.”
Sydney bent down to pet Pumpkin, rubbing her thumb just above the bridge of the kitten’s nose where the pattern of her coat resembled the letter M. “When did you get her?”
“Willie found her coming out of the backyard,” Inez said as she joined the two in the living room. She leaned heavily on her cane. “We thought she would go home, but when she never did, we took her in.”
“We were taking a walk one day and saw her.” Willie picked Pumpkin up and cradled her in his arms like a baby. The kitten snuggled Willie and started purring. “She’s made herself right at home. She’s our little buddy.”
Sydney wondered if she should ask the Taylors for a pet damage deposit. She’d ask Malachi what he thought. “Is she declawed?”
“No,” Inez snapped. “But she’s a good kitten. She has yet to dig her claws into anything around here.”
Willie gestured for Sydney to sit on the couch. “So where’s the good professor?” he asked. Sydney told him where to find Malachi.
“Good,” he said, climbing the stairs. “We didn’t finish our discussion the other day about that crook Nixon.”
When Willie was gone, Inez took the quilt from her and laid it on the back of the couch. “Thank you, dear. Willie runs hot, but I run cold.”
Inez put an album on the stereo, then went into the kitchen and came back rolling out a tea service on a serving cart on wheels. The cart was elegant, made of gold and brass with two tiers. Finger sandwiches were on plates on the lower tier. She parked it next
to the sofa. “Willie got all of this for me when we were in Newcastle during our teaching days,” she explained.
“It’s lovely.”
Inez poured their tea. “I hope you like Earl Grey.”
“I love Earl Grey. It’s nice to know someone who has an appreciation for teas like I do.”
Both women laughed.
“And an appreciation for good music,” Sydney added, listening to the classical music playing softly in the background. “Handel, isn’t it?”
“Handel’s Water Music always brightens up my day!” Inez’s eyes lit up. “You like him too? He’s one of my favorite composers. His music is lively but relaxing.”
“I couldn’t have said it better.” Sydney had a couple of friends who liked classical music in general, but she never imagined knowing someone who had a fondness for Handel. What were the odds?
Inez handed Sydney a spoon for her tea. As Sydney took it, Pumpkin leaped up and bumped it with her snout, knocking the spoon on the floor.
“Pumpkin, you behave!” Inez shouted. Pumpkin arched her back and ran behind the couch. “She’s making me a liar. I told you she was so well behaved, and now see what she’s doing.”
“That’s okay. “I’ll just go into the kitchen and get another…”
“Oh, no dear, don’t bother. I’ll get it.”
Sydney watched as Inez struggled to her feet, propelling herself with one hand pushing against the arm of the sofa while holding onto her cane with the other hand. She returned after what seemed like a long time with another spoon.
“I didn’t mean to trouble you,” Sydney said.
“That’s quite all right. I need to get up and down more. Doctor’s orders.” She served Sydney from the plate of cucumber sandwiches. “I don’t think I have ever thanked you properly for renting to Willie and me.”
“You don’t have to thank us. It’s been our pleasure. You’re great tenants. You’re quiet. You pay on time.”
The needle moved to the next selection on the album. “I bet you’ll never guess who this is,” Inez said.
Sydney listened for a few moments, but wasn’t sure. “Give me a little while. I’m sure I’ll get it.”
They continued their game until Malachi called down the stairs for her to come into the foyer because she had guests. Sydney and Inez agreed to continue later.
When Sydney got upstairs she was surprised to see Della waiting for her with Jasmine at her side. “I heard about this hair place in Petite Africa,” Della said and grabbed a thatch of her daughter’s puffy hair in a mock attempt to tame it. Jasmine pulled away. “I hear the owner will know what to do with Jasmine’s head. She’ll know how to handle her if she acts up, too. Kwamé’s car’s in the shop. We’re catching the bus.”
Sydney wondered why Della had come over to tell her this.
“It’s gonna hurt!” Jasmine screamed as she ran to the front door and tried to wrap her little hands around the knob. “I want to go home!” she wailed. Della pried the child’s hands off the knob. Jasmine shrieked and banged her fists against the wainscoting. Malachi came to the foyer to see what was going on. Sydney shook her head, and stopped herself from reaching out to grab the child to shake some sense into her.
Della’s eyes darted from Sydney to her daughter. “Chile, you’re gonna mess up Miss Sydney and Dr. Malachi’s house. You want that ice cream, don’t you?”
Jasmine calmed down and nodded.
“Everything okay?” Malachi asked.
Della gave him a crooked smile. “I think we got things under control now.”
Malachi grunted under his breath, left the foyer, then came back with his car keys and hurried out the door.
“You need to behave,” Della told Jasmine in a hushed tone and then shifted her attention to Sydney. “I heard there’s a restaurant over there that’s got peanut ice cream, and Jazz loves anything with peanuts in it.”
Sydney had no idea why Della had come to see her. She wanted to get back upstairs to finish stuffing flyers. “Well, you two have a great time.”
Della pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped Jasmine’s nose. “I know it’s last minute and all, but I wish you’d go with me. Are you busy?”
Sydney was startled by the request. She wanted to say no, but then realized she could use the trip to hand out flyers in Petite Africa. She nodded in agreement and ran upstairs to get two of the boxes and her camera. She now made a point of having her camera with her whenever she left home. She was Max Turner’s newest freelance photographer/writer. He had been pleased with her story on the news conference about the fires and she had been working for him ever since. When she went out, she wanted to be prepared in case she saw something Max might be interested in publishing in Inner City Voice.
“I wasn’t interrupting nothing, was I?” Della asked as the three of them walked through the front yard. Sydney told her about her visit with Inez.
“The Taylors are a cute old couple,” Della said. “I saw them walking around the block, holding hands the other day.”
“It’s probably good for them, especially her,” Sydney added, referring to Inez. “Walking must be like therapy for her after her stroke.”
When the bus came, they found seats next to each other. Jasmine sat on her mother’s lap, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. She soon began to doze.
A few minutes into the ride, the air conditioning system broke down, turning the bus into an oven on wheels. Sydney took off her sunglasses and wiped at rings of sweat that had formed under her eyes. She was relieved that Jasmine had fallen asleep. She was certain the child would have complained about the heat and given Della another punch.
“I’m sorry about this.” Della fanned herself with her hand. “If Kwamé had been home we could have taken his car.”
“It’s not that bad,” Sydney said, shuddering at the thought of riding in Kwamé’s dilapidated car. She looked out the window as the bus passed a Vietnam War protest in front of City Hall. “So how did you two meet, you and Kwamé?”
Della let out a heavy sigh. “Kwamé came down to Arkansas with a group to help with a voter registration drive. He was the only one who ended up at my location. I was an office secretary for the Voter Education Project. I knew all of the people. Him being from the North with his accent and high-falutin’ ways didn’t appeal to folks at first. I got him into meetings with the right people, convinced them to give him a chance to coach people on how to act when they tried to register. Then some of the other girls in the office started staying late,” she grinned, “the ol’ hussies. They started coming around Kwamé. They wanted him.” Della paused as the bus swayed crossing the Bellport River Bridge. Once they entered Petite Africa, she continued. “My husband was in and out of jail at the time. I didn’t have a full-time job. The project didn’t pay much. Somewhere along the line me and Kwamé started falling in love. Kwamé told me that if I got a divorce he would marry me.” Della gripped the back of the seat in front of her as the bus stopped abruptly at a traffic light. “Turns out I didn’t have to get no divorce. My husband was dead and gone before long. We never did get around to getting married, though, Kwamé and me. He brought me and Jasmine up here, and I bought the building we live in with my husband’s life insurance policy. Kwamé felt fond of the building because he grew up there. It’s where his aunt raised him when his mother wasn’t up to it. For me it was an investment. Jazz was an itty-bitty little thing back then.” Della caressed a tuft of Jasmine’s puffy hair. “It’s been good for Jazz; she needed stability in her life.”
The bus let them off on Seaview Avenue, on Petite Africa’s waterfront. Remarkably, Jasmine climbed off the bus without making a sound.
They walked along the concrete sea wall, spray from waves crashing against it. Seagulls swooped over the water, poking at dead fish with their beaks. A few blocks later they turned inland on King Street. In the dist
ance Sydney could hear a man shouting, his voice distorted by an amplifier.
Sydney wiggled her nose to keep from sneezing. The pungent smell of spices hung in the stagnant air. It soon gave way to a powerful stench. Garbage bags littered the sidewalks. Stray dogs ripped at the bags, tearing at or discarding pieces of meat and bones. Pigeons poked at the trash with their beaks, taking turns with the dogs. Sydney turned away. They walked past a brick three-story building with particle-board tacked over the windows. Soot stained the siding. “I wonder if the fire here was set,” Sydney said.
Della nodded. “That building caught fire a few months ago. I saw it on the news. They’re saying it’s suspicious.”
As they continued, Sydney put her high school French to use to read the tattered awnings, signs, and window displays of the shops and cafés. Some buildings were vacant. Metal gates over the entrances were marked with graffiti.
Walking through the neighborhood, she was able to see much more than when Kwamé had driven her through the area on their tour.
She was fascinated by the way people were dressed. Women wore ornate scarves on their heads in geometric shapes. Men wore skull caps and long, blousy, colorful shirts and matching pants. Every so often a woman walked by wearing long, loose clothing covering her entire body, except for a slit for the eyes. Sydney snapped photos of the people and the neighborhood. She hoped Max would run the pictures for the features section of Inner City Voice. Maybe she would write a story to accompany the photos if she found some time to talk to people.
Sydney thought about the sense of community these people seemed to have, the camaraderie and interdependence. Redevelopment would bring progress and badly needed revenue to Bellport, but it would also cost the people their way of life. That, she thought, could be her angle for a story.
Conversation was loud. People gestured with their hands and arms in sweeping motions. She caught snippets in French. Some languages she didn’t understand.