THE TALKING DRUM by Lisa Braxton
On
sale date: May 30, 2020
Publisher:
Inanna Publications
ISBN:
9781771337410
Price:
$22.95
BOOK
SUMMARY
In 1971, the fictional city of Bellport, Massachusetts is in
decline with an urban redevelopment project on the horizon. The project
promises to transform the dying factory town into a thriving economic center,
with a profound effect on its residents. Sydney Stallworth steps away her law
degree in order to support her husband Malachi's dream of opening a cultural
center and bookstore in the heart of their black community, Liberty Hill.
Across the street, Della Tolliver has built a fragile sanctuary for herself,
boyfriend Kwamé Rodriguez, and daughter Jasmine, a troubled child prone to
frequent outbursts.
Six blocks away and across the Bellport River Bridge lies
Petite Africa, a lively neighborhood, where time moves slower and residents
spill from run-down buildings onto the streets. Here Omar Bassari, an immigrant
from Senegal known to locals as Drummer
Man, dreams of being the next Duke Ellington, spreading his love of music
and African culture across the world, even as his marriage crumbles around him
and his neighborhood goes up in flames. An arsonist is on the loose. As more
buildings burn, the communities are joined together and ripped apart. In Petite
Africa, a struggling community fights for their homes, businesses, and culture.
In Liberty Hill, others see opportunity and economic growth. As the pace of the
suspicious fires pick up, the demolition date moves closer, and plans for
gentrification are laid out, the residents find themselves at odds with a
political system manipulating their lives. “It’s a shame,” says Malachi, after
a charged city council meeting, where residents of Petite Africa and Liberty
Hill sit on opposing sides. “We do so
much for Petite Africa. But still, we fight.”
Excerpted from The Talking Drum by Lisa Braxton © 2020 by Lisa
Braxton, used with permission by Inanna Press.
The formerNathaniel Hawthorne Boot Factory, wason
Atlantic Avenue on the banks of the Bellport River.
It was a five-story brick and stone structure with
a flat roof and a clock tower that chimed on the hour. The old building housed
a daycare and provided space for artist studios and community meetings. The
cafetorium was where the Liberty Hill Neighborhood Association met monthly. Today, city po-lice and firefighters had the space
for a briefing on the fires in Petite Africa.
When Sydney and Malachi arrived,
the room was nearly full. Sydney noted a seating pattern based on people’s
attire. Petite Africa people sat left of the center aisle, and Liberty Hill
people were on the right. Onstage were Mayor Chauncey McShane, Fire Chief
Patrick O’Connell, and Police Chief Francis Toler-ico. To their right was
Petite Africa resident and restaurant owner Mustapha Mendy. Sydney had seen his
picture in the newspapers. Mendy appeared to be in his late sixties, bony, with
heavy bags under his eyes and grey, coiled hair and beard.
At the back of the room were
tables filled with toiletries, blankets, stuffed animals, and canned goods.
Sydney picked up a can of corned beef. “What is all of this for?”
“The Neighborhood Improvement
Association’s Relief Ef-fort,” Malachi replied. “Whenever there’s a fire or we
find out about a needy family, people go shopping or bring things from home.
Then they come here and put together care packages.”
“We should go through our things
to see if we can donate anything.”
Malachi grinned. “As stuffed as
your closets are, I’m sure you’d find something.”
Sydney playfully poked him in the
side. “I could say the same for you.”
She spotted Kwamé, dressed in a
grey, pin-striped three-piece suit. He swaggered as he worked his way down the
aisle, shaking people’s hands and clapping men on the back. His smile broadened
as he strolled over to them. “Glad you two could make it,” he said.
Sydney told him about her
assignment to report on the meeting for Inner
City Voice.
“Cool. So that worked out for
you,” Kwamé said. “Max is good people.”
“Looks like you’ve got a full
house,” Malachi stated, looking around.
Kwamé nodded, and puffed out his
chest. “We did what we had to to get the word out. I’ve been telling the mayor
for weeks he needed to have one of these. I said, ‘Mayor, my man, we can’t keep
people in the dark. It’s not fair to them. Lives are in jeopardy. They need to
know what’s going on’.”
Sydney rolled her eyes. More big
talk from Kwamé, she thought. She and Malachi found two chairs near the back of
the room by the tables of donations. “I’m sure Kwamé’s inflating his level of
influence with the mayor or making up the story entirely,” she said.
“Not now,” Malachi whispered, tightness in his voice. She pulled her
camera out of its case. As she took out her
reporter’s notebook and a pencil, a hand grabbed
her shoulder. It was Max sitting in the row behind her. “I didn’t tell you I
was going to show up because I didn’t want you to get nervous,” he said in a
loud whisper. “Just pretend I’m not here. If you need anything, you’ll know
where to find me.” He got up and took a seat near the front of the room. She
appreciated that. This was a big story and she wanted to do a good job. He
wouldn’t be looking over her shoulder. But he’d be close enough that if she
needed some guidance, he’d be right there to help.
Once the clock tower chimed at seven p.m., the
mayor rose to the podium and gave brief remarks. He introduced Kwamé. While
Kwamé strutted to the stage, people resumed their conversations. When he go to
the podium and slammed the gavel five times, more than was necessary, people
quieted down. He introduced the other men on the stage and then sat down. Chief
O’Connell stepped up to the podium. He was a burly man with thick, white hair,
gin-blossomed cheeks, and a mixed-grey handlebar mustache. For some reason, as
he opened his mouth to speak, he focused on a spot near the ceiling. Sydney
took notes in her own version of shorthand.
“We want to bring you up on what
we got with the fire investigation,” he said slowly in a Boston Irish accent,
pro-nouncing “are” like “ah.” “We got different kinds of fires here in
Bellport. Some are accidental, caused by residents. Some are acts of God. The
fire where lightning struck the cupola on the Ukrainian church two years ago is
an example of that. Some were caused by bad wiring, and some were set. They
were deliberate.”
He paused, as if waiting for the
crowd to react. Chief Tolerico joined him at the podium and cleared his throat.
“We have an arsonist setting fires. Petite Africa is being targeted. It may be
the work of one person. There may be several. Whoever is doing this, we’ll
catch them. That’s why we put together a special arson squad. Personnel from
Bellport Police and Fire, plus the state police will work together. We’ll have
helicopters and patrols covering the neighborhood. In the meantime, we want
people to be careful, and Chief O’Connell will talk about that.” Tolerico sat
down.
“We want you to protect your
homes,” O’Connell stated. “First of all, lock your doors.”
Snickers went up in the audience.
O’Connell raised a palm to get people to quiet down. “Now I know that sounds
obvious, but when our fire investigators come around, the residents are telling
them that they leave their doors unlocked. A simple lock can keep an arsonist
out. Dead bolts are good. Lock the windows, too.”
A man in a Boston Celtics jersey
stood up. “That’s part of the problem. The people down there in Petite Africa
don’t believe in locking their doors, nothing personal, but they need to be
told.” Sydney made a mental note to talk to him after the briefing. The man
looked around at the room. “I’m not passing judgment on anyone, but there’s a
difference in the way they do things down there.”
The room
filled with the low hum of conversation. “Oh, no.
Here we
go,” Malachi muttered under his breath.
“This might be a better story
than I thought,” Sydney responded.
Kwamé came to the mike. “Y’all
need to quiet down and let the chief respond.”
O’Connell nodded a thank you to
Kwamé. “There’s no point going into who locks their doors and who doesn’t. The
point is, we want everyone to lock their doors. We also want people to install
lights outside of their homes. Those of you who are renting, ask your landlord
to do it. Floodlights near your doorway will discourage an arsonist.”
Malachi leaned over and whispered
in Sydney’s ear, “We should get those lights for our place, too.”
O’Connell turned around to say
something to Mendy. The restaurant owner slowly stood up. People on both sides
of the aisle clapped as he walked to the podium. A few whistled.
“To find people starting these
fires, we must work with arson squad,” Mendy stated in an accent Sydney could
barely under-stand. “Criminals destroy our community. This community is, how do
the Americans say, a place of incubation. Before we pioneer the rest of America
we come to Petite Africa. Without the neighborhood, we lose this. We cannot let
arsonist steal our launch pad.” People applauded. Mendy waited for quiet before
continuing. “I know that many in my neighborhood do not have money to pay for
bolt lock and motion light. I have sponsor taking care of these things. See me
after.” Mendy sat back down.
“Arson is a crime of
opportunity,” O’Connell said, return-ing to the podium. “We need to remove
piles of leaves, paper you don’t need, bags of trash, anything an arsonist can
use to start a fire.”
A woman stood up on the Liberty
Hill side of the aisle. “Petite Africa is a mess. If they haven’t cleaned it up
in all this time, what makes you think they’ll start now? They live in filth
down there.”
A woman on the other side stood
up. “What about the gangs?” Her accent sounded West Indian to Sydney. “The
gangs from up on The Hill are coming down to Petite Africa. It’s those gang
members in Liberty Hill. They shoplift. They pick people’s pockets. They steal
cars. I bet they’re setting the fires.”
A man stood up on the Liberty
Hill side. “And Petite Africa doesn’t have gangs?” he shouted. “I know there
are at least two Jamaican gangs over there.”
People started yelling at each
other, some of them jumping to their feet. Sydney trained her camera on the
activity. Kwamé shot to the podium and slammed the gavel. “Blame won’t fix
this,” he pleaded into the microphone. The crowd didn’t give him much of a
chance. If anything, they grew louder. Some shook their fists at each other and
shouted across the room. Sydney thought the news conference might become a
riot. Chief Tolerico grabbed the gavel from Kwamé and slammed it down so hard
that the handle broke off in his hand. “Can we have order?” he shouted. Then he
shouted, “Order!” again, and the people quieted down. He took out a
handkerchief and wiped it across his sweaty brow.
“All
right then,” he continued. “We want everyone to notice their surroundings,” he continued. “If you see
someone who looks suspicious or see some suspicious activity, tell us. We’ve
been working with the city on boarding up the vacant buildings, but sometimes
squatters pry them open and move in. They start fires to stay warm. If you see
anything like that, let us know. We need you to be our eyes and ears. We can’t
do this on our own.”
After the fire and police chiefs
fielded more questions, May-or McShane directed people to a table in the lobby.
“Take a flyer. It’s got the arson hotline listed and some fire precautions
everyone should take. Chief O’Connell, Chief Tolerico, and I will be giving
regular updates on our investigation in the newspapers, on tv
stations, the radio. If necessary, we’ll meet here with you again in person.”
After the meeting adjourned,
Sydney looked around the room, deciding which residents to interview. The
police and fire chiefs and Mendy were surrounded by residents who climbed onto
the stage to talk with them. She would get fresh quotes from them after the
crowd thinned. Max was in a conversation with Kwamé
“It’s a shame,” said Malachi as
they stood up. “We do so much for Petite Africa. We do charity work. We collect
food and clothing for the poor families. But still, we fight.”
Sydney decided her husband had
just given the perfect angle for her newspaper article.
AUTHOR BIO
Lisa Braxton is an Emmy-nominated
former television journalist, an essayist, short story writer, and novelist.
She is a fellow of the Kimbilio Fiction Writers Program and was a finalist in
the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition. She earned
her MFA in creative writing from Southern New Hampshire University, her M.S. in
journalism from Northwestern University, and her B.A. in Mass Media from
Hampton University. Her stories have been published in anthologies and literary
journals. She lives in the Boston, Massachusetts area. www.lisabraxton.com
Author GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19923317.Lisa_Braxton
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