Westville

By Kevin Parham

Have You Ever Had a Dream? 

Jimmy James had a big dream: to become a professional musician. That dream took him away from home, as most dreams seem to do.

Still, after years of paying his dues on the road, Jimmy finally finds what he was looking for back where he started.

Westville is a story about the life of an aspiring young musician and the vibrant community from which he comes. Nestled between a river and the railroad tracks, Westville is home to an eccentric and inextricably connected group of people in a special neighborhood. 

Come and experience life with Jimmy as he navigates the challenges of adolescence and adulthood, in a saga of one man's unique journey—and its universal lessons.

Whether your dreams in life come true, at some point you return home . . . to where it all began.   

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pria Publishing
• Release date: Aug 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780984948567

Kevin Parham

Kevin Parham is the author of the award-winning memoir: The Vineyard We Knew—A Recollection of Summers on Martha’s Vineyard and mystery novel: Keeper of the East Bluff Light. After having had an extensive career as a professional musician, Kevin decided to pursue his passion for writing.  Westville is Kevin’s second novel.     Connect with Kevin: BLOG: https://kevinjparham.wordpress.com/                                                                                                                                                                                       TWITTER: https://twitter.com/Kevin_Parham14                                                                                GOOGLE+: [e-mail] Upcoming Releases by Pria Publishing MV Islander—Resurrection (a Novella) Orange Line to Forest Hills Black Soul-White Skin Libby the Owl

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Westville

Prologue

On a delightful April morning, Olive and I strolled along a wooded path that meandered through the fertile hills of Vermont. This was something we’d do most days, if for no other reason than to reap the benefits of exercise.

During these outings, we’d discuss just about anything that came to mind. But, sometimes, we’d not say much at all . . . which was fine by us. We shared, among other things, a love for the outdoors, which meant we gleefully immersed ourselves in the beauty of our surroundings and were simply happy to be alive.

On this particular morning, a gentle breeze caressed my face, creating an unusually crisp and clean sensation, reminiscent of the sting of Old Spice on newly shaven skin. When I inhaled, the earthy aroma of farmland invigorated me, and the vivid colors of early bloomers—witch hazel, crocus, daffodil, forsythia—lifted my spirits. What appeared to be thousands of flowers swayed in a large field a short distance away, as if they were dancing in the wind.

Olive and I stopped for a moment to watch the morning sun peek over the horizon, then drift slowly above hills dotted with an assortment of indigenous trees—blue spruce, oak, pine, and maple. As the sunlight flowed gently over the landscape, I noticed bright beams of light shining through Olive’s black and silver-gray hair. The sun, now rising high into the sky, brought with it a kind of warmth that seemed to give new life to everything it touched.

Back home several hours later, Olive went inside to rest and I plopped myself down in the old wicker rocking chair that was a fixture on the front porch. Before long, a US Postal Service truck came to a stop in front of the house. A portly gentleman with disheveled, dusty-brown hair, wearing the standard issue USPS uniform, leaned out and extended his arm as far as he could to open the door to our makeshift mailbox, nothing more than a black metal container loosely attached to a wooden post. The mailman hastily opened the mailbox door, tossed several pieces of correspondence inside, then slammed the door shut and sped away.

Without giving it much thought, I ambled down to the mailbox to retrieve the mail. When I returned to the porch, I sat down again and was immediately drawn to the rhythmic sounds the chair made as it creaked back and forth. My bones these days sounded like a pitiable imitation of the chair, my joints snapping and cracking with each twist of the body or bend of the knee—a not-so-subtle reminder that time was marching on.

I knew I was growing older at a rate of speed that seemed much faster than it had when I was young, and oftentimes wished I could slow down the aging process in order to add a few more years to my life.

I’d recently retired as a professional musician, and, as my sixty-third birthday approached, I realized I was on the precipice of the so-called golden years—a term I hadn’t spent much time contemplating. Until now.

When I turned my attention back to the mailman’s delivery, I found a manila envelope buried in the stack of miscellaneous junk mail. It was addressed to Olive and me in handwriting. I was surprised to see a return address of Westville, Massachusetts. With curious anticipation, I opened the envelope. Inside I found an invitation:

Dear James and Olive,

You are cordially invited to attend the Westville Grand Reunion on Memorial Day weekend, May 26rd through May 28th, 2017. Come and reconnect with old friends and neighbors who share a legacy that spans generations. You won’t want to miss this special event . . . we hope to see you there!

Sincerely,

The Westville Reunion Committee

Thoughts of people I hadn’t seen in decades came to mind. Many I had known as a young boy had had a profound effect on me, helping make me who I am today.

Suddenly, nostalgia rained down on me like a cleansing waterfall. Then recollections from my childhood began to turn into a raging river coming from a dusty, cobwebbed region of my subconscious. Some memories were vivid; others were nothing more than fuzzy images.

I felt compelled to accept the invitation. At my age, there’s no telling how many years I have left to live.

I felt a little weary after our morning walk, so I tossed the letter onto a small, circular oak table and slouched back in the chair. Slowly rocking back and forth, I closed my eyes and listened to the creaking of the chair and the melodic counterpoint of birds singing in the distance. Moments later, I drifted off to sleep with thoughts of Westville—my old hometown—gentle on my mind.

Chapter One:

The Early Years

I grew up in Westville, Massachusetts, a small, predominantly African American community surrounded by the Mystic River, B&M Railroad tracks, High Street, and Boston Avenue. It was a very special neighborhood, and my family and I lived right smack-dab in the middle of it.

Several ethnicities—African American, Jewish, Italian, Irish, Armenian, German, WASP—were sprinkled throughout the neighborhood. Most of them lived close to the railroad tracks or Boston Avenue.

However, the African Americans primarily lived along the first five (of nine total) streets that stretched north from the river. Depending on your perspective, this was more desirable because our area bordered a river and the picturesque Mystic Lakes. Conversely, it was less desirable in terms of the quality (value) of homes. (Of course, all the homes on our side of the tracks were valued less than those on the other side.)

The year was 1966, a time when our cozy little town was dotted with tall oak trees and open fields of green grass, and AAA Stables was just up the street. There, you could rent a horse and gallop along trails that converged at the mouth of the Mystic River. The Mystic Lakes, where you could swim and fish, were within walking distance, and Dugger Park was only two streets away. Westville had it all; it was utopia—a place where most anyone would want to live. It hardly seemed natural for such a picturesque setting to have been fewer than ten miles from Boston.

You’d never think a neighborhood could be as vibrant as ours, and perhaps it really was no different from any other. But Westville and the colorful cast of characters who lived there seemed to create a synergy unlike that to be found anywhere else.

At birth, I was named James James (everyone called me Jimmy), and I can tell you that being the only one in the family with an identical first and last name was no fun. (What was my mother thinking?) But the life begun in that special neighborhood brought me experiences that still seem more than the share of joy and pain that any wiry boy with a caramel-colored complexion and closely cropped, curly, brown hair would be expected to endure.

I won’t burden you with every detail, but I imagine there are some things you might want to hear.

# # #

I remember that sad day in June when the news came. I was at Aunt Beatty’s house on Arlington Street, playing with my cousins, when we heard a loud knock. My aunt opened the front door to see two well-groomed military men standing at attention, proudly wearing the uniform of the United States Marine Corps.

Mrs. Brown? one of them asked.

Yes, my aunt answered.

The gentlemen, an officer and a chaplain, identified themselves and then said, Mrs. Brown, we’re here to inform you that your son, Lance Corporal Howard Brown, has been reported dead while on a mission in Quang Nam Province, South Vietnam. He stepped on a landmine and it exploded, apparently killing him instantly. On behalf of the Secretary of Defense, we extend to you and your family our deepest sympathy in your great loss.

My aunt gasped, fell to her knees, then screamed, No! God! No! No! No!

Distraught and overcome with emotion, Aunt Beatty cried uncontrollably. It was difficult to listen to Aunt Beatty’s screams and sobs; they shot right through me, sending a cold shiver up my spine. It was as if her soul had been ripped from her body, and her heart, now shattered to pieces, was in my chest. Somehow, I could feel her pain, and it cut like a knife. I didn’t know what to do. So I ran home as fast as I could to tell my mother what had happened.

It wasn’t long before news of Howie’s death spread through the neighborhood like a wildfire. In a show of support, the entire community came together to embrace the family and to offer condolences, and, three weeks later, my cousin—the first Massachusetts casualty of the Vietnam War—was laid to rest in Oak Grove Cemetery with full military honors.

The family had decided not to hold a wake for Howie; there wasn’t much of him left to view, only body parts riddled with shrapnel.

Some months later, John McCluskey, mayor of Westville, proclaimed that a memorial would be constructed to honor Howard Brown’s life and military service. One month prior to the first anniversary of Howie’s death, Brown Circle was dedicated at the rotary on High Street, on the Westville side of the Mystic River Bridge.

Several dignitaries and special guests attended a twenty-minute ceremony on a sunny May morning. The street had been cordoned off, but only temporarily; the flow of traffic could not be disrupted for too long.

During the dedication, my aunt sat on a flimsy, metal folding chair. Despite her stoic face, it was easy to see she was still grieving over the loss of her eldest son.

Howie’s death seemed even more tragic because he hadn’t been drafted into the military. Unlike so many young men who would do anything to avoid having to serve, Howie had enlisted in the Marines immediately after high school graduation, and, soon afterward, he was deployed to Vietnam. He had not had to go; he chose to. My aunt had practically begged Howie to reconsider his decision, but he felt it was his duty to serve his country.

After Howie died at the age of twenty-one, I made a vow. I would be a conscientious objector; I would never serve in the United States armed forces.

Though my father, Otis, and his four brothers had served in World War II, I had no desire to follow in their footsteps. Not me. No way. I’d flee to Canada first. And you can call me a coward, but I never wanted my mother to have to endure the agony my aunt felt when she learned her son had been killed in combat. Whose life is it anyway? Shouldn’t I have the right to determine my own fate?

I was twelve years old.

# # #

My friend Miguel lived two blocks from me. Without a doubt, he was the most positive, upbeat person I had ever met. Before moving to Westville, Miguel had lived in California—Hollywood, I think. In fact, all the kids in the neighborhood used to call him Hollywood.

His disposition was always pleasant; he never seemed to have a bad day. He possessed a wiry physique and cocoa-brown skin and stood about five foot nine. Even though large Afros were in vogue, Miguel kept his hair short. His wide smile and big, bright, chestnut-brown eyes would light up every time you saw him. If something were bothering him, you’d never know.

One Saturday afternoon, a few friends and I were hanging out on the corner of J Street and Harvard Avenue. Suddenly, we saw Biv Libson walking briskly toward us. The expression on his face was one of utter shock; as if it were a neon sign, we knew something was up.

What’s happenin’, fellas? he said.

Nothing’s happening, we answered simultaneously.

Did you hear about Miguel?

No. What about him? I asked.

He was struck by a B&M Railroad train last night. According to the medical examiner, Miguel must’ve lie down on the tracks and let the train run over him. He’d been cut clean in half an’ was dragged for over a quarta mile.

What? Are you shittin’ me? Birdy asked, clearly shaken.

No, I ain’t. An’ by the time the engineer saw him lying on the tracks, it was too late; he couldn’t stop the train in time. They claimed it was no accident; said it was suicide, Biv said. The B&M Railroad had to suspend service this mornin’ so the police could do some investigatin’.

Why would Miguel want to kill himself? Quack asked.

What was going on in his life that would cause him to do such a thing? Tuttle added.

Rumor has it he was havin’ problems with his girlfriend, Cindy, Biv said.

Problems? What kind of problems? I asked.

"I don’t really know. But I did hear that Miguel got into a big argument with Cindy."

What’d they argue about? Tuttle asked.

Biv answered, I have no idea. But Cindy told Miguel she didn’t wanna see ’em anymore. It was over.

Who told you that? Silvertone asked.

Miguel’s sister, Linda, Biv answered.

It makes no sense. It’s not like Miguel to overreact like that. He always took things in stride, I said.

True. But when I spoke to Cindy, she said Miguel was actin’ kinda funny lately. He just kinda lost it, Biv said.

The five of us just stood there, speechless. Finally, Biv continued. Cindy also said Miguel had been drinkin’ his ass off lately . . . said he was sippin’ on some Hennessey earlier that evening. Then, all of a sudden, he got enraged. I reckon he flipped out because Cindy watched him swallow some pills and then he started mumblin’ somethin’ ’bout not being able to take it anymore. But, before Cindy could say anythin’, Miguel done stormed out da house. And that was the last time she saw him alive.

Damn, Birdy said, in disbelief.

And there be another twist to the story, Biv said.

What’s that? I asked.

Cindy’s got a hot cross bun in the oven. . . . she be pregnant. And she didn’t even get the chance to tell Miguel; don’t think he ever knew.

If only he had known, then perhaps Miguel might still be alive, I said.

"Perhaps he did know," Tuttle said.

We all looked at Tuttle quizzically.

Relatives and friends gathered at Miguel’s mother’s apartment in Westville Square after the funeral, having bid farewell to yet another young member of our community. The somber scene inside was a replay of what we had witnessed after my cousin, Howie, had died.

But my cousin Randy—Howie’s younger brother—attempted to keep things lighthearted. Come on, you-all. Now, you know Miguel wouldn’t want us to mope around. He’d want us to celebrate his life and all the good times we had, he said.

Randy’s correct. Miguel would want that, I said.

Randy had a knack for transforming any somber situation into a comedic event. This time, he sang an off-key version of an Elton John song: She’s got electric boots, a mohair suit—you know I read it in a magazine—B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets!

Randy! Who told you that you possessed any singing ability? Whoever it was not only has a tin ear, but also should have their head examined, I joked.

Randy sat there in silence, a puzzled expression on his face. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, Oh, come on now, Jimmy. That’s okay. You can admit you’d really want me to sing with you if you had a band.

Randy, to be honest, I wouldn’t ask you to sing with me even if you were the last vocalist on earth, I said sarcastically.

Jimmy. If I were in a band with you, I’d make you a star—unless, of course, you think you already are, he said, smiling.

Uh . . . I think I’d prefer to play the chittlin’ circuit and make five bucks a gig than have to listen to your shrill voice night after night.

That’s okay. One day, you’ll come to your senses and acknowledge my talent.

I don’t think so, Randy, I replied with a smirk.

Jimmy, would it be all right if I catch a ride home with you? Randy asked.

Sure, no problem.

Chapter Two:

The Homestead

Our family lived in the same place on Lincoln Street where my father had been raised, so my siblings and I were the second generation of the Jameses to call that four-bedroom house our home.

Because the house was over one hundred years old, it was always drafty; it lacked insulation, a common characteristic of stick-framed homes built in the late 1800s. During my childhood years, I witnessed several upgrades to the furnace—coal, to oil, to gas—but it seemed to make no difference: it always felt cold inside during winter. In fact, my sisters, brothers, and I used to take turns standing on a heat register in the kitchen, eager to feel the forced hot air as it rose from the cellar.

Our household was typical for a lower-middle-class African American family struggling to make ends meet. There were times, however, when things at home were anything but typical.

My mother, Henrietta, and stepfather, Henry Harmond, both worked at the J. J. Nissen Bakery, in the Wellington Circle section of Westville, but they worked different shifts. Ma supervised nine employees who baked breads, cakes, and pies on the night shift, and Henry utilized his mechanical skills to maintain the ovens and other equipment, making repairs when needed.

# # #

I was the third child born into a gaggle of five: two sisters, two brothers, and me. My sister, Josephine, was eleven years older than I, and Brenda, five years younger. My brother, Mark, was five years older, and John, seven years younger.

I had always felt my stepfather, Henry, disliked me from the time we first met, when I was five years old. But perhaps it was I who harbored contempt in my heart.

I vividly remember that day in September when Henry, a short and brawny dark-skinned man with a bushy mustache and wisps of thinning, curly brown hair on each side of his otherwise bald head, waltzed through our front door as if he owned the place. For some reason, I was repulsed by his presence and wanted nothing to do with him, and I sincerely believed the feeling was mutual.

Henry attempted to make a good impression on us with his cunning demeanor, but I saw right through it. To me, it seemed as if he were always up to something. Most times, he had a phony smile. You know: the kind that looks as if it had been surgically attached to his face or, perhaps, was the result of a Botox injection gone wrong. Henry was the epitome of insincerity. His fallacious grin seemed rigid, and it was easy to imagine it instantly disappearing if someone punched him in the face. I suspected it was all a façade—a mask—to win my mother’s favor.

And Ma, an independent woman of medium build, fair skin, and a spitfire attitude, with five children from a previous marriage, was cautious about bringing a strange man into the house.

My biological father, Otis James, was tall, dark, and handsome, with a slender build and usually well dressed. However, his indifference to the fact I had arrived in the world was no secret. Josephine once shared with me a conversation she had had with our father soon after I was born. She asked him if he was happy about my arrival. His response was classic. He said, Your new baby brother is just another mouth to feed.

Really?

It was a shame I never had the opportunity to get to know my father and to develop a relationship with him, but he and my mother separated prior to my first birthday. Yes, Ma decided to leave dad after he chose to hang out at a local bar during the height of a 1955 hurricane.

Otis was the consummate good-time Charlie, and, for some reason, people loved to be around him. On the night of the hurricane, he had a grand old time spending money on alcoholic beverages for himself and his friends while my mother, sisters, brothers, and I hunkered down in our drafty old house with no heat, lights, or food. Suffice it to say we were scared and cold.

Fortunately, Mr. Kirby, my father’s friend and best man at my mother and father’s wedding, was kind enough to brave the storm and bring us food and blankets. Obviously, Dad wasn’t concerned about our well-being.

Several months later, my mother packed our scant belongings and whisked us to her sister’s house in Boston, where we stayed for about six months. Yup, Ma had had enough of Dad’s irresponsible behavior. Less than a year later, she and dad were legally divorced.

Not long after their marriage ended, my mother made arrangements with the bank to take over payments on the house she and my father had purchased together. Shortly thereafter, we moved back to Westville.

Two years later, Ma and Henry happened to meet each other while at work and soon began dating. One year later, they were married. Ma and Henry kept opposite schedules, like two ships passing in the night. Henry left the house at 6:30 every morning, while Ma arrived home by 7:30, just in time to see us kids off to school. Henry usually got home from work around 5:15 in the afternoon, and Ma would leave the house no later than 10:25 each night. That’s how life was for most Westville families; they did what they had to do in order to survive.

Everyone in the family helped to keep things afloat. My mother and stepfather worked, and we kids did our chores. Josephine and Mark earned money by delivering the Westville Daily Mercury and, on occasion, babysitting for some of the neighbors. My chores included cleaning my bedroom, washing dishes, sweeping the kitchen floor, and taking out the trash. The one I disliked most was hauling the trash cans from the cellar to the front of the house for the weekly trash pickup.

More often than not, the trash cans felt as if they weighed a ton because they contained my stepfather’s empty whiskey bottles. Some he had discarded himself. Most, I’d find where he’d hid them around the house in the most unusual places, stuffed in closets or stuck between the box spring and mattress on his bed. Sometimes he’d stash them in the kitchen cabinets or under the cushions of chairs in the living room. Heck, I even found empty bottles hidden in the oven.

Henry was a chain smoker; his favorite brand of cigarette was Philip Morris Commanders. He also was a functional alcoholic, usually swilling Old Crow whiskey right from the bottle. The only time Henry used a glass was when he drank with others. But, most times, he’d drink alone.

From the very beginning, Henry and I had a tumultuous relationship and would often knock heads, particularly after he’d been drinking. His outbursts convinced me he could be a raging maniac once he had reached the lowly depths of drunkenness.

Jimmy, come down here and take out the trash, Henry snipped one day.

I’ll be down in a minute, I replied.

About ten minutes later, Henry said, Jimmy! Get your ass down here, now!

I walked out of my room and stood at the top of the stairs, and said, Henry, if you want the trash to be taken out right this minute, then why not take it out yourself?

Don’t get smart with me! I’ll knock your li’l black ass out! he yelled from the kitchen.

"You think so? Go ahead and try. I dare you. Besides, you’re not my real father anyway. I don’t have to listen to you!" I said defiantly.

All of a sudden, my mother emerged from the den and, standing at the bottom of the stairs in the hallway, said, Jimmy! Shut your goddamn mouth. And Henry! Leave Jimmy alone—you’re acting like an old, drunken fool.

Henry stumbled out of the kitchen and approached my mother. Henrietta, I’m not bothering that boy. He needs to do what he’s told.

I shouted from the top of the stairs, Henry, why do you always harass me?

Harass you? I don’t harass you, Jimmy. You a lie! You a liar-sucka-shit!

Who are you calling a liar, Henry? I’m not a liar; you’re the liar! And you know what else? I’m sick of you. Why don’t you take your drunken ass out of here? Why don’t you just leave? I said.

"Why don’t I leave? Why don’t I leave? I’m not going anywhere! But I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get my gun and put a bullet between your eyes."

Henry! Stop talking nonsense, my mother said in a serious tone.

I shouted again, For all I care, you can go to straight to hell, Henry!

Henry glared at me with his cold, steely eyes, then turned and walked back into the kitchen. I retreated to my bedroom. Moments later, I heard Henry climb the stairs and go into his bedroom where he grabbed his Winchester Model 70 bolt-action hunting rifle from the closet. Without uttering a word, he marched into my room, cocked the rifle and pointed it at my head.

He’s really going to shoot me. Suddenly, my heart was pounding so hard, I could hardly breathe. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and rolled down my face. With nowhere to hide, I crouched down on the floor next to the bed, closed my eyes, and waited in terror. I expected next to hear the rifle’s loud pop, followed by images of my short life flashing before me, just as I had heard happens when a person is about to die.

Whatcha gonna do now, wise guy? Henry asked, a sadistic grin on his face.

Henry! Put that gun down! Have you lost your mind? my mother screamed.

Henrietta’s maternal instincts had suddenly kicked in. She leaped up and placed herself between Henry and me, which caused him to lower the rifle. As I cowered on the floor beside the bed, my mother shoved Henry out of the room.

When I finally stopped shaking, I got up and bolted down the stairs to the cellar. Suddenly, the thought of taking out the trash appealed to me like never before. And, every night thereafter, when I climbed into bed, I had a tire iron hidden under my pillow . . . just in case. I had made a vow to protect myself from that crazy, gun-toting madman. And I had sworn that, if Henry ever threatened me like that again, I’d try my best to kill the son of a bitch.

# # #

I was somewhat rebellious when I was young, and it was common knowledge that my explosive temper didn’t serve me well. Like the time my brother, Mark, pissed me off—something he managed to do just about every day. He’d go to great lengths to irritate me or say