His gruff reply leaves Walter speechless.
I, too, am mesmerized. He has a tone right below a shout, never cursing, always direct, like Papa.
* * *
My Dearest Brother,
I pray you are safe, in both good health and spirits. I received your letter the other day and I could barely read it. Your penmanship has declined. When you were little, Mom would make you practice your cursive every single day. What happened?
I’ve read that some of the prisons have English Studies. Perhaps it will be good for you to take a class while you are there. When you come home, your penmanship will be sharp and you will be able to get a good job.
Things are fine here in Detroit. It’s busier than Lansing, so much to do and see. But, I worry about you. Please write soon, and make sure it is legible so your big sister can read it.
I love you so much,
Hilda
* * *
The warden is a tall man. Wrinkled, pale face with big open pores. Thin glasses that sit right on the bridge of his long pointy nose, hair slicked back, eyes black as coal.
My first year here, I didn’t see him but once. Usually he stayed in his office, his voice only heard over the loudspeaker. But lately, he storms around like a hurricane, inspecting the place. Sometimes he brings outsiders, showing us off like we’re a bunch of circus freaks. Other times, he’s surrounded by guards, barking commands.
“Take that nigger to Cellblock C … Put that nigger in the hole … Why is that coon out of line?… Need more hogs on the field…”
Nigger this, nigger that, as if they know no other word to call us. As if our only purpose is to be squashed.
The warden stands off to the side of the mess hall and cats become real quiet. One wrong move and he’ll throw all of us in the hole without a single care. Mack’s voice creeps in my head, and I try not to compare him to a plantation owner. We’re not slaves, but it’s hard to imagine this place as anything less than that type of hell. How does one live his life desiring to terrorize another?
Today’s lunch is kidney beans and brown water. The stench in the air is to the point that I rarely crave food anymore.
Mack sits down at our table, still in his apron, eyeing the warden. If looks could kill, that warden would be a dead man walking. Never seen Mack so filled with rage, but the silent kind.
“Must be auction time,” Mack mumbles under his breath.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“He comes around here every so often, inspects his property, and POOF! One of us disappears or gets transferred to God knows where.”
A lump rolls up in my throat. I ain’t mention to anyone how Ella has been campaigning for my transfer out of Charlestown. Not even to Bembry. Too risky. Sometimes you have to keep your business close to the chest. But the warden must know by now. Maybe he knows about Ella working with her friend, arranging things …
But thanks to Reginald, I won’t need a transfer anymore. I’m about to be a free man.
A cough rips up from the bottom of Mack’s stomach. He hacks into a handkerchief, seeming weak and out of breath.
“Say, daddy-o, maybe you should go to the nurse’s station or something,” I say. He’s been like this for the last few weeks, in bed long before lights-out. Not to mention, him coughing around our food doesn’t seem too sanitary. Not that it would make much of a difference to the quality, but it will spread germs.
He waves me off. “What good will that do?”
“Better than you being like this, that’s for sure,” Norm butts in. “What you need is some good ole fashion soup and some cough medicine.”
Mack laughs him off. “Is that so? You think they gonna make some homemade soup and hand out cough medicine to someone my age?” He stirs his cup of coffee with his finger. “Well, brothers, looks like my time has come. Not sure if I’ll make it through the night so I’ll say my goodbyes now.”
Some of the other cats laugh, but I don’t see nothing funny about death. Not in here, where it seems so … possible.
“And if I don’t make it to morning, you can go on and help yourselves to my notepads and pencils. Make sure you scoop them up before they throw them out.”
Bembry stretches to look Mack square in the eye.
“Stop talking like that, old man. You ain’t dying today or no time soon.”
“You never know in here.”
A hush follows that statement. Some nod and continue eating.
Mack’s words roll around my head again. How we’re all so disposable. How we’re nothing but machines making them money. There are no empty cells. I don’t want them taking anymore from me than they already have. I don’t want to be a number or a slave, and I sure don’t want to die in here. Damn! They’ll suck you dry if you let them.
Reginald is my only chance.
And yet, I can’t help but think how we all should be free. How no one, not even stray animals, can survive in a place like this.
CHAPTER 9
If you aren’t careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.
—MALCOLM X
Mom’s kitchen hadn’t changed much since she was taken away from us.
Hilda stirred a pot on the stove as a record played on the phonograph in the living room. Stewed chicken, rice and peas, a medley of greens, and Mom’s secret ingredients for homemade buttery sweet bread with the fruit preserves she stored in the cupboard. My mouth watered so much I almost drooled on the floor.
“Can you tell that stomach of yours to stop hollering at me?” Hilda teased. “Dinner is not quite ready yet.”
I patted my belly. “It has a mind of its own.”
Hilda giggled, wiping her hands on Mom’s apron. I wondered if she knew how much she behaved like Mom. How she had her high cheeks and bright eyes. I felt like a child again just being in her presence, ready to follow behind her knees, snacking on the sweet pea pods or pieces of bread Mom would sneak to me before supper.
Hilda peeked at herself in the mirror, patting her short bob, making sure every curl was in place. She smoothed down her navy dress, checking for runs in her stockings. Just like Mom, her appearance was tall and stately.
I rubbed my arms, then blew into my hands. You’d think after two weeks at home, my skin would be used to the cold again. Instead, it ached for the warmth of Harlem. Not that Harlem was much warmer in temperature, but there was that spark in so many people that felt like an ongoing family reunion, that fire, that rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins always kept me toasty. I missed that what’s-up-homeboy, how-you-living, slap-me-some-skin type of life.
“So what time is this fella coming over?” I asked.
Hilda smirked. “Be nice. He might be family soon.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I chided.
She slapped my shoulder with her hand. “Watch your manners.”
Hilda never talked about this beau in any of her letters. I wasn’t one to pry but I couldn’t imagine her dating anyone. Or having a good time. Ever since they took Mom from us, she had fallen into the mother role, always just a little too serious for her age. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy she was making a life for herself. But I was also nervous about what her new life would look like and if she would forget me.
“What’s for dinner?” I joked. “Pork chops?”
Hilda pursed her lips and returned to her pot. “Malcolm, the pig is not for human consumption. God created it to clean the garbage. You need to keep your body clean. Mom taught you better than that.”
There wasn’t a knife in the entire house sharper than her words.
“I stand corrected, Big Sis.”
Even though I couldn’t see her face, I could tell something was on her mind, just by the way she stirred the pot, ladle scraping the bottom.
“You’ve been here for quite some time, you know.”
My shoulders tensed. I sipped some water, nodding, no
t knowing where the conversation was going but desperate to run away from it. I decided to play it cool, defuse whatever was coming.
“Sick of me already? First you complain I don’t come home enough, now you worried about when I’m leaving.”
“No, not worried one bit,” she said without looking at me. “I know you won’t stay. Just wondering if there’s any particular reason why you came home?”
“Like I told Philbert and everybody else that keeps askin’, just felt like being around family.”
Hilda gave me a look, and I knew right away she wasn’t buying what I was selling.
“Malcolm, what’s wrong, my love? Why are you really here?”
And there it was. Mom’s tone, the way she could walk right through your lies. Hilda had it down to a science. I straightened and blew out some air. Guess no getting around the truth.
“Well, about three days before I left Harlem, this tall, red Negro, wearing a woman’s stocking over his face, walked into a bar, held up a bartender and managers doing the night’s close. Wiped them clean. Bartender was so mad, he hired some hit men to go hunting for whoever did it. Who would’ve known they’d show up on my doorstep.”
Hilda stopped stirring to stare at me. I had her full attention.
“They came to my apartment,” I continued. “They tried to intimidate me to get some information. I played it cool and I let them know it wasn’t me. Really, Hilda. I don’t roll like that. I was working until real late that day. Cats saw me. And I had a solid alibi.”
My alibi was a petite blonde who I was in bed with for most of the night, but I thought it was better to leave that part out of the story.
“So you ran off?” Hilda asked, puzzled.
“Just for a little while. Just until the heat dies down. They’re big-time and they’d just about settle for anyone to pin it on. Told my boy Sammy to send word when the coast is clear.”
“Why didn’t you just tell them it wasn’t you; why didn’t you head up to Boston to see Ella?”
Hilda was naïve. She hadn’t seen what I’d seen.
“Would’ve found me too easy,” I said. “That’s the first place they’d go look.”
Hilda grumbled. “But out of all people, why would they think it would be you?”
I chuckled. “You’d be surprised how many tall, red Negroes are up in Harlem. Black folks of all kinds live up there. Someday, I hope you’ll come visit. Sometime soon.”
First Reginald, then Hilda. Maybe the whole family could visit. We could all be together again, like we were before.
Hilda stared at me, her eyes narrowing. She placed two hands on the table and leaned real close.
“You must take me for a plum fool.”
“What?”
“They’d only suspect you of doing wrong if you’ve done wrong before. What else are you not saying, Malcolm?”
There were only a few times in my life that I could remember Hilda being cross with me or anyone. She was always composed, formulaic. The last thing I wanted to do was upset her. I leaned back in my chair, my eyes sweeping the floor.
“Nothing. Nothing!”
“Malcolm, you’re my brother. And no matter what, I’m going to take care of you because we’re family. But you need to be honest with me, now. If you are in some kind of trouble, you should stay here. Where it’s safe. Where you can be with your family, who loves you unconditionally, and who will protect you the best we can.”
I loosened my tie, the back of my neck dripped with sweat. It was bad enough being nagged to death by Ella, now I had to add Hilda to that list. She wouldn’t understand, not in a million years, what it’s like outside this little hick town.
“You’ve changed, Malcolm. And not for the better.”
* * *
My Dear Brother,
I’m sure you’re surprised to receive this letter so soon after my last, but what I have to tell you simply cannot wait any longer. You see, the men in our family—Philbert, Reginald, Wesley, Robert, and I—have been following the teachings of a great leader. He is a prophet who speaks as a messenger of God. A God like no other and a God that is for the well-being of our people. His Arabic name is Allah.
We are following the teachings of Islam, working alongside brothers and sisters who are just like us. They are also working to protect and uplift our people through holy scriptures that teach us about our identity and heritage. Our real history, Malcolm. We are the original people. The characters in the Bible, the Torah, and the Holy Quran. And we must be obedient to our Creator, God, Jehovah, Allah—one God with a different name depending upon the language you speak or the religion to which you subscribe.
I pray Allah will continue to comfort and guide you over the coming days. More soon.
Your Big Brother,
Wilfred
Philbert and Reginald have been writing similar stuff in all their letters. How they found a God who looks out for Black folk.
A God named Allah.
* * *
“Heard you got a big problem,” Walter mumbles, not looking in my direction, but I know he is talking to me. “Heard that Chucky is going around saying he ain’t paying you back shit.”
Bembry glances at me from across the line, and I pretend not to notice.
“Oh yeah,” I say, real smooth like. “Who’d he say that to?”
“I don’t know. Just word around town.”
Of course I’ve noticed Chucky dodging me every chance he gets, but I didn’t think there was much to worry about. Where could he go? He can’t hide. Yet, judging from the looks on cats’ faces, I haven’t been paying close enough attention and got this whole place looking at me like I’m some chump.
Walter purses his lips with a smack. “So, what you gonna do about it?”
Everyone in the shop stares, waiting for my next move.
“What’d you mean what I’m gonna do about it? He needs to pay what he owes!”
“Yeah, but if he don’t, then what? What you gonna do then, Red? Gonna let him disrespect you like that?”
I know what he’s getting at. If word spreads that Chucky stiffed me on a bet and didn’t suffer consequences, then anyone will think they have the space to do the same.
“Back in my day, cats would lose a few fingers if they stiffed me,” Walter says.
“Chucky ain’t stiffing nobody,” Big Lee says. “He just pressed on his luck.”
“Seem like he got plenty of luck to me,” Walter shoots back with a laugh.
“Man, now he got Satan after him,” someone says behind him. “Sheesh. Good luck, Chuck!”
The men roar with laughter. Chucky’s making a joke out of me. Hasn’t laid a finger on me but I’m already TKO’ed.
“Hey! Leave him alone, man,” Bembry warns the others. “He doesn’t have to do anything if he wants to leave this place the way he came in. Alive.”
Don’t think anyone can leave here the way they came, that’s for sure.
Someone sets a hammer in front of me, whispering in a deep voice, “What you need to do is take care of him, you dig?”
The hammer glistens under the overhead lights, the steel cold and smooth, as the room grows quiet. He means “handle him” the way West Indian Archie would handle someone who owed him money. The way he almost handled me, but Shorty saved my life.
Bembry taps his brush on the counter like a judge’s gavel, lips in a sharp straight line.
“Young brother, let it go. There’s no turning back from violence. You’ll be on a road that will lead you nowhere fast.”
His words aren’t aggressive or hostile, but authoritative.
“What y’all don’t seem to understand is, in here, we all in the same boat. We’re taking our fear and frustrations out on each other when we should be smarter than that.”
The room stirs. My skin is hot, hands sweaty.
“Now what we need to do,” he says, holding his palm up. “We need to form together, like a tight fist. That’s the only way we all gonna survive a
nd get ahead.”
The other men in the shop stop to listen to him, his voice carrying over the machines like a speaker. “We are not each other’s enemy. We’re just pawns. Acting like animals trying to take each other out. For what? More time. We gotta be smarter than that. We need to control our own damn feelings so we make it to the outside. Get that hammer outta here.”
It reminds me of Papa. The way he used to talk about creating for ourselves. About working in unity to improve our conditions. Building a nation to be independent and manage our own affairs. To be free.
Up, up, you mighty race!
But then I think about what Mack said in the yard, talking about how we’re slaves, and it fries my blood all over again. Papa lied about us being free. Papa left us for the wolves to rip our family apart. And if I’m going to be stuck in here, ain’t no way I’m going to let some Negro disrespect me.
The hammer, it’s a small tool, easy to hide in my pocket and walk right out of here.
By the end of the shift, as the other brothers leave the shop for dinner, I hang back, wanting to be the last to walk into the mess hall, a blur in the crowd so Chucky don’t see what’s coming. I know I should just cool my head, wait for Reginald to save me, but there’s some things you can’t let go.
At the door, Bembry stands like a wall in my way. He points to my pocket. “Say, what you got there?”
“Don’t know what you getting at.”
He sighs. “Young brother, you don’t want to do this. It ain’t worth having blood on your hands and spending the rest of your life in this dump.”
I get straight to the point. “Chucky’s late squaring up. He’s walking around disrespecting me. Can’t have that, no way. He needs to pay what he owes.”
“You really wanna ruin what’s left of your life over this? You won’t even know this fool ten years from now. You have to learn patience, man.”
He doesn’t know me! All everybody sees is some kid they think they can get over on. A fire blazes under my skin. My hands ball into fists.
The Awakening of Malcolm X Page 10