We Cast a Shadow

by Maurice Carlos Ruffin

  “I’m sorry,” Sir said.

  Mama’s arm was broken. We spent the afternoon at St. Moritz Hospital. The waiting room was crowded, and hours passed before she was seen by anyone. It took Aunt Shirls coming over from her job at the Carnation Room to threaten the intake nurse and cause some movement.

  We wouldn’t find out for days whether Sir was alive. His apology echoed in the empty cell of my brain, and I had a reminder of the event, my brown hand scraped white before the blood came.

  My father had been careless, an idiot! All his talk of respect and restraint. When it counted, he became an animal just like a common street thug. If he had contained himself, Douglas wouldn’t have gone at him. But he allowed himself to be removed from our lives just when we needed him most.

  I promised myself to be better, stronger, a more resilient man than he ever was. I was almost to the promised land. I would never abandon my son.

  Mama nudged one of Penny’s shoes out of the way and stepped over to me. “Your wife dead. That’s true. But you alive. Your boy alive. Your father alive. I’m talking about the men in your life, your son and father. I see the way Nigel mopes around these days. He was such a happy child, but he slipping away. The same way you’re slipping away on that junk.”

  “Everyone needs something to rebalance sometimes.”

  “I know it’s been hard here since Penelope passed. I should move in here, huh? Keep an eye on my two babies. That’s what I’ll do.”

  “We’re fine. We’re working through some things. What can I do to prove that to you?”

  “Visit your father.”

  “Anything but that.”

  “Go see him today, or I’ll bring my bag in from the car.”

  31

  Liberia. The state’s oldest continuously operating prison lurked at the parish line like a hitchhiker trying to thumb a ride out of town. Liberia had been built during colonial times, during that brief period when Spaniards ruled the City. The Spaniards were appalled at some of the rules in the American Sector. Example: Under the American rules of racial categorization, anybody thought to be less than white lacked legal process to sue based on an injury to their land property rights. So while any of my lighter-skinned ancestors could buy a small plot of land or even a townhouse, if they could afford it, they couldn’t do anything against the whims of white men.

  It was during my research for a high school genealogy project, about an ancestor, in the bowels of the City Library’s historical collection, that I came across certain documents (a deed and some arrest records) that suggested that the man, listed as an octoroon (how fortunate for him!), was the possessor of clear title to a 110 x 30 quadrant near the City’s St. Denis Cemetery. That was in 1794. By 1795 he was a resident of Liberia (then called the state reformatory) for some type of public assault. By 1796 another document, not a deed, listed a man with the curiously anonymous name of John Michael Smith as the new property owner.

  The great frustration with such historical documents was that they lacked a narrative. There were no paragraphs or footnotes. No sensational news clippings. Riley and the rest of the BEG would have said this was for the best. Such unpleasant events during the many nadirs of race relations in the history of our country were best forgotten. But I could never do that. I could only use my imagination and certain societal tendencies to divine what had become of this man, who was not my direct ancestor but who hung from a long branch of the family tree the way a body might.

  In other words, I had to do what a hack historian might do: make things up. So I did. John Michael Smith worked for the City in some financial capacity, perhaps as an assessor. Smith, who was apparently British by birth, saw some value in the property. Maybe he discovered it and thought, This place will change my life. I came to America searching for something to fill the hole in me. And this is that something! Maybe he made an offer that my ancestor should not have refused. Maybe he levied a heavy tax, and when no payment was made, he called out the constable. Maybe my ancestor, bearing some resemblance to Pushkin or Alessandro de’ Medici, appeared at the door and challenged Smith to a duel. But by then duels were illegal or going out of fashion. Maybe Smith had my man arrested and purchased the house at a tax sale.

  These types of incidents were common in the American Sector. The Spaniards, having seen enough, shut down the American Sector jail, a converted pharmacy off the avenue. So the Americans, in a classic game of whack-a-mole, simply built a larger, nastier prison on the edge of town, in an area where even the Spanish governor’s lieutenants felt unsafe. The big nasty prison? Liberia née the state reformatory.

  The strangest thing about Liberia didn’t occur to me until I was already an adult and had traveled a bit. Its seat at the parish line meant that it was the first thing tourists saw when they entered town from the suburban airport. In my experience, while transiting from terminal to accommodations, one might come across an ugly but productive industrial area—perhaps a shipping container facility—or a placid body of water. Not the place where that community warehoused its untouchables. But that’s exactly what the City did. Upon entering the City from Schenectady or Moose Factory, one came to know the bulky, sprawly prison complex before the more benign landmarks of the various sporting stadia or even the downtown skyscrapers. I knew the stats by heart. One out of ten citizens had spent some time there. More than half of all City blacks had, and eight out of ten black men. Liberia was a vacuum sucking up all the dark crumbs.

  I drove to the initial guardhouse, where a round-faced brother in black and gray fatigues operated a machine that scanned the Bug. As the wand passed over the roof of the car in much the same way that the arm of an automatic car wash does, I noted him shooting me the queerest looks, as if to ask, in both confusion and derision, what the hell was I doing there. Many lawyers visited the company. If not for the Liberian inmates, thousands of industrious criminal attorneys would be out of work. The local economy would crater.

  But I admitted to being there on personal business. There had been situations where black visitors got embroiled in incidents that led to their arrest onsite. It was an extremely convenient transaction for all parties involved, like having a heart attack while in an ER.

  “I know,” I said to the guard as he gave me back my ID.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  There were three other checkpoints. And when I parked the Bug, a spidery, youngish Latina swept the vehicle with a mirror on a stick. Can’t be too careful. There’d been another terror attack just yesterday at the zoo. A pack of hyenas got loose.

  Children watched from a barbed-wire-enclosed playground as I clicked through the stations for decent music. The guards walked me through a metal detector at the entrance to the visiting center, a tin-roofed building. The waiting area reminded me of both a hospital waiting room and the waiting area at the DMV. A crush of people. An uncomfortable mix of anticipation, dread, and hopelessness.

  He would say things to me. I hadn’t heard Sir’s voice in decades, but I would hear it soon. That syrupy, mellifluous, accusatory voice of his. He would rant. A rant that would start with questions about why I’d never come back to see him again, why I had waited so long, why today. What right did I even have to be there? I’d thrown him away. I’d deleted him from my personal history and banished his presence from my life. Penny and I were almost married before I told her about him and even then in muted, reticent tones. She probably learned most of what she knew about him from Mama. Nigel too. But I was in the house. And I wasn’t deserving of any calling out. It wasn’t my fault he blew his stack. He knew the rules. He’d stepped out of bounds. Mama, me, and even Dee—Supercargo—paid the price. We lost a man because he couldn’t gulp down his pride. Our whole life suffered.

  After an hour, I was let into the next pen, which felt like a fish tank with its large windows and aquatic background music. Through the windows I
saw a gorgeous green, not unlike a golf course. The warden seemed to have tended the lawn with meticulous detail, placing a single grain of fertilizer with a single drop of water on each blade of grass. A group of men in striped overalls straggled into view hauling shovels, picks, and wheelbarrows. Behind them, a trio of guards in white shirts and slacks followed on golf carts, short-muzzled shotguns bumping against their sides.

  I went to the guard window, which was mirrored glass. I couldn’t see the person behind it, but the person could see me. I was only certain that someone was there because of the fidgety shadow emanating from the steel pass-through beneath the window.

  “Help?” the voice said.

  “I was hoping you could tell me how much longer before my visit begins.”

  “Have a seat.”

  I sat. After a few minutes, my name appeared on a hanging monitor. An iron door opened, which I entered. The room was an antechamber. Animation on another monitor told me to use the security drawer that jutted from the wall. A pair of wafer-thin plastic sandals were in it. The screen told me to swap them for my shoes.

  A tall, white-haired man greeted me in the hallway. “My how you’ve grown,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “From last I saw you.”

  “I’ve never been here before.”

  “Of course you have. I had to check the records to be sure—my memory isn’t what it was—but you visited with your mother, such a nice woman. You wore a three-piece suit and bow tie. We don’t get much of that around here.”

  I studied the man’s face for a moment. His face was pale and pocked with the scars of long-resolved pimples. His skin had wrinkled, and his teeth were crooked at mildly bizarre angles. But what if I peeled back time? Flushed some life back into those cheeks. Filled in the dry canals and craters along the sides of his eyes and mouth.

  “You used to have red hair,” I said. “You’re in charge now?”

  “Assistant warden. Once upon a time I was a carrottop, but I haven’t seen a scrap of red in about, oh, two decade, I reckon.”

  * * *

  —

  This man had been a junior administrator at the time I visited as a child. He had greeted me and Mama. The world must have been a cheerier place when fresh-out-of-school wardinistas were sent out to coddle the families of inmates. But here he was again, I reckoned. So maybe things had not changed so much, if at all. And maybe I hadn’t changed as much since then as I thought.

  Mama and I had met Sir beneath the central tower of the prison panopticon. The high ceiling was gray-tinted glass that made everything seem overcast, even though I knew it was sunny outside. Dozens of other prisoners walked beside us, circling the tower with their loved ones, as if we were all on a giant lazy Susan. The door guard told us that we could talk as much as we wanted, as long as we kept moving around the tower. In the tower, thirty feet up, another guard swept the grounds with his rail gun, which was mounted on a tripod. A red dot appeared wherever he pointed the weapon.

  I hung a few steps back from my parents, walking stiffly in my robin’s-egg-blue suit that was already short around the ankles. I had refused to get out of bed that morning. I didn’t move when Mama threatened to take away my Internet privileges. But when she said the same thing about my books and notebooks, I had no choice but to get dressed and come along.

  I was in a foul mood because I didn’t want to see Sir. His trial came quickly, and within months of his altercation with Douglas, he was convicted of attempted murder of a peace officer. He would never get out. Never help me with another book report or shoebox carnival float. He had taught me how to brush my teeth and hold back the tears of a skinned knee. What would I never learn from him because he was incarcerated? And I kept thinking that if he’d been level-headed, we’d all be back at the apartment eating fried chicken thigh sandwiches.

  They made the inmates wear embarrassing skintight white uniforms so they couldn’t hide contraband. The men on either side of us were worn, deflated, pathetic. Their loved ones shuffled alongside. The high windows squeaked from the wind. I smelled the rust from the windows’ hinges. With his gaunt cheeks and thin limbs, Sir looked like he was doing Día de los Muertos cosplay.

  “The lawyer say you got a good chance on appeal,” Mama said, her voice climbing. She wore a brown and gold pantsuit, the good luck outfit she favored on important days. “A real good chance.”

  “It’s his job to say that sort of thing,” Sir said. Mama absentmindedly rubbed her forearm. She was out of the cast but wore a wrist brace. Sir’s eyes got small.

  “It’s better than it was,” Mama said, letting go of her arm.

  “I’m glad.” Sir glanced back at me. “What’s his problem?”

  I shrugged.

  “Answer your father,” Mama said.

  “Me?” I adjusted my bow tie, then jammed my fists into my pockets. “I don’t have any problem at all. I’ve never been happier than right this second, schlepping around this crummy rat hole.”

  Sir seemed shocked.

  I hadn’t really talked to anyone about him. I’d shut Mama out. I’d attacked classmates who brought it up. Now my throat was hot, and I couldn’t stop talking. The words spilled out of my mouth like spiders in a horror movie. “Thanks a lot, Daddy. Now, I’m just another son of a convict like most of the other kids in town. Maybe you should let me come back for ‘take your child to work’ day. I can help you dig ditches or make license plates. I’ve always wanted to work on a chain gang. They say it builds character. We’ll have a real great time.”

  A woman with another family chuckled.

  “Boy, how you going to say that to your own father who was trying to protect us?” Mama asked. “What is wrong with you?”

  Sir stopped walking and grabbed both my arms. “You think this is what I wanted?” he said. “You believe I planned this?”

  An intercom squawked overhead. A mechanical voice escaped it. “Resident Poopy Pants. Keep it moving. Or else.” I had heard that they assigned inmates humiliating names based on their initial inspection upon arrival. But I didn’t think they could be so…cruel.

  Sir continued walking. His face was covered in sweat. No, that wasn’t sweat. “Do you even know what I’d give for a second chance?” he asked.

  Mama got close to him like she wanted to put a hand on his back. But we’d been instructed that physical contact was off limits.

  “You could’ve kept your mouth closed. You told me to swallow my feelings.”

  Sir stopped walking again. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have ever told you that.”

  “Keep walking, baby,” Mama said. She sent me a look of anger that turned to alarm. A red number 10 appeared on Sir’s chest. It was the rail gun’s laser sight. The number changed to a 9. “Come on.”

  “Hey, brother,” an older prisoner with a beard shout-whispered. “Don’t want to get caught out, my man.”

  “Tell your father you’re sorry.” Mama said.

  “We’re warning you, Poopy Pants,” the mechanical voice said. “Noncompliance means there will be consequences and repercussions.”

  “No,” Sir said, and hissed, “This is my fault.” The number on his chest was down to 6. “You’ve got to own yourself.”

  Some other inmates screamed for him to get moving as they walked by. 5.

  “I ain’t trying to get zapped over here!” a man yelled, waving his arms.

  “Great,” I said. “Just what I need. More advice from you. Well, fuck you, Pop!” 4.

  “Boy!” Mama said.

  “Whatever happens, you can’t give in to them, because then you’ll have nothing left,” Sir said. 3. His face was slick. It occurred to me that I’d never seen my father cry. I’d never seen any man cry. The seriousness of the situation finally struck me. 2. My face tingled. The corners of my eyes moistened. I bit my tongue.
I would not cry. I couldn’t give him that. He didn’t deserve it.

  Mama grabbed Sir’s arm and pulled him. Sir went along with her.

  * * *

  —

  “You can’t tell me what to do from inside this place,” I said to myself. “You’re just a ghost now.”

  “What was that?” The assistant warden ran his hand through his white hair in kind of an aw-shucks way. “Never mind. When I saw you pop up, I had to come down and see how you turned out.”

  “Well, that was kind of you.”

  “Not kindness, I’m afraid. He hasn’t been well, your father. He’s fine in body, but due to outbursts, he was transferred to psychological confinement.”

  “Oh.” My father in chains? The thought sent a crawl up my neck. “Well, what did he do?”

  “We don’t talk about inmates’ actions prior to adjudication as it’s a violation of their rights under the Constitution to do so.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Again. Specifics.” He held his palms up. “But sometime back. Almost a year.”

  “Let me see him then.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He can’t entertain visitors.”

  “Entertain? Entertain! I’m not here to have tea.”

  The man gave a sympathetic shrug of the shoulders.

  “Do you realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen him? I have a right as a tax-paying citizen.” Something clicked down the hallway. I glanced over my shoulder to see several guards moving in our direction. The guards nodded at the man. He nodded back.

  “Don’t cause a scene. I was only saying that it would be best for his recovery and your peace of mind not to see him. But if that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want.”

  We took a corridor that hooked sharply down and to the left, passing through several doors along the way. We’d entered another building, a building where the workers wore soft-soled shoes instead of boots and carried stun guns instead of rifles.