by H. M. Mann
I also know who I am.
I stop writing. Officer Baldwin sure is taking his time today. Maybe Dr. Taylor made some arrangements. I re-read my letter so far. It says what I want it to, but I have to finish it somehow. What will the parole board ask me? Oh yeah.
Am I ready to return to society? The better question is, is society ready for me to return to it?
I close the notebook and hand it to Dr. Taylor.
“Is it finished?” he asks me.
“You might want to double-check my spelling.”
“I’ll type this up tonight and put it in the warden’s hands tomorrow.”
“You might want to read it first, you know, see if it’s all right.”
“I’m sure it will be.” He opens the notebook, and I watch his eyes scanning the page. “It definitely will be, Emmanuel.”
Officer Baldwin taps on the door.
“Gotta go,” I say. “Uh, thanks.”
Baldwin and I are barely down the hall when Dr. Taylor comes rushing up behind us. “Officer, may I have a moment?”
Baldwin doesn’t move. “Say what you gotta say. He’s already late.”
“Emmanuel, you’ll need to read ahead in your text.”
I hate that textbook. It is so boring. “Why?”
He smiles. “So you can take your final exam early.” He shakes the notebook. “I don’t expect you to be here in December to take it.”
“You don’t?”
He squeezes my shoulder. “You don’t belong here.”
I look at Baldwin, who rolls his eyes. “I know I don’t, Dr. Taylor. That’s what I’ve trying to tell these chumps.”
Baldwin laughs. “C’mon, Manny. Let’s get you back to your books.”
And when I get back to my cell, I reopen Beloved. I’m going to understand every word this time. And even if I don’t, I’ll just start over.
No matter where I am, I can always start over.
24: Home on the Hill
Knapsack slung over my shoulder, wearing clothes given to me in Africatown and boots that should have worn out months ago, carrying sculptures carved by a man who hears his ancestors in the wood and a kente cloth blanket made in Alabama, squeezing the silver lid given to me by a man who may one day be my adopted father, I leave County on an icy, sleety, rainy day, re-reading my journey on three little notepads. Folks driving by probably think I’m crazy, walking up Pride Street without a coat or an umbrella, sleet clinging to my Malcolm X goatee, smiling and flipping pages, tasting the rain, kicking ice pellets, knocking on trees to wake up someone’s ancestors. But I don’t care.
They’ll never be as free as I am at this moment.
Never.
I could have taken the bus, I guess. But that wouldn’t be right. I feel the earth under my feet, even walking in the mud instead of on the cracked sidewalks. I’m part of this planet now, and this planet is part of me, like it or not.
Why? Because it’s the first day of December, the best first day of any month any time since the creation of the world. You can have January 1 and all the parades and games. December 1. That’s the day I’ll celebrate forever. It’s like Juneteenth and the fourth of July and the day I was saved under that tent all rolled into one.
Instead of heading straight to see Mary, I walk to the set on Wylie. Not much has changed, though the migrating birds are fewer than before. A youngish kid, dirty-faced with sunken cheeks, hangs at the edge of the flock. Flake needs to give that boy a visit. I wonder where old Flake ended up. I looked for moving lips at County and didn’t see any. Maybe Flake’s gone south with someone. Yeah. Flake would like that.
I walk up to them, and a few nod at me as they stamp their feet. “How y’all doin’?” I say, sounding all country. “Beautiful day, ain’t it?”
A few curse me in short bursts of steam, but I don’t stop smiling. These are my people, too.
“A little over six months ago, I was right where y’all are standin’, yes I was.” I beat my chest. “Now look at me. I found the cure. And if any of you gentlemen, and that’s what you all are, you’re men. If any of you men want to know about the cure, just ask me.”
A few whispers. They’re about to migrate again.
“I can’t promise you it’ll be easy, but I can promise that it will work. I’m the proof.”
The oldest among them slip away first, and they’re probably not much older than me. That dirty-faced boy, though, he walks slower, looking back once. Go get him, God. Sic Flake on him. Save him. Make his lips move and not because he’s cold. Get into his head and—
The kid turns my way. “You ain’t kidding about that cure are you?”
“No.” He’s ripe, God. He wants to know, just like I did. I hold out my arms. “Your choice, boy. The snake or the cross.”
He stops, looking from one arm to the other. “I ain’t no junkie.”
I step up to him. “No, you’re not a junkie. You’re a man. You’ve just forgotten what it is to be a man. You’ve just got to be a man and admit that you got a problem you can’t solve by yourself.”
He looks at his hands, his fingernails caked with dirt. “I don’t know, man. I don’t know. Tried kickin’ it before, you know. It was hard, man, it was hard.”
God, I pray, give Flake some wings or something. Put some of this boy’s ancestors’ voices in his head. Something. “What’s your name?”
“Joey.”
“Joey, I’m Manny Mann. Ask around. They’ll tell you who I was. Those birds you’re following around didn’t even recognize me. That’s how much I’ve changed.”
Joey scratches at his face. Oh, Lord, he’s feeling it all right. He’s due for his fix. “I heard of you. They said you died, man. Jumped off a bridge or something.”
I put my hand on his. “I did die, Joey. Manny Mann died when I did jump off the McKees Rocks Bridge.” I zip up his windbreaker to his neck. “And Emmanuel Malik Mann was born. I’ll be praying for you, Joey.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And if you ever want to hear about the cure, come find me. I’ll be around.”
“Okay.” He backs away. “Where will I find you?”
C’mon, God. Wake up Flake! This one wants the cure even worse than I did! “I’ll be working nights at the Crawford Grill. I might even be able to get you a job.”
He nods. “All right. Crawford Grill. Okay.” He turns and starts running to rejoin the flock.
God, please help that boy. He can’t be more than twenty. He’s got his whole life ahead of him. Let him know that—
But then Joey’s running straight back to me, his lips quivering, his eyes tearing up, his whole body shivering. He keeps looking up and shaking his head. “Make haste slowly,” he says. “I’m supposed to tell you to make haste slowly. And don’t be so impatient. I’m older than you by three years and can whip your ass.” He puts his hands over his ears. “What’s happening to me?”
Thank You, Almighty God. “Joey, you’re in trouble now.”
“I am?”
“Yeah. But you’re in good hands. Listen to the voice in your head, Joey. He’s been there, and his name is Flake.”
Joey straightens up and drops his hands. “William. My name is William.”
“Where’d ‘Flake’ come from?” I ask before I remember that I’m talking to Joey.
Joey blinks rapidly. “From his last name. Blake. His last name was Blake. Blake the Flake.” Joey stops blinking. “He’s in my head, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“How long’s he gonna be there?”
I squeeze his shoulders. “As long as it takes, Joey. He was in my head for about thirty days. You’ll get used to him. I did. Barely.”
Joey’s body jerks. “I gotta go.”
He walks past me toward Mellon Arena. “Where y’all goin’?”
Joey turns his head but continues to walk. “To eat some chicken soup. What does that mean?”
“It means you’re going down to get back up.”
Go
odbye, Flake, I mean, William. Hope to see you soon.
I watch them, I mean, Joey go, his lips moving, his legs stumbling. I guess that’s what I looked like six months ago. Lord, I was so pitiful. Why’d You save me?
Oh yeah. I remember, and in about a week, I’ll have two wonderful reminders.
Let’s see. I have to deliver a warrior to Thaddeus Mosley. Tomorrow. Yeah. I’m going to meet another man who talks to the wood. But today … today. That is a glorious word.
Today.
I head directly to Mary’s house, pounding on that door with all my might. Mrs. Moore comes to the door. “Oh, my God.”
I pull the blanket out of the backpack and put it in her hands. “A gift.”
She runs it through her hands. “It’s … it’s beautiful. But what are you doing here today?”
Living, probably for the first time in my life. “I’m free, Mrs. Moore.”
“The letter in the paper did the trick?”
“Yeah.”
She pushes the door open, and I walk in, looking for Mary. “But why didn’t you call?”
“I wanted to surprise y’all,” I say.
“Don’t be bringing no country slang up in here, Emmanuel Mann. We speak proper up in this house.”
“Uh-huh. Where’s Mary?”
“Upstairs sleeping.”
I start for the stairs, but she grabs my arm.
“I want to see her, Mrs. Moore.”
“Oh no you most certainly will not go up there,” she hisses. “That child is having her baby over at Mercy, not in this house.”
I take one more step. “I won’t wake her, I promise.” I see the doubt in her eyes. “I intend to keep every promise I make from now on, Mrs. Moore.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “You and that Auntie of yours. You two just come and take over a house, don’t you?”
“I don’t—”
“Who do you think is sitting up there with Mary right now?” Mrs. Moore interrupts. “The woman just won’t leave, says she has to be here for you, and I’m that child’s mama.”
I smile. “I’ll take her place then.”
Mrs. Moore crosses herself and closes her eyes. “You Baptists have an answer for everything.” She shakes the blanket out and folds it. “You could have folded it, you know.”
“Sorry.”
She smells it. “And washed it. It smells like sawdust.”
From Moses Green’s shed. “Sorry.”
“And it doesn’t match a thing in this house. Where am I gonna put it?”
I shrug. “You could wrap your grandbabies in it, couldn’t you?”
She nods several times. “Yeah. I could do that.” She stares hard at me. “Harrison and Truvie will look so nice wrapped up in this blanket.”
No they won’t. Luke Slade and Rose Abassa will look like angels in that blanket. “Right,” I say. “Can I go up now?”
She folds the blanket over her arm. “Yeah. But don’t scare the babies out of her, okay?”
“I’ll try not to.” I take a step. “But even if I do, you’re a nurse, right?” I don’t look back at her expression as I continue up the stairs. I’d bet her face would scare a baby out of me.
I ease Mary’s door open and see her resting on her side, her face away from me. Auntie June sleeps in a still rocker, a Bible in her lap. I set the bowl and warrior on Mary’s dresser, and the warrior seems mightier and the dancers on the bowl livelier in the reflection from Mary’s mirror. I kiss each of the children on their sculpture before carefully placing it on Mary’s nightstand.
Auntie June stirs and sees me. She hadn’t been able to visit me at County, mainly because she couldn’t bear to see me locked up, but partially because she was so busy preparing for “her grandbabies.” I walk over to her and put the Bible on the floor. Then I take her hands, easing her out of the rocker, and hug her. She touches my face and runs her hand through my hair.
“You need a haircut,” she whispers.
“Yes, Mama,” I whisper back.
Her eyes well with tears. “It’s about time you said that.”
I kiss her forehead. “I’ll be saying it from now on, Mama.”
She nods.
“As long as you promise not to cry every time I say it, Mama.”
She nods. “You’ll just have to say it often, so I can get used to it. Son.”
“I will. Mama.” I point at the bowl. “That’s for you.”
“Thank you.” She turns me and sits me on the rocker. “She’s been asleep for two hours, so she’ll be up pretty soon, and whatever you do, don’t worry her. She could have your babies any second.”
“I won’t worry her.”
Auntie June rolls her eyes. “Boy, you can’t help but worry folks. It’s in your nature.”
She leaves the room, taking her bowl with her.
And then I watch Mary, her hands tucked under her chin, her hair splayed on the pillow, her eyelashes so long. She looks like an angel, and she’s my angel.
Her eyes flutter open a half an hour later.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says.
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
She turns ever so slowly, and I finally see how big she’s gotten. “You didn’t. Your kids did.”
“Are they kicking now?” I ask.
She nods. “Come here,” she says, and I spring out of that rocker.
She pulls down the covers and pulls up her nightgown, exposing the largest chocolate watermelon I’ve ever seen. She places my hand on the right side of her stomach. “I think this is your daughter.”
I feel a roundness, and it moves. Even my fingernails have goose bumps. “How do you know it’s our daughter?”
“She’s the quiet one.”
“Quiet? She’s bouncing up and down like—”
She moves my hand to her left side, and it’s like a bass drummer is trying to get out. “This is your boy. He is not quiet. He never stops running, or stepping on my bladder, or head-butting his sister.”
I see tears falling onto Mary’s stomach, and I cry and hold my future wife and my future children until I start laughing, and it’s the mightiest laugh anyone has ever heard on the Hill, so loud that even St. Benedict has to fold his outstretched arms across his belly.
I’m home.
I’m finally home.
Epilogue
from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette:
Mary Marguerite Moore and Emmanuel Malik Mann of the Hill announce the birth of twins, Abassa Rose Mann (5 lbs., 4 oz) , and Emmanuel Malik Mann, Junior (6 lbs., 7 oz.) on December 13 at Mercy Hospital. Mrs. Sarah Moore and Miss June Mann are the proud grandparents, and Mr. Robert Hughes of Beulah, Alabama, is the proud godfather.
from the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review:
Mary Marguerite Moore, daughter of Sarah Moore and Henry Moore (deceased), and Emmanuel Malik Mann, son of Glory Mann (deceased) and June Mann, jumped the broom at St. Benedict the Moor on June 14. Mrs. Olivette Howard, cousin to the groom, served as the bride’s matron of honor, and Mr. Luke Slade of East St. Louis, Illinois, served as the best man. Also in attendance were Mr. Maxi Kazula, cousin to the groom from Africatown, Alabama, and good friends Mr. Bobby Hughes from Beulah, Alabama, and Miss Rose Neal, Mrs. Penny Wilson-Cobb, and Mr. Rufus Cobb from the steamboat American Queen. After honeymooning aboard the American Queen with their two children, Abassa Rose and Emmanuel, Jr., the couple will reside on Wiley Avenue on the Hill.
Acknowledgements
I have so many people to thank for their help during the research and writing of this novel: Brian Egeston for graciously allowing me to use pieces of his novel, Granddaddy’s Dirt; Joyce Simpson-Williams and her daughter, Chemise, for letting me know about their Memphis and for promising me wet ribs when I come to visit; Benita Jackson for schooling me about downtown Atlanta, the Underground, “Black Jesus,” and Dr. Martin Luther King Boulevard; Stephanie Marie Blakemore for introducing me to her hometown of Louisville. Most of all, I
am thankful for a wife and family to come home to and a God who can love me despite … it … all.
>If you enjoyed this title, check out all of H. M. Mann’s books at Amazon.com<