“No, son. I’ll be back before you know it. You check on them chickens?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he mumbled. “Finish your studies and watch after your mother, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Papa nodded at the rest of us, put on his round spectacles, and headed down the hall. The front door creaked and slammed shut behind him. Mom stood there, staring at the door as if she hoped he’d change his mind. The door didn’t open. A darkness fell over the house within seconds.
“Mommy?” Hilda asked gently. “Is it … is it one of your premonitions?”
Mom glanced down at me, her forehead creased with worry. She slid a hand down my cheek and said, “Malcolm. Malcolm? It’s time for you to wake up, sweetheart.”
Wake up? But I wasn’t asleep.
“Huh, Mom? What are you talking about?”
“Malcolm, it’s time.”
Her voice sounded distant, far away, like an echo underwater. My arms and legs went numb. Felt like I was falling.
“Malcolm. Malcolm! It’s time. Wake up!” she shrieked, her scream like a stuck piano key thumping through my head. I closed my eyes and pressed my ears into my skull.
“Wake up, Malcolm! Wake up! Wake up! Malcolm, wake up!”
“Wake up, nigger! Move your ass! Now!”
The wooden baton clacking against the bars of my prison cell rang like harsh chimes.
My eyes pop open wide at the wrinkled white face screaming inches from mine.
“Lazy nigger! Move it!”
The guard backs out the cell as a commotion stirs in the hall. I set a palm down on the rough sheets, staring up at the ceiling to ground myself. Every time I open my eyes, I remember where I am. I’m in hell and there’s nowhere to run.
“Line up, convicts! Now! Eyes forward. Stand straight!”
I splash some cold brown water on my face and slip on my blue uniform.
Out of my cell, I fall into position as the guards take count. My legs are wobbly, eyes still adjusting, heart pounding like a mallet against my rib cage.
I was there. I was home. With my family. I could almost smell the wild honeysuckles outside our window.
I remember the day my mother predicted my father’s death. I remember how he didn’t come home in time for supper like he promised, and we went to bed empty, deprived of his presence. I remember drifting off to sleep next to Reginald and awaking to screams. Mom’s screams. There’s no scream more gutting than your mother’s. It’s the first sound we hear at birth, delivering us into this world.
Time to wake up, Malcolm.
“Cellblock Double A, sound off!”
One by one, each prisoner yells out his number. Who we were before ceased to exist the moment we entered this place. I’m no longer Malcolm Little nor Detroit Red. I’m 22843. They had us memorize it. They stripped us of our names, preventing us from being men, reducing us down to a bunch of numbers.
“Rough night?” a voice whispers behind me.
I look quick to my right, at my cell neighbor, Norm.
“You were talking in your sleep again—full-blown conversation. You be killing those dreams, youngin.”
A dream. Yes, that’s what it was. But how could a dream like that feel so real? The cold on the back of my neck is real, so are the lungs that can’t seem to suck in enough air. I tighten my fists to keep cool around the guards.
“My old boss man, he used to say, ‘Don’t drink that stuff past midnight or you’ll end up having some wild dreams about—’”
“Hey! You wanna go to the hole, convict?” a guard snaps.
Norm straightens his back, staring straight ahead. In the wet cold, I see his breath billowing around his dark skin.
Time to wake up, Malcolm.
I don’t consider myself a superstitious man in no kind of way, but my mother’s dreams were vivid snapshots that could foretell the future, sweeping any doubting words right out your mouth. Did she dream I’d get locked up in this hellhole?
With lineup complete, they send us out single file, barking orders and threats as we march on cue like marionettes. In the mess hall, I make eye contact with one of the cooks, Jimmy. We can communicate without words.
“How’s it going, homeboy?” He winks.
“Can’t complain but I do.” I nod, leaning in. “Just another day in paradise.”
He chuckles. “Keep on dreaming, homeboy. You’ll be there soon enough.”
He nods and sneaks a matchbook next to my bowl of hard oatmeal. Good ole Jimmy, always dishing out encouragement with a side of nutmeg. I slip the nutmeg into my cup of water, and take it back like a shot. It’s not reefer but it’s enough to take the edge off that dream. I can still hear Mom’s voice in my head. I don’t want her voice with me in here. I don’t want the reminder that I’ve failed the only people who truly love me. I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to be here—
“Hey, Little,” Walter from the shop says. “You see this? There’s gonna be a fight in a few weeks.”
He slides a newspaper my way. A fight would do me solid right about now. Could set up some bets with a few of the cats I’ve made good with in here. I scan the headline, noticing the date underneath. May 19.
Today is my birthday. I’m twenty-one years old.
I fold up the paper as if it never touched my hand.
* * *
Charlestown State Prison is about seven miles from Roxbury. Seven miles from the second place I called “home.” That’s what drives me to madness. So close yet too far to comprehend. I wonder if Fat Frankie is still hustling folks with his card tricks and who might be singing at Roseland tonight and what Ella has cooking on the stove. Stuff that no longer matters as long as I’m locked up in this hellhole.
Here in Charlestown, every day is the same day:
6:00 a.m. Alarm
6:30 a.m. Shower/handle your personal business
7:00 a.m. 30 minutes for breakfast
8:00 a.m. Slave/Work detail
11:00 a.m. 30 minutes for lunch
12:00 p.m. Slave/Work detail
3:00 p.m. Quitting time
4:00 p.m. The yard
5:00 p.m. 30 minutes for supper
6:00 p.m. Remain in cellblock housing area
8:00 p.m. Return to cell
10:00 p.m. Lights-out
Seems real simple, but the seconds pass like hours, days like months. This place is an old barracks dump designed by someone who has no regard for human life. So old it should be condemned. Wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. I’ve been locked up for the past three months. Could probably tell you the time down to the second even without a watch.
But … a watch is how I ended up here in the first place. A watch I stole and took to the pawnshop for repairs instead of selling it to the highest bidder. When I went to pick it up, that’s when the cops got me.
I’m six foot four, size fourteen shoe. My iron cage is no wider than the length of my stretched-out arms, palms up. I call it a cage because that’s exactly what it is. A place where they put stray animals, as if to tame them into submission. But they can’t tame me, they can never tame me. Something’s churning fast inside my chest, making it hard to sit still. I pace up and down, around and around. Each turn makes me question all the other turns I could’ve made in my life. How did I get here?