In my whole life, I ain’t ever heard grown men gasp like that before. Stunned, Big Lee can only shake his head and turn away.
The chaplain swallows, now sweating. “Malcolm … are you saying—”
“Yes, I’m saying it! God ain’t here! He ain’t with you! If He was, then wouldn’t you and Him try to help us? I mean, really help us. You think God allows families to be ripped apart? You think God would allow Negroes to suffer like this? In this pigpen? I don’t need some kinda God that exists one way for you and another way for me! What kind of God is that? Huh?”
The chaplain stands frozen for a few moments until he finally gives the two guards in the back a small nod. Jimmy whips in my direction and taps my leg. “You gotta cool it or you’ll—”
“All right you, up! Let’s go.”
The guard’s voice makes Jimmy jerk upright, eyes forward.
“Why? This is Bible study and I’m studying,” I snap.
“Not anymore,” the guard says. “Let’s go!”
I don’t know how it happens. I think the thought of their filthy hands touching me sets the fire ablaze and I slap one white hand away, then another, and another, until we’re all on the ground, wrestling. I spot Jimmy’s face, the look of terror in his eyes. I see that helplessness and I start fighting harder.
“That’s it! Back to the hole.”
The word hole sends a chill up my spine that extinguishes the fire, but I’m still swinging and slapping the hands trying to grab me, not so much in rage now but in fear.
“No! No!” I gurgle out. I can’t, I can’t be there again. I try to stay tough but I can’t anymore. “Please, please,” I cry. “Please don’t send me back. Please!”
Six guards with their six batons, with their knees, elbows, and fists, knock me out cold.
* * *
The type of cold in the hole can match the Upper Peninsula of Michigan’s worst winters. Teeth chattering, I awaken—senses skewed, eye swollen, lip busted, my jaw and back sore. My one eye is barely open and I see nothing but darkness. The type of darkness that makes me remember the first time I was in the hole. How the isolation swallowed me, ripping apart any dignity I had left. How I begged, devoured stale bread, and wept for Mom.
“No,” I murmur and stumble to my feet. I can’t go back to that place.
The hole is so dark that I can’t see my hands in front of my very own eyes. Fumbling, I pat the walls, fall over the cot low on the ground, and hit the door.
The hole feels tighter this time. It’s not just a box, but a coffin, shrunk airtight. Breathe. I’m desperate for fresh air. My family. I need my family.
“Let me out! Let me out!” I scream, but it comes out as a whimper until I’m weeping on the cold, damp ground. The steel door has deep, hectic grooves. Dents. From another poor soul thrown in here. This place is for no man.
And I demand again, Where is God?
* * *
What little light there is in Charlestown hurts like a thousand pieces of glass thrown in my face when they finally open the door. I block the glare with my hand, squinting up from my sunken place on the cold ground.
“All right, Little. You’re out.”
My eyes try to adjust to the figure standing at the door. “What … day is it?” My throat is scratchy, maybe from sobbing.
“You wanna stay in here? Move it, prisoner!”
I’m led back to my cell, the stench of the halls waking me up. There’s no sense of time in the hole. You are only aware of your breath, your thoughts, and the darkness. My cell hasn’t changed. Still the same way I left it. The wooden bucket hadn’t been dumped, the smell now baked into the slabs of cement and cast-iron bars. I change my uniform, noticing it fits looser than before, and glide a trembling hand down my side, ribs pushing through my skin.
They can do it again, I thought. They can put me in the hole whenever they want, for however long they want. They could destroy me, kill me … if I let them.
First things first, I need to stop by the kitchen for a fix. The fight gotta be coming up, and I need to make my rounds and collect bets. I need to be ready before someone steals my coins. It’s not like it’s real money but it’s all we got in here: a few pennies, nickels, and maybe some loosies. Heck, keeping busy is the only way to stay sane in this hellhole.
Haven’t written any letters in … who knows how long. Long before they dropped me in the hole. My family must be looking for me. Thinking of them keeps me sane, gives me something to live for.
It’s late so I head straight for the mess hall, last in line to grab a tray. A hush takes over the room. Eyes tracking my every move. Everyone is staring. Hard. Even the cooks look at me funny. Don’t know if everyone’s surprised to see me so soon or if it’s been longer than I thought.
I take my tray to an empty table, facing the crowd, the tallest cat here, scanning the room for a newspaper. What’s the date?
“Hey, they let you out. Glad you still alive, man.” Norm stands at the head of the table, looking to join me, and I don’t stop him.
“Alive?”
“You talked back to the chaplain and the guards.”
Norm pauses to bow his head, praying over his lunch slop. With a greedy smile, he dives into his food like it’s a feast, the best thing he’s ever eaten. Norm ain’t that much older than me. Maybe he’s twenty-two. Reminds me of Wilfred with his broad shoulders and height, but still not taller than I am. Not sure where he’s from, but wouldn’t be surprised if we were distant cousins.
“You know,” he starts, using a fork to mix his hard rice. “Folks around here been calling you Satan.”
I stare at him for a moment, waiting for the punch line. He just eats his food.
“Satan? What for?” I snap. “And say, what day is it?”
“Man, it’s Tuesday. Anyway, it’s because you questioning God and you talking to the white folk like they Negroes. Like you not scared of nobody.”
So that’s why everyone’s staring. They think I’m Satan in the flesh. Ha, if I’m Satan, then who are they? Who are the guards that throw us in the hole and gang up on us? Six of them beating one defenseless man. We ain’t got no guns. They don’t know a damn thing!
I snarl, taking a giant sip of water. “Don’t care what anyone thinks of me. Doesn’t make me anymore free than the rest of you. We all locked up. We all in this nightmare together.”
Big Lee stops at our table with his empty tray, his face expressionless.
“Three,” he says, slow.
Norm and I glance at each other, waiting for more.
“Three what?” I say to him.
“Three weeks. That’s how long you were in the hole. No one ever knows when they first come out.”
My chest caves in. Three weeks. That’s it? It felt like three years.
“Yeah, um … thanks,” I say.
Big Lee lifts his chin. “Mmm-hmmm. It’s the Christian thing to do.”
He walks off as slow as he came. Christian thing? Doesn’t he mean the right thing? The decent thing? The human thing?
Norm shakes his head, working on his plate as he glances around the room.