The Awakening of Malcolm X Page 7

  * * *

  My spoon is icy to the touch. I have on every layer of clothing I own, trying to warm my muscles, but nothing is working. I sit in the mess hall, surrounded by shivering cats, talking to distract themselves from the cold.

  “Man, I don’t know,” another brother whispers back. “He’s been a little out of it. Either he’s screaming about the devil or stone-cold quiet. You never know what mood Red’s in.”

  “The boy needs to snap out of it, whatever’s eating him. Got no place for it here.”

  Everything in me wants to snap. I’m ready to knock out anybody who comes my way. But I can barely feel my legs, my head is stuffy, I’m flying in the clouds.

  “Fight coming up next week,” Walter says from the table next to me. “You taking bets again or what?”

  Hustle.

  Clearing my throat, I put on a smile. “All right. Fight next week. Who’s feeling lucky?”

  * * *

  Day of the big fight comes quick.

  Sugar Ray Robinson versus Chuck Taylor, in Detroit.

  Worried about the fight starting so close to lights-out, cats gather around the radio in the kitchen early, even setting up a quick game of dominoes to pass the time. Meanwhile, I make my rounds, taking bets, selling loosies and nutmeg. It’s like I’m running my own bar. Maybe that’s something I could look into when I leave this place.

  “Ain’t you from Detroit?” Walter says to me. “Fight’s happening in your hometown.”

  I start to correct him, but let it slide. Some people never heard of Lansing. Detroit is just easier to say. Been encouraging Philbert to move from Lansing to Detroit in my letters.

  “Did you know Sugar? Says he was raised there.”

  I laugh. “You know, Detroit is a big city. But I may have seen him around once or twice.”

  Mack is in his same spot in the corner of the kitchen. Not for the fight, of course. Seems like he’s just making sure we don’t mess up his kitchen. Even Norm is relaxed tonight. I guess because it’s boxing, where whites and Negroes have been competing for a while.

  Norm’s leg shakes. “Hope they hurry it up. Gonna be lights- out soon; no telling what they’ll do if they find us in here.”

  Chucky overhears Norm and throws him a loosie. “Relax, daddy-o. Besides, he got us covered. Right?”

  The room stares at me, not seeing Chucky’s sly grin as he chews on a toothpick. Somehow, Chucky knows I paid off the guard to let us have this space in peace. Chucky seems to know everything and yet we know nothing about him.

  “Ay, Chucky, where you from again?” I ask. “Don’t think I caught that.”

  “Oh, you know, I’m from just about everywhere you’d think,” he chuckles.

  Chucky always dances around personal questions. Can never pull a straight answer out of him. Shorty used to say, cats like him can’t be trusted. Don’t ever let them know too much.

  “Oh yeah. And what’d you do to get locked up in here with us?”

  He says the words real soft and slow. “They say I killed a man.”

  The room stiffens.

  “Well … did you?” someone asks.

  Chucky gives the group a smirk. “Is any one of us in here ’cause of what they say we did?”

  “Quiet, everyone,” Big Lee shouts, playing with the antenna. “It’s starting.”

  We huddle closer to the box, silent as the announcer gives us the play-by-play.

  “First round … Robinson and Taylor dance around each other, a few soft blows.”

  “Second round … Robinson uppercuts Taylor. Taylor, three jabs.”

  “Come on now, baby, this is for the championship here!”

  “Third round … Side jab, Taylor. Nasty kidney hit.”

  “Come on, baby! Come on!”

  “Fourth round … Holding.”

  “Fifth round … Robinson blocking. Right hook to the jaw!”

  “This is it! This is the one!”

  “Sixth round … Sugar hits jaw. Down goes Taylor! TKO, Robinson wins!”

  The room explodes. Cheers and laughter. Everyone except Chucky. He slowly stretches up as if to yawn before glancing at me, his face emotionless.

  Chucky placed the biggest bet of all. Against Robinson.

  He walks out into the hall. My stomach presses to my back, and I know within an instant that something’s not right.

  CHAPTER 6

  I believe in the brotherhood of man, of all men, but I don’t believe in wasting brotherhood on anyone who doesn’t want to practice it with me. Brotherhood is a two-way street.

  —MALCOLM X

  Around three in the morning, I left the Braddock Hotel to head back to my new spot in Harlem. Since I quit working for the railroad (or I should say, I was fired), I was making something of a name for myself as a sort of traveling salesman, selling reefer to anyone who needed it. But especially by hanging with the hottest musicians in town—Louis Armstrong, Billie Holiday, Dinah Washington—all of whom I considered friends.

  The one hard part about the hustle was keeping a low profile. Police liked doing surprise searches, looking for anything to incriminate you. So I moved at least four or five times to different spots since I had started. Even outside Harlem. No one knew where I lived at any given moment, and I liked it that way.

  To keep my trail cold, I would jump out of a cab a good three blocks from my home, just to throw folks off my scent in case anyone was watching. But that night, as I turned the corner on my block, I noticed a man sitting on the stoop of my apartment in a thick wool coat, his back to me. From a distance, he seemed anxious, fidgety. Neck arched, peering down the street as if he was waiting for someone, and I knew within an instant, that someone was me. There could be a dozen reasons why a stranger would be at my door, but none of those reasons could be good at three in the morning. I slowed to a snail’s pace, my back tensing. Had just a few moments to decide what to do—either face the cat head-on or turn back and jump on the next thing smoking out of Harlem. But something about his build was familiar. I kept my steps light so he wouldn’t hear me coming, slipping a hand in my pocket to wrap a finger around the trigger of the gun I carried just for moments like this. Never had to use it or think about using it before. One house away, his ears perked, shoulders tensing. He spun around and I stopped short.

  “Reginald?” I gasped.

  My baby brother waved his wide hand, smile gleaming in the darkness.

  “Malcolm! Boy, am I glad you finally showed up,” he said, grinning. “You know how long I’ve been waiting out here? Started thinking I had the wrong place or something.”

  My feet were still frozen to the ground. I was so shocked and happy to see him, I didn’t know what to say. “What … what are you doing here?”

  Reginald hopped down my brownstone steps, swinging a large green duffel bag over his shoulder. His voice was deeper. He had grown at least three feet since I last saw him. Gained some muscle, too. My little brother was no longer skin and bones.

  “You’re one hard man to find! My ship docked out in New Jersey for some repairs. I tried to write you but you never wrote back, so I figured I’d just come up here, search for you myself, and, well, here I am, brother!”

  Reginald, my favorite, my baby brother, was there, right in front of me. My family. The grin on my face spread wider.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, homeboy, come here!” We hugged, laughing so hard we could’ve woken the whole block. But I didn’t care, I was just that happy to see him. “Man, look at you! How the hell did you find me?”

  “Well, I went by Smalls’, that spot you told Wilfred you were working, and they said you left awhile back. But this waiter, he pointed me to your friend Sammy and he told me where you stayed.”

  I chuckled. “Ole Sammy. He’s good for something.”

  “So where are you working now? Why didn’t you tell anybody?”

  I dodged around the subject, patting him on the back.

  “Hey, what’s with all the quest
ions, homeboy! Aren’t you happy to see your brother? Come on in, let’s get something to eat.”

  Hardly could believe the giant that sat at my kitchen table used to tail after me and mimic every single action of mine back in Lansing. Now we were inside, I could clearly see a mixture of Papa and Mom in his features. He had caramel skin, a square chin, chiseled cheekbones, and broad shoulders. Tall like me, like Pops. Anyone could take one look at us and know instantly we were brothers.

  Reginald inspected the freshly fried chicken on his plate with a raised eyebrow.

  “Man, you don’t cook a thing like Hilda. You sure these birds aren’t still clucking?”

  I served him another buttered slice of corn bread that crumbled right out the pan. Felt only right that I cook for him, being a special occasion and all.

  “My job ain’t in the kitchen, but I can throw down a little bit.”

  “Speaking of that, what are you doing for money?” he said between bites.

  I sipped a beer, offering him one.

  “Nah, I don’t drink.”

  I thought everybody drank a little booze.

  “Just doing my own thing,” I said. “Couple of gigs here and there, you know.” I wasn’t ready to open up and tell him everything just yet. Needed to check his temperature first. We hadn’t lived under the same roof in years. He could be a whole new person. I knew I was.

  “Man, I just can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Me too.” Reginald laughed. “Haven’t seen you in so long, I started to question if you were real. Like I imagined you jumping on that bus three years ago to Boston or something.”

  Even though I had the money, I didn’t make it back home much to visit. Afraid the memories of my former self would haunt me: Mom in that hospital, where she didn’t belong. Papa split in half on the tracks. Teachers saying I’m nothing but a nigger. Instead, I bought suits when I should’ve bought a bus ticket. Felt kind of guilty now that my baby brother, who had always looked up to me, was sitting right there in my own living room.

  “Guess I should’ve sent a picture or something,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah. But you look pretty much the same, just taller. That’s some kinda hairstyle tho. It looks like white people’s hair.”

  “Oh this,” I said, smoothing back my silky conk. “This ain’t nothing. I’m due to touch it up soon. We can hook you up with a clean conk. It hurts at first, but you get used to it. Get you some shiny hair like the white folks, too.”

  Reginald stared at my hair, then shrugged. “Nah, that’s too flat for me.”

  I decided not to push him too quick. It was his first time in the big city, got to take baby steps.

  “So how is everyone? Tell me everything!”

  Reginald swallowed some corn bread, washing it down with water.

  “Wilfred is still teaching trade at the university. Yvonne, Wesley, and Robert—they’re still in school. Philbert is talking about getting married, so the family will be expanding soon. And all Hilda wants to do is take care of our family. Always talking about Papa, Mom, and the old days.”

  “Hmm, everyone is still in Lansing?”

  “Yup. Except us. Who would’ve thought the two of us would be here, in New York City. In Harlem! I love it, man.”

  He was in my world, with me. Aside from Ella, it was the first time I had any family nearby since I left Lansing.

  “So what about you, homeboy? What you doing with yourself? Wilfred said something about a ship.”

  “Yeah, I got a job working for the merchant marine, on cargo ships. Pay’s decent, it’s a good living.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Anyone on that ship know you’re sixteen?”

  He shot a look right back. “Anyone in Harlem know you’re seventeen?”

  “I’ll be eighteen real soon,” I said.

  “Not soon enough.”

  We laughed. Even as a kid, Reginald was sharp as a whistle, served back anything you threw at him. Had his head on straight the moment he was born. You could have a real conversation with him, like talking to an old man.

  “How long you in town for?”

  “Little under a week.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about! Plenty of time to show you around.”

  Reginald perked up, then checked the time. “Say, man, don’t you have to go to work or something?”

  “And miss a minute hanging with my brother I haven’t seen in years? No way.” I laughed. “But, if you gonna stay with me, you gotta get you some new threads.”

  “What’s wrong with what I got?”

  “Nothing, nothing. It’s just … screams that you green as grass.”

  He frowned. “That I’m what?”

  “That you’re not from here. Can’t show you off to my friends, looking like you all country. See, biggest lesson you learn when you living in the city: In order to get in, you have to look like you belong, you dig?”

  Reginald nodded, always listening to understand rather than respond.

  By midday we had him in a fresh dark gray suit and a sleek hat. Not the big flashy hats and flashy suits I used to wear in Boston. Harlem was different. Folks here were sophisticated, elegant, refined.

  The whole week, I showed him the town. Took him to my favorite spots, introduced him to friends, even caught a show and met up with Ella Fitzgerald. Everyone loved him. Maybe a little bit more than me, if I’m being honest. Reginald was in awe of everything. The city lights, the people—all different types of colored folk. I remembered feeling the same way when I first walked through Roxbury. Everyone was family.

  With us growing so close, I felt comfortable enough to break down my hustle to him, explaining the ins and outs. His eyes widened, not in disgust but more in admiration. He didn’t judge me, but I judged myself. I didn’t want Reginald caught up in my world. I wanted to be someone he could really look up to.

  Next thing I knew, the week was over and he was packing his bag, ready to return to the ship.

  “I don’t remember much about Papa,” he said from the floor of my living room.

  A glass nearly fell out my hand. We’d never talked about Papa, he’d never asked. I shifted in my seat, trying to keep cool. Being so far from home, I could avoid talking about Papa. But now that home was here, I couldn’t hide from it any longer.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “You were, what, around six years old when it happened? But you still probably remember more about him than I ever could. What was he like?”

  I didn’t want to tell him that remembering made me uncomfortable. That I tried to forget. But I didn’t want to lie to him either. Reginald needed memories, even if I didn’t. I poured myself a glass of bourbon.

  “Well, he was … strong. Very strong. Smart. Orderly. Had to be to keep all of us in line. And he had a way with words.”

  Reginald leaned forward. “What else?”

  “Papa … he used to host these meetings at folks’ houses and minister when he wasn’t at the church. You know, the stuff Mom always taught us. But at these meetings, he spoke to these people and … I don’t know. They really listened. To every word. ’Cause everything he preached was true.” I chuckled, the memories flashing back. “The ladies used to be eyeing him, too. He had this long black touring automobile we would ride in. Not too many people had cars back then either, especially not Negroes. And we didn’t depend on no white folks for nothing! Papa was the man. You hear me? He was the man!”

  “And then … they killed him.”

  I sighed. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  My mind blanked out. There were so many reasons why they killed him, I guess, but none of those reasons stuck out.

  “He … he told the truth.”

  Reginald made a face that looked something like disappointment. He wanted more and I didn’t know how to give it to him.

  Later, as I walked him out to find a cab, I felt myself wanting to shove him back inside my apartment and bolt lock the door.

  “You don’t
have to stay on that ship,” I blurted out. “You can stay here, in Harlem, with me. I’ll take care of you. Get you a real easy slave.”

  “A slave?” he shouted, eyes going big.

  I chuckled. “That’s what we call a job, homeboy. But what you think? We can go to all the best parties, hang out with the prettiest dames, live together, take over this city. You and me!”

  I tried to make the offer real enticing. I wanted him to stay. Wanted someone I loved and trusted near me for a change. Who can you trust more than family? It wasn’t until that moment that I realized the restlessness, the constant moving from show to show … was nothing more than homesickness.

  But the idea of Reginald pushing reefer, carrying a gun, ducking cops every other block? I didn’t know if he had the heart for it. He’d always been so … honest. Not that it’s a bad thing, but you need a certain ruthlessness for that type of work.

  Reginald looked off into the distance as if he saw someone he recognized, and cracked a small smile.

  “Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll think about it.”

  He hugged me tight, as if it would be the last time I’d ever see him. I held him, not ready to let go but knowing I’d have to. He gave me one last nod and headed down the block. My eyes locked on the bag hitched over his shoulder, tempting me to yank him back, keep him safe with me forever. Goose bumps scattered across my skin as I tried to move my feet, to chase after him, but they wouldn’t budge.

  * * *

  Out of all my siblings, I worry about Reginald the most. It’s what I’m supposed to do, being his big brother and all. Haven’t heard from him for a few weeks now. I should be out there, protecting him from the world. But it seems like the world is trying to protect him from me by shoving me into this box. I really have no business worrying about anyone. Nothing I can do from inside a cell.

  Nightmares during the winter bring a different type of pain. The sharp kind that leaves your teeth chattering and body aching from the cold. Winter reminds you that you’re in prison and there’s nothing you can do about it. No amount of letters, lawyers, or begging can spring you. Nothing. All I’m doing is nothing.