The Awakening of Malcolm X Page 9

“Ow! What the—? What you do that for?”

  He chuckled. “Still can’t take a hit, I see,” he said, and clapped my back. “Come on, Hilda’s at the house making breakfast. Let’s get you home.”

  Home. The word sounded like the sweetest tune. This really is home, I thought. The place my soles first took root. The place where my memories take form.

  Though my soul belonged in Harlem.

  The heat in Philbert’s car was on high, but it felt like I was back on that bus. Almost forgot what winters were like at home. Outside, the hills and plains were covered in a good six feet of snow. Some could confuse Lansing for Antarctica if they didn’t look too hard. I rubbed my hands together as he drove through town, the streets untouched by time. Even the little grocery store I took that chicken from still stood at the end of the road. Have to walk up in there, I thought. Wear my best suit, then buy five chickens just because. Make sure they remember my face, my name. The one they tried to lock up, throwing away the key, and leave for dead at just twelve years old.

  “So, Detroit Red,” Philbert started. “That’s what they’re calling you now?”

  “Yep. It fits, don’t it?”

  “Doesn’t,” he corrected. “Folks do know you’re not from Detroit, right?”

  “‘Lansing Red’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

  “Malcolm’s not a good enough name for you? Just how many nicknames are you willing to take?”

  Philbert hadn’t lost his touch. He could still make me feel like a small, insignificant kid who didn’t know nothing from nothing, despite him being the one living in the hick town. I’ve seen more than he can ever imagine.

  “Hey, you know when you come to visit, we’ll hook you up with a cool name, too.”

  Philbert’s upper lip jerked as he turned down a newly paved road. His mustache had grown in thick, made him look real proper and refined. Reminded me of Papa. Tall and stocky but not taller than my six-four frame. The ladies in Harlem would love him, though.

  “So how long you in town for?” Philbert asked, ignoring my suggestion.

  I squirmed in my seat. “A week or two, maybe.”

  His head snapped in my direction. “Oh really? And to what do we owe the honor of such a long visit?”

  I shrugged, staring out the window. “Just felt like being around family, that’s all.”

  It wasn’t a total lie. It had been a few weeks since I had seen Reginald and I longed for the comforts of home. But something else had held a match under my feet that put me on the first bus smoking, and fast. Just wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

  “Dang, Philbert, it’s cold in here,” I said, hugging my arms.

  “You must not remember what Februarys are like here,” he said, breath puffing in front of his face. “Didn’t think anyone could forget.”

  Philbert had a hard time keeping his eyes on the road, glancing at my conked head every few minutes. I raked my fingers through my hair, feeling the thick, kinky new growth under my silky bronze strands. Needed to touch up my conk a few weeks back but didn’t have the chance … with everything going on.

  “How’s Reginald?” I asked. “You see him lately?”

  “He wrote home about his visit with you. Said you’re real popular around town. All the big celebrities love you.”

  The hint of judgment was unmistakable.

  “Yeah, we had a fine time. Took him to all the best spots. He and I are gonna live together soon.”

  “Is that so,” he said with a knowing smirk. “You are going to let your baby brother leave his good job to come hang around you?”

  “I’m not just hanging around,” I snapped. Not back thirty minutes and he was already diving under my skin, criticizing.

  Philbert pursed his lips, shaking his head. His disapproval could always be counted on.

  “Ran into Stacy George the other day,” he said.

  “Stacy George?” I perked up.

  Stacy was the prettiest girl at school, a few years older than me but I remembered her. She always wore her hair in two long pigtails with bangs.

  “How’s Stacy doing?”

  “Good. She asked about you. Said she’s having a party next week and that we should drop by.”

  “A party? Well. Don’t mind if I do,” I chuckled, already thinking of how to convince Hilda to press my suit. “Can’t imagine the types of parties y’all have in these woods. Definitely don’t have the newest sounds.”

  I told Philbert all about my famous friends in the big bands and the music back in Harlem, some the likes of which he’d never seen but had undoubtedly heard of. Sarah Vaughan, Duke Ellington, Billie Holiday. He nodded and grunted, unimpressed. Good Ole Philbert.

  “Well, I’m sure you can tell everyone about it.”

  But I couldn’t go into a party at Stacy’s house without handling my hair first.

  * * *

  I cracked two eggs into a jar, mixing them into the other ingredients I’d picked up from the store. After I did just like Shorty taught me, the jar turned hot right away, the smell fierce, searing my nostrils. I layered my ears, neck, and hairline with Vaseline, stretched my fingers into my gloves, and took a deep breath.

  Ready.

  So you know it’s going to burn when I comb it in—it burns bad. But the longer you can stand it, the straighter the hair.

  Shorty’s words stayed with me as I cupped a handful of the jellylike concoction, slapped it down, and combed it through my hair. The burning was instant, my scalp sizzled. I bit down on a towel, tears in my eyes, until I could take no more. I rushed to the washbasin and turned on the water. It creaked, letting out a loud screech but not a drip of water.

  “Come on, come on!” I screamed, my head on fire. I slammed my palm on the side of the faucet.

  Nothing.

  “Shit. Shit!”

  Knock knock knock.

  “Malcolm?” Philbert said from the other side of the door as I banged on the faucet. It only sputtered out a reply. “You all right?”

  Nothing.

  “Malcolm? What’s going on in there?”

  The blaze on my head felt like the deepest parts of hell. An inferno.

  Knock knock knock.

  “Malcolm, open the door!”

  I spun around the bathroom, knocking over bottles, towels, yelping.

  Water. I needed water. Needed something to put out the flames.

  Knock knock knock.

  “Malcolm!”

  I tripped over a towel, my knee almost knocking over a vase beside the sink.

  Oh God, the flowers!

  The water inside the vase was old and grimy. The flowers had wilted. But in desperation, I poured it all over my head, soaking my hair clean until my scalp cooled.

  Knock knock knock.

  “Malcolm, don’t make me break down this door!”

  I swung the door open, toweling my head.

  “Dang, Philbert! What the hell’s wrong with the water! I almost died in here.”

  “What?” Philbert tested the faucet and huffed. “Hm. Pipes must be frozen.”

  “Frozen? Dang!”

  “What’s with all the ruckus? And what did you do to your head that got you—”

  He stopped short, staring at the water dripping down the side of my face then at the empty vase.

  “No,” he said, laughing. “No, you didn’t.” He laughed harder.

  “I had to! The pipes were frozen, like you said!”

  His face twisted up, enraged. “Man! Look at yourself! What got you putting your whole head under that dirty water? Your kinks aren’t good enough? You wanna destroy this crown? You hate yourself that much?”

  He plucked at the wrong nerve. “Well, you’re the one with frozen pipes, living in this old hick town.”

  I spun away from him, drying off my hair while facing the mirror, my fingers gliding right through. Straight and smoother than silk. Perfect.

  Philbert stared, hard. Shaking his head.

  “What? What you
looking at me like that for?”

  He crossed his arms. “You remember Samson and Delilah?”

  “Oh, now you wanna break out the Bible? Don’t you—”

  “Samson had Godly strength. Could kill a lion with his bare hands. His power was stored in his long, kinky locks. It was a gift from God. So his lover Delilah betrayed him, cut his locks while he was sleeping, rendering him helpless enough to be captured by the Philistines. They gouged out his eyes and enslaved him. He had to call on God to save him.”

  “What you getting at?”

  The lights flickered as he narrowed his eyes.

  “What would happen if I pinned you down, Mr. Tough Guy, and cut all that stuff off your head? Would this big and bad attitude of yours die? Would my real brother come back? Would he remember Mom and Papa and what this family stands for?”

  I yelled back at him as loud as I could. “What this family stands for? Mom and Pop are gone! All the people they fought for? Where were they when Papa got killed? Huh? Where were they when Mom was taken and locked up in that institution? Where were they?”

  The lights flickered and I could barely see Philbert now. His voice soft, like a whisper that stung my ears.

  “Man, you’re not my real brother. You’re nothing but a drunken buffoon with dirty water in your hair and rotten flowers stuck to your shirt. My real brother wouldn’t do this!”

  That swift kick in the stomach knocked the wind right out of me. “What you talking about ‘real brother’? This is me!”

  “Is this you, Malcolm?”

  “People don’t call me Malcolm!”

  “But that’s who you are.”

  The lights blinked again, the bathroom grew darker, the tiles under my feet mixed with lye and ice water.

  “Oh I see, you gonna leave me, Philbert? Huh? Is that it? You gonna—”

  The jar rolled off the washbasin and slammed on the floor, glass shattering. I jumped back.

  “Dang! Philbert, I—”

  But he was gone. Vanished.

  “Philbert?”

  I stepped forward, right onto a piece of glass, and screamed, falling to the floor—water, glass, and lye everywhere.

  Lights choked to darkness. Blood on the tiles, my heart raced …

  … until dawn hit the bars of my cell.

  * * *

  When you’re ready, I can free you from prison. First, don’t smoke any cigarettes. Don’t take any drugs. And don’t eat any pork.

  I read Reginald’s note over and over again. Keep it in my pants pocket, taking it with me to fold and unfold whenever I have a spare moment. Strangely, having his words close to me brings me some comfort. Some peace. If that’s such a thing in Charlestown.

  The mess hall is humid, the musty smell of body odors erasing all traces of food. Loud voices, pots clashing echo from the kitchen. But today, nothing bothers me. Even the dream I had last night doesn’t linger in my head for long.

  My brother’s found a play.

  I knew all that time in Harlem would do him some good. No wonder I hadn’t heard from him. He’d been working things out, plotting a way to break me out of here. That’s gotta be it. I’ll be free, soon enough.

  My brother’s found a way out of here.

  I stand in line, thinking about all the things I want to do the moment I’m outside these walls. First, shower. A real hot shower, with all the soap I can find. A shower might not be enough. Probably could sit in a tub for a week and still not soak all this dirt off of me. Next, a fresh conk. May even start growing out my hair now so it’ll be long enough to take. Then, some food. Good seasoned food. Fried chicken, candied yams, black-eyed peas, and a whole pot filled with greens. Well, maybe not the greens Ella makes, since she doesn’t eat pork …

  Pork!

  Reginald’s letter comes back to me in an instant. Don’t eat any pork. It wasn’t impossible. Mom never gave us pork. But … what kind of play is Reginald coming up with? Why pork? And how would anyone even know if I ever did eat some pork?

  Wake up, Malcolm!

  I spin around, the sound of my mother’s voice calling me. But she’s not here. Just brothers and guards.

  “Here,” a voice says.

  In a blink I’m at the counter. A cat who took Jimmy’s old spot hands me a plate for my tray. On most days, I can’t tell one meat from another. But today, a skinny frank and a sad slice of bread stares up at me.

  Pork.

  I swallow, Reginald’s voice fresh in my mind. How badly do I want out of here, enough to keep up with his plan?

  “You got anything else?”

  The cat leans forward, cupping his ear. “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “I can’t have pork,” I say louder. “You got anything else?”

  He frowns. “You … Muslim now or something?”

  “No. I just … just … don’t eat pork.”

  The servers exchange a few confused looks. At the sink, Mack raises an eyebrow, watching on.

  Behind me, the line of men curses under their breath.

  “Hey! What’s the holdup?” someone barks.

  A guard starts heading over, antsy hand on his baton, and I swallow hard. Reginald told me not to eat pork, so that’s what I’m gonna do. If I’m going to trust anyone, it will be him.

  “You got anything else?” I ask again, stronger than before.

  The cat grabs the plate with a shrug. “Uh, yeah.” He reaches behind him and spoons some red beans onto the plate next to the slice of bread.

  “Here you go,” he says.

  Mack shakes his head but if I didn’t know any better, I would’ve sworn there was a grin forming at the corner of his mouth. The guard reaches us just as I walk away. And for the first time in a long while, I feel a familiar sense of hope and pride ballooning in my chest. Growing up, we weren’t allowed to eat pork. Out of all my family members, I was the only one who’d ever tried it, an act of defiance. Even when we didn’t have enough and the government tried to ram food down our throats, Mom wouldn’t allow it. She would say the United States was in the Great Depression. She’d rather us starve with nutrition, even if that meant eating only morsels. Said God created pig to eat the dirt of the land. That it wasn’t meant for human consumption. That the human body can’t digest it.

  They called her crazy. Locked her up, took our land and our home.

  One thing I know, with every ounce in me, Mom wasn’t crazy. And if she was willing to stand in her truth, there must be something to it. Something I don’t yet see or remember.

  Reginald’s letter was the bucket of cold water I needed. For over a year, I felt like I was just floating, wading, waiting to drown. Now I feel the need to stretch, to kick, to swim and try to save myself, imagining what freedom really tastes like.

  Today, it tastes like burnt beans and stale bread.

  Across the mess hall, I see Chucky. He’s been dipping and dodging me for weeks now. Still ain’t square up his bet. If one Negro thinks he can disrespect me, they all will. I don’t want to fight him but I can’t not fight him at the same time. I have a reputation to keep … in and out of Charlestown.

  * * *

  When you’re ready, I can free you from prison. First, don’t smoke any cigarettes. Don’t take any drugs. And don’t eat any pork.

  How did he know what I was up to in here? Or maybe he knows me better than I could ever imagine.

  Pork wasn’t much to give up, but … nutmeg. It’s one of the few things that balances me in this hellhole. I try to tell myself that maybe he just means reefer and powder, not nutmeg. Shame wants me to imagine it’s anything but.

  I toss the last of my nutmeg into the half-filled bucket of piss just so I’m not tempted to dig it back out.

  Maybe whatever play Reginald is cooking up can work for Shorty, too? That’s the first thing I plan to do when I’m out of here—find Shorty, set him free, spend the rest of my days making all this up to him. I owe him that much. More than that. I owe him my life.

  I hope
Shorty is doing better than I am. Wherever he is.

  * * *

  8KD-723. 8KD-724. 8KD-725. 8KD-726.

  Shop moves slow today, but it doesn’t stop cats’ mouths from moving quick.

  “You aight over there, Little?” Walter chuckles. “You sweating good and it ain’t a bit hot, kid.”

  I wipe the sweat dripping down my forehead and ignore him.

  “You know he’s coming off that junk,” Big Lee mumbles.

  It’s been only a few days, but I’d just about tear off my arm for a high. Cold turkey quitting. Feels almost as bad as them first days they threw me in the hole.

  Well. Almost. Nothing could ever feel like that.

  “Or maybe he’s sweating ’cause Chucky got him looking the fool!”

  The shop cackles, a flurry of voices talking over the machines I try to ignore.

  “Y’all let the young brother be,” Bembry grumbles. “We all have to start somewhere.”

  The fellas laugh, taunting, as my hands stiffen over the paintbrush. I try not to let them get to me, try to focus on Reginald coming to save me. But the pent-up pressure of the last few months pushes on my skin from the inside.

  “Chucky better watch out,” Big Lee cackles. “Satan is steamed now.”

  Just as I’m ready to explode, I hear Bembry’s voice. “If he’s Satan, who are you, Jesus? You God?”

  The room stirs. Big Lee hooks his hands on his hips. “What kind of craziness you talking? No, sir. Can’t go around calling your own self the Lord.”

  “Then how you going around calling someone Satan?”

  The men exchange a few confused glances.

  “Lay off the kid, he’s coming into his own. He’ll be all right,” Bembry says.

  “Sure, the boy special, right? He goin’ somewhere, right?” Walter snorts. “Man, Bembry, you be saying some wild stuff. He locked up just like us. He ain’t better than nobody. He ain’t goin’ nowhere. He a nigger like the rest of us.”

  Bembry pauses, his fist clenching slow in a way that makes me nervous for Walter. But we all know Bembry doesn’t have an ounce of violence in him.

  “Why you have a beef with everybody? Fighting over turf when you don’t even own the land. You only see life through the eyes of the white man.”