The Waking (49 page)

Jeff nods. “That’s why I brought you.”

I direct him to get off on Ohio River Boulevard, and we re-trace my route past the McKees Rocks Bridge. When we get to a stoplight at the bridge, I can’t stop blinking. I jumped from
there?
I could have been killed!

But you weren’t.

I had to have been out of my mind.

Crazy makes sense sometimes, right?

Right. Um, I know you’re some part of me, right?

Sort of.

What do you mean, sort of?

“
Just keep on this?” Jeff asks as the light changes.

“
Uh, yeah. We’ll be getting on North Shore in a little bit, so keep to the right.”

I’ll ask you again. What do you mean by “sort of”?

I ain’t exactly you, if that’s what you’re asking.

But you said something a while ago like “we’re in this together.”

Right. We are.

So you’re not me.

Right.

“
How much further?” Jeff looks ahead, squinting through the windshield. “Is that Heinz Field?’

“
Yeah.”

“
So we’re there?”

“
Yeah. We’re here.” Despite the heat in the cab, I feel goose bumps sneaking up my back for all sorts of reasons. I’m back home, and I’m excited about that, but the voice in my head, The Voice, who I thought was the old me—

You’re getting closer.

I am?

Think about it.

I’m trying to.

You’ll figure it out. You got some work to do now.

Jeff parks as close to the science center as he can, and we unload boxes of various sizes for two hours as the sun floats lower to the horizon. I still don’t know what’s in the boxes, but since they’re all marked “Fragile,” I take my time, and The Voice doesn’t talk to me at all.

Finished, I direct Jeff across the Robert Clemente Bridge.

“
This is where I usually get lost,” Jeff says.

“
You aren’t the only one,” I say. “Stay straight and take a left on Liberty.”

Pittsburgh looks a whole lot cleaner today. It’s not as dark. It looks new. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been away from home for a while.

Jeff turns left on Liberty. “What’s next?”

“
Right on Seventh Avenue.”

Does it look new to you, too?

But I hear no other voice in my head. Maybe he’s gone because I’ve come home. Maybe he’s home, too. I shake my head. Who is he?

“
What’s wrong?” Jeff asks.

“
Just a headache. Take a right on Washington and a left on Centre.”

“
You’re gonna have to write me some directions back to Seventy-nine, Manny. I’m lost already.”

I’m holding my breath all the way up Centre, St. Benedict the Moor growing taller as we go. “Uh, yeah, it’s pretty easy.” I exhale. St. Benedict isn’t shrugging, he isn’t giving up. He’s welcoming me back. That’s what he’s been doing all these years.

“
Where should I drop you?” Jeff asks.

I point at Freedom Corner, a few people walking around looking at the shrine. Yeah, it’s a shrine to those who have gone before me. All it needs is a few trees to give folks some shade.

“
Here?”

“
Yeah.”

“
This ain’t where you live.” He pulls to the curb.

This is the beginning of where I live. “I can walk the rest of the way.” I put on my backpack. “Thanks for everything, Jeff.”

He holds out the clipboard, a scrap of paper tucked under the metal clasp. “Write me some directions, yo.”

“
Just go back the way we came..”

He hands me a pen and the clipboard. “I wasn’t payin’ attention, yo. I was drivin’.”

I write out the directions and even draw a little map.

“
What if I get lost?” Jeff asks.

I open the door. “Follow the river. Just follow the river.”

“
See you later,” Jeff says, and I watch him try to make a U-turn on Centre. He blocks traffic for several minutes until he clears the curb in front of St. Benedict. He waves and shrugs as he rolls away.

I walk into Freedom Corner, and I know some of the names on this plaque now. I don’t know them all, but I will. At least I know Robert L. Vann and the “double V” now.

I know I can’t rebuild my life all at once. I mean, what do I really have to offer Mary and our children? I have no diploma, no job, a charge hanging over my head here, maybe a charge from New Orleans. I’m living free on borrowed time.

Again.

Yet I have two hands, a bit scarred up, and a new heart, and eyes on the future. I look at the marchers at my feet and look at my own marching feet. I can join the march now. I have a place.

I glance back at St. Benedict. I always thought you were smiling in the wrong direction, St. Benedict, but now I know you’re bragging on us, like you’re saying, “Hey, look what we have
despite
what the rest of the world has done to us.”

Despite … it … all.

I walk to the center of Freedom Corner, to the Stone of Origin, and I pray in a whisper, “The gift You gave to me, I give it back to You. Thanks for carrying me and for giving me so much help. I’ve never been alone my whole life. Thanks for Luke, and Rose, and Rufus, and Penny, and even Red. Hope he finds his son. Thanks also for Maxi and my new family, and Bobby Hughes, and Moses, and Jeff and my adopted family. Hope he finds his way back to Seventy-nine.” I close my eyes. “Thanks also for teaching me that life doesn’t have to be so fast, that making haste slowly is a good thing, that no matter what, I can get up mighty in the morning.”

I look back at St. Benedict. I wish it was Thursday night. Mary would be in there right now having choir practice. I would just sit in the back listening, feeling the music. Then I’d walk down that aisle, and I bet she wouldn’t recognize me. Who would? Then she’d look into my eyes, and she would know it was me. She’d have to run down that aisle with her arms out like St. Benedict himself to welcome me home, to welcome me back to life, back to living—

“
Emmanuel Mann?”

I open my eyes. Three police officers surround me, their hands on their holsters. I close my eyes, and I hear a line from that song.
Sometimes I fall short.

So soon. Too soon. I have to see Mary. I have to hold her. I have so much to do. Jesus, help me.

I know I can’t run anymore. This was bound to happen. Does it have to happen this soon? I’m trusting You, man. This is so hard.

“
Show us your hands.”

I open my eyes, fighting tears, and turn to them, palms up. “I am Emmanuel Mann.”

“
Take off the backpack and put it in front of you.”

All those gifts. I shrug off the backpack and set it in front of me, putting up my hands again. “What am I being charged with?”

“
Violation of probation.”

That’s all? I smile. The New Orleans charges must have gotten dropped. Either that or they haven’t filed an extradition for my arrest yet. “Anything else?”

“
Just the one charge.”

I can handle this.

As they handcuff and take me into custody, I hear Gospel music coming from St. Benedict’s organ. It’s kind of kind of bluesy, kind of jazzy. It’s nice.

So close.

Almost home.

23: Allegheny County Jail

They take me directly to my temporary home, the Allegheny County Jail, which is only a few blocks south of the Hill. It’s a convenient location for frequent residents like me. I get some strange looks from Wilson, the white intake officer, as he’s doing an inventory of my backpack while Jones, a black female guard, takes down the information.

Wilson holds up the blanket. “One colorful blanket.”

“
That’s kente cloth,” I tell him.

“
It’s beautiful,” Jones says, her eyes lighting up. Jones and I go way back to my first visit. “Where’d you get it, Manny?”

If I say “Africatown,” Wilcox will put me in isolation and order a psychiatric evaluation. “Mobile, Alabama.”

“
That would look so good on my sofa,” Jones says. “By the way, you’re looking good, Manny. You look healthy.”

“
I am.” I smile. “This will be my last visit.”

She frowns. “You said that last time.”

I nod. “I didn’t mean it last time.”

“
And you mean it—”

Wilson clears his throat. “Sorry to interrupt your little reunion here, but we got more waiting, Officer Jones.” He holds up the smaller African warrior. “One small statue.”

“
It’s a sculpture,” I say. “Of a warrior. I’m supposed to give it to Thaddeus Mosley.”

Wilson looks at me. “Uh-huh.” He holds out the larger warrior. “One large statue.” He weighs it in his hand. “It isn’t hollow, is it?”

“
It’s solid wood,” I say.

“
Hmm.” He pulls out the carvings of my kids, and that hurts the most. “One … Hey, these kids are cute.”

“
They’re my kids.”

Jones steps closer. “You do these?”

“
No ma’am. Moses Green did. He’s from outside Trimble, Georgia.”

Wilson stares at me. “You’ve actually been to those places?”

“
Yes.” I don’t want to call him “sir.” He hasn’t earned a “sir” from me yet.

“
No wonder nobody could find you.” He pulls out the bowl. “One bowl.”

“
Wow,” Jones says, smiling. “Who’s that for?”

“
Auntie June.”

“
She’s lucky.” Jones looks at Wilson. “Sorry.”

They inventory my clothes without comment. When they get to the photographs and my notepads, Wilson flips through the pictures while Jones watches closely. “Thirty-six pictures.”

“
They’re all my relatives,” I say. “I found them in Mobile.”

“
Well, good for you,” Jones says.

Wilson rolls his eyes. “Six pens and one, two, three notepads.” Wilson stares at the top sheet. “How do you expect anyone to read this scratch?”

They weren’t for you to read, man. “When can I get them back?”

“
You know the deal,” he says, dropping them in the box. “On your release.”

But they help me release myself! “I know I can’t have the pens.” Since they’re considered weapons. “But at least let me keep the notepads. What am I gonna do, paper-cut someone?”

“
I’ll ask,” Jones says.

“
Thanks.”

The last item Wilson examines is the silver lid. “One … Is this for a snuff can?”

“
Yeah.”

He holds it up to the light, the shine of the reflection crossing my face. “One fancy silver snuff can lid.”

I fill out my visitor’s sheet, listing Mary and Auntie June. I’m allowed up to three visitors, and I tap the third space. “Do cousins count?”

“
Sure,” Jones says.

I write “Olivette Howard” on the form, hoping I’ve spelled her name right since they check the ID for any visitor.

“
Is she over eighteen?” Jones asks.

“
Yes.” I wonder how old she is now. She has to be at least eighty, maybe ninety.

“
You expect her to visit?” Jones asks.

I smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

After that, I become prisoner #438729 in a Pod on level 6 in general population in the largest jail under one roof east of the Mississippi on June 21, the longest day of the year. My luck. I have a view of the Monongahela River through the little slit of a window. I always hated that river before, but now it contains so many possibilities. I can always hop a barge and go on another trip, even if it’s only in my head.

Half the folks in here are minority, which doesn’t mesh with the rest of the city population, and fully half are minority male like me. I fit in, but I don’t belong here. Instead of hanging out in the Day Area where I’ll eat meals and occasionally talk to the correctional officers wandering around among us, I’ll probably stay in my “room” and write. Dr. King had a cell. I don’t. The floor is tile, and I have a nonflammable mattress on my narrow bunk. Like I’d ever set a nice mattress on fire after all the places I’ve slept. I have a sink, a toilet, and a metal cage for my belongings, which right now is empty. And if I had a pen, I’d be writing on that toilet paper over there.

They had asked if I wanted to make my “call,” but I said no. What would I say?
Hello, Mary, I’m in Pittsburgh, and you can visit me Sundays and Thursdays?
I didn’t call because I didn’t want to break down in front of all those people. That’s not a good way to start another tour of duty.

County usually only puts two to a room, but I’ve been told they’ve been double-celling since March, and the long, hot summer is just beginning. I haven’t talked much to my three cellmates, mainly because they’re short-timers, un-convicted guys just hanging here until they get to court or finish thirty-day sentences. Most of the guys in here are like that. They’re just visiting, unlike me.