One Blood

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Angola, LA

A nearby commotion awoke Moses. His vision was blurry, but he didn’t need eyes to know Angola had him in its bloody clutches once more. He was lying on a hard bed inside the R.E. Barrow Treatment Center, the place where only the very unfortunate few survived. The lucky majority were unceremoniously buried in Point Lookout Cemetery, their crimes forgiven if not forgotten.

In addition to distorted vision, Moses’ temples throbbed. He was blessed to have survived being shot. God was truly with him. He touched the gauge over his upper leg that covered his gunshot wound. A sharp, sudden pain shot up from his thigh.

How am I supposed to get to Malcolm like this? 

Moses shut down his pessimistic thoughts. He was here for a reason, and that reason would reveal itself in time. Across from him, a group of EMTs lifted an occupied body bag onto a steel slab with a resounding thud. There was no official prison morgue at Angola, and many bodies were held inside the infirmary awaiting autopsy and eventual internment.

Rattling wheels nearby broke his train of thought. Moses turned to see a mountainous black inmate trudging toward him with the food cart. He caught the man’s eyes and what he saw sent shivers of gooseflesh over his body. He saw death in the man’s eyes.  

Moses attempted to maneuver his injured body into a seated position as the inmate moved in for the kill. No stranger to prison-style murders, Moses spotted what looked like a shank cupped in the palm of one of the big man’s large mitts. Back in the 1950’s, during Moses’ incarceration, this type of killing was the preferred method. He was surprised at how little things had changed.

The would-be killer was three beds away. Moses looked around frantically for a guard, nurse or, doctor. No luck, the EMTs were long gone. Moses had no chance of defending himself against an enemy of this caliber, so he cleared his throat and called out to the inmate. “Excuse me. Yes you. Can you help me out with something?”

The inmate stopped in his tracks. Moses noticed something strange about the man’s movements. He tilted his head to the left, as a dog did when called.

“Did you hear me? Please, I need your help.”

The inmate drew closer.

Moses heard him mutter something under his breath. It wasn’t until he was a bed away that Moses realized the man was humming the song “Roughside of the Mountain,” one of Moses’ favorite hymns.

Moses could tell something was wrong with him. His eyes shone dully and he kept ducking his head as he pushed the cart. This boy was as retarded as he was big. Unfortunately, the revelation did nothing to ease Moses’ fears.

The inmate adjusted his grip on the shank. “Whadaya want, suh?”   

Moses knew it wouldn’t be long before the simpleton buried a shank in his neck or chest. His body tensed as he braced for impact. “Sorry to bother you,” Moses said, his voice shaking. “Where is the doctor? I’m in terrible pain.”

“Doc’s busy.” The man stood at the foot of the bed scratching his head. His face went blank as a sheet of paper. Then, all the life rushed back in. “I gotcha lunch here.”

“I see that. What else do you have for me?”

The inmate drew a blank again, and then offered a beautiful smile that lit up his whole face. He pulled out a green tray from the back of the cart that held a plate of pineapples, grapes, and cantaloupe along with a small plain yogurt.

Well, if it’s my time to go, I go with my eyes open.

Moses considered his life and recalled the pain of losing his parents to a serial burglar at age eleven. He felt each of the twelve years he lost rotting in Angola for his own stupidity. His remorse over not being able to save Walter overwhelmed him. He re-experienced his choking regret when Lincoln was sent away to prison as a teenager for the rest of his life. He’d almost given up all hope when Lois, his beloved wife, died of breast cancer just three years into their marriage. And now, instead of redeeming himself, Moses was going to die inside the Angola infirmary. It wasn’t fair.

“You look jus like my ole granpappy,” the man said, intruding on Moses’ thoughts of fatality. “He from ova in Nawlins, like me. You from Nawlins?”

Moses didn’t know where this was going, but decided to play along. “What’s your name?”

The man scratched his head again. “Names Rodrick, but they all call me Man.”

Moses could see why. “Well, Man, I’m not from Nawlins like your granpappy, but I’ve been there.”

“I ain’t been dere in a long time,” Man said, downcast. He looked down at his hand. Then his face lit up again as he brandished the weapon in Moses’ face.

Moses was immediately confused. Most shanks consisted of a sharply filed toothbrush, piece of glass, or other penetrating object protruding from a napkin or rag-wrapped handle to mask fingerprints. But this shank was missing the sharp object. Man placed the folded napkin on the tray and went back to his cart. He looked at Moses and raised his pointer finger over his lips.

Moses mimicked the gesture as Man looked sneakily from left to right like a child with a secret. Then he straightened up and said, “Betta eat up.” 

Moses stared at the wad of paper and saw that it wasn’t a napkin but a carefully folded note, written on toilet paper.

“Storm’s comin’. I hate the rain. Be makin’ crazy shadows in my cell.” Man took another furtive glance around the room, “You gone need yo’ strength, suh. Bishop tole me so. I’ll go and see ‘bout that doc fo’ ya’. He get you nice and strong again.”

Moses waved his thanks as Man pushed the cart down the corridor toward the exit. Moses stared at the folded paper for a full minute before opening it. Words were scripted on the inside in a careful hand. He gave the infirmary a quick scan and read it:

Pop, if you’re reading this it means it’s not too late to make things right. Brandon’s in trouble back home. I’m going to try and save him. I’m going to make up for last time. For my whole life really. I’m going to set things right, Pop. You can trust the woman. She’s gonna try to get you outta there. I can never repay you for what you did for me, all I can do is try to make things even. After that, who knows?

Your son forever,

LB

Lincoln’s words brought tears to Moses’ eyes. He read the note again through blurred vision to confirm just how grave the situation had become.

Brandon’s in trouble, the note said.

When Lincoln used the word “trouble,” it was not the same as when the average person used that word. Moses had to assume the worst.

There was a commotion in the infirmary. A civilian woman entered and rushed over to Moses.

The woman.

Lincoln had written that she could be trusted, but Moses had a natural ability for reading people. This woman, whoever she was, could not be trusted. Trustworthy or not, a moment later she jumped into his arms.

“Daddy! Thank goodness you’re okay!”