A Knock at Midnight(74)

“You better know it!” Mama said, and dug into her enchiladas.

I hadn’t even known how much the stress of the last months had affected me until my mom lifted me with her words that night. In the weeks to come, I hung on to her faith in me even when my own wavered.



* * *



—

THE WEATHER HAD turned a bitter cold. Christmas was approaching, a festive time for free Americans, not so for incarcerated people and their loved ones. The holidays are a dark time, a difficult time. We all strained to appear in the holiday spirit, to make the most of what we did have, and that effort took its toll. One Saturday I drove up for a visit with Sharanda, the same visit I’d been making now for over six years. For whatever reason, traffic was heavy, and it took twice as long as usual to make my way to Carswell. Traffic and work stress had me on edge, but I knew I had little to complain about. Many people weren’t able to make the trip to their loved ones for the holidays at all. Anyone who could, did. Family members risked their jobs or lost a full day of pay to get to the prison, some driving hundreds of miles. I thought of Sharanda, anticipating my visit, and wove through the traffic as deftly as possible.

I pulled into the designated parking area and sat in my car for a minute to collect myself. The air was biting. I could see the women in the low-security camp across the street huddled in groups in the yard, their breath visible in short white bursts, the collars of their army-green coats pulled up over their ears. I pulled my own coat close and took out the clear makeup bag I used for prison visits, with twenty dollars in quarters and ten in ones. I got out my ID and locked my purse in the trunk. I took one more deep breath and watched my exhale dissipate into the air. Then I headed toward the administration building.

    There were more visitors than usual. A young Black boy walked quickly past me, his hands deep in his pockets. I’d seen him when I was putting my purse in the trunk of my car, hurrying to a blue Camry and tossing something into the backseat. He’d left something in his pocket, probably. He had no coat and his thin shoulders were hunched forward, his hands in his armpits. He mumbled “Excuse me” and then took a shortcut through the grass to get to his family, rushing to get processed and through to visitation. I was about to follow him when a guard pulled up in a white Jeep and started screaming at the kid, berating him for walking on the grass, threatening to revoke his visitation. He was only ten or eleven, but she yelled at him as if he were a monster, not a human being. The kid stopped in his tracks, scared, and when he passed me again to get back to the concrete I could see that he was trying hard not to cry.

There was no reason for her to yell at him like that, to add that humiliation to the stress of the day. I was so frustrated my hands were shaking as I answered the same eighteen questions I answered every time: Did I have any explosives? No. Did I have any narcotics? No. Name. Car make and model. License plate number. I took my shoes off and went through the metal detector. In front of me, the boy was hurriedly putting his sneakers back on. An older woman waited for him while the rest of the family went ahead. I teared up as she pressed her hand to his cheek, said something softly that made him smile. She reminded me of Mama Lena, of all our grandmothers—always ready with a reassuring hand, despite not knowing what her grandson had endured outside.

Sharanda was already waiting for me in the visitation area, dressed in her khaki uniform. It had taken me so long to get through the security line that they’d already called her. She smiled and hugged me as always, but there was something in her face I’d never seen before. When we sat down I asked her how she was doing. “Fine!” she said brightly. And then, for the first time in all of our years together, Sharanda’s shoulders dropped in resignation and she began to cry.

    Even when her mom died, Sharanda had contained her grief at our visits, breaking down in the company of other incarcerated women and in her own cell but holding her emotions at bay in the visiting room. Now, as tears silently fell from her eyes, I could feel her pain pierce my soul. “Brittany,” she said, “I’m tired.” I put my hand over hers. I didn’t care if a guard yelled at us or not.

“It’ll be over soon,” I said. “It has to be over soon.” But at that moment, my conviction felt weak. Sharanda looked up, locking my eyes with her own.

“This time is causing me pain in my core. All the way down. To my core.”

I’d never heard Sharanda talk like this. I don’t think she ever had, not since the day she was thrown in the Dallas County Jail, her purse waiting in the car, cornbread batter waiting at the restaurant. Sharanda looked down and wiped her tears. When she looked up again her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t crying anymore.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll take the cheddar jalape?o Cheetos today. You want to share peanut M&M’s?”

Following her lead, I switched gears and got in line for the vending machines. “You know I really want Cheez-Its,” I said. “Let’s share a Snickers, too. I’ve been craving one ever since you told me about that Snickers banana pudding you made last month.”

“These women still trying to find out my secret for that puddin’!”

I stayed with Sharanda all day. We ate our Cheez-Its and cheddar jalape?o Cheetos and candy and talked about anything and everything in our usual way. Sharanda’s mood lightened, clearly through heroic effort, and she even spoke excitedly about the baby. “The baby is due in May, just five months away. We’re thinking of names,” she said.