Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

I delivered Twin’s dinner tray to his cell and helped him sit up. He did not argue and was in fact very cooperative. I watched the Christian channel with him as he ate a grilled cheese sandwich, oven-baked potatoes, and a salad. He gave me the oatmeal cookie because it was too hard for him to eat in his condition.

“Twin, let me help you get ready for bed tonight. Our talk in the yard proved that you can help me.” I needed him to feel obliged to take my message to Allah.

He didn’t protest, but rather took on a childlike posture on his bunk. Twin was willing to be my messenger!

I helped him put on the state-issued orange shorts that he liked to sleep in. His sickness had created a caricatured, doll-like figure, who looked up pleadingly like the pictures of the godly men in Christian books, their faces and bodies always appearing anorexic. I lifted the sheet and blanket.

“Twin, tonight it’s going to be very cold. Would you like me to place a second blanket over you?”

He nodded. I tucked the blankets tight on his left side and sat down on the mattress to secure them with my weight.

“Hey, it’s okay to be in my cell, but don’t sit on my bunk. Get up — or better yet, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I inched closer to his shoulder. “Twin, I’ll move soon. But I need to ask you for a favor. Can you take an important message to God for me? God listens with more interest to those who know they’re dying. I’ll leave the cell as soon as you leave with my message.”

Twin peered in my eyes and probably thought, I’ll say okay so that this crazy Muslim will leave my cell, but tomorrow I’m asking to have him removed . If any sick prisoner expresses concern that his help might hurt him, the deputy warden must remove him, or be legally liable. But that’s not what happened.

“Sure, Ali, I’ll take your message to God. What do you got to say to Him?”

I held Twin’s eyes. “Tell Allah that I’ve been praying to him for twenty-four years, and He has not answered me. Please, Twin, make sure He gets my message.”

I quickly placed one hand over his mouth and with the other squeezed his nostrils shut. Twin’s arms were cocooned under the wool blankets, but he struggled to breathe and shook his head back and forth. I soon felt him weakening and leaned in to whisper, “Don’t forget to tell Allah I’ve been praying for twenty-four years for an answer.”

The struggle was short, but I had prepared for Twin’s departure. The same day I had sent Red with my message, I’d noticed a prisoner playing basketball with a strange smile on his face the whole time. He had a mouth guard between his lips. The grin forced by the mouth guard gave me the idea of how to send messengers to Allah with smiles on their faces. I placed the mouth guard between Twin’s lips and elevated his legs to force blood toward his face. The pooling blood would give him color and a peaceful-looking sleep for his journey. Nothing says peace like rosy cheeks. After several minutes, I slowly settled his legs down, loosened the blankets, removed the mouth guard, and turned off the television.

“Mr. Jackson is in bed watching TV. I’ll be back in the morning to help him get ready for his medical callout.” The officer gave me the peace sign and went back to the Detroit Tigers game on the radio. When he made his rounds in an hour, he would see Mr. Jackson lying there with the TV off and assume he had turned it off before going to sleep.

The next morning, I informed the officer on duty that I believed Mr. Jackson may be dead.

“Are you sure?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “He didn’t move when I called his name.”

The officer went to cell 64. “Mr. Jackson, are you all right?” When there was no response, he called shift command.

I was waiting in the hallway as the warden and the same nurse from Red’s death arrived. She entered his cell. “He must’ve went peacefully with such a smile on his face. God has accepted him into the kingdom.”

Her words gripped my hope that the message had gotten through to Allah and I would be leaving prison very soon.

Three days went by, and nothing. I was wondering if I had missed a sign when I was told to report to the deputy’s office. As I entered, he thanked me for making Twin’s last days comfortable.

“I was told, Mr. Ali, that Twin died with a smile on his face. I’m sure you had something to do with that. You did good.”

“I gave Twin a reason for leaving during a nice talk we had on the day he died. He was ready to meet the Lord.”

The deputy gave me a thoughtful look. “I’m glad you got along with Mr. Jackson. The daily reports say that you two enjoyed each other’s company. . Now, I need another favor, and I’ll owe you.” I didn’t mention the fifty-dollar bonus that was still due to me. “A Muslim prisoner named Myron Woods asked to be assigned a Muslim helper. You’re the only true Muslim helper I have. I know he’ll be happy to have an Arab Muslim.” It was a bit offensive to label me a true Muslim simply because I had been born as one; by implication, converts were not real Muslims.

It had been three days since I sent Twin on his journey and, seeing that I was still in prison, Allah must not have received or accepted my message. However, Mr. Woods — whose Muslim name was Abdul-Sami (Worshipper of the One Who Hears) — was not a Christian. I’d made a mistake. All of Allah’s messengers were Muslim, so naturally my message should be sent by a Muslim. That’s a true sign.

“Deputy Warden, I don’t want to become the Grim Reaper. I’d prefer a regular handicapped prisoner this time.” I knew my request would be denied; there was no risk in losing this messenger, especially since he’d requested the only true Muslim helper in the eyes and narrow mind of the deputy.

Pretending reluctance, I was assigned to Abdul-Sami. The doctor gave him around a month to live with his liver failure. My instructions were to make sure he was kept comfortable and to give him as many morphine patches as needed to ease his pain. Ironic how the laws for narcotics with the living are reversed for the dying. When the time came for me to send Abdul-Sami with my message to Allah, all I’d need to do was place enough morphine patches on him to ease his journey.

Abdul-Sami was of my faith, so convincing him to take my message to Allah was easy. My only apprehension was the command in the Holy Koran which forbids standing before Allah in a drunken state. However, I now believe Allah exempts modern medicine because it only mimics drunkenness. The morphine was a mercy from Allah, it wasn’t being drunk.

“Remember, Abdul-Sami, tell Allah that I have been praying to Him for twenty-four years and He has not answered me. I ask that He release me from prison. Allah may have become accustomed to me asking for this for so many years and has simply forgotten.” Abdul-Sami’s eyes were closed as I placed seven patches, for the Seven Heavens, on his arms and legs.

“I will tell Allah, my brother, and I’ll also tell Him of your kindness to me.”

We both said, “Amen.” I watched his chest, for I knew my message would go in his last breath to Allah. I once again placed the mouth guard between the lips, and elevated the feet.

I have grown wiser with each messenger I’ve sent. Allah has the twelve tribes of Israel, the twelve disciples of Jesus, and the twelve holy imams of Islam. I realized that it would be in keeping with His numerical signs to send twelve messengers before He would answer me. At present, I have sent the following eleven: Red, Twin, Abdul-Sami, Emmit, Michael, Joseph, Jacob, Luke, Manuel, Raymond, and David. After each departure, I have done five daily prayers and then waited to feel better than I did when I began. It’s a Muslim truism that if you feel better after the prayer, Allah has accepted it. Feeling better after prayer had been easy the first three years of imprisonment. But that feeling gradually diminished until, at my twenty-fourth year behind bars, I no longer felt anything. Had Allah answered me at even the twentieth year of imprisonment, I would never have sent any messengers. It’s my fault I wasted twenty years of prayers.