The Cave Dwellers by Christina McDowell (top e book reader .TXT) 📗

pennies—one against a larger sum and somehow still worth more? Bunny is entirely unaware of this reality beyond the words on a page of her history books, of what she is witnessing—there are no words in any of her history books, they don’t exist, only in what she has seen in the news lately: marching in the streets, on the steps of the Supreme Court, the Capitol, the White House. In these moments, the story she thinks she knows becomes warped and ripped from the pages; she feels nauseated from the sight of homeless women in the building behind her, the scattered trash, a jail infested with rats and known to be one of the most violent. The heat blows down her back, beads of sweat forming under her jacket beneath her bra. It is alarming for Bunny; the families and individuals waiting in line are mostly Black. Alarming for anyone who’s witnessing a different story than the one they’ve always been told while cocooned in their own. But nothing could prepare her, no Hollywood movie, news segment, or documentary, for seeing it in person.

At last Bunny approaches the correctional officer and hands her the fake ID, Grace Morrison. There are no background checks, there’s no reason for anyone to suspect this isn’t her. Her whiteness: institutionally free of consequence.

“Cell phones are not allowed, everything you say and do is being monitored and recorded.” The officer hands Bunny her ID back.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bunny says, relieved her ID worked.

“You can have a seat over there.” The officer points with her eyes to the right-hand wall, an empty seat in front of a screen with a handset, like some kind of modern telephone booth. This officer has no interest in who she’s visiting—just another day, another body, another visitor.

Bunny walks to the empty chair and screen and stares at it. “Um, wait, what is this?”

“This is visitation,” says another officer, standing against the wall behind her.

“But this is a monitor. I’m confused.”

“This is how it works. You don’t like it, the exit’s right there.”

Bunny pauses. This isn’t what it’s like in the movies. “Okay, but how can you tell us we’re ‘visiting’ someone and not actually visit them? This is like a government FaceTime.”

“Are you staying or leaving?” the officer says; he has no time or patience for her questioning.

“I’m sorry, but… so there are no in-person visits?” Bunny feels completely blindsided.

“Miss, you can have an in-person after sixty days as long as they don’t commit any infractions.”

“So as long as he doesn’t get in trouble?” Bunny has created a physical change in atmosphere, a stir of attention; she can feel the resentful eyes behind her, hear whispering about wasting time—time they want to spend with loved ones.

The officer is becoming increasingly agitated. Bunny feels the thickening of racial and class tension, a lack of patience for her questioning, perpetuating the cycle of oppression that she is causing.

“That’s what I said,” the officer tells her.

“I see.”

Bunny turns around to see Anthony Tell’s face on the monitor. She pulls the chair back, looking down, more unprepared for this moment than she’d thought—that he responded, that he’s there. She looks up at the monitor, lifts her arm to grab the blue telephone receiver, but Anthony’s face keeps disappearing into static lightning. In between flashes of him on the screen, Bunny notices other inmates walking, orange jumpsuits passing through this overwhelming moment for her. She sees a man shackled at his feet and wrists; he waddles behind where Anthony sits, a prison guard pushing his back to move him along, and his torso is covered in blood. Finally the signal sticks. “Hello? You there?” Bunny says, the blue phone pressed to her ear.

“Who are you? My lawyer told me not to talk to anyone,” Anthony says, folding an arm across his chest, hunched over.

Bunny attempts to defuse the confrontation. “I was told never talk to strangers, so I guess we’re even.”

Anthony takes a beat, examines her. “We’re not even,” he replies.

Stirred, Bunny feels her confidence free-fall at the way that must have sounded coming out of her white mouth—unintentionally, but intentions are irrelevant. Heat continues to blast down her back from the vents; she’s soaked in nervous sweat.

“You a social worker or what?” Anthony asks.

“Uhhh, no,” Bunny replies.

Anthony loses his focus; distracted, he swerves in his seat left then right, looking to see what’s going on behind him, all that Bunny can’t see and know and smell and touch: the wet mold from the showers, a man furiously masturbating in the corner, another talking to himself, the straitjackets upstairs Anthony saw upon his arrival, the shanks hidden in the soles of shoes, the sporadic violence forcing him to duck and swerve. In the moments when he is still and looking at the screen, Bunny is reminded that he isn’t much older than she is.

Anthony regains his focus. “So you’re a reporter?”

“Um, I guess you could say that. My name’s… Grace, my name is Grace,” Bunny says, before she accidentally reveals the truth. “I think it’s important for people to know your side of the story, so I wanted to come and hear it.”

“You fucking people. You don’t give a shit about my side of the story, and you don’t get a prize for coming here. I’m not your fucking zoo animal.” Anthony hangs up, gets up, and he’s gone.

Bunny freezes, still holding the receiver. Shaken at the interruption of her entitlement; she’s never been dismissed before. (What?) As she’s about to hang up, an inmate jumps in front of the camera, the static image of a young white girl in a pink beanie staring aimlessly, offensively, terrified in front of the screen. He spreads his pointer and middle fingers into a V and slides his yellow tongue through it, then flicks it at her.

Rocked. “Fuck you!” Bunny erupts, then slams the receiver, gathers herself, fake-smiles at the correctional officer, and runs out the door, back toward the gates of the graveyard.