The Cave Dwellers Christina McDowell (top 10 inspirational books .TXT) đ
- Author: Christina McDowell
Book online «The Cave Dwellers Christina McDowell (top 10 inspirational books .TXT) đ». Author Christina McDowell
At last Bunny approaches the correctional officer and hands her the fake ID, Grace Morrison. There are no background checks, thereâs no reason for anyone to suspect this isnât her. Her whiteness: institutionally free of consequence.
âCell phones are not allowed, everything you say and do is being monitored and recorded.â The officer hands Bunny her ID back.
âYes, maâam,â Bunny says, relieved her ID worked.
âYou can have a seat over there.â 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 sheâs visitingâjust another day, another body, another visitor.
Bunny walks to the empty chair and screen and stares at it. âUm, wait, what is this?â
âThis is visitation,â says another officer, standing against the wall behind her.
âBut this is a monitor. Iâm confused.â
âThis is how it works. You donât like it, the exitâs right there.â
Bunny pauses. This isnât what itâs like in the movies. âOkay, but how can you tell us weâre âvisitingâ someone and not actually visit them? This is like a government FaceTime.â
âAre you staying or leaving?â the officer says; he has no time or patience for her questioning.
âIâm sorry, but⊠so there are no in-person visits?â Bunny feels completely blindsided.
âMiss, you can have an in-person after sixty days as long as they donât commit any infractions.â
âSo as long as he doesnât get in trouble?â Bunny has created a physical change in atmosphere, a stir of attention; she can feel the resentful eyes behind her, hear whispering about wasting timeâtime 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.
âThatâs what I said,â the officer tells her.
âI see.â
Bunny turns around to see Anthony Tellâs face on the monitor. She pulls the chair back, looking down, more unprepared for this moment than sheâd thoughtâthat he responded, that heâs there. She looks up at the monitor, lifts her arm to grab the blue telephone receiver, but Anthonyâs 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. âHello? You there?â Bunny says, the blue phone pressed to her ear.
âWho are you? My lawyer told me not to talk to anyone,â Anthony says, folding an arm across his chest, hunched over.
Bunny attempts to defuse the confrontation. âI was told never talk to strangers, so I guess weâre even.â
Anthony takes a beat, examines her. âWeâre not even,â he replies.
Stirred, Bunny feels her confidence free-fall at the way that must have sounded coming out of her white mouthâunintentionally, but intentions are irrelevant. Heat continues to blast down her back from the vents; sheâs soaked in nervous sweat.
âYou a social worker or what?â Anthony asks.
âUhhh, no,â Bunny replies.
Anthony loses his focus; distracted, he swerves in his seat left then right, looking to see whatâs going on behind him, all that Bunny canât 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 isnât much older than she is.
Anthony regains his focus. âSo youâre a reporter?â
âUm, I guess you could say that. My nameâs⊠Grace, my name is Grace,â Bunny says, before she accidentally reveals the truth. âI think itâs important for people to know your side of the story, so I wanted to come and hear it.â
âYou fucking people. You donât give a shit about my side of the story, and you donât get a prize for coming here. Iâm not your fucking zoo animal.â Anthony hangs up, gets up, and heâs gone.
Bunny freezes, still holding the receiver. Shaken at the interruption of her entitlement; sheâs never been dismissed before. (What?) As sheâs 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. âFuck you!â 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.
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