Jomon’s day is going from bad to worse.
“Shut up,” he says again to the boy.
“Oh, very clever,” the boy says.
There is no point trying to kill himself while that kid is watching him. Jomon has no doubt the boy will do as he says and stir up such a ruckus that the lockup will be flooded with officers in a second. But that kid won’t be across from him forever. Jomon will wait and watch for his opportunity.
Jomon moves to the very back of his cell to try to get away from the annoying voice, but that only buys him another two feet of distance.
“I am your great-great-grandfather,” the boy says again. “My name is Hiram Jomon Fowler. Folks call me Hi. You’ve heard of me.”
Jomon has not but he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t want to do anything that might encourage Hi to keep talking.
But Hi needs no encouragement.
“Yes, you have,” he says. “You’re my great-great-grandson! I’m here to tell you there’s been enough hanging in Guyana.”
Jomon doesn’t respond. That doesn’t stop Hi.
“You don’t agree? Hello, everybody!” Hi yells out to the rest of the cells. “Who here thinks there’s been enough hanging in Guyana?”
The other residents shout back. “Too much hanging!” “Hanging’s what the slave owners did to try to control us!” and “Shake my family tree, there’s someone hanging from it. Shake all our family trees, same thing.”
“See?” says Hi. “You don’t know your family history, but you went to school. Must have studied something. Must have studied the slave uprisings in the 1700s, in the 1800s. They strung up bodies all over Georgetown and left them there to rot, while the white people danced in the streets.”
Still Jomon says nothing.
“You have bad manners,” says Hi. “Are you sure you’re my great-great-grandson? Too much hanging. And you want to add another one. What’s wrong with you?”
“Why are we talking about hanging?” says a voice from a cell down the hall.
“My great-great-grandson here is thinking of hanging himself,” says Hi.
A heavy silence drops over the lockup.
“The boy is thinking of hanging himself?” one of the men asks in a quiet voice. “That young boy?”
“He is,” says Hi.
“Don’t do it,” says the man.
“How old is he?” asks another man.
“He’s fifteen,” Hi tells him.
“Fifteen,” the man repeats. “You got no trouble at fifteen.”
Shut up, thinks Jomon. What do you know about anything?
“He thinks he’s got nothing to live for,” says Hi. “He thought he had nothing before he broke the law, but now that he’s a criminal, he really thinks he’s got nothing.”
“That must mean he thinks we should all hang ourselves, too,” another man says. “I don’t like that, son, I don’t like that at all. Who are you to say my life is not worth living?”
“I didn’t …” Jomon starts to say but then stops. He doesn’t have to explain himself to these men.
“Plenty to live for,” says another man. “Sure, this moment is rough. It’s rough on all of us, but it won’t last forever. Plenty of good things ahead.”
“He doesn’t see it that way,” says Hi. “He thinks he’s tossed his future in the garbage.”
“Welcome to the club,” says one of the other men.
Jomon squeezes himself up against the back wall, squishing his face into the cement blocks. He wishes he could just push himself right through them. He wishes they could swallow him up.
“You won’t be in here forever,” a man says. “You’ll see the sun rise again. You’ll be with your family again. Plenty to live for.”
“Shut up,” Jomon whispers. “Just shut up.”
He hugs his knees to his chest and slumps against the wall. He stays that way until he gets a cramp in his back. He stretches out and turns himself around.
The boy from the other cell is sitting on the other end of Jomon’s bed.
Jomon springs to his feet. “How did you get in here?”
“It’s all right,” says Hi. “Like I said, I’m your great-great-grandfather. I’ve got some things to tell you.”
“I don’t want to listen to anything you have to say,” Jomon tells him. “Just leave me alone.”
“All right,” says Hi. He leans back against the wall and stares out the bars.
Slowly the evening darkens. The ceiling lights are bright in the hallway but Jomon, in the back of the cell, is in a shadow.
He is so tired. His eyelids droop, then close. Sleep finally begins to swirl around him.
Chatter monkeys in the trees
Swaying branches in the breeze
Sleep the hours of dark away
Wake up to a brighter day.
In an instant, Jomon is back on his feet and his hand is around the other boy’s throat.
“Who taught you that?” Jomon spits in Hi’s face. “That’s the Soothing Song. That’s my father’s song. He wrote it. Who taught you that? Who are you?”
Hi breaks Jomon’s clutch and sends him tumbling to the floor.
“I told you who I am,” says Hi. “Do I really need to tell you again? I thought my great-great-grandson would be smarter than this. My father sang that song to me when I was small and I sang it to my boy. He sang it to his son. Your father sang it to you. And, if you don’t kill yourself, you’ll sing it to your child.”
“You’re my age,” says Jomon.
“I know,” replies Hi with a big grin. “It’s great to be fifteen again, for however long it lasts. I’m here to tell you about my life.”
“I told you, I don’t want to listen.”
“I’m here to tell you anyway.” Hi’s calmness is maddening.
“And then what?”
“I don’t know.”
Jomon tries to wriggle farther away from Hi but, of course, there is nowhere to go. His wriggling only makes him feel foolish, so he stops.
“I don’t want to hear it,” he says again. “I’m not listening.”
“Listen or not, that’s up to you,” says Hi. “I’m going to tell you anyway. You should be thanking me. I would love to be able to talk to my great-great-grandfather. I’ll bet he has all kinds of things to say.”
“Then why didn’t he come instead of you?”
“For a very good reason,” says Hi. “I came because I’m the first suicide.”