Fiction: A short story by:- Stephen D Edwards

Judge MacLeish calls my co-defendant saying, “Gregory Banks, this court has found you guilty of 11 counts of aiding and abetting in the murder of 11 persons. Your victim statements each require you to serve 12 years in prison which you will serve concurrently.” He turns to me next, saying, “Claude Restault, this court has found you guilty of 11 counts of murder in the first degree. Your victim statements each require you to serve 12 years in prison for each count concurrently.” The gavel makes a splashing sound as if it hit a hamster’s water bowl.

I stand here with my attorney and cringe at the thought of spending more than a decade in prison because after my last prison experience of six months. I look over at Greg and see that he may have the same feelings.

I’ve barely had enough time to get used to the freedom I had after the last time in prison. After all I’m certain that my wife will divorce me even if my daughters plead with her. I look back into the small crowd of attendees in the courtroom to see my family in tears as the bailiffs take us into custody in handcuffs.

As I sit on the bed in my cell in these uncomfortable prison clothes, I recall the advice I had received as I arrived in this same prison the last time. It was to plead for forgiveness from the Magistrate. But it came with a single condition to forgive those lowlifes who so committed crimes against me in my past.

I guess this means that for me to return to my family, I also have to forgive Eddie who stole $500 from my business when he was working for me as my manager. I’ll need to forgive that employee who stole paper clips from me everyday. I have not ever known how I could possibly forgive these people as they’ve tried to take advantage of me and bring my business down, which are the worst things anyone has ever done to me. However, forgive? I must. Yet I don’t have to face them or communicate with them.

I just need to do it and tell the Magistrate. This is going to take some courage.

In my prison cell, I recall how neat and clean the accommodations were the last time I was here and today it is no different, with fresh paint on the walls and clean sheets on the bed. I could stay here for an indefinite time, except for two things: I miss my family already and there will be torment, torture and anguish.

On the morning of my second day here, the morning bell makes a song of a single note with no rhythm. I dress in the drab prison clothes, comb my hair, brush my teeth and stand at the door of the cell to wait for it to open. My stomach growls its message of hunger, but no one hears it. As I wait there I consider that there is no other option but to make it known that I wish to forgive those who hurt me and plead for forgiveness so that I can return to my household.

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I know that soon I’ll be saying, “Same ole same ole. Did that already. Don’t want to do that.” And yet nothing is the same. The same as it was outside that is.

At breakfast with the usual spicy sausages, beans and toast from last time I was in prison, I sit close to one of the guards and say, “Can you help me please, sir?”

“I’ll take you to the warden after our meal,” he responds. Then he asks, “How do you like the breakfast?”

I say, “It’s so enticing. I love it. I could stay here forever, but I miss my family. But how do you know what help I want from you?”

He says, “All the newly arrived inmates ask the same question every time.”

Later, the warden gives me a warm welcome in his office asking, “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?”

“I’d love that,” I reply enjoying his plush office with the view of the city in the distance. With a sip of coffee in my belly I say, “Warden, I know I have only been here for a few days, but I know that to benefit from the forgiveness of my victims, I must profess my own forgiveness of those who inflicted pain to me in my past.” Then I look the warden in the eyes and ask, “How do I put that into action?”

“You came to the right place, Claude. Everyone eventually makes this request of me in time, but I didn’t expect you to come so soon,” he replies. “Even then, I got the paperwork ready for you in case you made your way here sooner than later.”

So I sign my name to it after reading it over, understanding that my forgiveness needs to be complete and leave no one out.

On return to my cell, I use the pen and paper the warden gave me to write a letter to my wife.

Dear Wynona,

I’m so sorry that I have had to spend so much time away from you and the children. I’m writing to you to give you and the girls some good news. It is that I have decided to forgive everyone who hurt me in my past. I no longer want to live with the resentment and cause anyone any more pain than I’ve already caused.

I trust that everything at is good with you at home. I will be home soon.

Love, Claude.

I put the letter in an envelope and give it to the guard thanking him.

Outside in the yard, I see Greg running around the yard. As he passes me on one of his laps I ask him, “Are you running for your health?”

He turns to me saying, “No, Claude. I’m forced to do this.” On the day of my release a week later, I dress in my own clothes and meet Wynona and the girls at the gate of the prison. The embraces I receive I will cherish forever, and Wynona’s kiss is sweeter than chocolate-covered cherries.

From home I call Albert my office manager to ask how business is going. I discover that all is well at the hat factory, that product orders are up and the manufacturing is on time. I cannot ask for anything better than this.

I call Eddie next. He says, “Good afternoon, Claude! I was just going to call you!”

“Good afternoon, Eddie,” I say, expecting him to continue with some good news.

“I’ve paid back your $500 to your business manager with interest. I hope we can make up our differences and consider each other friends again,” he says with a light feathery tone as I try to commit to memory that I’ll have to verify his claim later.

“Eddie, thank you for doing that. Either way, I forgive you for this error.”

At the office, I ask Albert for the ledger, which he promptly provides.

As I look through the transactions of the last couple of weeks. Everything seems to be in order except that the balance doesn’t come close to matching the bank balance. So there’s $4,500 missing. The bank statement shows a transaction from the business debit/credit card dated a few days after I sent my letter to Wynona.

I burst into Albert’s office roaring, “Do you know why the bank account would be missing forty-five hundred bucks?”

Albert says, “I don’t know. We’ll have to ask the bookkeeper.”

We walk over to the bookkeeper’s office where Albert asks, “Petroula, are you aware of this $4,500 discrepancy between the books and the bank account?” holding up the ledger and the bank statement.

She looks into my eyes and says, “Claude, it’s Wynona.”

I turn and glance at Albert then back at the bookkeeper. “Did she say why she needed the forty-five hundred?”

“She didn’t say,” comes her reply. “The only thing she said is that she needed access to the bank account. She’s your wife, and I couldn’t refuse on that basis.”

“Okay. Thank you, Petroula.” As I turn away from the bookkeeper’s office, I feel heat burning my face.

After I park in the garage, I sit there trying to prepare myself for the thing I am about to do. The difficulty is that all I can do is stew over the enormity of the wrong that Wynona has committed against me. It’s hard to conceive of what she could need $4500 for while I was inside.

By the time I get out of the car, the light on the door opener has gone out and I trip over a few things left strewn about the garage floor. “Ugh!”

My daughter Aveline opens the door on to the inside of the house asking, “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“It’s nothing, Avie. Nothing to worry about.”

I find Wynona at the stove as the smell of her wonderful beef stew wafts into my olfactory nerves. “Darling, Petroula says you took accessed the business bank account. Is that so?”

She looks up at me saying, “Yes. I got what I needed and no longer need it.”

“What did you spend forty-five hundred on?” I ask trying to hold back my anger.

Looking back at the task on the stove she says, “That will soon be revealed.” I turn on my heel and head upstairs to the bedroom intending to change clothes. Near the top of the stairs, I call the police.

“City police. How can we help you?” greets the receptionist.

“My wife stole $4500 from my business while I was away,” I reply. “I want her arrested and charged.”

“I will find someone to investigate this for you. After I disconnect our call, please stay on the line and answer the questionnaire and record a statement. Your phone number will suffice for a signature,” she says and the call disconnects.

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The next day, I find two magistrate officials in my office waiting for me. One of them says, “Mr. Restault, you are under arrest for resentment after the forgiveness by the State for your 11 counts of murder in the first degree.” They cuff me and take me back to the court.

Judge MacLeish says, “You were forgiven for your 11 counts of murder in the first degree. Yet you could not forgive your wife’s $4,500 purchase of materials and food for a party to be thrown in your honor in a few days. I now return you to serve all your entire prison sentence. Furthermore, the tormentors will tend to your every desire to torment your own accusers by tormenting you.”

As I walk into this prison, I notice its dark, damp corridors. The guards maintain stern looks. It all feels like it will cave in with its gray paint peeling from the ceiling and the walls. The bed is a rusty metal frame with a one-inch tattered mattress.

Just as soon as I think I’m settled at around 7 pm, a guard bursts into my cell yelling, “Get up! Let’s go!” Believing he would take me to the cafeteria for dinner, I follow him. He takes me to a dank room the size of a basketball court. He tells me to run laps around the room. This seems easy until I get tired and want to stop.

Noticing that I had stopped running in favor of walking, the guard yells, “Get moving!”

I’m so tired and hungry I want to drop, but keep going. It seems obvious that this is going to be a long night so I begin to pace myself. I’m so fatigued and sleepy, that I’m beyond hungry. I keep moving, but I don’t remember stopping. I wake up the next morning in my cell on the bed—the tattered sheets still sitting on the corner of the bed as when I first arrived.

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Then I hear the voice of the same guard yelling, “Get up! Let’s go!” just like the evening before. I tell the guard that I’m hungry, but he says, “Forget about it.”

I decide this time to pace myself running slow from the start. The trouble is he doesn’t take me to that room. Instead he takes me outside in the rain to the yard and had me running up and down the bleachers. The routine today is harder as my legs are sore from the long hours of running last night.

I start walking up the bleachers. The guard yells at me to move faster. Every time I slow down he yells at me to go faster. This goes on all day until I fall asleep while risking the slippery bleacher steps.

After many days and many different excruciating routines, exertions and little food, I finally ask the guard, “Is there any chance to appeal to the Magistrate?”

I cannot hear the answer because a familiar human form catches my eye. It is Greg standing in a corner of the yard standing with another inmate and talking to another guard. I cannot hear their conversation, but as the guard turns toward the doorway into the prison and they follow, I know it is safe to assume he has made his request for forgiveness. I turn to the guard assigned to me and ask, “Can you repeat that? I didn’t hear you.”

I still cannot hear him, but his lips move, and I read saying, “Yes.”

Instead of responding, I run up the bleachers.

Looking up at me on the steps he yells, “What about your appeal?”

In my anger and renewed resentment I reply, “I have no appeal.”

On another morning before the guard comes to get me, I look out of my cell window. There I see Greg dressed in civilian clothes walking toward the gate and his wife waiting there to greet him.

In a grimace of pain, I try to smile. I hear the footsteps of the guard behind me just as he asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to appeal?”

“I cannot forgive my wife.”

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