The first step is always the hardest

[This story contains strong language]

Jay woke up with a jolt, his heart racing. He blinked, feeling the darkness pressing on him, unyielding, impenetrable. He flung his legs to the side and would have fallen had his lower body not been ensnared in the thin sheets.

“What the fuck, dude,” came a croaky voice beneath him, “I’m trying to sleep here.”

Tre, Jay thought, breath still hiccupping in his throat. That’s Tre. You know where you are. Get a grip on yourself, dawg. He ran a shaky hand across his face, then lightly tapped the bed frame twice to let the other guy know he was sorry. He settled onto the cot, the metallic springs beneath the mattress groaning as he shifted his weight.

He laid his palms flat on his chest, drumming his fingers in time with the slowing rhythm of his heart. It was just a dream, he kept repeating himself. Close your eyes, you dimwit, and go back to sleep. He snapped his eyelids shut, willing his mind to stop whirling, but he might as well have wished for the moon for all the good that did him. In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, o Lord, make me dwell in safety. Father Michael’s favorite psalm echoed in Jay’s ears as loudly as if the priest were standing next to him, and for a moment he saw himself seated in the chapel, head bent over his clasped hands. But Jay found no peace that night, and sure as hell, the Lord had no safety in store for him either.

“Yo J-dog, got a lil’ steamy last night? What had you flailing around like a headless chicken, man?” Tre asked the following morning, as he and Jay stocked shelves in the repository.

Their assignment to canteen duty was nothing short of a miracle, given their not-so-great behavior, and Jay had no intention of squandering such a stroke of luck. Imprisonment strips you of everything but cravings, and as Jay soon realized, jail was like any other place in the world: you need dough to scratch an itch. And there was the catch for Jay. He got itches and no dough. It had been Tre who suggested using the good-boy card to get into the distribution system when Jay brought up his dilemma one evening.

“That’s power, J-dog, real power. You get to decide who gets what and when,” Tre told him then, and though Jay didn’t believe that would turn them into the kingpins of their pod, he liked the idea of having a say for once. It took them weeks to clean the slate with the unit officers, but they did it, and, lo and behold, here they were, enjoying their behavioral reward.

“’Twas just a nightmare,” Jay said with a shrug, before hauling a box of Pringles and heading into another area of the facility store.

“Ain’t enough to live in one?” Tre muttered under his breath while hurrying to keep pace with Jay. “Anyhoo,” he went on in a normal tone, “having this sweet gig goin’ already got us some new friends…” Tre paused for effect, brows wiggling suggestively as he pulled a slender joint from his sleeve, “Good friends.”

Jay licked his lips. He knew trouble when he saw it, but, hey, he got itches and no dough.

“Count me in,” he grinned.

Jay took a deep drag from the joint before passing it back to Tre. They sat in a shaded corner of the open courtyard, backs propped against the wall and elbows lazily resting on their knees. Jay scanned the area in search of Emilio “Cortau” Cortez and nodded his thanks as their eyes met. Cortau ran the drug supply chain in their pods and was now Jay and Tre’s boss. It was Jay’s first stint in an adult prison, and at just seventeen, he needed to secure himself a protector, and fast. Cortau was his best bet, but also the riskiest. So far, it had paid off nicely. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, Jay thought as the blessed chemicals worked their magic, loosening his muscles and quieting his jumpy brain.

“This shit is good, um?” Tre whispered, wisps smoke coming out of his nostrils like dragon’s breath.

Jay chuckled. “Yeah, it’s got a kick to it,” he replied and meant it. He felt lightheaded. I’ve gotten soft, he reflected. Time was when I smoked five bowls a day and then some. “Pothead,” he said loudly and guffawed when he caught sight of Tre’s puzzled expression. He rested his head back against the rough surface of the wall and scooted slightly forward, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. Time was when being a pothead was the least of my vices, he mused. When there was nothing that I wouldn’t pop, snort, smoke, or vape. Just to feel…something, anything. He scrunched his brows in a frown, feeling his pulse quicken and his mind emptying as it always did when he tried to remember that period of his life. The one before the present. Before this living hell. He couldn’t.

“Your behavior record shows a remarkable progress, Jason. I’m pleased to see that, very pleased,” Father Michael said softly as he shifted his gaze from the notes in his hand to Jay’s face. The priest placed the papers on the desk and brought his fingertips together. “Have you considered what we talked about last week?” he then inquired.

Jay’s mouth tightened. He thought that conversation was done and dusted, but obviously the old sod hadn’t gotten the memo. “Dunno what you want me to say, Father,” he said with a shrug. “I’m no writer.”

“Restorative justice isn’t about writing, Jason, you know that. I believe that it would do you good – a great deal of good. The nightmares that you’re having,” Father Michael paused, waiting for Jay to meet his eyes before continuing, “the nightmares you’re having won’t go away until you face what’s causing them.”

“And what do you believe that to be?” Jay confronted him, barely containing his disrespect.

“Guilt,” Father Michael answered, ignoring Jay’s provocation. Jay bristled and was about to retort, but Father Michael cut him off before he could do so. “How much longer do you have left to serve, Jason?”

Jay’s gaze bore into Father Michael’s as he hissed, “Eleven months and two weeks.”

“Correct, and you transferred here nine months ago from,” the priest halted as he scanned the documents on the desk, “ah, yes, the Central Valley Youth Facility.” He leaned back in his seat, hands folded over his stomach. “You’re aware that your parole hearing is coming up, right? Your record isn’t the greatest, but you have shown signs of improvement and taking part in this process may be exactly what you need to turn things around and make the judge look favorably to your request. Just sayin’,” he said, his tone cheerful, as if he didn’t care either way. And maybe he doesn’t, Jay thought morosely.

“What about them?” Jay’s voice broke as he uttered the question, and he cleared his throat before adding, “The family. Have they agreed to it?”

“Yes.” Father Michael’s expression was sympathetic as he answered. “It was they who asked for it.” His chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “As I explained last time, this process is not about punishment but about healing. You are serving time as a punishment for your actions, but this is a passive thing, isn’t it? The system found you guilty, but the mere fact that you’re here, behind bars, is not an active acknowledgment of the harm you caused, and that’s what prevents the other side from finding peace. They want, nay, they need to see you repenting. And so do you.” The priest paused, pressing his chin against knuckles as if collecting his thoughts. His voice was low as he continued. “You must write them a letter. I know,” he raised a hand, palm forward to prevent Jay’s complaint, “I know you’re no writer, as you say, but they won’t expect a prize-winning composition. Just say what you have in your heart. As long as you’re sincere, it will be enough. Following that, there will be a meeting.” Father Michael hesitated, his eyes flickering away from Jay’s. “It won’t be easy, son,” he went on. “There will be things you’d rather not hear, but it is their right to speak their truth, and you must respect that. You will sit quietly and listen to them, without interruption, without excuse. It is possible that they will ask you uncomfortable questions – Why did you do that? What were you thinking? Are you sorry? That sort of thing – and you should be brave and answer them with honesty.” He straightened with a sigh, placing his hands flat on the desk. “It is important for you to realize that forgiveness is not a given in this process, Jason, but that should never prevent you from seeking pardon. God is merciful to those who confess and repent.”

Jay was staring down at the sheet of paper, as blank as his thoughts, when someone abruptly yanked the chair in front of him and sat on it backward. He lifted his eyes without tilting his head. He was in a foul mood and had no time for any of those orange-clothed buffoons. The snappy remark he was about to spit out died on his lips when his gaze met Cortau’s icy one.

“Trevor said I’ll find you here,” Cortau remarked conversationally. “I’d have never taken you for a bookworm, Jason.”

Emilio Cortez was a deceptively diminutive man. In his late thirties, he had spent more years in and out of prison than Jay had been on this earth, and it showed. Not a leaf stirs but Cortau wills it, Tre whispered the first night he bunked in with him. You’d better get on his good side if you want to leave this place on your two feet and not in a body bag.

“Not really, Cortau,” Jay laughed uneasily. “They want me to write an apology to the victim’s family. They say that it may give me a chance at the parole hearing.” He shrugged, pen tapping ineffectually on the paper, “As you see, I’m no man of letters.”

Cortau’s thin lips stretched into a smile that did not touch his eyes. “You’re doing time for involuntary manslaughter, I hear?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Jay bowed his head, breaking eye contact, and immediately kicked himself for it. Never lower your gaze, never show weakness.

“Anyway,” Cortau continued, businesslike. “I came here to discuss an upgrade in your operations.”

Jay shifted in his chair. “Um?” he murmured noncommittally.

“You’re different, Jason, and I like that. You see,” Cortau leaned forward, elbows propped on the back of the chair. “People your age tend to have – what’s the word? – attitude, yes, attitude,” he nodded to himself as if satisfied with his choice of words, “and that creates problems. They’re bad for business. Bad for me,” he tapped his chest lightly on the last word. “But not you. You keep yourself to yourself, never stepping out of line – “Yes, Sir,” “No, Sir” – and that’s what I need.” He gave a quick look around, making sure no one was taking notice, and slid a tiny plastic bag across the table to Jay. “I want you store this for me. You don’t need to know what inside,” he cut in, before Jay could open his mouth – not that he would have. “Just keep it safe for a while.” He stood up quickly, pulling his leg over the seat as if he were getting off a horse. “Mum’s the word,” he grinned, placing his index finger over his lips.

Jay leaned backward as he watched Cortau leave, his thoughts whirling madly in his head. That’s bad, bad, BAD, he screamed inside, as his sweaty palm clutched around the bag. I’d better not screw this up, or I’m done for.

It was hot in the room, or maybe it was Jay’s inner thermostat that was broken. Either way, he was sweating bullets as he squirmed uncomfortably on the plastic chair. The clock on the wall showed 10.57. The victim’s family was due to arrive at any moment, and, man, he wasn’t ready. Muted noises filtered in from outside, and he swallowed hard when the door creaked open. He willed his leg to stop bouncing under the table and waited for the newcomer to take a seat across from him. Jay sat up straight, forcing himself to raise his gaze to meet that of the woman in front of him. He scanned the planes of her face. She looked as though she had been carved from time itself, her epicanthic eyes receding into the folds of her sagging skin like ink into creased parchment – smudged and just as unreadable. Jay stared at her, transfixed.

“Jason, this is Mrs. Liu Meiyun. Mrs. Liu, this is Jason Cole Bennett.” An awkward silence followed Father Michael’s introduction. The priest cleared his throat before continuing, “Well, I know this is difficult, but I believe that Jason has something to tell you, Mrs. Liu. Don’t you, Jason?” he prompted.

Jay’s eyes darted to Father Michael, breaking contact with the old woman. “Yes, I, um,” he faltered. “Mrs. Liu, I wanted to apolog…”

“I read your letter,” Mrs. Liu interrupted him, her raspy voice surprisingly strong. She articulated the words with the precision of a self-taught speaker, her lilting accent hardly detectable.

Jay’s mouth opened and closed as he grasped for words. “Yeah, I…the letter,” he started only to fall silent again.

Mrs. Liu’s stare bore into him, expectantly. When it became clear that he had nothing to add, she pulled out several photographs from her bag and placed them next to each other on the table, positioning them to face Jay.

“I read your letter,” Mrs. Liu repeated. “You say that you are sorry and want to make amends.” She was observing the photos as she spoke, almost as if she were seeing them for the first time. She lifted her gaze, locking it with Jay’s. “What you do not say is how you plan to do that. You can’t give me this back,” she tapped her finger to one of the photos, a faded image of a young couple standing together in front of a convenience store, the name “Lucky Star Market” printed on the sign above them – Mr. and Mrs. Liu? Jay wondered, as his eyes shifted to the next one – a slightly older version of the two playing with a child in a modest living room – and the one after that – a tall Chinese guy in a gown, hands clutching a certificate, as his parents, clearly the Lius, smiled broadly at the camera.

“I’m deeply sorry, Mrs. Liu.” Jay’s voice cracked, and he coughed lightly. I owe it to her. To me, he thought, before continuing. “I was high that day. I was high every day. I had run away from my foster family – I used to do that a lot, back then – and was sleeping rough, eating what I could when I could, popping and snorting all the time. I owed money to some people, like, I was in deep sh…” he stopped mid-sentence, his eyes scurrying to Father Michael and back to the table surface. “Em, trouble, I was in big trouble and needed cash. I’d been to that store before,” he hesitated, “to snatch a few things, and I knew that the owners were old and wouldn’t react. I asked the man at the register for cash, pretending to have a gun in my pocket, but I had nothing,” he swore, growing increasingly agitated. “‘Twas just my two fingers poking out from the inside. It spooked him though, and when he made to press the emergency button under the register, I panicked. I can’t remember clearly – I was so high! – but I must have jumped over the counter to shove him back, and he must have knocked his head as he fell. I can’t recall, honest to God.” Jay licked his lips and finally lifted his gaze to Mrs. Liu’s. “I know this is no excuse, but I meant no one no harm.”

“But you did,” Mrs. Liu whispered, after a long pause. “You did do a lot of harm. You claim to be sorry, but I have no use for apologies. You see, Mr. Bennett, my beliefs are different from yours,” Mrs. Liu said, making a sweeping motion that included Jason and Father Michael. “To me, forgiveness isn’t a present I give to you,” she directed her finger at Jay, “but rather a gift I give to myself. I hated you at first, you know,” she confessed with a regretful smile, “but the longer I thought about it, the clearer it became to me that I – we – must put an end to this hurt. We owe it to my husband to be better, do better. You and I both, Mr. Bennett.”

Jay startled as he felt Mrs. Liu’s gnarled hand closing over his. He looked at her, but soon tears blurred his vision, and he found himself sobbing like a baby, spluttering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over.

He was still crying when Father Michael walked Mrs. Liu out of the room.

That night, Jay flushed Cortau’s drugs down the toilet. The plastic bag struggled against the current, swaying up and down before being sucked down.

“Took the Browns to the Super Bowl, J-dog?” Tre’s drowsy voice called out from the bottom bunk.

“Yeah, never felt so light,” Jay murmured back.

The thought of Cortau’s payback scared him shitless, obviously. He’ll make me piss blood. But he ought to do better to be better. He owed it to the Lius. To himself. The first step is always the hardest, dawg. He smiled.