Terminal

Michelle only came to visit once a month, since it was a four-and-a-half-hour drive from Hanover. She brought T. J. to the prison once, on the first visit, and that just about broke all three of us. He couldn’t understand why he had to talk to Daddy through a telephone, and why I couldn’t come around to the other side of the thick glass window and give him a hug. I’ve never seen him cry so hard.

I didn’t sleep that night, and a few days later, Michelle and I agreed it would probably be better not to bring him. I don’t call them, because you can only call collect from prison and we don’t have the money for that.

Her last visit was two months ago, and the last letter I got from her was yesterday. It wasn’t even from Michelle. It was from her attorney, letting me know that she was initiating divorce proceedings. I didn’t expect that, but I guess I can’t blame her. I’d love to know where she got the fucking money to do that, though. Maybe another guy. I can’t picture her and T. J. with someone else. Can’t imagine her making love to another man or T. J. calling someone else Daddy. It makes my stomach hurt in ways the cancer never did. It’s a hollow, wrenching kind of pain.

That’s all. There’s nothing else to tell.

Okay, well there is one other thing.

I said that except for Roy, I didn’t know what had happened to any of the hostages. But I know what happened to Roy after the trial. And I know what happened to Sandy, Sheila and Benjy’s dog. And to John. Especially John.

Sandy was the first, just a brief end-of-the-broadcast item on the news. “A tragic ending to this brave dog’s story.” They recounted how Benjy was killed in the bank by a stray bullet, and how Sheila had committed suicide by stepping in front of a bus one month later. Apparently, Sandy was taken to one of these no-kill animal shelters after Sheila’s death, and got adopted by a new family. She’d been with her new owners for a week when she was hit by a car. They found her in the yard, dead. There were no witnesses. In fact, nobody heard brakes or tires, or even the sound of Sandy yelping. One minute she was playing in the yard. The next minute, she was roadkill. That was two weeks ago. Roy’s obituary appeared in the paper last week. He died of a sudden massive heart attack. The newspaper mentioned that he was a retired sales representative for the foundry, and that he was survived by several nieces and nephews, just like he’d told us in the vault. A sidebar article mentioned that he’d been a hostage during the robbery. John died last night.

Even though we’re both in the same prison, I’ve never seen him. I haven’t seen him since the robbery. I wanted to, but he was in A block and I was in D. We had no contact with each other, and inmates aren’t allowed to send each other mail, even if they’re in the same prison. He was here. My best friend was here with me the whole time, imprisoned inside this fucking building, and I couldn’t see him because we were on different blocks. Each block takes meals and goes out into the yard at different times. I kept hoping that I’d run into him in the library one day, but I never did. John never was the type to read.

One of the correctional officers told me about it at breakfast this morning. They found him in his cell around midnight. He was dead. The coroner hadn’t released an official report yet, of course, but the cause of death appeared to be a gunshot wound to the stomach. That was impossible, since none of the inmates, the guards, or even his cellmate had heard a shot. It was unlikely that a pistol could have been smuggled into the prison in any case. They’d tested his cellmate for powder residue, since the two of them were locked in their cell at the time. There was no trace. Now A block is locked down and everybody is being questioned. They want to talk to me later today too. Routine questioning, they said. But there’s nothing routine about it. What am I supposed to tell them? That the hole in John’s belly is the one that Kelvin put there?

That Benjy healed it and now that he’s dead it’s come back? That Benjy could perform miracles and the miracles died with him?

At least I tried to save him. At least there’s that. Look, I don’t know what the final outcome is. I don’t care if you believe in what Benjy could do or not. All I know is that I believe. I wanted proof and I got that proof. But I never meant for Benjy to get harmed. That’s not what I wanted.

Life handed me a crap hand. But I played the cards I was dealt. I still don’t know what happens to us when we die, but I know this— I tried to do the right thing. In the end, when everything turned to shit because of my stupid, fucked-up mistake, I tried to do the right thing. And in my heart, I believed.

I still do. I don’t know if that gives me redemption or absolution, but I know that, wherever he is, Benjy has forgiven me. He knows I tried to save him, and he knows that I’ve found belief. Maybe that’s enough.