The 24th Letter

TEN

Guard Lyle Johnson waited twenty minutes. Spelling ought to be sleeping about now, he thought. Johnson swallowed the last bit of cold coffee in the Styrofoam cup and walked into Sam Spelling’s room. Johnson’s Department of Corrections black shoes made a hollow sound as he stepped to the nightstand.

The caffeine and Dexedrine put him on edge. His hands were moist, mind racing. A con getting better medical treatment than most taxpayers. All because he was shot. Nineteen years wearing a corrections officer uniform-a job that wouldn’t get a private hospital room. Maybe it’s ‘cause of the damn media-the shooting-all over the news. Maybe it was ‘cause nobody gives a shit about the nobodies.

He peered into the brown sack, reached in, and lifted out the folded paper. Johnson looked over his shoulder at the closed door. He opened the paper and began reading, the further down the page he got, the wider his eyes became. Johnson let out a low whistle and mumbled, “Un-fuckin’ believable.”

“What are you doing?”

Lyle Johnson spun around. Father John Callahan stood at the door with his arms folded over his chest.

“Nothing,” Johnson said, lowering his hand with the paper.

“What do you have there?”

“Nothing.”

Father Callahan stepped closer. He could read his name on the yellow legal paper. He said, “As an officer with the state, I would think that security, confidentiality, would mean something to you. That’s marked for me-confidential.”

“With all due respect preacher, no such thing as personal property for an inmate.”

“You’re not holding personal property, you’re holding a private letter, a confession, addressed to me. I asked that man to write it. As a spiritual confession, it’s a sacred trust between God and one of his children.”

Johnson said nothing. He made no effort to move.

“Give it to me. That man, regardless of his past, is trying to make amends with our Lord. This could be his last statement-his last wish on earth. I won’t let you deny him, because right now God’s law supersedes your regulations.”

Johnson’s eyelids lowered, a red patch forming on his bull neck. He slowly lifted the piece of paper. “Take it. I didn’t read it anyway.”

Father Callahan took the paper and placed it between the pages of the Bible he carried. He glanced down at Spelling, who was in a deep drug-induced sleep, breathing slow, mechanical pulses thumping. Monitors filled the room with a bluish tint. He looked at Johnson’s nametag. “I’m praying for this man. He’s more than a prison number. His name’s Sam Spelling. And, Mr. Johnson, I will pray for you, too.”

Johnson snorted, turned around and left the room. Father Callahan watched Spelling sleep a moment. He placed his hand on Spelling’s forehead and whispered, “Our heavenly Father, you kept this man well under surgery. You have a larger purpose for him, I pray, and I pray that he will live the rest of his life in service to you. Amen.”