CONVERGENCE: Redemption Book II

By Ronan James Cassidy

THE REDEMPTION SERIES: 100 years after Margaret Anne transformed an American family, comes the profound 4-part finale to the Calhoun saga.

BOOK TWO: Convergence


Sacrifice birthed the unsettled world of Margaret Anne. Now, only surrender can pave the way for closure.

Benjamin Mattingly Sonneman, a prisoner and captive to the sins of the past, has been tasked with delivering an ancient and valuable cross to its rightful guardian and heir – his estranged child – in Baltimore. As he prepares for his journey, he learns of the inspirational history behind the artifact, the shadowy lineage that binds cross to child, and receives warnings of the adversities he will confront along the way.

Soon after embarking on his quest, time spent with his dubious travel companion begins to unravel the miserable realities of Matthew’s own haunted past and illuminate the mistakes that ensnared him within the unstoppable odyssey of the cross.

When Matthew repeatedly ignores reminders regarding the importance of his faith and the traditions of those he represents on his sacred pilgrimage, he must answer to the consequences
of his choices.

And with every added hurdle to his course, the crushing storm of uncertainty over what truly awaits him in Baltimore relentlessly intensifies, threatening to consume him whole.


“Convergence” is the captivating continuation of the Redemption series, uncovering the next intricate layer to the Margaret Anne saga of fate, faith, and reckoning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823006736

Ronan James Cassidy

Ronan James Cassidy is the award-winning novelist of Margaret Anne and the Redemption series that follows. Mr. Cassidy has spent time living in various regions throughout the United States. His primary field of interest is colonial literature from the Americas, Ireland, Africa, and India. Mr. Cassidy has also spent the last twelve years studying the evolution of the current monetary order. Ronan was inspired to write Margaret Anne and the Redemption series as a loose yet captivating metaphor for his journey towards devoted faithfulness to God and the tearing down of the veils of deceit so rampant in the modern age. His website is https://ronanjamescassidy.com. In addition to his three beautiful daughters, his beautiful girlfriend, his father, his four brothers, and his stepmother, all of Mr. Cassidy’s writings are dedicated to the tireless hours his devoted mother spent living her life as an eternal example of the joys of enduring love and assisting her son with the creation of his published works. Mr. Cassidy’s credentials include a Bachelor’s degree in English from Boston College and a Master’s Degree in Business Administration from Vanderbilt University’s Owen Graduate School of Management. Mr. Cassidy’s first novel, Margaret Anne, which was released in the summer of 2022, has been featured in the US Review of Books and has won the following awards: • Named to the Short List for the 2023 Hawthorne Prize • Winner of the 2023 Firebird Book Award: Religious Fiction • Honorable Mention: 2023 London Book Festival: General Fiction • Finalist: 2023 Montaigne Medal • Nominated for the 2023 Eric Hoffer Award • BookFest Book Awards 2023: 3rd Place: Literary Fiction/Historical • Spring 2023 Reader's Choice Book Awards: Finalist: Best Book for Adults • eLit Awards 2023: Bronze Medalist: Religious Fiction • Winner of the March 2023 Literary Titan Gold Book Award: Historical Fiction • Maincrest Media Book Award 2023: Literary Fiction

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© 2023 Ronan James Cassidy. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/18/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0674-3 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0673-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023907384

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Scripture quotations marked NKJV are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

CONTENTS

To My girls

To My editor

To My brother

Prologue

Chapter 1:    Perdition

Chapter 2:    Les Affaires de l’Ascendance

Chapter 3:    The Siren of the Golden Cross

Chapter 4:    The Song of the Siren

Chapter 5:    Le Commercant

Chapter 6:    Passage into the West

Chapter 7:    Focal Point

Chapter 8:    Songs of Emancipation

Chapter 9:    Extrication

Chapter 10:  Musings

About the Author

TO MY GIRLS

I put these words down to give permanence to our time here, which must and will come to pass. But know that our love is eternally bound and preciously held by the Lord. My greatest hope is that you will find my love in your heart always and that it will be a beacon to guide you home on your darkest days.

TO MY EDITOR

Without the eternal gifts of your unbound and gracious love, always dedicated and never wavering guidance, and tender and merciful care never bound by expectation; your unending sacrifice and your ever hopeful eye towards the days ahead and the simple pleasures never to be overlooked in this life, none of this would have been possible. Being able to share this project with you has been an adventure I will always remember as I do your heartfelt smile, the warming embraces that always brought sweet sunshine to even the sourest of days and the proud, loving, and delighted look in your eye whenever we parted ways. There are no words to express the feeling in my heart but I hope that there were times enough when it showed all the same. I love you and miss you lots and lots, forever and always. I thank you from the bottom of my bursting heart!

TO MY BROTHER

There is love even in our darkest hours. And while our worlds were often apart and the things left unsaid or done can only be amended through the gifts of today, I will always cherish your desire to set me free of those chains fastened to the bedrock of the past. If I can say one thing beyond thank you and I’m sorry, it would be to let you know that the gifts you have given will shine on forever, and the things of the past, once stained by the imperfections of the present, will return with the shine of the heavens, reborn and known in their proper majesty. That is the power and the truth of the love that comes from your heart, even when those things you cherish are set to endure the sorrows that will one day shape the rebirth of your eternal hope in the things once said, though not yet duly regarded.

PROLOGUE

There are certain truths manifested in earthly love that are etched into the fabric of our lives, our souls, our spirit. They are indelible pieces of art that tell the very story of who we are. A story made permanent and sung throughout the heavens. These truths are indisputable and beautiful and protected in their innocence and sincerity by the glory of God. This world shall never have them but know they do mark the time we all have shared and are a source of eternal light. We carry the truth of God’s love with us always.

SEEDING THE ARC OF HISTORY

Chapter 1

PERDITION

A ccording to the sometimes difficult to transcribe handwritten text etched into the black notebook with pens of differing types during May of 1977, though the notations were also relevant to certain days, months, and years that occurred before the author rendered his memories into words during that fateful spring season, more than three years would come to pass before the man that left her on the beach would receive word from that phantom siren of the shifting tides. By the time the first of her letters arrived out of the blue, fate had already played its hand. The father of the boy conceived of the promise of that eternal sunrise was nearly three years into a prison sentence. She had informed him that they had a son and politely requested that he come and meet David once he was able to do so. Four more years remained until he would be eligible for parole or an early commutation of his sentence.

The former of those two aforementioned scenarios was highly probable given the societal advantages of any boy being raised with the supplemental provisions of a reasonably capable father. The latter proposition, however, was still regarded as a fact that was nothing short of impossible in the mind of the hapless prisoner on the morning when he read the first of her clever and hope-filled missives. On the night he crossed paths with the boy’s mother on the beach walk, he was still capable of dwelling within the light and the darkness on a nearly equivalent basis. Yet, by the time he had received the first letter from that beautiful yet fallen former matron of Charleston society in prison, he was, by way of both a necessity to survive and a further hardening of all of the sensitivities of his soul, almost entirely shrouded in darkness. Moreover, he was losing touch with his ability to entertain even the subtle pleasantries and more sanguine expectations of the civilized world as he knew it not so terribly long ago. Though there were few to notice the woeful transformation, he was by all accounts near to becoming an empty being, one who no longer saw any benefit to acknowledging, let alone engaging, his humanity. In that regard, her unexpected correspondence was timely.

For indeed, when the first of her warmly couched missives arrived, the boy’s father received the letters with little interest in either the breathtaking woman with ties to the brighter days of his past or the young boy who belonged to the climax of the last of his fond memories. He was already that far gone. Thankfully, her words did manage to plant a seed that would bear fruit in another season. At first, he read the letters that would continue to arrive as a way to escape his boredom. He even responded to her now and again for the same reason. He sent unenthusiastic, though serviceable, letters to the various resorts and towns she jumped to and from with the changing of the seasons. He asked dull questions regarding what life was like in the outside world, and he inquired about how little David Michael had been progressing along with the affairs of an impressionable young lad.

The boy’s father felt no disdain for the woman or his little boy, mind you. Thoughts of the outside world and a life beyond the walls of that prison were simply a luxury that he could not afford. Not if he wanted to stay as frosty as ice and remain cognizant of his need to act without feeling at all times and under any circumstance. He had learned that a detached protocol in regard to conducting his daily affairs was required of him if he wished to remain alive in a place such as the Goody in the years following the Civil Rights Movement and the long-awaited widespread desegregation of South Carolina’s public schools. He was the minority on the inside. There were plenty of inmates who would have gladly killed him for little more than his creamy upbringing. Beyond that, he had been shunned by those same vaunted connections of the past that evinced such hatred from those within the penitentiary, and there were none that he knew of that would advocate for him in those unspoken ways of preserving one of their own. He was alone, and he existed in a very precarious state.

As more time passed, the father of the boy, who would much later in life arrange to have Mr. Cassidy cornered on that misconnecting flight from Chicago to Birmingham, was generally overrun by fear, self-loathing, and self-condemnation. He had digressed to the point that he valued nothing, save small doses of shared misery and, at times, the aching desire to exact vengeance upon anything that might suffer the torments of his rage in accordance with the desolation someone or something was forcing him to endure. He was desperately lonely and hurting, though he had nearly repressed those weaker feelings that belonged to the illusions of his childhood. Still and all, he was not capable of harming another living soul if unprovoked. Therefore, he was generally useless to the small-time gangs of misfits that would have bothered to take him into their fold. He remained in isolation and was always exposed. There were many days that he did not expect to return to his cell for lights out, and he wondered who might know that he was no more. He wondered who might care.

As he drifted off to sleep at night, cursed by fits of terror, it remained his solitary hope to exact some undefined retribution upon those who had contributed to his suffering on the outside and a few of those who riddled his mind with fear and misery while he was trapped behind those prison walls. Sadly, such beguiling hopes, however impossible to achieve, were the nexus of his desires that carried him through those lonely days, which were devoid of solace. While he subsisted in prison as some dark and malignant caricature of his once prominent self, nurtured by his survival instincts alone, the boy’s father withheld his commitment to come live with the boy and his mother when he left prison.

By 1976, following an extended period of relative silence, he had received multiple requests from the boy’s mother to join them when they were permanently settled someplace new. He was given no reason as to why her correspondence had stopped for a time and then continued with a far greater sense of urgency, but he possessed a notion as to why somewhere deep inside. For a time, neither the depths of her resolve, borne out by that fluid blue pen, nor the allure of the fanciful projections laced within her soliloquy, would sway the obstinate and dejected man. He did not want to lie to the woman about his perilous condition, nor did he wish to tell her the truth about his failed and dismal life. He simply possessed no practical reason to hold out hope, and he saw no advantage in openly speaking of the fact that the odds of his ever escaping his confinement while he still lived and breathed were rather slight.

Sadly, he had no way of knowing the dire condition that she was in while making those repeated offers of a place to stay when he was released. He put off the requests primarily by withholding his expected release date and then expounding upon his position by saying that he may not be a free man until the arrival of the new decade. The boy would be eight by then, he reasoned, and she would have found a man of proper standing to care for their needs. Then one day, everything changed. In the morning, on the way to the mess for breakfast, the boy’s father killed a man. He had no way of knowing it then, nor would he have understood the meaning behind such an inconceivable notion had someone told him outright, but the incident would disrupt a delicate balance that had held sway for those tied to the Calhoun family since Miss Shy Jolie Basseterre had been exiled to Haiti with a certain cross of gold back in the 1870s.

His attacker on that dour morning was an innately timid man by the name of Julius Winston Brown. Mr. Brown had come upon him suddenly with a sharpened screwdriver while he and his fellow inmates were making their way from their cells to the morning repast. The boy’s father had been marked to be killed as part of Julius’s initiation into a higher-level gang, a gang proclaiming to be affiliated in some way with the Black Mafia, which had chapters located throughout the country. The primary reason given for his being chosen as the sacrificial lamb was simply that he had failed to become associated with any of the prison gangs or even one of the more informal brotherhoods. He became the mark because he was a lone wolf, so to speak, and, therefore, expendable without the consumption of any precious political capital. At least that was how things were conveyed to Mr. Brown prior to the initial assault and what followed. The truth of the matter was quite different.

Julius was a small-time thief serving a sentence for grand larceny, but only because the purse he had attempted to snatch contained some highly valuable jewelry. He had only attempted the contemptible feat in response to a piddling dare made by a notorious troublemaker in his neighborhood. Julius’s conviction and sentencing were both the results of the standard mentality of the criminal justice system, which focused more on removing the threat of dangerous minorities from low-income areas than on any sort of productive rehabilitation for those brought before the court as it existed at that time. In many ways, the criminal justice system of 1977 had already morphed into something of a control mechanism for politicians and other people of power looking to enforce their will upon certain classes of citizens when constitutional and other legislative provisions prohibited them from using a broader legal framework to do so. Corruption and greed were already becoming major problems that were bordering on systemic, problems that served to further blur the lines that common sense would have otherwise dictated if societal harmony and justice, or at least a proper working equilibrium between the just and the unjust, were the true intention of the American criminal justice system.

Beyond that of a small-time felon and a pledge to one of the more prominent gangs in the prison, Julius Brown was also the seventh child of his mother, though he wasn’t certain who his father was. That little-known fact concerning Julius was probably true for a good reason. His mother was a righteous and industrious woman who gave everything she had to provide for her family, but there was no telling what unfortunate circumstances had caused her to deliver a seventh child long after her dutiful husband had died. Another unfortunate provision of his childhood was that Julius was neglected. He was not in any way neglected due to the lack of genuine love that the preponderance of mothers possess for their children, but due to the unfortunate and unending necessities of provision foisted upon his solitary caregiver. She was a single parent of seven children, working multiple jobs every day of the week.

Julius Winston Brown was woefully undereducated yet bright in the way of a dreamer. While those characteristics were ideal for keeping his mind occupied and his person generally out of trouble when none bothered over his affairs or his whereabouts, Mr. Brown lacked the confidence required to deal with the practical, and in some instances, harsh, matters that governed life in his down at the heel neighborhood, and most certainly a cutthroat’s paradise such as the Goody. Those facts, when taken as a whole, caused Julius to be treated with a permanent privation of respect and standing by those among the higher ranks of the social hierarchy in his community. Things were no different for him on the inside, and the issue was far more pronounced. Julius was a loner, and even the few who bothered to listen to him on the rare occasions when he spoke loud enough for someone to hear him paid him no mind. In the opinion of most, he was a non-event and far too soft to fret over.

The only true friend Julius ever had was a mentor who had helped him with his schoolwork back when he was eight years old. That soulful gentleman seemed more imagined than real to Julius by the time he went away to prison at age 22, but that man had made his bones running the worst of the corner boys out of the neighborhood long before Julius’s time, and he was someone who had cared about young Mr. Brown and his prospects. The colorful, God-filled man made the long journey from the farm he retired to outside of Columbia to Julius’s school twice a week. His primary objective was to help the failing boy learn, but there were many afternoons when the two did little more than talk shop. The knowledgeable gentleman had a patient ear, and he spent hours listening to the impractical concoctions of the mind of that misfit dreamer of a child, who possessed no other outlet to express his God-given gifts.

Julius was harmless where it concerned his impulses, but he would do just about anything to receive approval and affirmation from his peers if achieving such a thing were even remotely possible. Most of the time, he never bothered to try, but that need to belong to something, given the unfortunate and inadvertent inattention of his childhood, was always present. Julius hadn’t the slightest idea how he might go about harming someone, let alone taking their life. Accordingly, the gang’s administrative henchman, a man by the name of Brady Boo Johnson, thought there was a fair chance that nothing would come of the matter put before Julius as part of his initiation unless he got personally involved. And get involved he did, though the affair appeared to be an insignificant formality that was typically overseen by those with more common credentials.

Boo was deviously hopeful as it concerned the outcome of Julius’s task. He behaved as if he had some skin in that seemingly low-priority, or even altogether irrelevant, game. The few members of the gang who knew about the planned killing first believed that Boo was simply looking for a few laughs, which would be promptly followed by Julius’s return to full-time work in the shop with the rest of the undeclared inmates; those who lacked any of the attributes valued by the fierce clans, brotherhoods, and gangs within the prison. When stated with the benefit of proper context, Julius’s return to his rightful diversion for the duration of the time he remained an inmate. Julius simply wasn’t gang material. Beyond that, he was not worthy of being sent after a target of interest since his chances of arriving at a successful outcome were less likely than the dry armpits of the town whore in church.

Julius was a token nobody to someone like Boo, and his misplaced baying to prove his worth was only a minor irritant to those of Mr. Johnson’s loyal tribe. Some of the more seasoned inmates believed that the only useful protocol associated with Julius’s dispatch was to find out what the quiet cracker boy was all about. That boy had been roughed up a few times and more than held his own. That boy, however, had the thousand-yard stare of someone, nay, something, far too unsettled for Boo’s liking. In a darker sense, perhaps watching that white boy blow his top was exactly what Boo was looking to see happen to spice things up a bit in the hold. Alternatively, maybe Boo expected someone to make a move to defend the innocent man—a move that would teach Boo something with regard to how the other gangs perceived their current standing in the prison’s pecking order. Of course, there was always the possibility that someone of consequence would make the slightest misstep in response, and Boo would leverage that emotional mistake at a time of his choosing. There was no telling when it came to someone as mean, nasty, and conniving as Boo Johnson, but there was also no denying that what he ultimately received in return was truly a religious experience.

On a Tuesday in April of 1977, Jeremiah Mason delivered a flathead screwdriver to Mr. Brown. One that had been shaved down to create a finely sharpened point at its business end. The screwdriver was wrapped loosely in a dust rag that was the color of honey mustard. Jeremiah was one of Boo’s top lieutenants and among his most trusted advisors, though he possessed a far lower rank officially due to the fact that he was one of the handful of white members in the gang. The razor-sharp point, in conjunction with the oversized handle and the uncommon length of the thickset rod, gave the fit-out a murderous efficiency. The weapon was easily concealed and well-designed to deliver a forceful thrust with the pike once the point had penetrated its intended target area.

When Jeremiah handed the modified poniard to Julius, he spoke to the woefully naive Mr. Brown with a sternly dispirited look set upon his face, Be careful, Julius, I had a twitch. This is bad business for you.

After delivering his initial warning, Jeremiah looked down at the shiv he was holding in his hand, though it was wrapped and concealed in the dust cloth, and added, This here, Julius…

Jeremiah then shook his head slowly and elevated the wrapped tool in his hand so that Julius could have a better look while he finished his thought. This here, Julius, ain’t really who you are. Don’t let this place get nothing from you.

Julius had no experience with Jeremiah or the protocols used by the outfit when they had someone put down. As such, he wished to say nothing in response to Jeremiah. He wanted to play it cool, to take his assignment like any other man. Be that as it may, Julius knew in his heart that Jeremiah was right. At times like those in a man’s life, times when the lines are drawn out, and for better or for worse, there is no returning to the person you were after those lines are crossed, the convictions of even the genuine man will flutter like the very palpitations of his impulsive heart, and rightfully so.

Julius straightened up in a desperate attempt to maintain his resolve and responded firmly to his steely-eyed overseer, It’s nothing, Jeremiah.

The well-intoned but weakly spirited words crossed Julius’s lips and dissipated into the concrete walls of the jail cell as quickly as the masquerade of his feigned indifference wilted before the dreadful look set upon the face of the man handing him the weapon. Following those quickly forgotten words, Julius dropped his head and asked the question that was beginning to torment him. What am I going to do now anyway, Jeremiah? Julius then looked down at the offering Jeremiah held in his outstretched hand and lowered his head until he saw only the tops of his poor shoes.

Jeremiah would normally not have taken the risk or spared the time to entertain anything further than his initial thoughts on the matter. However, and maybe as much to answer his own questions concerning the true nature of the man he had become in his later years as it was to do something useful for this helpless kid angling and listing into the darkness, Jeremiah answered Julius just as the timid and downward-facing young man took hold of the covered yet quite lethal rig. Maybe talk to Boo and see if you can take a pass. There ain’t nothing behind this up top, best that I can tell, Julius. Boo just got a rotten heart. He can’t stand to see that prep school boy who did his nephew in the state finals minding his business day in and day out like he was made of iron or something. On the other hand, maybe Boo is just as happy to see you get yours.

Jeremiah sharpened his eyes notably before saying, There’s no telling when it comes to Boo. What I do know, Julius, is that while running like that is not good business for Boo, it is far worse for you in this here instance.

Julius remained silent, staring down at his shoes. Jeremiah thought better of trying to do more for someone so lost, but he spoke again anyway. This place, and those of us who were fool enough to commit our lives to this cage, will be nothing more than a bad dream for you soon enough, Julius. This is all going down on an ill wind, and I’m telling you, with God as my witness, Boo just ain’t right on this one. Something stinks like shit up in here.

Jeremiah paused and thought for a second. He then poked Julius firmly and squarely in the cavity of his chest with his top two fingers to deliver his point emphatically, while adding, He ain’t right here, Jules.

Afterward, Jeremiah slowly lifted the same two fingers. He barely kept those crooked digits from touching Julius as they crossed his chin and face. When the two fingers rested just in front of Julius’s forehead, Jeremiah pressed the printed pads gently into Julius’s heated brow and concluded by saying, And he ain’t right here, Julius. Are you reading me?

Jeremiah then looked directly into Julius’s deflecting eyes as if to say, Do not miss me here, boy. The contours shifting slowly and tightly across Jeremiah’s deadly serious looking face stilled Julius instantly, though he had never summoned the courage to look straight at the aging man. Not but a few seconds later, those pointed fingers were lowered and set to rest.

Jeremiah reached out with his left hand and placed it firmly on Julius’s tense shoulder. When Jeremiah was satisfied that he had obtained Julius’s undivided attention, he spoke again. Look, Julius, you’re an okay kid. There’s no blood on your hands, but just two things here. Both are serious as a heart attack. One... Jeremiah lifted the long, crooked index finger on his left hand and bunched his remaining fingers and thumb into a fist. Jeremiah then removed his fist and extended finger from Julius’s shoulder and waved his outstretched finger gradually and purposefully about an inch away from Julius’s nose, as if he were scenting a dog to its own offered excrement. What I am telling you about Boo and the decision you need to make now is true.

Two, Jeremiah raised his middle finger alongside his index finger and pointed those outstretched fingers directly in front of Julius’s right eye to once again perfect his emphasis. Word that what we talked about right here gets out to anyone, I’ll put this here shiv that Graeme made special for that preppy boy down your eye until you can taste it.

Fear flashed hollow in Julius’s eyes, and he clenched his back teeth until they gnashed audibly. Jeremiah put his fingers down and put his hand back to rest on Julius’s shoulder. Following an awkward silence, Jeremiah shook Julius’s shoulder playfully in the manner of someone prodding a shook-up friend back to their more cheerful senses. Jeremiah queried Julius one last time as he softened him up. You want to stand up for yourself. I get it, Julius. I have seen plenty like you in here before. Now answer me this. How you gonna go about doing that?

Julius shook the rag he had received from Jeremiah pointedly yet cautiously with both hands. When Jerimiah’s eyes grew wide in the manner of one expressing a curious form of disbelief, Julius slowly undressed the instrument with his right hand while standing just inside the open bars of the cell door. Julius ran his left index finger along the razor-sharp point of the shiv and pressed the tip firmly enough to inadvertently draw a small drop of blood. After that, Julius looked up at Jeremiah with the widening eyes of an innocent boy and announced, This will do it then, huh, Jeremiah?

Jeremiah answered candidly, though his continuing reservations were not to be missed in the sallow tone of his inflection. Yes, Julius. Graeme has it whittled down and the handle fattened so that you can put a hole in a man’s skull with the motion of a slap if needed. Shit, knowing Graeme, that wicked outfit would probably pierce armor with enough force behind it. But like I said, Julius, you’re not for this. Walk it back. Be your own man for once in this life before you don’t get the chance to do that no more. Telling Boo it’s not for you is far more courageous than getting the drop on someone that don’t even know he up.

Julius looked up at Jeremiah wide-eyed and helpless, like a stupefied man-child no longer comfortable with the intentions of a newly revealed toy. Jeremiah was losing hope and patience with the doltish man standing before him. Again, you didn’t hear any of that here, Julius, but it’s hard to tell if you even listening.

Seeing no response from Julius to his more subtly delivered prodding, Jeremiah elevated his voice considerably, yet kept its reverberations from being forceful enough to take flight down the hall. Well shit, you better listen to what I have to say again, mother fucker! If I find out you let it slip, I swear upon my blackened soul, I’ll jam that pic through your head cheese from the bottom of your jaw myself.

Jeremiah paused to regain his composure and then added some far more amiable color to his prior threat for Julius’s benefit. I am not situated like you, Julius. I done lost most of my chips long ago. I’m just as likely to go all-in now with a busted straight as I am with a straight flush. Don’t much matter to me.

Julius finally snapped to it, and rather suddenly. No, Sir, he sounded off in reply while staring down at the thick-handled lancelet. He was trying to imagine what it would feel like to puncture someone’s insides with the length of that metal rod.

Jeremiah shook Julius a bit to discharge the remaining glass from his eyes. Alright then, get that thing out of sight. Go see Boo tomorrow after the roll call and tell him what’s up. Now, get on back to your bunk and get your head straight. You gonna need to be ready. Boo don’t like to be told no.

Yes, Sir, responded Julius emphatically while quickly covering the weapon with the cloth. Jeremiah turned coldly away from Mr. Brown and departed the cell with a watchful glance to the left and a swift turn to the right. Jeremiah continued down the cellblock hall while Julius quickly put the rag and its contents beneath his pillow. When the echoing clicks of Jeremiah’s footsteps could no longer be heard out in the corridor, Julius continued to stand there dumbfounded, thinking only of a more permanent hiding spot for the deadly contraband.

The following morning, Julius went out of his cell and cautiously merged into the regular flow of inmates walking down the block. He kept pace with the prisoners next to him until he came upon Boo’s cell. Julius hadn’t slept well after considering Jeremiah’s counsel and coming face-to-face with the reality that he wasn’t equipped to complete the task required for his initiation. Normally, Julius would have relished the opportunity to garner even a moment of Boo’s attention, but on that day, he drifted into Mr. Johnson’s cell lost, uncertain, and filled with dread. That was no way to confront a cunning demon like Brady Boo Johnson. Demonstrating emotion in any form was always a losing proposition while standing before such a perpetual taker among men. A taker was all that Boo was back then, all that he could remember being, and all that he was certain to remain.

As fate would have it, Boo was coming off of a bad night. He had lost some political leverage in the ongoing skirmishes over the supremacy of the prison’s narcotics trade. The direct result of the unfortunate events of the prior evening was that Boo was now at the mercy of a powerful outside influence to which only he had become beholden. This left Boo somewhat vulnerable on all sides, and he did not favor such an inauspicious predicament. In fact, he had spent the majority of his life trying to avoid such politically bereft conditions for even the shortest of spans. While the prison’s drug trade in and of itself was small-time stuff to those working the hustle out in the real world, for those living in the confined ecosystem of that caged dormitory, the trade, as it was casually known, was life and death commerce for two reasons: First off, the addicts valued their fix above all else; and secondly, for those surviving on the inside and working for any minute sense of purpose they could find, pushing drugs offered a rare opportunity to gain respect and experience at least a minor sense of accomplishment.

For no apparent reason, or at least a reason not yet made clear to the outside observer, Julius’s task at hand had suddenly become Boo’s officially stated act of retribution for the prior night’s fiasco of sorts. In reality, Julius’s assignment now served a far more functional purpose. Strangely enough, and for reasons not understood by Mr. Johnson, the loner’s death had become the payment in kind demanded by those unseen yet powerful forces. The ones who had upset the balance of power in the prison and unexpectedly rendered Boo impotent regarding the matter of actually addressing the cause of his deep and incurable frustrations with the current state of affairs on the inside. With all of the aforementioned given in the vein of establishing proper context, it should be noted that Boo saw Julius enter the cell out of the corner of his left eye while he was addressing a few of the lower-level convicts who were the typical sort that filled out Boo’s ranks.

When Boo saw Julius enter the cell, he motioned with a quick and almost unnoticeable lift of his hand. The gesture was directed at the prison bangers he was speaking to in regard to cleaning up the prior night’s mess once Julius had put a hole into the back of the cracker’s head. Almost immediately, following Boo’s rather discreet hand gesticulation, the conversation came to a halt and the men turned and departed the cell. They passed by Julius on his left side and eyed him ever so briefly with a combination of disinterest and hateful displeasure, which was so common to their nature. The indifference and disdain of their passing glances immediately shook what little resolve Julius had managed to muster for his brief entente with Boo on that fine spring day back in April of 1977.

When the two men were comfortably past Julius and on their way down the hall of the cellblock, Boo turned to Julius and offered up his hand to welcome him. Julius, still stammering through his disjointed thoughts and now rendered off balance by the rough glares of Boo’s prior guests, reached out and shook Boo’s hand without the usual compulsion and reverence of their past encounters. Boo didn’t miss many subtleties while living inside those prison walls, and Julius’s shallow handshake was not one of those overlooked nuances. As such, he quickly took advantage of the absence of Julius’ wits to bypass any window of opportunity for the nearly trembling Mr. Brown to revoke his commitment to the matter at hand.

Julius! exclaimed Boo with a broad and confident smile. Tomorrow is your big day! Now, before we get into the who, and very much against the customs of the brotherhood, by the way, I have decided to offer you a little professional assistance with the how. I will tell you about those forbidden lessons on becoming a man, all because I like you.

Julius, who was looking a bit puzzled, dropped his right hand as Boo withdrew the embrace of his formidable grip. Julius looked up at Boo but refrained from making eye contact with his host by loosely focusing on the areas of Boo’s scarred face that were close to his eyes. Shortly thereafter, Julius became inadvertently fixated on a particularly thick scar. One that had healed without the assistance of proper medical treatment. The scar ran down the left side of Boo’s face, from his eye to his jaw muscle. While wholly distracted by that unpleasant brand of sorts, which added a rather menacing element to Boo’s already rugged mien, Julius asked a very simple question in response to Mr. Johnson’s opening statement. What you mean by that, Boo?

Boo smiled sidelong at Julius and responded with a light yet friendly condescension, which not only confirmed his elevated station amongst the bedraggled denizens of the prison’s primitive caste system, but also leveled upon its listener a certain trustworthiness that captivated the imagination of the already lost and bedazzled Mr. Brown. Well, Julius, I know that you got the heart for the crew. But heart ain’t everything. I just want to make sure that, due to your lack of experience and all, your initiation goes smoothly. I don’t want to see you fail, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.

I don’ wanna do nothin’ the wrong way, Boo, replied Julius, while acutely seizing upon the small opening to step away that Boo had unintentionally offered him.

Boo picked right up on where Julius was headed with his rebuttal. He tightened up his eyes some, gave Julius a good once over, and said, These decisions have been made with nothin’ but your benefit in mind. Therefore, I’m sending you over to see Melvin Marcades in the E block. Melvin has killed just about anything that ever done crossed him, and he done it in ways that you or I can’t even imagine. The good news for you, Julius, is that Melvin has graciously offered to give you a few pointers.

Julius remained silent, which was perfectly fine by Boo, as it allowed him to remind Julius that he was receiving special treatment. Again, this is very much against the code, Julius. But you can think of it as a special one-time personal favor from me to you. I know I have already mentioned it, but I need you to understand that all of these things I do for you, I do them only because I like you, Jules. I want to see you make it and be a big part of the brotherhood under my wing.

Boo had begun to pace slowly to and fro. His hands became animated while he spoke those words to Julius. Be that as it may, Boo was already considering those things beyond the issues surrounding his morning visitor. The oversight caused him to miss a step in making his calculations. Boo was thinking through the broader context of the game. He was intricately calibrating his strategy regarding those items of interest to be negotiated once Julius had killed the preppy, gas station robbing, white boy, and young Mr. Brown was to be given up for the cause. What Boo missed in his hurried assessment of the situation was the presence of Jeremiah. His long-time confidant was a necessary cog in the plan. However, Jeremiah’s capacity to adeptly reason beyond the weak ass bullshit Boo was offering up to the crew as his reason to have the white boy murdered by the harmless daydreamer, the harmless daydreamer who was just about the only person in the prison that would unwittingly take on such low and yellow work, was something Boo would have done well to regard in a more discerning manner.

After a short pause lingered between the two men standing in Boo’s open cell, Boo grew a bit agitated by Julius’s dimly displayed array of wits. He disposed of the small talk, the lies, and the false adulation for the sake of directly making his point. He gave Julius his marching orders outright. You go see Melvin at around four. He’ll be out in the yard. Then, go meet up with the uppity prep school boy who done hated the likes of you since he was on breastmilk. Meet him in the morning and let him know what you are all about, Mr. Julius Brown. I don’t know how else to say this, but it’s a big day for you tomorrow. We all need you to get this done right.

After hearing the words that committed him to a fate he still did not fully understand, Julius locked eyes with Boo for an instant. He was unable to look upon the frightful distortions of Boo’s angry stare for long. Julius’s head returned to facing the floor the moment he perceived the hateful derision couched within Boo’s returning glower. He was once again looking down awkwardly at the joke that was his poor shoes. Shortly thereafter, he lost what remained of his flickering sand to hold his ground with Boo as Jeremiah had suggested.

Julius was left to focus his troubled thoughts on the strange abstraction of wondering what had happened to the canvas sneakers he used to wear while wandering the cracked and uneven sidewalks of his neighborhood. He had walked the neighborhood for days at a time, absent any guidance or care at home. One of those times, he was directed solely by his discovery of a vacated prize that turned up underneath a discarded bottle top. There were tiny little unclaimed treasures to be found in those days, and they were cleverly hidden beneath the rubber seals of those caps. Though it had nothing to do with the grave predicament he faced at that moment, he wondered if perhaps the few winners he had found back then were still carefully hidden in his sock drawer at home.

Boo could easily read and, if needed, empathize with the pleading sadness and confusion set upon Julius’s naturally more eager countenance. Beyond that, the raw fear Boo rightly construed to be building within Julius’s dilating pupils, and the anger growing in wait with each intensifying moment of anxiety, was like a hidden conflagration buried in the brush waiting to consume the forest when the heat of the day became too much to bear. Suffering through the torments of such a condition was exactly how Boo wanted Julius. He wanted him confused, scared, angry, agitated, and most importantly, wholly reliant on the deceitful graces of Mr. Brady Boo Johnson. Julius’s readily visible weakness and vulnerability did not, however, invoke even the slightest feeling of sympathy or concern from Boo. In Boo’s eyes, there were only two options in a place like that. You could use someone up or get used up. Boo had finished with submitting to the latter a long time ago.

Julius’s weakness and heartfelt timidity actually began to anger Boo. Those feelings so openly displayed by Mr. Brown angered him for the sole reason that softness was now a direct hazard to Boo’s very necessary, but as of yet somewhat unclear, motivations. Those despicably effeminate emotions of Julius were a direct threat to his newly reaffirmed purpose concerning the one-time prep school boy, who was known only for his silence but must surely be wound up way too tightly. Whether that boy knew it or not, the unsettled cracker had enemies in high places. Moreover, they were enemies that were willing and capable of relieving Boo’s undying itch to get above the halfwits running things in that hamster wheel, as Mr. Johnson liked to colorfully portray the choice social order of the penitentiary with his few yet powerful outside influences. And so it was that while Julius stood before Boo just then, the subconscious pleadings written all over Julius’s face only served to feed Boo’s irascible desire for retribution and to inflict anguish upon someone.

As it regarded Julius’s thoughts on the matter of Boo’s tempestuously souring disposition, it seemed to Julius, while he stood nearly trembling before Mr. Johnson, that Boo’s satisfaction had become wholly tied to his ability to make someone feel pain and know the permanence behind the terrifying throes of death. The matter of that long goodnight was an acutely perceived fear of Mr. Johnson’s that he never revealed openly or even acknowledged. Instead, Boo eased that incessant fear through the satisfaction he took from the honorable and necessary act of vengeful execution, which enabled him to experience some form of ill-conceived control over the terrors he battled in regard to his certain but still future demise and what was certain to follow. Thus, when Julius began to twitch a bit and then nervously tick, the look of impotence set upon Mr. Brown’s schoolboy face began to cause Boo to rage in the depths of his soul.

Boo did not allow a whit of his sullying rage to be made manifest to Julius. He was far too polished for something so callow. Boo maintained a facial platitude of absolute and matter-of-fact certainty regarding Julius’s commitment to his initiation pledge. If the look could have conveyed the spoken word, it would have said, That’s just the way things are around these parts, my friend. Surely, if I am going to be on the short end of anything while I’m locked up in this cage with these animals, it’s this milksop shaking in his shoes, or that white boy who thinks he can just keep to hisself, that’s gonna have their lights put out to keep this circus going. Making things impersonal, whether true or entirely rationalized, was how Boo liked to blot out what little remained of his meddlesome conscious.

Julius spoke. Boo, I was thinking maybe…

Boo interjected immediately, cutting Julius short. His tone was far less sympathetic, but he didn’t raise the volume of his words. Don’t think ‘bout nothin’, Julius, except how you gonna get this done. Bandy hisself is counting on you to deliver the message. There isn’t a choice in the matter, if that’s the marble you got rolling around in that head of yours. We all, every last one of us in this outfit, been where you are, Jules, and now we all here together. You have been chosen to be the next one to come and sit beside us at our table. Go see Melvin and you’ll find what you need. You’ll find what we need from you. You’ll see.

Boo had softened his tone when he finished his reply. He understood that he would not receive that which he so unreasonably and irrationally demanded if Julius cracked. Julius, in as much as he lacked the nerve to challenge Boo, was now given over to the terms of his unfortunate circumstances. He was far too weak to talk anything of that magnitude down. Boo knew it, too. Although Mr. Johnson did not realize that Jeremiah had imparted some wisdom upon his guest, he bore down on Julius so vehemently that the very notion of rejecting him seemed suddenly preposterous. Still and all, Julius felt compelled by some driving force within to speak against the grain of the moment, as it were, and for the first time in his life, he spoke discordantly to someone of authority.

Julius’s tone remained reverent, but there was nothing lost in translation when he said, I was just thinking some, Boo, and I’m not sure that boy has it coming to him.

Boo shook his head a bit impatiently, but he calmed the menacing expression on his face considerably. His design was to invoke Julius’s trust and close this matter. Boo knew that he had Julius cornered. His primary concern at that time was to instill some confidence in the scared kid who stood raw and exposed before him. He replied calmly. Ah, Julius, it’s just business, that’s all. A warning needs to be delivered without getting the whole place up in arms. Some kind of riot or war breaking out won’t be good for nobody.

Boo began to entreat Julius with the placating motions of his hands while he provided a deeper explanation. This boy, he don’t belong to no one. So, his number just got called, Jules. Why you gonna give a shit about him for? No one else bothered with him. No one is gonna bother you over his rotten luck. He got no friends anywhere near these parts. You ain’t never going to have to watch your back because of him, or anything else, while you in here. Unless you don’t get with us. If that happens, this place can be a jungle. But that’s not news to you, or you wouldn’t be here now, would you?

Julius shook his head slowly and said, He gotta have a momma out there somewhere…

Boo snapped back, No momma is going to cry for that dark bastard, if that is what you are worried about! You just taking him exactly where he’s trying to get anyhow. That’s just life here on the inside, Jules, and that’s why we gonna be the ones to get you through it once you get this little thing done for the cause.

Julius was smart enough to see that there was no cause in this instance. There was only Boo’s anger at the current state of affairs and perhaps something more sinister. He understood that both he and the quiet white boy were nothing more than pawns set up on the board to help Boo control something or to make somebody suffer as payment in kind for some wrong served upon him. Boo’s drive to build his reputation and make his way to the top were the only things in play that morning. Beyond that, however, Julius also knew that Boo was going to see this thing through. There was no longer, if indeed there ever was, anything that might alter those firmly decided thoughts on the matter. A second rebuke from Julius wasn’t going to happen while Brady Boo Johnson still breathed air in that place.

Julius began to think about his momma and how she cried until she dried out the day he got sentenced and taken away in front of her. When that time came, Julius never believed she’d even miss him. While those troubling thoughts ran through his trembling mind, he twitched sharply with a rapid shake of his head and a noticeable pulling in of his shoulders. He beat those memories of his mother off quickly, lest he further expose another weakness to Boo. I’ll get this figured out, Julius confided to none but his thoughts in an attempt to calm his rising fear and unease concerning the escalating tensions caused by the matter squarely at hand.

Had Julius Winston Brown known the proper meaning of a Mexican standoff, or the no-win paradox, he would have correctly labeled his situation as such. Within the shuddering depths of his awareness, all he had the capacity for at that moment in time was to move on from the source of the trauma presently before him. With that instinct to flee soundly in control of his mind, Julius responded to Mr. Johnson’s remark. Yeah, Boo. You know, I’m all for you and the crew. I ain’t never gonna let you down. You have been like a brother to me when nobody else in here woulda bothered none.

In an effort to keep Julius guessing a bit, Boo turned toward the back wall of his cell while he contemplated the matter further, and then replied, Good thing, Julius. Now go get yourself square for tomorrow. It’s no easy thing to deal with a man any time he’s put up against it. You work it out of him fast, before he ever knows what got to him.

After saying that, Boo turned sharply away from the far wall and back towards Julius. He pointed his long and awkwardly bent index finger squarely between Julius’s eyes and added, Don’t cross me here, Jules, or it’s gonna get real dark and quiet up in that attic of yours.

Julius froze and his eyes widened considerably once Boo externalized that which had always been implied without question. I’m your guy, Boo. I’m your guy. You know that.

Julius spoke those words directly and with deference given to that horrible man by way of his almost sturdy inflection. His tone was actually rather impressive when one considered the depths of the horrible fright Julius had just endured by virtue of Boo’s plain and overtly delivered threat. Julius then turned to walk away. He did so deliberately so that Boo would have an opportunity to speak and close out the discussion while the awkward tempo of his motions carried him toward the open corridor of the cell block. When Boo said nothing in reply, Julius walked beyond the bars of Boo’s cell and timidly out into the hall. Boo’s extended finger slowly tracked Julius’s back, as if to mark that one as his own, until Mr. Brown was well out of sight.

The gentlemen of such high form and grace, those who had been talking with Boo before Julius’s arrival, walked back into the cell. Boo sat down on the bed and waved a flippant backhand into the air in the general direction of his unwanted visitors. I’m gonna take a nap. You two, get the fuck gone. If you broke ass bitches don’t have any product to move, go see Graeme and make sure that shank was set right without fuckin’ nothin’ up.

The men shook their heads at each other in a confounded fashion in response to Boo’s command and turned to leave the cell. On their way out, they straightened their prison-issue collars, raised their shoulders, and puffed out their chests to angle off the sting of Boo’s hasty and degrading rebuke. When the hustlers were a good distance down the hall, Boo lay down on his bed and fell off to sleep with his eyes half-closed, just as he had learned to do on the packing slats in Vietnam. He dreamt of the disfigured horrors on the white boy’s face after Julius had jammed the shank off of his skull and down the side of his cheek. Boo figured that was bound to happen on the first pass. Boo then whispered hatefully into the darkness. Who your white folk parents going to get to do their killing for them now, you mangled spack. Don’t worry, white boy, all you are and all you ever gonna hope to be, won’t be nothing but a spot on the floor soon enough.

That night, after visiting with Melvin and getting a quick primer on the best places to strike with his newly forged instrument of destruction, along with some other tutorials on the finer points of the execution of an unarmed man in a public setting, Julius returned to his cell. He was manically going over his plan in his head when his cellmate, Ruben, brought a piece of mail into the cell for Julius to peruse before the night check. Here you go, Jules. Looks like something from home, Ruben called out as he handed a small white envelope to Julius.

Julius looked at the handwriting and the return address, and he knew it was from his momma. He sat up on his bunk with a newly found interest in life and opened the letter while Ruben went over to his bed and laid his large frame to rest. The top of Ruben’s head and his feet just fit inside the hollow metal poles that framed the bunk and its uncomfortable mattress. Who is the letter from, Jules? You don’t see much mail since you got in here with me.

After he opened up the envelope and pulled out the folded note inside, Julius paused. He suddenly found himself staring blankly at the cell wall in front of him. Julius had become entranced by the memories and considerations pertaining to a time in his life that had long since passed, at least when measured through the lens of his comparatively short frame of reference concerning the passage of time. He was a relatively young man.

Shortly thereafter, Julius put the envelope down and held on to the folded piece of paper with the letters he knew made up his name written across the covering fold. Ruben was correct. It had been some time since he had received his last letter from home. Normally, Julius would stare at the letters and the unique flow of his mother’s penmanship while trying to make out the few words he could. Tonight, however, with such opportunity for misfortune waiting in turn with the arrival of the dawn, Julius looked up at Ruben without any hint of the uncertainty that generally delineated his character and said, It’s a letter from my mom, Ruben. Do you think you could read it to me without letting anyone know what it says? You know I don’t make fresh words good.

Ruben covered his eyes with his left forearm to darken the lights illuminating the cell from above and to visibly confirm to Julius his intent to rest. Nevertheless, after taking a few soft, slow inhalations and exhalations to even out his breathing following the exertion of lying down, Ruben reached his long, beefy right arm into the open area of the cell between his bed and Julius’s. Ruben’s big oven mitt of a right paw was held open, and it looked as if he could suspend the whole of the spinning earth in the palm of that giant, waiting hand. Julius was very grateful for Ruben’s silent offer of assistance. He reached out to place the letter on Ruben’s expectant palm, but withheld the missive for a brief moment just before it reached its intended destination.

Julius queried Ruben once again, to reaffirm the absolute need for his cellmate’s discretion. You won’t tell nobody what it says now, right, Ruben?

Na, Julius, responded Ruben, as if he were surprised by the question. What’s between a man and his sweet momma don’t belong to nobody else. I’ll do my best to read it to you straight too.

Thanks, Ruben, responded Julius. He then committed the folded letter to Ruben’s outstretched hand and leaned forward to listen intently to the oral translation of the confounding arrangement of letters and punctuation marks. Ruben closed his fingers on the letter and pulled it over to a suitable spot in front of his face. He then withdrew his other forearm from his eyes and began to unfold the piece of paper, which was neatly torn from the binder of a wide-ruled composition book. When the note was unfolded, Ruben glanced at the first few lines on the page before beginning to recite the written words to Julius.

While he would have preferred to put the letter down rather than continue reading, Ruben was a good sort. Deep down inside, he even possessed a soft heart, although he seldom let that truth be known while he remained confined to prison. Ruben also knew that all things