The Pardon
Page 2
work like that. God is knocking at the door, but you need to open it!’
‘Where’s this door you keep bringing up? I’ve never seen it. If He is this all-powerful, all-forgiving being, then I don’t need to open it. He should be able to do what He wants, right? If He wants me to be saved so badly, then why doesn’t He just save me? Why doesn’t He just save everyone from the bad stuff?’
‘Because…’
‘Because nothing!’ I exploded. ‘Don’t you get it? I’ve done what I’ve done, and I’ve apologized. I was put in a position where I had no other choice, okay? Nobody believed that it was an accident, so they threw the whole book at me because I don’t look very good, and don’t speak very good. So stop wasting your time trying to change me into something I’ll never be!’
‘But, Stanley, if you begin to believe, then anything can be possible.’
‘That’s bullshit! Do you honestly believe that yourself, Father? Do you honestly believe that you can save me?’
‘Of course I believe, Stanley. Faith is believing in all that can be seen and all that is unseen. It’s our foundation.’
‘But all your beliefs seem to be about things you can’t see! I ain’t seen one thing this past year to show me that I should believe,’ I snapped.
‘That’s because your eyes have not yet been opened, or, because you refuse to let them be opened.’
‘Okay, Father, open them for me. You’re so certain, then show me. Prove to me that your God exists. I want a sign,’ I demanded.
‘I can’t possibly—’
‘I knew it! When you’re suddenly put to the test, you—’
‘Thou shalt not put thy God to the test! This is basic religious law that the likes of you probably can’t understand,’ Father spat.
Whenever Father got frustrated he sweat a lot, and I had him like the Niagara.
‘How convenient that you seem to have an excuse for everything. Maybe I should become a believer,’ I shot back.
‘That is not what I mean. There are mysteries all around us, Stanley, even as we speak. You can’t seriously expect to understand the motives of the divine, can you? So should you not demand a miracle just for miracle sake. The Lord works in mysterious ways, Stanley.’
Fr. Michael was probably right on that last point. I had overheard the doctors say that I should’ve been dead already; that the two holes in my belly were injuries that usually ended most people’s lives. Maybe there was some divine intervention that caused one bullet to bounce off a rib and out my side, and the other to miss my liver by half an inch. But I still couldn’t accept that Father had shot me while I was lying beside him unconscious in the cell.
The morning of my execution, Father was supposed to come and read me my last rights. The look of chagrin on his face was my reward for weeks of stubborn malice. I was finally going to die. I remember how he struggled through his beat-up bible and said a few rehearsed verses, then finished with what he called a blessing.
‘I want to apologize to you, Stanley,’ he said.
‘For what?’ I answered.
‘For not fighting more fervently for your soul. This is my job, Stanley, this is my calling; it’s what I have sworn to do, and I refuse to stand idly by and watch your soul be lost.’
‘It’s not your fault. Everyone fails, Father. If your God was any kind of God, he’d just make everyone perfect so you would never fail; so nobody would fail. That sounds like a better world to me. But if it makes you feel any better, I do forgive you,’ I said with a smirk.
Father sighed, and at the same time the guard left the room. I can’t recall exactly what happened next. When I focused back on Father, I noticed he had set a small, black cloth on the table. He had unwrapped the cloth as if to expose a precious artifact, but instead revealed a gun. Unfortunately, I didn’t clue in fast enough. I spun around to see where the guard had gone, but was suddenly hit on the back of my skull. I was out before my face bounced off the steel table.
When I came to, I remembered being wheeled down some white corridor, and hearing the doctors saying that I had sustained two gun shot wounds to my stomach and might die.
The doctors also said that the other guy had sustained moderate head and face trauma, but would be okay. I assumed that Fr. Michael had been accosted by the guards, and carried into the hospital with me, but I never saw him.
I can’t believe how hypocritical Father had been. All that preaching about forgiveness and tolerance, blah, blah, blah. It was all just bullshit. I knew that he never could’ve believed a word he’d said to me, and now I felt justified in the way I had treated him.
‘You alright, hun?’ the nurse said, walking back into the room and startling me out of my stupor. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’
She pulled the covers off of me, and lifted my gown to my chest. Her hands were freezing as she carefully pealed back the two bandages on my stomach. I could feel the air rush over the exposed wounds.
‘Let’s turn you over and check the exits, okay,’ she said, proceeding to do the same on my back. The morphine wasn’t helping much as she poked and prodded around the area.
‘Just get me out of here… I’ve got to talk to—’
‘Honey, you’re in no condition to leave. You just lie back and let the good staff at Birmingham General take care of you, okay?’
She adjusted my bed and eased me back into it. I was surprised at how thorough my treatment was, especially with my death just around the corner.
‘No I don’t want to lie down anymore! And could you give me something for my eyes? I still can’t see anything. I need to find—’
‘Now calm down, love, I’ll be back with your meds, okay,’ she said, heading out of the room.
‘Nurse, wait! Please. The other guy, how’s he doing?’ I blurted out.
There was a noticeable pause before she answered.
‘I’m sorry…but he’s already been discharged,’ she replied.
‘But…how long… When?’ I stammered.
‘A day after the two of you were admitted…’
‘But, he did this to me! I need to see him. I have to ask him why!’
‘I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. I know what he meant to you…what you went through.’
The nurse cleared her throat, as she sat at the foot of my bed.
‘When I realized you were going to fully recover, I saved Tuesday’s paper for you…in case you wanted a memento. I hope I didn’t over step any boundaries.’
‘But where is he? I need to know where he went,’ I demanded.
‘He’s… gone. The execution went ahead a week ago…’ the nurse replied.
‘What do you mean execution?’ I said, sitting up, ignoring the pain in my abdomen. ‘Who’s been executed?’
‘Well…Stanley Nelson of course,’ the nurse answered. ‘No one’s told you? It’s been all over the news this last week, how you survived his attack and all. I still can’t believe you’re alive.’
‘STOP! You’re not making any sense. I’m not dead! AND WHY CAN’T I SEE?’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, forgive me,’ the nurse said, and drifted over to the side of my bed. She seemed to be rummaging around for something. I took the break in conversation to steady my mind.
‘I’m so sorry. Here, try this,’ she said.
I closed my eyes as the nurse slid the thin, metallic arms across my cheeks and behind my ears. I blinked, and then opened my eyes. Everything was in focus now; I could see clearly for the first time. I could count every tile on the floor. I saw the small, wooden crucifix across the room. Outside, it was raining and windy. I turned to the chubby nurse and stared at her plump, smiling face.
‘There. How’s that, better?’ she asked.
‘But… I… I don’t understand,’ I protested, taking off the wire-rimmed glasses. I stared at the large, white figure in front of me. The nurse moved closer.<
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‘Now don’t be silly, Father, you know very well that you have stigmatisms in both eyes. You wouldn’t be able to walk two feet without running into something.’
I slid the round spectacles back on in order to see her again. The nurse gave me a sympathetic smile.
‘I think I’ll just leave you to…adjust for a bit. I know how troubling this all must be. The paper is beside you, there, and some of your personal belongings, too,’ she said, pointing to the table.
I felt all tight and constrained, like I was wearing clothes that were two sizes too small. I knew I wasn’t dead, but the nurse seemed quite sure of herself. She obviously didn’t recognize me.
I waited until she left the room before I looked at anything. I pushed the wire glasses up the bridge of my nose, and picked up the paper. The date on the paper read Tuesday, October 21st. I fumbled for the black watch that lay on the bedside table; the date said 29. I flipped through the pages until I reached an article entitled PRIEST SURVIVES COP KILLER’S CONFINES. I swallowed hard and continued with the short article.
In what can only be described as both bizarre and miraculous, the event that occurred on the morning of October 20th will forever baffle and thrill both police and public alike.
When meeting Fr. Michael Oscar Gordon, chaplain of Birmingham Maximum Penitentiary for the first time, one cannot help but feel their age. Newly ordained into the priesthood a mere sixteen months prior to his appointment to the prison, you get the sense that Fr. Michael has perhaps chosen the wrong line of work. Fr. Michael made no apologies