HC:Pacifist | Ch. 17 - Mrs. Bessie
Added 2023-05-04 12:53:36 +0000 UTCWorking the dough, Mrs. Bessie rechecked the clock. She had to hurry if she wanted to finish dinner in time. Her old hands kneaded and folded the dough. She was making bread for the week. Some of it they would eat fresh in the next couple of days, and the rest would go into the freezer. Every penny counted. It was slightly cheaper to bake bread than get it at the supermarket, with inflation being as high as it was these days. Her arthritis screamed protests at her abuse of the old knuckles and elbows, but she soldiered on. What alternative did she have but to do so?
Roth had such strong hands. If he had been around, she would have asked her son to do this for her. Looking at the house, she saw different things that she would have asked Roth to help her with. The faucet was leaking, the doors were creaking, and some power sockets sparked dangerously whenever she plugged something in them. Her husband, Mark, had always worked two jobs to provide for them. Roth had been the one who did all the work around the house. Since he was little, he kept breaking things; therefore, Mrs. Bessie always made him fix what he broke. Even though he complained every second of it, he had become a pretty skilled handyman. She had hoped that would knock some sense into his thick skull. It hadn't made much difference. She heard the tears fall before she even realized she had shed them. "Oh, Roth... I thought you had changed", she whispered.
She channeled the frustration and sorrow of her heart into the tips of her fingers as she kneaded the dough again and again. Flour and water. That was all she had after paying the bills. Her other sons occasionally came to try to help her however they could, but they weren't having it easy either. When Roth did alright in that cursed game, he had helped a lot, but that was history now. All that was left was debt, debt, and more debt. Since Roth went to jail, things started going poorly for the whole family. It was as if a dark presence loomed over their lives, raising obstacles at every turn. No bank in town would lend them money. No realtor got them reasonable offers for the family house. Their sons couldn't keep a steady job. It was as if there was a curse on the family.
Even though the situation had been precarious for the last few years, something had given the family an inkling of hope.
After being satisfied with how the dough was, she put it in the oven and programmed it. Since this had been a good month, she had some butter and jelly to spread on the bread. After having dry bread and plain water for months, this was a delicacy. Mrs. Bessie sat in her armchair while the oven and the leaven worked their miracle on the dough. The armchair was one of the only pieces of furniture left. After selling all the domestic robots, furniture was the next thing to go. She would rather starve than lose this chair, though. It had been a gift from her husband, Mark. She reached for a box next to the armchair and picked up the letters her son had sent her. Here was evidence of another miracle.
After her husband passed, she began receiving letters from Roth. She refused to open them for some time, but she couldn't bear to throw them away either. They were all just locked away in a drawer and left unopened. She was too mad at her son for ruining his life. She was also grieving and hurt by seeing how much his thoughtless actions had affected her dear late husband. After some months, however, her heart began to soften after she had grieved. A mother always forgives. She gave in and opened the first of the letters.
Dear Mom,
Mamma, today I heard about what happened to Dad. I'm so stupid. I'm so mad at myself. It's my fault. I broke his heart. I broke your heart. I'm really sorry. Sorry.
Roth
It hadn't been so much the words that had touched her, but the marks on the paper caused by dried tears. Her son had been crying when he wrote this. She hadn't seen her son cry in years. Not even when he was sentenced to jail did he shed one single tear. The only expression he had shown then was a stern, furious scowl. She moved on to the second letter. It was dated precisely a week after the first. That was how much correspondence he was allowed to send.
Dear Mom,
The jail has given me a lot of time to think about things. You always told me that my temper would bring pain not only to those I hurt but also to those I loved. I can see now how right you were.
There's this prison program designed to help violent people become more peaceful. I asked them for help. I have already sent a letter to the prison director, who says I can attend. I hope it'll help me. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry about Dad. It was my fault. Sorry.
Roth
When she read this, her tears fell on the marks left by the dried tears her son had left on the paper. Could her son have changed? It wasn't like Roth to speak like this. When was the last time that he admitted that he was wrong or bothered to apologize? Mrs. Bessie had then read the letters she had been ignoring for months.
Dear Mom,
How are you doing these days? I have realized that one of the reasons for my anger is that I'm very self-centered. It's always me, me, me. I realized that I didn't even ask you how you were doing or feeling when I wrote you. We haven't even discussed how my actions have affected you, Tom, and Danny. I know you've tried to explain your feelings to me, but I wasn't ready to listen. Now I am. Please, Mamma, tell me how you're feeling and what's happening with you. Dr. Hilstone says that if I try to understand better what others feel, it'll help me. With understanding comes peace, he always says.
I know I have apologized many times before in my letters, but I want to do so again. I'm sorry, Mamma.
With love,
Roth
Dear Mom,
Hi Mamma. Thank you so much for sending me a reply. I can imagine it wasn't easy for you, and I know the harm I caused over many years can't be washed away in only a few weeks or months. Thank you for giving me a chance and being willing to open up about how everything that has happened has affected you.
I love you,
Roth.
Dear Mom,
Last week, Dr. Hilston told us about the strong connection between anger and pride. When we feel we are better than others, we feel entitled to treat them like crap. So, as an exercise, I'm supposed to make lists. For each person I know, I'm supposed to list five things they do better than me. I thought I could share with you the one I made about you.
Mom
1. She's better with people than me;
2. She always knows what to say;
3. More than number two, she knows when she doesn't need to say anything. It gives weight to her words. When she speaks, we know that what she's about to say is important.
4. She's a better cook than I;
5. She sings better than me.
This had been the first letter that pulled out a peal of laughter from Mrs. Bessie's wounded heart. The silly things he had considered adding to the list made her chuckle. This letter had been the one that finally prompted her to call her other sons and tell them to read the letters. She was met with some resistance at first, but the boys listened. Long conversations happened over many weeks about whether Roth was trying to fool them or had changed. A furious exchange of letters started between the boys, and after a few months, they were finally convinced that their little brother had changed.
She looked at the two last letters in the box. One had brought her to heaven; the other had plunged her into hell.
Good news, Mom,
I'm almost done. I only have one more month to go before I've done my time and paid for my sins.
I"ve been given a letter telling me I'll be released sometime in the morning on the 4th. Could you ask Danny to come pick me up? Although you guys don't say anything, I can imagine your life has been very hard, and I don't want to impose. If you can just let me crash for a few days on your couch, I promise I'll let you guys alone after I find a job and a place to stay.
At least I'll finally be able to apologize in person for what I did to you guys.
Love,
Roth
It had been years since she last held her son in her arms. At least Roth's prison still allowed for correspondence. But then, the other letter arrived and broke her heart all over again.
Dear Mrs. Bessie Tailor,
We regret to inform you that, in a fit of anger, Roth James Taylor has murdered two of the wardens and sent one of his fellow inmates to the hospital.
Due to his violent nature and the danger he poses to others, under the Overcrowding Act 4 art. 4/491.34, we are sending him to a black site prison off the coast. There, he will serve a life sentence. We regret to inform you that you won't be able to contact the prisoner from now on.
Sincerely,
Justiceer James Jones
This was the last drop. The straw that broke the camel's back. The last nail in Roth's coffin. The overcrowding act was heartless. It had to be. The time that one in every eight humans was incarcerated almost destroyed the world. Prisons were given the power to transfer prisoners to black-site prisons without holding trials. Roth was as good as dead after she received this letter. There were whispers of how the off-coast maximum-security prisons were just a front to fool the public. That's why people referred to these prisons as slaughterhouses. No one knew if they were or not. But it made no difference. Her son was dead. She broke into tears one more time. She wanted to scream and fight.
She was losing her youngest son all over again. This time, it was for good. Her baby had seemed so different—a changed man. No. She wouldn't go down without a fight. She had to try again. She dialed the number she knew by heart by now and called Roth's prison again.
