Like him meeting a woman with his same nickname, whose words flowed without guile.
A woman whose eyes never broadcast fear or pity. With her, he’d merely been a man.
Like so many in prison, Maurice had found religion. Jesus, to be precise. He’d been a young minister and counselor, helping others like himself transition from incarceration to life outside. He’d become desperate to interrupt the recidivism cycle and wanted to, once again, trust himself.
Since returning home, he hadn’t ventured far. There wasn’t any want for more… at first.
His story wasn’t unique. But there had been little back home for him except the tiny storefront church where he held meetings, whose seats were occupied several times a week with sad, angry, and confused men and women who time had passed by.
Maurice was determined to catch up, to find a way to bein the world, not of it.
Regular work that wasn’t the equivalent of slave labor was near impossible to come by. If not for Fairbanks Construction’s trade program, Returning Home, Maurice would still be walking the razor’s edge of recidivism as hunger and desperation tag-teamed him when fair and stable housing and work were held just out of his reach.
That little church with their meager stipend, and drafty but dry back room, had saved him. Some cats he knew had racked up so much debt to the Department of Corrections for parole violations because their so-called employers refused to play ball and pay legitimately, that they’d never truly be free. His sentence, though, had never been eligible for parole.
At least he had that going for him. Not being under PADOC’s thumb from the moment he stepped through those steel doors and onto the street would always be a blessing, despite the twenty years he’d lost to the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections.
Thank God for Aunt Deb, who’d put the program together through her family’s construction company. They’d always treated him like a human being. Now, twelve years later, he’d relocated to New Jersey as Brother Mo, not Reverend, and embraced his role as foreman and counselor for Returning Home, where he helped folks like him build homes for the poor and restore historical homes while simultaneously rebuilding themselves.
We are not our mistakeshad become more than a mantra. The phrase played on loop in his mind in new situations when anxiety chose to shout out who hecould have beenhad he chosen differently that day—and so many days since.
Less often than before, he would pace his small apartment and remind himself. The decisions he’d made that separated him from society weren’t mistakes in the way most people meant: careless, avoidable, correctable. He’d done what he could with what he’d had. Fifteen years old, sixty pounds lighter, and no one charging in to save the day but him.
In God’s eyes he’d sinned, and he was repentant. Remorseful, though, would never describe how Maurice felt about what he did.
Maurice searched for words, for prayers, for forgiveness in the hush of the chapel. He stepped closer to the altar, eyes closed and listening forsomething.
Only silence answered.
Camora’s cautious steps clicked behind him. “We do regret that the wedding cannot be held here. During Navidad, the chapel is busier than usual.”
Maurice turned and offered an apologetic smile. “It’s all good. Tommie does things his way and didn’t want a church wedding anyway. So, don’t feel bad.”
Her tense features softened. “You’ve known Señor Lane a long time?” She turned and led him back down the aisle and out the chapel doors.
“Since we were eleven or twelve.”
“You must be very close.”
Close enough that Tommie knew which lines were sacred and which to cross. Close enough for him to call Maurice out when he’d been dishonest with himself.
“Yeah. We are.” But not close enough for Tommie to have mentioned her before last night.
Or maybe Maurice hadn’t been listening. Maybehehadn’t been present enough. Still, Tommie trusted him with his family.
Camora’s radio crackled to life, shattering the stillness. She spoke in Spanish to the person on the other end.
“Señor, is there anything else I can help you with? I have to return to the front desk.” She held the great wooden door open for an elderly woman, draped in lace, who shuffled to the stand of candles and lit one before slipping into one of the pews and folding herself to kneel. With her aged hands folded and head bowed, her lips moved with a quiet flurry of words.
The doors shut in a thud that felt final, closing the woman and her prayers inside. Maurice looked back, the quiet following him.
They walked back through the corridor. Maurice kept his stride measured, unhurried, even though his entire body wanted to move faster, needed an outlet for the energy thrumming under his skin.
Maurice’s watch buzzed with an alert. Five o’clock.Time to wake up.
The lobby had come alive. More lights were on now, revealing the full scope of the fountain and garden. Holiday decorations accented the space. He hadn’t noticed them when he’d first arrived and the hotel was silent, and the lights dim. Now, early morning guests trickled through—folks in resort wear heading to their rooms or breakfast or stopping for impromptu photo shoots—people who had been somewhere and people trying to be somewhere else.
Normal people. Living normal lives. Going on vacation for the new year.