Redemption – A Short Story, page 1
Redemption - A Short Story
Linda Johnson
Redemption – A Short Story
Linda Johnson
Copyright 2012 by Linda Johnson
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Redemption is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
I stepped into the upscale men’s clothing store and the owner jumped in front of me, barred my entrance. A small man, balding, effeminate. He fluttered his arms like a duck.
“You’re not welcome in here.”
My hands clenched into fists, as I fought my desire to punch his teeth clear back into his throat. “I came to tell you that I did not steal that Rolex. The cops cleared me.”
“No. The police just couldn’t prove what we both know. You did take that watch.”
The heat seared through my brain. I knew my face was red as fire. This man with his perfect bow tie, his pasty white complexion, his smug expression. He couldn’t fathom someone like me -- a road construction worker who sweats in ninety degree heat earning an honest living -- could be honorable, ethical, even educated. I felt like shoving my college degree in front of his self-satisfied mug, forcing him to acknowledge me as a human being, as an equal.
Instead I turned around silently -- all the words I longed to yell at him jammed up in my brain. I yanked the door handle and the door slammed into the wall with a thundering crack. I stepped outside, picked up a trash can, and hurled it against the building. Expressions of shock and horror registered on the faces of the people walking by.
“White trash,” someone muttered, and he wasn’t referring to the garbage strewn on the sidewalk. As quickly as my anger had consumed me, it was gone, replaced by embarrassment. I put my head down and trudged over to my Ford pick-up. My lunch break almost over and I hadn’t had a bite to eat.
* * *
I heard a pounding in my brain. Bam -- bam -- bam! A dream? I couldn’t tell. My eyes slammed shut and I tried to drift back to sleep. Bam -- bam -- bam! This time, no mistaking it. Not a dream. Someone beating his fist against my door. I pulled myself out of a deep fog of sleep and into the cold, harsh morning light.
I’d worked a double shift yesterday -- seven to three, three to eleven. I drove home, ate a sandwich, and stumbled into bed -- thankful for the weekend. I expected to sleep until noon. Clearly not going to happen. The idiot hammering at my door wasn’t going away.
I jerked the covers off and chilly air enveloped my body, goose bumps covered my skin -- a rude awakening.
Bam -- bam -- bam!
“I’m coming,” I shouted. I threw on a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt, the Ohio State logo so faded that it looked like ‘H O ATE’. I shuffled to the door and yanked it open.
“What the hell?” My words choked off as I stood face-to-face with two cops, both with their hands gripping their revolvers -- waiting for me to give them an excuse to haul the guns out of their holsters.
I took a step back. What did they want this time? Had there been another stolen watch -- maybe a tie this time? I stood in silence and waited to hear the latest accusation.
“Ben Hawkins. You’re under arrest for the murder of Jonathon Cahill.”
Jonathon Cahill? I thought. Who the hell is Jonathon Cahill? Then it hit me. The shopkeeper. The little twit who’d accused me of stealing.
I could feel the sweat pop out of every pore of my body. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. This couldn’t be happening.
The cops bulldozed their way into my living room and shoved me against a wall. They wrenched my arms behind my body; the cold hard steel of the handcuffs cut into my skin. The click, click of the locks engaged, then my mind went blank, my knees buckled, and I slid to the floor like a discarded towel.
