Cookies and Juice

In this godforsaken place, the home to all the scum of New York, were more crosses than Jason had seen in most churches.  They lay painted over the hearts of murderers and rapists, and on the foreheads of Nazis, resting peacefully beside swastikas and racial slurs.  Jason wondered how many of these convicts truly believed in the writing displayed upon their bodies, and how many were simply tattooed for show.

Jason looked down at the clumsily inscribed tattoo on the inside of his forearm.  The cross was more of a tribute to his mother than anything else.  The church had given Jason nothing but false hope and broken promises.  The upside-down cross stared back at him.  At first, the realization that from his perspective the very symbol of the antichrist was embedded permanently in his body brought with it the urge to cut out the patch of skin on which it lay and reverse the image, but presently this satanic emblem invoked the first smile Jason's hardened face had emitted in what must have been months.

 "Jason, Jason Fairbanks.  You're up."

Jason lifted his head.  He was completely unaware of how long they had been calling his name, and if left undisturbed would have remained seated on that cold metal chair for all eternity if he could have.  The man grabbed Jason by the arm and forced him over to a similar metal chair, this one facing a thick pane of glass.  The harsh synthetic lighting that surrounded him allowed Jason to see only his reflection in the glass if he focused his eyes correctly.  If he couldn't see her, then maybe she wasn't there.  Or better yet, maybe she was doing the same.  Jason could hardly stand to look at himself anymore, but he preferred his reflection to the look of disappointment he knew was etched into his mother's face.  It was the only side of her he saw anymore.

Jason clutched the cold plastic telephone as though it might be taken away from him at any moment.  He breathed into the mouth piece, unable to will his mouth to form words.

"Jason…"  The mere sound of her voice was enough to lift the crushing weight pressing down upon Jason's chest.

"It wasn't my—I shouldn't have been there—I know better," he said, the words spilling from his mouth like the blood from a gunshot wound.

"You've always known better, but it's never stopped you before."

"This times different Ma, I didn't do anything—really—nothing, I swear. I don't belong here.  I'm not like them."

"Now your brother was a good boy," she said her eyes flickering around the room, coming finally to rest on the shoddy cross on Jason's forearm.  She remembered the day he'd got it.  He'd refused to wear the bandage that he was told to wrap it in.   Jason had always been the stubborn one. "He knew better than to get involved with those kinds of people."

A strand had come loose from the sleeve of Jason's jumpsuit.  He wrapped the thread methodically around his middle finger; maybe if he wrapped it enough times his whole orange jumpsuit would fall to pieces.  His finger was turning blue now, and Jason's mother could almost feel the pins and needles on her own finger. 

"Well I never was much of a judge of character.  Hell, I even still believe I'm a good person," he laughed.

"It takes hard work to become a good person, Jason, nothing more and nothing less."

"Mom, you know I work—"

"Not that kind of work Jason.  Why you feel the need to lie to me—your own mother—is beyond me.  But rest assured, nothing is hidden from His eyes.  I know you've learned as much.  For heaven's sake you have a cross tattooed on your arm."

The way she uttered the word cross struck Jason with the force of a brass knuckled blow.  He wasn't worthy to have the Lord's symbol painted upon him.  Not in her eyes, not in His eyes.  Not now, not ever.  Jason thought back to the worn rosary beads she had given him so many years ago.  They had been given to him with the hope that they might revive the true Christian that she thought lay buried underneath his rough exterior.  He had run the beads through his fingers out of sheer boredom, with no intent of furthering his connection with God. 

"You know I got that cross for you.  Do you really think I wanted a constant reminder of what a terrible Christian I was?"

"Well that was foolish of you, to deface your body for me."  Her eyes were no longer focused on Jason's cross.  She had moved her gaze upwards staring directly into his eyes.  For a moment, she saw his brother deep within their pale blue.  "Really foolish…" she said, her voice trailing off into oblivion.

Jason looked back at her for the first time in their brief conversation.  She was older.  Her face more gaunt, her hair more grey than black and tied tightly into a bun, with a single strand escaping the grips of her white hair tie.  She was wearing a monotone flower print dress, the same one she had worn to church every Sunday for the last twenty years.  As always it was well ironed, the edges crisp.  It occurred to Jason that she must have come directly from church.  He wondered if she had even bothered to pray for him.

            Jason shifted his weight uncomfortably in his metal chair.   He had the unshakeable notion that the chair on the other side was infinitely more comfortable.  "So how have you been mother?"

"How have I been?" she said in between fits of laughter.  "Oh my Jason I almost believed you cared for a moment there.  But enough with the pleasantries, why don't you tell me why I'm here."

"You're here because you love me."  Jason laughed at the ridiculousness of that statement.  She was here to bail him out.  She always bailed him out.  "Mom, there are some people here—bad people—they don't like me so much.  Well, they…they really don't like me."

"Oh really.  So things are the same in there as out here." 

In here things were not the same.  In here you could depend on people.  You could bet on the fact that they would screw you.  You had no friends to betray you, no one's trust to abuse.  In here you were alone, and if you were dumb enough to believe God was at your side then you were first to find out whether or not he really did exist.  Within these grey walls were strict rules of black and white. 

"Jason, sweetie, I really don't have time for this.  I have the church fundraiser at four and I haven't even started baking."

"Remember when you used to bake me cookies?  Never liked them much.  The ones here are much better--we only get them on Sundays though—best day of the week.  Cookies and juice and no God damn Jesus."

"Jason, what in Heaven's name are you talking about?"

"You know, making us eat Jesus' flesh and drink is blood.  I never liked that.  Good cookies and juice though."  Jason looked over at his mother, taking joy at the look of disgust imprinted upon her face.

"Well maybe if you had ever paid attention in church you would understand.  Maybe you wouldn't be here right now.  Maybe your brother would still be alive."

She had never before voiced what Jason knew she believed in the back of her mind.  In the end it really made no difference whether or not she explicitly told Jason she felt what happened was his fault, but the fact that she had chosen this moment to unearth her conviction changed everything.

"I told you NOT to bring him into this.  This has nothing to do with him, it never did."

"It has everything to do with this Jason.  The better son died that day."

"You don't think I, of all fucking people, know that," Jason said, is voice escalating to a scream.  The guard in the corner looked over at the scene unfolding in front of him the same way he glanced at a Gilligan's Island rerun before flipping the channel.  It would take more than that to raise him from his stool.  "I'm going to do better.  I'm going to make him proud.  Just as soon as you get me out of here."

"And what makes you believe that you're to be free again."

"Because you're here to bail me out.  And I really didn't do it.  I will beat this in court.  It's just that I'm not sure how much longer I can last in here.  On the outside I'll be fine.  In here, they just really want me dead."

"Jason, sweetie, you have made it quite clear that they want you dead.  But I am not here to bail you out.  I just had to see you one last time, to say goodbye.  Goodbye for good, as I'm sure we are headed to two very different places further down the road."

"I'm really not kidding Mom.  This is no fucking joke.  God damn it mom, they're gunna FUCKING KILL ME.  They're gunna SHIV me."

"Jason, watch your language."

"Watch my fucking language?? I'm a dead man. A FUCKING dead man."

"Jason, I said watch your language.  Cursing is no way to get what you want"

"Please. PLEASE.  Don't let me die here.  I don't deserve to die in—"

"Jason, I really must be going," said Jason's mother, glancing down at her small golden watch.  "I have thought things through Jason, and there's no changing my mind.  No sons are better than one good-for-nothing son."

Tears were pouring from Jason's eyes.  The scene had progressed to the point where the guard even bothered to look up from his magazine.  "Mom, Ma, you can't do this to me.  You just can't."

"Jason, your brother died for YOUR sins.  Now it is time you pay for your own.  Why don't you just die like a man--like your brother died.  Goodbye Jason."

Jason fell to his knees; his hands clasped together, his life thrown before her final judgment.  She looked down at him, now on her feet, and noticed something in her reflection on the thick pane of glass.  She leaned closer and tucked the stray hair back into her bun.  Her eyes, for no more than a heartbeat, looked past her reflection to her son, on his knees his arms thrown into the air.  She glanced at the upside-down cross now staring her in the face, its image seared into her vision as she walked away.