Dear Daddy (Yes, Daddy 11)

He’s right because more than anything in the world I need to write her back.

“Let me tell you something about hope, my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing,” he continues, as if he can read my mind yet is trying to stomp on my thoughts, to damper my enthusiasm. “Hope can drive a man insane. It has no use on the inside. And you should know that more than anyone else, especially after twenty-four years.”

“You’re right, but I still want those two things if you can get them.”

Red motions toward the other side of the prison yard and a man even bigger and thicker than my six foot five inch height and two hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle shuffles over toward us.

“They’ll be in your cell by the time you get back. Now, go, before the guards see us sitting here together. They’ll think we’re plotting something.”

We’re not. I am. And thirty minutes later after our time in the yard is over I’m back in my cell and the pencil and paper are there, just as Red said they would be.

Now the real hard part starts…writing her back.

I practice a couple of lines on my arm, quickly realizing I underestimated just how hard this was going to be. My hand’s not used to writing and I’ve practically forgotten how to hold a writing instrument, but after a while, I get the hang of it. Now what’s more challenging is doing something I’ve never done before…put my feelings on a piece of paper, or share them for that matter. Feelings are weakness in here, and an easy way to wind up dead. I’m going to write them down, pray to God no one opens the letter before it goes out, and try to express to Josi how much her letter meant to me. All that and I have to figure out a way not to scare this angel when she opens up my letter, if it even gets to her, and sees that the devil himself has written her back. At least that’s what I’m guessing most civilians would think. Yet there’s something about her, something caring, that I’m clinging on to. Something that tells me I just might have a chance. And the time to take that chance is now.

Josi,

Thank you for the letter. After asking around and studying your envelope, I realize you were trying to reach CO Jackson James. Due to a mixup here in the prison, your letter wound up in the hands of James Jackson, Inmate 738673. Me.

It’s the first letter I’ve received in my nearly twenty-four years here. I’m not allowed to receive mail or go to the library on the inside due to the limitations set by the judge at my trial. Like most guys in here, I’m innocent, but I don’t expect anyone to believe that. Still, I just want you to know that.

I also know that there’s a reason your letter came to me. It deals with something you said… “the world is full of different people and anyone who thinks they might be a bit ‘off’ is probably just fine.” That and that you wanted some information about the psychology of the CO’s and the inmates. Well, I can tell you I thought I had everything in here figured out until your over-the-top feminine letter arrived smelling like springtime with words that woke me up from a two and a half decade long hibernation.

Enough about me. I’m much more interested in you.

I want you to know your thoughts are normal, and that you, exactly how you are, are perfect. Trust me, we all are in our own way, even the crazy ones. Scratch that…especially the crazy ones.

As someone who’s had a lot of time to reflect on life, I’d say that a young girl such as yourself should focus on living the life that you choose, doing what makes you happy, and say ‘screw it’ to everyone else. I’m sorry for my language, princess, but I need to get the point across. Life is short and you don’t want to waste a single day worrying about things that don’t matter. Take it from me, I’m a poster child for understanding that concept.

Before being locked up I read a lot, even though I didn’t have money for books. I’ve read some of the greats, yet there was something about your words that hit me more than anything I’ve ever read. You’ve awoken something inside me and now I have a decision to make, one I thought I knew the answer to and was steadfast in that decision, but now I’m not sure.

I’ll keep this letter short because I’m not even sure you’ll receive it, but if you do, know that your letter meant everything to me. If you have the time to write me back I’d be honored. I just ask you to address the letter the same way, in the hopes that the same mistake in handling it is made and I receive it again, although I can’t promise I will. Also, by enclosing a self-addressed stamped envelope, like you did, it helps a lot. I’m not allowed to buy stamps or write so your help means literally everything. I promise to repay you one day, and ultimately prove to you I’m not a bad person, and I didn’t do the things I’m accused of doing.

Psychology 101…inmates rarely take responsibility, which you can use for your research. But the real psychology for me is, what happens in that rare case that it’s actually true? Does anyone on the outside believe him, and even if so, does anyone care?

I care about you and I hope you do well on your paper and your parents learn to appreciate and respect you for the unique person you are. I know if I was free I would.

James.

P.S. I don’t have friends either. Making friends in here can be just as deadly as in the real world. (Joke…kind of.)

Before I can second guess myself I fold the paper and slide it into her envelope. Once it’s time for our next meal I’m going to drop it in CO Jackson James’ outgoing mail slot, figuring that’s the most likely way to get it out of the prison and hopefully to Josi.

And for the first time in so many years, I have hope. Because of her.

I smile, having forgotten what that feels like after all these years. And does it ever feel good, because I have a reason. And that reason is my new pen pal, but she’s so much more than that. She’s my little girl.

4

Josi

I walk into the house and pour myself a glass of Kool-Aid from the pitcher, sitting at the kitchen table and remind myself that sulking isn’t going to solve anything. Anoth

er day of school where I didn’t talk to a single soul, didn’t even open my mouth. Heck, at this point when I do actually get in a conversation I might very well forget how to actually move my mouth to form words.

And that’s not the only thing I need to form. I need to put together my psychology paper before the end of the semester and there still hasn’t been a reply from the corrections officer. I’m going to have to send out some more letters to other people and probably some emails too.

I tip back the last of my grape sugar water and mope out to the mailbox, knowing I’m not going to find anything in it for me.