Forty Years

I.

The hearing room smelled like floor wax and old radiator heat. Jerome Coleman sat in the chair they’d assigned him—institutional gray, bolted to a track in the floor. The parole board sat across from him at a table. Five people. Three men, two women. Coffee in Styrofoam cups.

It was 9:47 a.m. on a Tuesday in March. 1993.

He’d been incarcerated since July 16, 1953.

The woman on the left opened his file without looking at him first. Her nails were painted a soft coral. Jerome’s daughter had worn that color once. He thought she had.

“Mr. Coleman,” she said. “This is your eighth parole hearing.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The man in the center turned a page. “You were convicted of second-degree murder in the death of Robert Finch. Stabbing. Outside a bar in Youngstown.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Jerome said.

The woman looked up. “You’ve maintained your innocence throughout your incarceration.”

“Yes.”

“The board has reviewed your disciplinary record. No major infractions since 1971. You completed your GED in 1965. You work in the library.” She glanced at a page. “Your counselor reports that you’re ‘cooperative and withdrawn.’”

Jerome’s hands were folded in his lap. His knuckles had gone pale and knobby.

The younger man on the right leaned forward. “Mr. Coleman, part of this process requires that you take responsibility for the crime you committed.”

“I didn’t commit it.”

“Without accepting responsibility, the board can’t assess your rehabilitation.”

Jerome looked at him. The man wore a wedding ring. He’d driven here this morning from a house somewhere.

“How do I rehabilitate from something I didn’t do?”

The woman shifted in her seat. “Mr. Coleman, I understand this is difficult. But we have to work within the framework of your conviction.”

Jerome had heard that word before.

Framework.

The framework said he’d stabbed Robert Finch seven times outside Mackie’s Tavern on a Saturday night in July. The framework said there’d been witnesses. The framework didn’t care that he’d been home with his wife and infant daughter. That the knife was his because he’d been a butcher—and someone had taken it from his shop two days before.

“I’ve served forty years,” Jerome said.

“Yes.”

“For a crime I didn’t commit.”

“That’s your position.”

The white-haired man in the center looked at another page. “Your wife passed away in 1978.”

“Yes.”

“Your daughter visited you until 1981. Then the visits stopped.”

March 14, 1981. She’d been twenty-eight. She’d sat across from him and told him she couldn’t keep doing this. That her children needed her. That she was sorry.

He’d told her it was okay.

“She has her own life,” Jerome said.

The radiator hissed.

The younger man leaned back. “If you were released today, where would you go?”

Jerome thought about it. He had no wife. No home. The Youngstown he’d known was gone. The shop where he’d worked was probably torn down.

“I don’t know.”

The woman wrote something down.

“The board will deliberate,” the white-haired man said. “You’ll be notified within thirty days.”

Jerome nodded.

They stood. He stood. The guard moved forward.

As they filed out, the woman looked back once.

He sat while they processed him. The chair’s metal was cold through his jumpsuit. Someone had left a coffee cup on the table. A brown ring stained the rim.

In the hallway, shackles clicked onto his wrists. He walked between two guards, shuffling because the leg irons only allowed small steps. They passed a window. Outside, March sunlight hit the parking lot. The woman unlocked her car. She got in without looking back.

Back in his cell, Jerome sat on the edge of his bunk. The springs creaked. The mattress had a depression in the center. He placed his hands on his knees.

He’d scratched marks on the wall once, counting days. He’d stopped around year seven.

Dinner came at 4:30. Meatloaf. Mashed potatoes. Green beans from a can. He ate.

Afterward, he lay down.

The ceiling had a water stain shaped like Ohio. He’d noticed it twenty years ago.

Tomorrow would be Wednesday. Then Thursday. Then thirty days would pass and the answer would come.

It would be no.

But he’d wake up anyway. He’d eat breakfast. He’d work his shift in the library. He’d return to his cell.

In the dark, someone down the block coughed. Metal doors clanged. A radio played softly—sports scores, weather, advertisements.

Jerome lay very still.

The water stain hadn’t changed.

He closed his eyes.

II.

Donald Kemp sat at his kitchen table with the reverse mortgage application spread in front of him. The table wobbled. It had wobbled for years—something wrong with one leg that he’d never gotten around to fixing. He folded Tuesday’s newspaper and wedged it underneath.

March 9, 1993.

The form was eight pages. Most of it he could fill out without thinking. Name, address, date of birth. He had to squint at the fine print. His glasses were somewhere—bedroom, maybe, or by the TV. He didn’t get up to look.

The kitchen was small. Clean enough. Dishes in the drainer from yesterday. A mug with coffee residue he’d rinse later. The window over the sink faced the neighbor’s fence—same view for twenty-three years. Mrs. Ostrowski had died last fall. Her son mowed the lawn now, Saturdays, too early.

Donald’s hand cramped around the pen. He flexed his fingers. The old scar along his palm pulled tight. Then he kept writing.

Employment history: Retired. Former warehouse supervisor, Youngstown Steel Supply. Thirty-one years.

His wife had died in 1973. Ovarian cancer. No children. He’d sold the house in Youngstown in ’76 and moved here—smaller city, cheaper rent, nobody who knew him. He’d worked another seventeen years at the steel supply place, showed up on time, never caused trouble. People called him Don. He’d nod, do his work, go home.

Now he had the apartment. Social Security. A television that got four channels clearly and two that came in static. Tuesday and Thursday he drove to the grocery store. His car was an ’84 Buick with a tape deck that didn’t work. The inspection sticker expired next month.

He turned to page three.

Assets and liabilities. He wrote down the checking account balance—$3,447. No savings. No stocks. No property except the car, which was worth maybe five hundred dollars if he was lucky.

The reason for the reverse mortgage was to pay off the credit card he’d been using for groceries. And the roof leaked. The landlord wouldn’t fix it. He’d stopped asking.

Page five.

Have you ever been convicted of a crime?

Two boxes. Yes. No.

Donald checked…

No.

His hand was steady.

He moved to the next question. Have you ever filed for bankruptcy? No.

Outside, someone started a lawnmower. The sound rose and fell, close then distant. Spring was coming. The trees in the courtyard had that swollen-bud look. Soon it would be warm enough to leave the window open at night.

He turned to page six. References. He wrote down the grocery store manager’s name—Barry something. He’d been going there long enough. And Mrs. Chen from downstairs. She was quiet, never complained about his TV.

The newspaper under the table leg had shifted. The table wobbled again. Donald pressed his palm flat against the surface until it settled.

The pen was running out of ink. He scribbled in the margin until it started flowing again.

Employment verification. He didn’t have pay stubs anymore. He’d thrown them out when he moved. Or maybe before.

He opened the kitchen drawer to look for a fresh pen.

The drawer held rubber bands, spare keys, a dull pair of scissors. A matchbook with MACKIE’S printed on the cover in faded red. He left it where it was and took the second pen he found, the one with the cracked cap.

He wrote Retired—can provide Social Security statement in the space provided.

On page seven, they wanted to know about monthly expenses. Rent. Utilities. Phone. He added it up twice. The numbers didn’t quite balance with what he had coming in, but they were close enough. He’d been managing.

The form asked if he had any dependents. No.

He reached the last page. Signature and date. He signed his name. The D in Donald wobbled slightly—not from hesitation, just from pain.

He dated it: 3/9/93.

He set the pen down.

The application sat in front of him. He’d mail it tomorrow. The post office was three blocks away. He could walk if his hip wasn’t acting up. Otherwise he’d drive.

He stood slowly, using the table edge for balance. His knee popped. He gathered the pages, tapped them against the table to align the edges, and slid them into the return envelope.

In the living room, the clock on the wall said 10:14. The morning stretched ahead. Maybe he’d watch TV. Maybe he’d sit.

He walked to the window. The courtyard was empty except for a kid on a bicycle, circling.

Donald stood there for a while.

Then he went back to the kitchen and rinsed his coffee mug. The water ran hot, then cold. He dried the mug with a dish towel and put it back in the cabinet.

The newspaper was still wedged under the table leg. He left it there.

Lunch would be at noon. Sandwich, probably. He had bread. Maybe some soup.

He sat down in the chair by the window. The vinyl upholstery had a split near the armrest, stuffing coming through. He’d been meaning to tape it.

A car passed outside. Then another.

The kid on the bicycle was gone.

Donald closed his eyes. Not sleeping. Just resting them. The light from the window was warm on his face.

After a while, he opened them again.

The clock said 10:31.

He got up and turned on the television. A game show. Canned laughter. Bright colors.

He sat back down.