The Redemption of Bobby Love

by Bobby Love

  When I got down there, another inmate was in the office with the counselor. He saw me outside his door and put his hand up indicating I should wait. As I stood outside his office, I tried to figure out what he wanted to talk to me about. I also started replaying my last few days in the prison and tried to recall any infractions I might have committed. I came up with nothing. But just because I didn’t think I had done anything wrong, that didn’t mean a guard or another inmate hadn’t reported me for something. I remembered how the system worked.

  Luckily, I didn’t have to keep torturing myself trying to guess why I had been called, because the other guy walked out of the office and my counselor beckoned me in and told me to sit down. I sat in the chair across from his desk and waited for him to speak.

  He shuffled through some papers on his desk and without looking up said, “Miller, you got to sign some papers because you made parole.”

  “What!” I said. “Really?”

  “Yeah, it just came through,” he said with about as much emotion as fish sticks on a Tuesday.

  “Thank you, God!” I shouted, jumping out of my chair. “Can I hug you, man?” I asked gleefully. “I’m so happy.”

  “No,” he said. “You may not hug me.”

  I sat back down and tried to contain my joy, but I couldn’t stop grinning. Not only had my prayers been answered, but also, at that exact moment, I remembered that some of the other inmates had told me that my counselor used to be a guard and back then everybody called him Baloney Neck behind his back on account of the extra folds of flesh around his neck. Just that thought, on top of my indescribable joy, made me want to giggle like a schoolkid. Baloney Neck didn’t want to hug me? I didn’t care. I was going home!

  “Do you know when I’ll be able to leave?” I asked, barely able to contain myself.

  He looked over some more papers and said, “No, not really. It’s going to take a couple more weeks, maybe a month.”

  “Do you think I’ll be home by Thanksgiving?” I asked hopefully.

  “I doubt it,” he said. “Things don’t move that fast around here.”

  “Okay.” I sighed, trying not to dwell on the fact that I would miss the holiday with my family. At least I knew I was going home. I signed all the papers where Baloney Neck had drawn an X and thanked him at least three more times before happily shuffling back to my cell.

  When I got there, this young white kid, Kevin, who had temporarily been my cellmate, was waiting for me. He was from Asheboro and was serving an eighteen-month sentence for a robbery and dealing drugs. Even after he was moved to another cell, this kid liked to hang around me and tell me all about his problems with his ex-girlfriend and his baby girl. He was just a kid, so I tried to help him when I could.

  “What was that meeting about?” Kevin asked me.

  “I made parole,” I blurted out, unable to keep the good news to myself.

  “Really? How did that happen so fast?” he said.

  “I told you, man, when you were in the cell with me. I don’t belong here. I’ve been saying it every single day, and now I’m getting out.”

  He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it. “Guys say they’re getting out all the time, but they don’t. You’re lucky, man,” he said.

  “I’m not lucky. This is God’s work,” I corrected him. “But you better not tell anybody. I don’t want these jokers knowing that I made parole.”

  “Why not? It’s good news, isn’t it?” the kid asked, proving to me how innocent he was. He truly had no idea how things worked in here.

  I got up real close to Kevin then and looked around to make sure nobody was listening to us. “It is great and that’s why you gotta keep it to yourself. There are guys in here that might try to sabotage me in some kind of way. They might try to plant something in my cell or something like that. They do things like that here. So keep it to yourself. Got it?”

  “I got it,” Kevin said and promised that he’d keep my secret. Since Kevin barely spoke to any of the other inmates, I didn’t doubt his word.

  I went into my cell then and thought about how I was going to tell Cheryl the good news. That night, when I made the call, before I could even say hello to Cheryl, she burst out with “Bobby, we did it! You made parole.” Apparently, before I was notified, Cheryl had been called to ensure that upon release, I would have a safe and secure location to live. So while I didn’t get to break the news, Cheryl and I spent the rest of our evening call replaying the moment we’d found out and then expressing our gratitude that this moment we’d been praying for had finally come.

  Thanksgiving came and went and I didn’t get to go home. I asked my counselor if I’d be home before Christmas, and once again, Baloney Neck told me it was possible but doubtful.

  I didn’t make it home for Christmas either.

  Finally, on January third, they told me I was going home on January fifth.

  Now it was impossible to keep the news to myself inside the prison. As soon as word got out that I was two days away from leaving, my cell became really popular. Guys kept coming by asking if they could have my stuff. My soap. My shampoo. My deodorant. My mattress. My books. Anything that wasn’t nailed down, people wanted it. I kept my deodorant, my mattress, a few books, my letters from Cheryl, and my Bible, but I freely gave my other possessions away to my fellow inmates. If it was going to make their lives better, I wanted them to have it. I also took folks to the canteen and bought them sticky buns, noodles, gum, anything they wanted that I could afford with the funds I had in my account. I was feeling generous, knowing I was going home to my family and these guys had months and sometimes years left to spend behind these walls.

  * * *

  January fifth finally arrived, and a guard came to my cell early in the morning. I had no clothes to call my own, so the guard took me to the donation bin to find something I could wear home. There were slim pickings, and all I could find were some too-small dress pants and a pullover sweater. I picked out some high-top sneakers that I hoped would mask the fact that my pants didn’t even cover my ankles. I was given two white laundry bags to pack my things, in which I put my books, my Bible, and my letters from Cheryl. I was ready to go.

  Then the guard led me to the central office, where I was supposed to pick up my bus ticket and then be driven to the depot. But when we got to the office, the woman behind the counter looked at the ticket she was about to hand me and then she looked at the clock and announced to the guard, “He’s going to miss this bus. Even if you leave right now, he’s not going to make it.”

  I don’t know who had made my travel arrangements, but apparently they couldn’t tell time. Or somebody should have gotten me up earlier. I didn’t know, but I was getting angrier by the minute while the guard and the lady tried to figure out what went wrong and who was going to fix it.

  Even though I had survived for six months at Mountain View, now that I was set on leaving, I knew I wouldn’t last even one minute more. I just stood there in agony and held my tongue, because if I opened my mouth, surely I would say something that would get me in trouble. Yes, I made parole, but I wasn’t free yet.

  The woman made some quick phone calls, and the guard found a computer no one was using and started typing something. In my head I tried reciting the Twenty-third Psalm to stay calm. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” By the time I got to “the valley of the shadow of death,” the woman had an update.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. The guard will drive you all the way to Durham, and you can get the bus there. We’ll call the bus station in Durham and make sure you can get on there with your ticket. And the bus driver knows you are not allowed to get off the bus in Manhattan. They have to take you all the way to Brooklyn, where your wife will meet you and get you off the bus. Is that clear, Mr. Miller? You must be on that bus when it gets to Brooklyn.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, exhaling all of my anxiety. “Very clear.”

  The ride to Durham took four hours.
The driver tried to make small talk with me, but I really had nothing I wanted to say to him, so we drove in silence. I said goodbye to those prison gates with a grateful heart, and I thanked God for helping me survive my time there. And then I started to imagine what it was going to be like back home with Cheryl and the kids. Back to the life I left behind. Eventually I fell asleep, dreaming about Brooklyn and the wonderful meal I was going to cook for my family when I got home.

  The guard woke me up when we got to the bus station in Durham. “Okay, Miller, I’m going in to make sure everything is okay,” he said. I mumbled “Okay” as I wondered if this would be the last time anybody called me Miller.

  I sat up in the back seat and tried to get my bearings. When the guard came back, he gave me a new ticket and undid my handcuffs.

  “Okay, Miller, here you go,” he said. “I’m sorry about the mix-up.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “And Miller,” he said before getting back into his car, “I don’t want to see you in these parts ever again.”

  I smiled at that. “You won’t. I promise.”

  He left and I was free.

  I had four hours before my bus to New York left, so I found a pay phone and called my cousin who lived in the area. I asked him to come get me so he could take me shopping. Before sitting on a bus for eighteen hours, I wanted some clothes that fit me. I had cashed out my prison account and had enough money to buy what I needed.

  Thankfully, my cousin agreed to come get me, and he took me to a department store in downtown Durham. My cousin had to run an errand, so he dropped me off and we arranged to meet two hours later.

  It was great to walk around and feel like a normal person again, but it was also overwhelming. All the noise and the people after a year behind bars was a lot to take in. I wasn’t twenty-seven anymore, looking for excitement and adventure. I was sixty-five years old and wanted to find a comfortable pair of pants. After wandering around the men’s department and trying on a handful of items, I gave up on finding jeans that fit the way I wanted. Instead, I bought myself a warm winter coat, because I knew when I arrived in New York it would be cold. Shopping had always been one of my favorite pastimes, but now I just wanted to get out of that store and find my cousin.

  I started to head toward the meeting spot we’d decided on, but I couldn’t find my way. All of the exits looked the same. I walked past the shoe department what felt like a dozen times. I started to panic and worry that my cousin might think I’d left and now I was going to miss my bus back to Brooklyn. If that happened, that would be a violation of my parole and I’d be back behind bars before I even made it home. I could feel the sweat start to prickle in my armpits. Think, Bobby, I said to myself as I stood in the bright lights of the perfume department. Figure something out.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” I asked a woman behind one of the perfume counters. “Could I please borrow your cell phone to call my cousin? I was supposed to meet him somewhere around here, but I’m kind of lost.”

  The woman looked at me and shrugged. “Sure,” she said and handed over her phone.

  I called my cousin’s cell phone and told him where I was. He said he’d been looking all over for me. I apologized and told him I’d gotten mixed up with every exit looking the same. A few minutes later I saw my cousin walking toward me, and with a sigh of relief, I followed him out to his car.

  After my shopping adventure, I was happy to just sit at the bus station and wait for the bus. I couldn’t help but think back to the day of my escape from prison what seemed like a lifetime ago. How nervous I was that I was going to get caught; how excited I was to get to New York; how many dreams I had for myself; how ready I was to bury Walter Miller and leave him behind.

  Well, here I was again, making the very same trip. But for the last twelve months, Walter Miller had risen from the dead. I still carried tremendous guilt from that part of my life, but I knew that in the eyes of the law, Walter Miller had finally and officially paid his debts to society. That meant I was free to live my life out in the open, no more hiding my past. Walter Miller, Buddy, Cotton Foot, Bobby. I had answered to many different names in my lifetime, always thinking that a different name would make me a different person. But I’ve always been the same person. I’ve always been a hustler, a survivor, and a risk taker. I survived my childhood. I hustled through my adolescence and early adulthood. I took risks to escape incarceration. What changed was my motivation. I started out hustling for myself. I could see no further than my own wants and needs. But then I turned my instincts and skills toward helping my family to survive and thrive. The same hustle I employed to plan and execute a robbery, I used to plan and execute a trip to Disney World with four kids.

  After this last stint in prison, it was clear to me that God had shifted my path so that I could be redeemed while fundamentally remaining my true self. If God doesn’t make mistakes, then He did not err when He made me, but I still had to learn plenty of lessons on my journey. I had to learn the meaning of compassion and care, humility and sacrifice. I am positive God was guiding my steps when I jumped off that bus in 1977, and He helped me to see that I had something good to offer this world. And that something could just be me. The real me. My mother’s lucky number seven. The boy who loved his family. The kid who loved fashion and music. The man who loved to cook. The gambler who always bet on himself.

  By the time the bus pulled into the station, I couldn’t wait to climb aboard and return to the life I had left behind. A life where I could now bring my whole self to the table.

  CHERYL

  “There he is!” I shouted, pointing to the lone figure on the bus. “There’s Bobby!”

  Jasmine, her husband, Rich, their little boy Levi, and Jordan and Justin all turned to look where I was pointing. The bus we had been waiting for, for the last thirty minutes, was finally pulling up to the Greyhound stop on Livingston Street in Downtown Brooklyn. We all ran to the corner where the bus was going to park, and we saw Bobby come stand near the driver as the bus was coming to a stop. He was the only one on board. As soon as the doors opened, he emerged from inside.

  Bobby walked down the steps slowly with a big grin on his face, and we all just wrapped him up in the biggest hug, laughing through our tears of joy.

  “Oh my goodness, Bobby, you look like Santa Claus with that beard,” I exclaimed, and everyone laughed. It looked like Bobby hadn’t shaved for the last six months. I didn’t care. My husband was finally home. Our family was finally back together again.

  “Are you hungry, Dad?” Jordan asked.

  “I could eat something,” Bobby said.

  “Well, good,” I said. “We’re going to take you to the diner to celebrate.”

  Rich had a big SUV that we could all fit in, and we drove over to one of the diners nearby. Jessica, who had been working the night shift at her job, joined us at the restaurant, and when she saw her father, she couldn’t stop laughing at Bobby’s new look.

  “Daddy,” she said, as we were all eating pancakes, “you need to get rid of that beard.”

  After breakfast, we headed home. Rich drove and Bobby sat in the front seat next to him. We were all talking and laughing, and the kids were peppering Bobby with questions about everything that had happened to him over those last few weeks. From where I sat, I could tell Bobby was just overwhelmed by it all. He could barely keep up. I decided then to hold my tongue and save my questions and comments for when we were alone. He was back, and I knew he wasn’t going anywhere, so there was no rush. I sat back in my seat and said quietly to myself, “Thank you, God, for bringing back my husband.”

  It wasn’t until late that night, when Jasmine, Rich, and Levi had gone home to their apartment up in Harlem and Jessica and the twins had finally gone to bed, that Bobby and I were together at last. It almost felt like a first date, being alone with Bobby. We had been apart for a year and had to remember what it was like to be husband and wife. For a moment we just sat there on the couch without talking, listeni
ng to the faint sounds of WBLS radio in the background. I knew Bobby had to be exhausted and I didn’t want to tax him too much, but I had one question that needed to be answered.

  “Bobby,” I started tentatively, and he turned to me. “Are we Millers or are we Loves? Are you Walter or are you Bobby?” I needed to know what to call this man. For the last year I’d seen the name Walter Miller more than Bobby Love. It was on all of the official documents I received, all of the important papers I’d filled out. When the parole officer had come to our apartment to make sure that Bobby would have a safe place to live, he had referred to him as Walter Miller throughout the visit until I started doing it too. Even though that name, that person—​Walter Miller—​was a stranger to me, I had to know from my husband himself who he really was.

  Bobby reached for my hand and said, “We’re Loves, Cheryl. And I’m Bobby.”

  “Okay,” I said, but I probably didn’t sound too convinced.

  “Listen, Cheryl, you married Bobby Love. That’s who I’ve been for these last forty years and that’s who I’m going to be for the next forty years or however long God sees fit to have me on this earth.”

  “Okay, Bobby,” I said with more conviction.

  “And I’m going to change my name officially, too,” Bobby added.

  “You are?” I said. “Because I was thinking maybe we might have to go get married again or change our marriage certificate or . . .”

  Bobby stopped me. “I don’t want you to worry about any of that. This is something I need to do to fix what I did. I’ve spent all this time as Bobby Love, working, building a family with you, paying taxes, and I’m going to make it official. I don’t want you or anyone else to doubt who I am. I am Bobby Love.”

  I trusted Bobby to do what he said he was going to do, and sure enough, in the following weeks, he started the process to legally become Bobby Love. He had to get a new birth certificate issued with the name Bobby Love and a host of other paperwork before it became official. That took care of the legal status of Bobby’s identity, but we still had to work through what it meant for Bobby to be my husband as a man with no more secrets.