Blood on Blood

by Frank Zafiro

  “Pussy….,” he whispers. “Sometimes you’re just a little pussy. Be hard all the time.” He tries squeezing my arm again and I barely feel it. I look at him and understand. I remember all the times he’s told me that. Over and over again. For years. Tryin’ to make me tough. Get me ready for the world he knew — and the one I would know.

  Out of nowhere, twenty or so years ago comes flashing back into my head. I’m watching the whole thing like it’s a video or something. It’s hotter than hell and he’s sweatin’ like a prizefighter. His wife beater tee shirt is stuck to him and he slams his beer can down on the counter. He was always a big guy and back then he was built too. Lean, hard and ready to rock and roll. Then you add meaner than a fuckin’ rattlesnake on top of all that and you got something to worry about.

  We’re at the old house and he’s pushing me all over the kitchen. It’s late and he’s all drunked up. Shoving and bouncing me around the room. Jabbing me in the chest and cuffing me like a grizzly bear who doesn’t want to kill right away. I’m twelve, maybe. He grabs a heavy metal ladle out of the sink and smacks me a good one with it.

  “Hit me, you little fuckin’ girl. You pussy. Gonna toughen your candy ass up a little. I’ll show you how to be a man, you little bastard.” He corners me and I get whapped again, right on the ear. “Don’t let me fuck with you like that. Aw, you gonna cry on me now? I said HIT ME!”

  His long ago yell echoes in my head and I blink. Blink again and then I’m back in this pale green dying room. It smells like death in here no matter how much they spray. Like cheap perfume on a slut.

  He whispers something I don’t understand.

  I lean in closer and he’s got a tear coming down his bony cheek. He smacks his lips twice and tries again.

  I look at the tile floor quickly and push everything down, down and away.

  “I tried with you.” His voice is wavering.

  “Dad you did fine, what are you talking ‘bout?”

  “Not your fault, you just don’t have it in you.”

  “Dad, you’re wrong about that.”

  “You’re still my boy, though.”

  “Yeah, well okay, I know, I know. You’re always my dad and there ain’t nothing changin’ that, either.”

  “Mick.” He says and frowns, or tries to.

  “No, Dad, it’s me. It’s Jerz and I’m here for you.”

  His head goes sideways on me, but his eyes are still open.

  “Your mother.” He’s barely getting the words out.

  “You mean…is she here?” I’m thinking this could be it for him.

  “I need to tell him something.”

  I don’t know where the fuck Mick is, if he’ll get here in time or even end up coming at all. Mom will come, though. I’m sure of that. Aunt Alina would bring her.

  He turns his head back to me.

  “Mom’s here. I’ll get her, okay?”

  He just looks at me but then his eyes seem to open up a little better.

  “Mick. Here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I think I saw him, too,” I lie. “I’ll find them both and be right back, okay?” I get up and lean over. “Okay, Dad? Be back.”

  He nods at me and his eyes still look okay for now.

  I part the curtains and slide out. The twink nurse is at a desk in the corner and I walk straight to him.

  “Is there a waiting room? Coffee shop or an area where visitors go to just sit it out for someone terminal?”

  “A coffee shop?” The fucker sighs and smiles at me all sarcastic-like.

  “You don’t learn quick, do you?” I snarl at him. “I swear to God, when this over, I’ll be back for you. Now just point me — don’t say another word or I’ll put that ball point pen in your ear.”

  His eyes got big on that and he points me down a short, bright hallway. I can see just the corner of a small sitting area. I don’t waste any more time with this shithead because I don’t know how much longer I have here.

  When I come around the corner there are three people sitting there, two of them women but none of them Mom. There is another guy leaning on the wall over by the corner window. His back is to me but it isn’t Mick. Wrong build. I take a few more steps in and I’m sure of it. Nope, not him. I glance quickly around the room again but then something makes me come back to the guy at the window.

  I get closer still.

  “Hey, Hero.”

  “Hey, Punk.”

  Two nicknames from another lifetime.

  The guy who used to be my brother didn’t turn around but he was looking at me in the reflection of the window. Probably been watching me the whole time, like the cop he was.

  I meet his eyes but there are no smiles.

  TEN

  Mick

  He hadn’t changed much. Still big. More cut than last time I saw him, but prison will do that. Still had that same expression in his eyes as when we were kids. A combination of smart ass and hard ass. It used to hide a boy who was just as scared as the rest of us at what the world held. Now it looked like there was nothing left to hide in those eyes but how much he really hated everything the world held.

  Like I should talk, though.

  “Surprised you came,” he grunted at my reflection in the window.

  “He’s my old man, too.”

  “Hard to say,” Jerzy said.

  I thought for a second he was going to say more, something derogatory about my mother or something, but he didn’t. He just stared at my reflection.

  “Almost didn’t recognize your skinny ass. You used to be more muscled up.”

  I shrugged and stood up. “I run a lot these days.”

  “Yeah? That figures.”

  He wanted me to ask why it figures, I could tell. Then he could jack me around about how it was something I could do alone or how running was for pussies and cowards or whatever. But I didn’t bite. What was the point? I had this few hours here and another few at the funeral, and then we were quits again.

  “You see him yet?” I asked.

  His mouth tightened and he glanced away. “Yeah.”

  “Not quite the Gar Sawyer of old, is he?”

  His eyes snapped back to mine. “Hey, fuck you, all right? He was more man than ten of you.”

  I raised my hands in a peaceful gesture. “Relax. I’m just saying that cancer is brutal. That’s all.”

  He eyed me for another moment, as if gauging my sincerity. Then he said, “Fucking brutal is right. Dying in a room full of crazy people and a fag for a nurse.” He shook his head. “It isn’t right.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “Fucking philosopher. Listen, you seen Ma?”

  “No.”

  “Aunt Alina maybe?”

  I shook my head.

  Jerzy frowned. “They should be here.”

  I wondered why he hadn’t stopped and picked up his mother, but I didn’t bother asking. Jerzy does what Jerzy does. You try to figure it out, you’ll go crazy.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, something he always used to do when he was anxious. It was an old tic he’d had since we were young. I wondered if he were even aware that he did it.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Huh?”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  He fixed me with a hard stare. “No shit, Hero. Dad’s dying.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m going back. If you want to see him before…” he paused and swallowed. “If you want to see him again, you should come, too.”

  “Okay.”

  We walked back down the hallway to the hospital bay. As we passed the nurse at his station, Jerzy growled an insult at him. The hate that came off my brother was palpable, but I knew it wasn’t even really directed at the nurse. I mean, in a way it was, but mostly it was just being directed at everything and the poor guy happened to be part of everything.

  Jerzy pulled aside the curtain and we stood side by side next to the old man’s pillow. He loo
ked up at us. A tired, cruel smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “My boys,” he rasped.

  “Yeah, Dad,” Jerzy said. “We’re here.”

  I said nothing.

  His gaze went back and forth between us. He took a shallow breath and exhaled. The stale odor of his breath washed over us.

  “Not much time,” he said. His ragged whisper had a mixture of hate and regret in it. “You think you have all the time in the world, but you don’t, boys. You understand?”

  “Yeah,” Jerzy said. “We understand.”

  “Death is a bitch,” he said. “She’s a conniving bitch and she comes for all of us.”

  “Bitches ruin everything,” Jerzy said.

  The old man smiled a little. “You know why I’m here?” he asked us. “You know the job?”

  “The stick-up bullshit they framed you for?” Jerzy asked.

  The old man raised his hand off the blanket slightly and waved Jerzy’s words away. “No. Before that.”

  I thought about it for a second, but Jerzy was quicker. “The museum thing? With the diamonds?”

  The old man’s eyes shined a little. “That’s it.”

  I remembered, although it was all rumors and street legends. The old man and two of his running buddies supposedly caught a courier between the airport and the museum while he was delivering some jewelry. A necklace and earring set. They belong to some Polish or Hungarian duchess or something. Supposedly a big score, and the reason he blew town before getting popped in Wisconsin for the convenience store robbery.

  “What about it?” Jerzy asked.

  “It’s true.”

  “No shit? Good for you, Dad.”

  He shook his head slightly. “Bastards double crossed me on the necklace.”

  “Who?” Jerzy asked, his voice gruff. “I’ll fucking kill those motherfuckers.”

  “Jimmy and Speedo.”

  “They’re dead,” Jerzy said. “Count on it.”

  “They got the necklace,” the old man said and coughed for a long while. Jerzy just stared at him. I could feel impatience rolling off of him in waves.

  I grabbed a few tissues from the bedside table and wiped the chunky spittle from the old man’s lips. He tried to hit my hand away but could only manage to lift it and let it fall back to his side.

  “Goddamnit,” he wheezed. “Listen.”

  I dropped the used tissue on the table and listened.

  “Go ahead, Dad,” Jerzy said. “I’m listening.”

  “They got the necklace.”

  “Yeah, you said that.”

  He coughed again, then continued. “Just…the necklace.”

  Both Jerzy and I were silent with understanding. The old man got the diamond earrings. He still had them. Somewhere.

  “I left something for you,” he said. His eyes went back and forth between us. “Both of you. My legacy. Your birthright.”

  “Where, Dad?” Jerzy’s voice was intense.

  The old man’s smile broadened. He shook his head again, sank back deeper into his pillow and coughed some more.

  He came around one final time and looked at us both.

  “It’s not about who I was…but what I left you. It’s my legacy. Remember that.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Can’t always take it to the bank but legacy is what’s important.”

  That was the last he’d say.

  We sat with him for another forty minutes in silence. Sometimes he’d cough, but those coughs became weaker and tapered off to nothing but an occasional wheeze. I stared down at him, watching as his hateful eyes grew dull. Finally, they became nothing but a blank stare.

  ELEVEN

  Jerzy

  I glance over at Mick and he knows I’m looking at him but he turns to stare back out the window. I don’t know what to say and even if I did, I wouldn’t. The old man is gone and there is nothing else to be done. Period. No tears from either of us, but for different reasons, I’m sure.

  “I’ll go get the faggot.” My voice is all quivery and fucked up so I fake a cough like that’s what is really wrong.

  “All right…yeah,” Mick says. He just keeps looking out that window.

  I was able to get the full attention of the little queer with a pissy attitude and a minute later, the prison chaplain comes stumbling in out of nowhere. He must’ve been on standby, waiting for the old man to cash it in. Right away, this bottom-end collared ass starts expressing his bullshit condolences. Bastard looks like an ex-con himself and sounds like a recording. He walks over to the bed and starts saying a few lines quietly.

  What a fuckin’ joke.

  But hey, this is prison. This is Columbia Correctional not St. Anthony’s Cathedral in Cicero right? So, fuck it. Whatever.

  Speaking of St. Anthony’s, that is where the old man had told us he wanted it done. He wanted the funeral to be at the same place Mick’s mom was at. He was clear about that, and something else, too. No regular burial for old Gar. He had a big ass problem with that whole rotting in the ground thing. Reminded him too much of prison. He wanted to be burned into ashes as soon as the funeral as over. But he also said closed casket, because he didn’t want a bunch of assholes staring at him.

  Yeah, my old man always knew what he wanted.

  I see the preacher turn from the bed and he walks slowly over to me and Mick. His head is lowered and he’s all somber and shit. He puts a hand on my shoulder and holds a bible in the other.

  I shrug his hand away. “Okay, I can really feel this and everything. This is fantastic, pastor, but now what?” I’m staring bullets at both Pastor Con and the little smartass fag. They’re standing there looking at me like fucking idiots.

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking, Mr. Sawyer?” The prison chaplain clears his throat and holds his bible even tighter across his chest like a fucking teddy bear.

  “He means, are we done here, and what are the next steps?” Mick chipped in like a translator. “We don’t want to dwell on things. We need to move on.” After a brief pause, he threw in a “Father.”

  After the preacher tells us the deal on the body being transported and things like that, we fill out some release papers and then even more paperwork checking ourselves out.

  We finally make our way back out of Columbia and into the parking lot.

  I can tell Mick’s in a daze, I guess we both are, and he just starts walking away. Then he stops and turns around.

  “Well, Jerz, I’ll take care of the arrangements if you want.” His voice is almost friendly. “See you in a couple days at St. Anthony’s.”

  I give him my best smart-ass sneer. “You’re coming, huh? Dad would be so pleased.”

  His eyes narrow slightly. “Yeah, that’s right, I’m coming. If I have to set the whole fucking thing up for you, I might as well come to the party, too.”

  I always knew how to piss him off.

  “You were always better than me at that kind of shit, right, Hero? Setting things up, taking care of the details and all that.”

  “Yeah, I was,” he snaps. “Speaking of that, Punk, I think that’s your poor mother and aunt whatever the fuck her name is, isn’t it?” He points over my shoulder, then turns and starts to walk away again.

  “So, tell me this, Mickey boy,” I call after him. “Sure, you’ll set it all up real nice, take care of everything for your little brother. But you gonna pay for it? Huh? You got any money for this? It ain’t cheap. Huh, chief? You got any money? Any money for anything?”

  He looks back over his shoulder at me but keeps walking. “Naw, you got me beat there, Capone.”

  Before I could say something back at him, I hear her calling and she’s almost running to me.

  “Jerzy, ohhh my boy Jerzy…”

  She’s all crying and shit, wailing away with fat Aunt Alina waddling along behind her.

  “Ma, take it easy. Ma, c’mon now.”

  “Oh my beautiful boy, where is he? Where is Gar? Take me to him.”

  I look at Au
nt Alina hard and shake my head.

  “I told you to hurry, Alina.”

  “We came right away, Jerzy, as quick as we could. But, well, we got a little lost.” She’s scared, looking at me with her painted on eyebrows all raised up high.

  It feels all wrong but I put my arm around my Ma anyway. She’s still crying and puts her trembling hands on each side of my face.

  “My Jerzy. My sweet, sweet boy.” She kisses me on both cheeks, then looks at me all weepy and plants some more kisses on me.

  “Ma…”

  “Take me to him, Jerzy.”

  “Ma…he’s gone. He died about an hour ago.”

  Ania helped me pick out this black suit I’m wearing and it’s a good thing. I hadn’t worn one in years and didn’t know the styles. When I asked her to come with me today she hadn’t even blinked. I’m still not sure why I asked her. Maybe I just wanted somebody else to sit next to me besides just Ma, who was a fucking mess like I knew she’d be. Maybe, just maybe, I really wanted Ania to be with me.

  Ania squeezes my hand and I look at her. At this kind of deal, you shouldn’t be thinking what I’m thinking…but damn.

  She’s wearing a conservative black dress, a simple gold crucifix necklace and toned down make-up. But damn. She could wear a potato sack and look hot. I look at her some more and swim around in those pale blue eyes for a second. I squeeze her hand back and rub my thumb slowly over hers.

  I swear she knows exactly what I’m thinking about. Knows what I’m thinking about, right here in front of God and everybody, if I could get away with it. Right here at my Dad’s funeral.

  Jesus. It’s hard to tear my eyes off of hers but I do it and try to think about something else.

  St. Anthony is like so many other Catholic churches in Chicago, a three story high ceiling with paintings and clouds up there. Stained glass wherever you look. Gold crosses and Latin. Jesus and Mary everywhere.

  I don’t belong here, never did. They use to have to push Mick to church, but with me it was even worse. It was more like dragging my little ass here.

  The priest is droning on about something and after we get up from kneeling again, I glance at Mick. He’s in the same pew but down on the other end and he’s staring right the fuck at me.