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 looked 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.