Free (2012) Blood on Blood by Frank Zafiro

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