The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers by Thomas Mullen Page B

can’t help but look at the
other kids, think of the different choices the other parents made, the
different people your kids are all becoming. I thought about that at your high
school graduation, looked at the caps and gowns, wondered where they were all
headed. And now I look at your new cohorts here …. Are these your people
now, Jason?”
“Pop—”
Patrick Fireson leaned forward, lowered his voice. They were still the only two
at this table. “You’re better than these people, Jason.”
“I know that.”
“You’ve got a head on your shoulders and you know how to succeed,
you know right from wrong. I taught you that. You’re better than these people.”
“I know that,” Jason said, raising his voice.
“Then what are you doing here?”
Jason stared at the wall. He would have punched it if it weren’t cinder
block.
They spent most of their thirty minutes that way, trying to talk casually but
always forced back to these moments of reckoning. Jason couldn’t tell if
his father was trying to help him or torture him.
When the thirty minutes were up, they shook hands again and that was that. The
conversation, as he’d expected, didn’t get any better as he thought
about it during the week.
The next Sunday the whole family came. Ma didn’t cry, for which Jason was
thankful, and Weston and Whit kept staring at the other prisoners, apparently
wondering which were ax murderers and which ate children. Jason’s eyes
occasionally trailed his father’s, to the two youngersons and back to himself, and he felt worse, not
necessarily for what he had done but for what he was forcing his brothers and
his mother to see. He sat up straighter that day, smiled more, did what he
could to show that this wasn’t so terrible. He joked with his brothers,
told Ma how he was teaching some of the men to read, mentioned to Pop that he
was studying the Bible a bit (failing to explain that the Good Book was the
only reading material prisoners were allowed).
The Sunday after that, it was just Pop again, and Jason tensed, anticipating
another browbeating. But it didn’t come. They just talked—about the
family, the store, Pop’s real-estate plans, baseball. Eventually Jason
realized that Pop was done with the lecturing. He didn’t know if Pop felt
he’d pointed out his son’s flaws enough by then or if the old man
was silently assessing what fault in this was his own. Over time, Jason learned
to let his guard down.
“Tell Weston and Whit that they don’t have to come if they
don’t like … seeing me like this,” Jason said one of the
times when they were alone. “I’d understand. I don’t want them
looking at me in this place and thinking, I don’t know, that this is
their future, too.”
“They miss you, Jason.”
Jason nodded, looked away.
“They don’t want to talk about it, but I can tell. They missed you
before, when you were out doing all that . But now, too.”
“I’m a lousy brother.”
“Brothers usually are.”
“I’m a lousy son, too.”
“You have your moments.”
Jason let a grin pierce through his self-loathing. Then it faded. “Look,
I know I haven’t been … who you want me to be, but—”
“It’s not about what I want. We are what we do , Jason.
I’ve tried to show you that. I guess I failed at it. But we are what we
do, the choices we make.”
“I know I made some wrong decisions.”
Pop seemed struck by the admission. This would have been, what, the second
month? The third? How long had Jason’s reserve of pride and cockiness
held out?
“So when I get out of here … could I work at the store again? Or do
you have a policy against hiring guys with records?”
Pop smiled. “That policy doesn’t apply to
blood relations. And I can always use the cheap labor.”
And that’s what Jason was after his term ended, cheap labor, the prodigal
son returned. Smiles all around. The good feelings lasted a few weeks.
Eventually Jason got over his guilt at having been a lousy son and he admitted