The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers (12 page)

“I’m coming with you,” said the pregnant girl. She was
standing on the running board.
He leaned out the window to face her. “I can’t let you do that.
It’s not safe.”
“I need to see him off. He may be a brother to you but that don’t
mean he’s nothin’ to me.”
“Sister, in your condition, I—”
“This’ll only take longer you keep arguin’ about it.”
Then she looked away from him, gazing forward. Jason leaned back into the seat
and turned the wheel.
The others backed away from the Packard, all save Benedict. “Buddy, about
our deal?”
Jason hurriedly took the clip from his pocket and slid out two singles.
Benedict bowed his head in thanks and his two friends were pulled to his sides
as if he’d turned magnetic.
Jason headed out of the park, driving more slowly than he’d wanted on
account of the woman, whose shirt ruffled in his rearview. He hoped he
wouldn’t pass any cops.
Later he would reflect on the strange fact that, at the time, it was not panic
or fear that flooded him so much as anger. Anger that this had befallen Whit,
anger to be amid such suffering.
We are better than this, brother. This is
not our fate
.
“We can’t take these people,” a doctor said when Jason
approached the hospital carrying his brother in his arms. “There’s
a free clinic on the South Side. You’ll have to bring them—”
“I’ve got money, goddamnit! Now get me some stretchers before I
drop him on top of you!”
One was soon produced and various medical underlings
were unleashed onto the Packard, whisking away its human contents like hoodlums
stripping auto parts.
There were no chairs outside the operating room, so Jason dragged one from the
other end of the hallway. The hospital was at least as hot as the world outside,
the open windows useless. Jason had loosened his tie so hurriedly that the top
button of his new shirt had popped off. In his discomfort and fury he
considered taking off his bloody jacket, for relief and to inform the medical
staff that he was armed, but he decided against it.
“What’s the story?” he asked a young nurse leaving the room.
Her white uniform was no longer white. It took a moment for anything human to
register on her rigid face.
“There is no story yet. I’m sorry, but it’ll be a while. And
you really shouldn’t be sitting here.”
“And my brother really shouldn’t be having the hell beaten out of
him and left to die. Crazy things are happening, huh?”
She didn’t know what to do with that comment, so she dropped it onto the
floor and they both looked at it for a moment. Then she continued with her
errand.
Minutes later, the pregnant girl from the Hooverville found Jason. She had
tucked her men’s shirt into her pants, as if doing so would make her
presentable. The effort struck Jason as hopelessly sad; it only enhanced the
bulge of her baby and revealed the old length of rope she used for a belt. It
would have taken more than primping to clear the dirt from her arms and
clothes, the peeling skin from her shoulders, the grime and sweat from her
face. And her hair was the deadest thing Jason had ever seen.
He stood and offered her the chair.
“So, how long have you known my brother?”
Her eyes followed his to her belly, and she blushed.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” He realized he was looming over
her, so he sat on the floor, leaning against the opposite wall.
“It’s just, he and I have lost touch. I don’t know much of
what he’s been up to.”
“He used to stop by now and again, to see some folks he knew,” she
said. “Then he lost his job and started to stay with us. He says they
fired him because he was trying to get people to organize. Sent the Pinkertons
after him, but he hid well enough. Till the cops came.”
The long white corridor was silent.
“You have family out there?” Jason asked.
“Some.”
“You from Lincoln City?”
“Since I was twelve. Lived in Pottsville before then, but my father lost
the farm. He worked at the factory, too, for a time, but that was before your
brother worked there. Whit was lucky to get a job when he did.”
“But not so lucky to get fired. Though I suppose if he was organizing he
brought it on himself.”
She opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. Then
seemed to think that there was nothing better after all. “He
wouldn’t agree with that.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. So what’s your name,
miss?”
“Veronica Hazel.” He introduced himself again and said it was good
to meet her, circumstances notwithstanding. He was not yet famous or infamous,
just a man who happened to be born to the same parents as Whit, so such
introductions were not as fraught as they would one day become.
They barely spoke for the next two hours, until the surgeon emerged from the
room, looking scornfully down at Jason on the floor.
“How is he?” Jason asked as he pulled himself up.
“Look, I don’t want to get involved in anything here, but I need to
know who you are. If you’re some union guy rounding up everyone
who’s—”
“That man is my brother.” Jason pointed into the room. “My
actual
brother
, not like some comrade or worker. Now, how is he?”
The doctor explained that much of Whit was broken—his clavicle; his left
arm; his jaw, which would be temporarily wired shut; and several ribs—but
they didn’t suspect any organ damage. “He’ll be eating
through a straw for a while.” Whit had lost a good amount of blood and
had a serious concussion. “He’s not going to feel normal for a good
long time. But he should eventually.”
“Good,” Jason said, trying to convince himself. “Good.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m a bit amazed. He took a hell of a
beating. But he came to and seemed alert, which is a downright miracle. We have
him sedated—he’ll need that for a while. But his brain seems to be
working.”
“That’s an improvement, then.”
Months later, as Jason drove north to Cleveland, he thought of the
doctor’s choice of the word
miracle
. He was
tempted to wake his obnoxiously snoring brother with a question: Had Whit seen
anything during his long unconsciousness—if that’s what it had
really been—at the Hooverville? Angels, some celestial light, an echoing
voice? Jason wondered what he himself had missed while he’d lain on his
cooling board, whether some important earthly instructions had been imparted to
his soul, only to have his waking self completely forget.
Jason had stayed in Lincoln City after Whit’s release from the hospital,
helping Ma care for him. Also helping was Veronica, whom Jason ferried back and
forth each day until he slipped her enough money to get a cheap apartment for a
few weeks. Ma had, of course, been struck by Veronica’s obvious physical
condition upon first meeting her, and she had lectured Whit the moment Veronica
left the house that night. No son of hers was going to abandon a baby like
that. From then on, she practically force-fed Veronica rich meals.
Withdrawal from the morphine left Whit an insomniac for a few nights, so Jason
would sit beside his bed and talk through the evening. Whit’s
metal-rimmed jaw, hardened eyes, and dented nose imbued with permanence the
hostile look he had been wearing for so long.
“My associates and I are going to do a certain endeavor, probably in a
couple weeks,” Jason told him late one night. “Our first jobs were
small, but we know what we’re doing now. In a couple weeks, I’ll
have more money. You and Veronica can get your own place.”
“I want to help,” Whit said.
“No.” For years Jason had been circumspect about keeping Whit
uninvolved in his crimes, and he wasn’t going to change that now.
“You’re about to have a family to watch over.”
“All the more reason. I can do a lot better by—”
“No
. End of discussion.” He paused for a moment, staring his
brother down. “So, how far along is she?”
Whit looked down at his feet. “I’m not sure.”
“Looks pretty far to me. You’ve got your own work to do now.”
“I don’t know a damned thing about being a dad.”
“I didn’t know a damn thing about being a bank robber,” Jason
said. “But necessity can teach you a lot.”
Whit squinted at his brother. Pop had always used that line, and Jason
had always made fun of it behind the old man’s
back. They sat there silently for a while, remembering this.
Three months later, Jason learned that Whit had joined the ranks of the
disappeared.
“He left Veronica and the baby three weeks ago,” Ma told him at the
breakfast table the morning after one of his brief returns home.
“Jesus. He leave a note or anything?”
“A short one. It said, ‘I’m sorry.’”
Jason shook his head. After Whit had recovered enough to move around, he and
Veronica had quietly gone to a justice of the peace and married. Jason had not
been in attendance, as he’d been hiding out after a lucrative bank job in
Toledo. But late one night he had delivered his wedding gift in the form of a
bundle of bills, enough for them to rent an apartment for a few months and buy
some furniture and baby clothes. The happy if overwhelmed couple was living in
Dayton, an hour from Lincoln City, just in case the cops were still interested
in pursuing Whit for whatever shenanigans had put him on their list in the
first place. Patrick was born in early July, and Whit had tried unsuccessfully
to find work.
“How’s Veronica?” Jason asked.
“She’s all right. If you ask me, she’s the toughest person in
this family.”
“I can’t believe he ran out on her. And the baby.”
“He’s had a hard time,” Ma defended her youngest.
“Who hasn’t?”
She ignored him, moved on. “Veronica’s family moved to Milwaukee
last month, and she said she might have to follow them. I told her she’s
welcome to live here, too. I’d probably have to stop taking in boarders,
but I’d manage somehow.”
It was not yet six and the sky was dark; his mother had woken him up at five so
they could eat breakfast together.
Marriner always preached the importance of lying low between jobs, so visiting
home was a risk. Most of Jason’s bank jobs had been miles away, but his
escapades were beginning to receive press, particularly a recent job in Kalamazoo,
in which a young cop had given chase but had lost
control
of his vehicle, ramming into a tree and severely injuring himself. And
Jason’s most recent heist not only had been in his home state but was the
biggest in Ohio history: they had liberated some fifty-seven thousand dollars
from Toledo Consumers Union and Trust. Marriner had objected to Jason’s
plans to visit family so soon afterward, but Jason figured he was being
cautious enough by wearing a disguise (clear eyeglasses, a dull charcoal-gray
suit that fit a bit too snugly, an old cap, and a thin mustache), by slipping
into Ma’s place late at night and sleeping on the couch downstairs so he
could rise before the boarders. And by carrying a loaded gun beneath his
jacket.
“How are you?” he asked Ma. “You working too hard? You
don’t have to take boarders in anymore—I can get you what you
need.”
“I don’t want to rely on that, Jason. You know that.”
He glanced at his empty coffee cup. “The Wilsons’ old place is
still empty, I see.”
“It is. Their yard has certainly gone to seed, which doesn’t help
the neighborhood.”
“It also makes it easier for hoboes to sneak to your back door and beg
for food. I know your heart’s in the right place, but it might not be the
best idea.”
“What might not be?”
“Ma. It’s good of you, but at the same time it’s a risk. You
never know if it might be … someone who isn’t who he says he
is.”
“You don’t give your mother much credit, do you? I managed to raise
you
, don’t forget.”
“You have a reputation now; this place does. Didn’t you see the
chalk marks of a cat on the front fence? That’s hobo code for ‘a
kindhearted woman lives here.’”
She was thrown for a moment. “I just thought some neighborhood boys had
done that.”
“It’s why every time one of those trains comes by, the bums know where
to look for free food.”
“You don’t like knowing that some of your money is feeding
them.”
He scowled. “That’s not what I mean at all.”
“I expected better of you, Jason.”
“Ma, that is not …” How had he let himself get talked into
this corner? He should have just erased the damn drawing himself.
After a painful silence she said, “Find your
brother, Jason. Bring him back to his wife and son.”
Footsteps overhead told Jason that one of the boarders was up. He
frowned—Ma had said they usually didn’t wake until six-thirty. Ma
took his plate into the kitchen, and Jason grabbed his bag without another
word. He quietly opened the back door and slipped through the darkness into the
garage. It was freezing inside, but at least he’d thrown some blankets
into the car the night before. He would have to hide there for an hour or so,
until the boarders had left for work.
First he stood at the small window on the side of the garage. He could see into
the bright dining room from there, see the young man at the table, one chair
over from where Jason had been sitting. Jason still wasn’t used to seeing
strange men in the house, even though Ma had been taking them in for months
now. The boarder was thin and blond as a stalk of wheat, and he barely looked
old enough to shave. Ma said he was a former accountant, laid off, who had
recently got a job planting trees for the CCC; he was so scrawny it was hard to
imagine him lasting more than a couple of weeks on such a job.
Jason stood there for a while, watching the man yawn and stare off into space.
Then Ma slid a plate of eggs in front of him and the man smiled and nodded.
Jason crept into the backseat and pulled the blankets around himself, waiting
until it was safe to be in his mother’s house.
With the exception of quick, late-night drives to deliver cash to his family,
Jason had been away from Lincoln City for three months at that point. Upon
driving into town he had noticed that the Hooverville seemed larger, like some
unnatural weed that flourished despite the dipping temperatures. The cardboard
and plywood walls of the lean-tos were double-layered as protection against the
cool wind, or adorned with carpeting scavenged from derelict buildings. Clothes
that didn’t fit were nailed to the shacks, as were strips of hay and anything
else that could serve as insulation. At night Jason had seen the fires on the
hill, the glowing trash barrels and stolen heaps of coal. How did they decide
which of their meager possessions to burn? The yellow lights glowed on the
black hill like the signal fires of some invading tribe.