The Faithful Son
A modern retelling of the Prodigal Son.
A modern retelling of the Prodigal Son.
The one who your folks, friends, and neighbors love? And secretly, I reckon, all of us long to be that person, at least once in our lives? Sometimes we get a lil’ taste of that feeling and wish it’d never end. But there’s more’n one way to skin a cat and be popular, just like there’s more’n one way to fart in public. But no matter how it’s done no one likes you for it.
I know that kind of someone in my life. Who steals the show no matter what. His farts don’t stink, his body ain’t rank, even when he sleeps with the pigs.
My own ma and pa always put him first. Even when he ruined the tiller’s blades by trying to cut wood with it, cocked up the rooster by chasing it into a well, and wrecked the John Deere when he tried to do donuts in it.
“Aw, let him be, let him out wild and free,” they said.
Meanwhile, my chores get done, my manners are proper, and I enjoy a hard day’s work. A day’s work well done is a reward nothing can match. My wild and fun sibling gets a long leash and even deeper grace. Is it really different for every child? Is there no fairness to it? How can he be reared with all that love and affection and turn out so…stanky?
Us down-with-the-earth folk are the foundations of society. We keep the world fed, don’t we. We’re humble, gentle servants. But still, we’re human as Adam and Eve.
My brother, the limelight-lickin’, cock-chasin’ fool hates farming. Hates what we do to live life. Hates it so much he takes it out on me, making me feel low as the dirt and no one sticks up for me. If I stick up for myself, suddenly I’m the bad egg.
And so I wait for the Lord to delivereth his justice, as they say. And oooooh.
He delivers.
My sibling gets it in his head that he needs to make a life for himself in the city, away from us country fools. I warn him that the city chews up more farm idiots than a husker an’ spits em out all canned and labeled: Country Bumpkin, now organic!
He demands his cut of the family savings in cash. The savings he’s hardly worked a day for. My folks don’t say, “son, now why don’t you stay on with us through the season or at least till you can grow a proper beard! You’ll scare them city folk, lookin’ like a creepy-mustachioed larva!”
Nope, he gets his share and galavants off to the concrete wonderland. Months later, he sends a card and a picture of him doin’ body shots off a stripper. My parents don’t know what to do with that. A year goes by and he hardly calls, unless it’s to brag of some exploit, some meetin’ with this famous person, or an interview sure to end in a six-figure position.
Day in, day out, I don’t pay him no nevermind. I put my chin, nose, and forehead to the grindstone, finally able to work in peace. I take over the dairy farmin’, the cattle wrastlin, and make my family proud.
Not proud enough to stop hearin’ about my damn brother. His successes tail mine like some donkey printed on the wall, and they always know right where to pin it on my ass.
Should keep the pride to myself, I guess.
But get this: he calls one day askin’ for more money. Ha!
This, after radio silence that urged my parents to repeat his heroics down to the age of six months! Six months! He couldn’t even laugh without shittin’ his pants back then. But don’t forget, it didn’t stink then or now.
He asks for help with a gamblin’ debt, for food (home-cookin beats all this organic crap, ma). For money so he his girl can come out, visit, meet the family. I hear her gigglin’ in the background, like it’s a joke.
“Sure,” my pa says. “Anything else?”
“That’ll do it!”
Ma and Pa send the money. Then, radio silence. I hunker down to the grindstone.
And this is what I hear in the background, “ You remember the time he climbed the tallest tree?”
I climbed it too.
“You remember when he sold lemonade and made $75?”
I squeezed all those damn lemons! And on and on and on…
Another year passes. Wait. What’s that sound? It’s the phone ringing.
“Pa, I need a bus ticket. I’m…I can’t…” He can’t even say he’s SOL, that he’s belly-up in failure like a neglected PetSmart goldfish whose family went to Cancún!
“Yes, of course,” Pa says, “anythin’ else?”
A day later, that sumbitch strolls up the long dirt mile to the homestead, or so I hear. At the time, I was out busy taking care of a gopher problem.
I don’t know he’s back till I walk in the house and it looks like Easter-Christmas-4th of Thanksgivin’. A party to end all parties. The ragnapotluck. And at the center of it all: Aunt Bessy’s Macaroni hot dish. Oh, God. The hot dish!
And who do I find with bags under his eyes, 5 o’clock shadow, breath like tar and discount Jameson?
My brother.
He’s in my best shirt. Pa’s best boots. Sittin’ on Ma’s favorite chair. We lock eyes and all I feel is disgust.
I walk right the hell out, ignoring the eyes.
Pa follows me through the screen door: “What’s wrong, bud? Surprised to see him?” We stand next to that very tree he’s so proud of one son climbing. I see Ma at the door, watching.
I say, “No, it’s the sight of Aunt Bessy’s hot dish. It’s so sublime…”
“You look mad, though, son.”
I snap, “Course I’m mad! I’m furious! Why do you give him the best when he’s done his worst? When I do my best and get leftovers from you! From Ma!”
“I don’t know what to say…I’m so happy he’s home, safe, and maybe close to the right path again. He’s back in our fold. I never had to worry about you.”
“That’s right. I never even thought about leavin’. No one threw a party for me, the person who’s worked hard and done people good. The one who’s been faithful and trusting, even when it didn’t make sense! Why shouldn’t I get some of Bessy’s Mac just for being present and steadfast?”
He hugs me, a tear in his eye. “Your brother was lost and now he’s found. I’m just happy for him.”
I pack my bags that night. I leave to get lost, to forget, to bury the old me who believed he could do what’s right and expect good things to come his way.
I don’t know if I’ll ever come back. I hope my turned back means something to the people who love me. But, for now, so much for the right thing.
So much for being the faithful son.