BROKEN BROTHERS
ONE- Paul's POV
You know I idolised my big brother when I was a kid. He was just so damn cool, you know in that effortless, irritating way. My Mom never had favourites when we were boys, for which I was truly glad. See, at school Johnny was loved by all, and me I just sort of followed behind, always in his shadow. Don't get me wrong, I didn't mind, I knew it wasn't his fault. See, Johnny was bright. I'm talking super, maths genius bright. He was athletic and good looking, and best of all he was fair. Our Mom had brought us up pretty good- we didn't go to Church often but she believed in all those nice Christian values, and she passed em on to us. So yeah, everyone loved our Johnny, and well, so did I. That is until the day he left us.
We'd often talked about our future, and our dreams, chatting late into the night in our shared room or after school with Billy, Johnny's mate from chess club. He wanted nothing more that to fly. His side of the room was absolutely covered with posters, pictures and models of flippin' aircraft of all shapes and sizes. Drove me mad, I can tell ya. We used to argue, 'cause they'd always be invading my space, where I hung pictures of bands I liked, and girls I fancied. When it came time for him to graduate, he told me he'd never leave me, that he'd get a job in town to help me and Mom. But he didn't; he lied to me and then he abandoned me. The night before he left, he got some beers and we sat out the back in the yard, mulling. I was angry with him, but he was far too excited to even notice. I could tell that there was no changing his mind, so I did the only thing I could. I told him, I wished him well, and ordered him to come home once in a while. I was angry but I did understand why he was going. Its not like people like us get a whole load of chances in life, is it? Like Mom always said, you gotta cease the day.
The next day he got on a bus and Mom cried for hours. I ain't never seen her cry like it! Broke my heart, and for one selfish moment, I wished she was crying like that for me. Guess I did have the odd issue here and there, but hell, who hasn't?
Fall came and went. Johnny wrote Mom letters and told her about his classes and societies he'd joined. He told me about girls he'd done and beer he'd drank, and I looked forward to those letters every couple of weeks with baited breath. It was like another world. I was fifteen then and high school was such a drag. Without my cooler, big brother no one noticed me at all. I hadn't really noticed before, but all my friends were Johnny's friends and they'd all gone to college or got jobs, so I had no one. I hadn't realised how much I relied on him. Around that time Mom got real sick. She was fine when Johnny was home, she'd make loads of extra effort to put her make-up on and cook, and be just like she used to be. Johnny didn't have a clue. She made me promise not to tell him she was ill. She said that he'd just quit college and come home to take care of her- she was right of course. But it was all so frickin' unfair! Here was me, her youngest, still in high school, lying to my big brother so that he can go and have fun. Where's the justice, I ask you? Life was pretty hard back then, and it just got harder. Mom used to make excused for why Johnny shouldn't come home and he bought them! But I knew the truth. He just wanted to stay with his new college friends and drink beer and screw girls. The year Johnny went into the Air Force was the hardest. Mom seemed to give up. As if by him making it, her job was done. What about me I wanted to scream at her! I'd taken care of her for four years, and now she was giving up, now that Johnny had made it to his dream. What about my dreams? My ambitions? My life? Did I not matter that much to her?
She died, painfully from the cancer that had eaten away at her body, when I was nineteen. That last year had been the hardest. Johnny was away, fighting some war and I, having graduated, started what should have been Johnny's job at the local factory. To say I resented him back then is a major understatement. I contacted the Air Force and Johnny was on the next flight home. But it wasn't enough for me. I planed her funeral with Mrs. Woodard from the second floor, an old friend of Mom's. I didn't bother to contact Dad or Grandma, they'd never been there for Mom in life, why should they in death?
I didn't cry, not even once those 3 days of pure torture, as we arranged flowers, and silk and types of wood and brass handles. Johnny came back the night before and I made sure I was out. I think he spent that night in a hotel, but right then I didn't care. My Mother had died and my life had been left in tatters. But him- he had a career, social standing; he could go back to his war and forget all of this. But I couldn't, this was my life. After five years of struggle I didn't know what to do. To be fair, I was angry and confused and not necessarily at him. We barely spoke at the service, I couldn't even if I'd wanted to and he just cried; silent tears and the occasional shudder. When they lowered the coffin into the ground I saw him crack. He covered his face in his hands, making the cuffs of his smart dress-blues damp. A lone tear careened down my own cheek and for that one final moment, we were brothers again.
The moment went, as did my family the second the coffin hit the bottom. Went it was over and the only people left were me and Johnny, we finally had a conversation. Well, I say conversation; I accused him of abandoning us, leaving me to take care of Mom and for ruining my life. He just accepted my anger and frustration. He even apologised to me for leaving. He didn't try and make excuses- I think he was just as angry as me; but with himself.
"Paul, where does this leave us?" he asked between chocked sobs.
"What do you mean?" I felt sick; I wanted to hit something, anything.
"We're still friends right? Still brothers?" his eyes focused on me, almost begging, but in my anger lashed out. I wish now I could take it back, but it's been so long. Too long.
"I have no brother." And then I turned and left the graveyard. I never looked back, and I never saw my brother again.
I think about him from time to time, whenever I see a plane or play chess with my own son, John. What? It's a family name. Besides, I can't make up for how I acted back then, I can't ask for his forgiveness when I don't deserve it. I doubt he'd speak to me now, even if we met in a bar. Not that he'd recognise me. I've changed a lot since I was young; mind you I bet he has too. I mostly wonder if he's safe and happy. I suppose if he'd been killed I'd know about it- surely the Air Force would tell me, right? I'm curious to know if he's married or divorced or single or…you know what? I just want to talk to him, to share a beer like we used to and try to be brothers again. Mom would like that.