Hazardous Brother

         Travis, following behind in his BMW, was texting me, despite my warning. Never take your eyes off the road. Especially not on mountainous, twisting roads. On the left, a cliff loomed. Veer right and plunge into the Susquehanna River. I promised Mom to safe keep my brother, Travis, but he's a real flash guy. Twenty-two and still childish because he's never taken responsibility for anything. Ever. And Mom encourages it.

Now Samantha, you know our Travis is brilliant, a genius who needs looking after.

My phone buzzed again. Another text. What if something was wrong? What if the steering on his vehicle was malfunctioning? I glimpsed right and snagged my phone from the passenger seat, my head bobbing between watching the road, back to Travis framed in the rear view mirror, and reading his text message.

"Hey, Samantha. Are we there yet? How close to the lodge?"

I ground my teeth. I would text back, "close to death," but light from a truck barreling down was nearly blinding me. Whitened knuckles clutching the steering wheel, I waited for the tractor to blow past before stopping the vehicle, getting out, hauling Travis from his vehicle, and giving him a smack-down. Except there was no place to pull over. My head lamps reflected the sign. "Warning, blind curves ahead." And my brother, blinded by his brilliance, behind.

One fingered, I began typing "focus on the road," but the phone kept dimming or returning to the home screen. The latest upgrade was less reliable and ten times more frustrating than the last. Mom's gonna kill me if anything happens to her precious son. At thirty-three, resenting my baby brother bordered on ridiculous. I whispered a solemn promise. If we make it to the cabin alive, I'll call a shrink and get some counseling, or drugs, anything to help me cope. Dull my mind enough to stop caring that lack of Mother's love devastates. 

Another road sign, "Falling Rock Zone," panicked me as I drove past. Rocks were falling now? Or, rocks had fallen before? Travis was ignoring my warnings. I activated the speaker phone. "Call Travis."

"Hi, Samantha! This road's a real trip. Get it, Sis, a real trip?"

"Not so funny, Trav."

"I'm texting Mom right now. Saying we're close by."

A shiver ran up my spine. "Travis, please put your cell away. You can't text and drive."

"Aw, come on, Samantha. I'm following you, my guardian, who never lets harm cross my path."

"Nothing can protect idiots. Stay off the phone. Eyes on the road." A second tractor-trailer, dark as death, whooshed by, rocking my Jeep. The huge rigs owned the road and paid no mind to lowly passenger vehicles. An ice pick was jamming the back of my head from all the twirling around. Check rear view for Travis. Focus on road. Back to Travis. Hit speakerphone. "You're heeding the road hazard signs?"

"Make up your mind, Sis. Eyes on the road or eyes peeled for warning signs?"

All I needed was a telescoping arm to shove out my back window, grab my brother's neck, and strangle him. "Stay off the cell." I slung the phone across the seat and freed venomous anger in a torrent of words. Treasured Travis. That's what I call him. It's bad enough our home was decorated by the stages of his life, all categorized in photos enshrined by coordinating frames. The family cabin was supposed to be a get-a-way, but there's no escape from The Exalted Travis. Not that I wanted a stuffed deer head welcoming me when I opened the door, but last month Mom sent my brother to a fabulous new studio. His latest portraits would be waiting.

I completed another torturous turn, the river dropping away, our vehicles now embraced by the forest on either side. Humans are arrogant. Imagine carving a road through these woods for our convenience. Do the trees scream when they're cut down? Loud as timber cracking, a boulder shorn from above came crashing down the mountain face. I hit the gas pedal and swerved. All the hundreds of Travis's pictures flashed in my brain. Peering into the side view mirror, I saw my brother's face, hunched over his cell phone, ghosted in the windshield. There was no reason to look back.



Entry "The Writer's Cramp" 

w/c 718



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