This was another quick write that we did in class. It was a pre-Of Mice and Men quick write. We were given four pictures and we were allowed to choose one and do some creative writing about it. I was struggling to think of a story to write for any of the pictures, when I looked at the one below and thought,
What if they were father and son? Why would they be leaving? Why would they be walking? That was when the story began to form itself in my mind. For all of you who have seen Game of Thrones, the mother became unintentionally loosely based on Catelyn Stark's relation to Jon Snow. It happened, and I have no idea how. Anyways, back to the writing. Here it is.
Along the Highway
When I was a kid, I had a father. It’s been long enough that I can’t remember his face now. From what I can remember he was tall, slim, and was always dressed in a well fitting black suit. I had a brother too. He was shorter than my father, and not quite as slim. He wore a dusty tan cowboy hat, one that my father had given him. We didn’t really look too similar. I had loose, wavy, light brown hair that trailed all the way down my back and to the end of my dresses. His hair was a darker brown and was much straighter. I had a slimmer, long legged build rather than his lean but not quite slim build. Even though he was five years older than me, he never teased me or was mean. But enough reminiscing, let’s get back to the story.
At the time, our family lived in Oklahoma. My brother and I were both attending grade school. Our father was a businessman, and our mother was a typical housewife that also worked occasional shifts as a nurse at the nearby hospital. Back then, everything was good. All of my memories of those times are cloudless, bright, and filled with jubilant laughter. But soon that all began to change.
It all seemed to start when Brother got in trouble at school, but I’m certain it started far earlier, somewhere I couldn’t see. He was prone to the occasional fit of violence, and this time he had punched another kid in the face. Without bothering to ask for an explanation, his teacher swung by my class, grabbed me, and marched both of us into the principal’s office. Turning on her heel, she exited and left us to the principal. Our principal picked up her wall mounted phone and called our home. Mother picked up on the third ring.
“Hello?” came her muffled voice.
“Ah yes, this is the school office. I need you to come in right away, we have something urgent to discuss,” the principal elaborated.
“I’ll be in as soon as possible,” came the disembodied voice. We heard a soft click as she hung up from her end.
Half an hour later, our mother rushed into the office.
“I’m here,” she breathed, “What did we need to speak about?”
“Yes, yes, sit down please,” the principal asked, completely ignoring her question.
Mother sat down in the chair to my right obediently and without complaint, crossing her long legs as soon as she was fully seated.
“I need to talk to you about your son. He punched someone today. And we all know this is not the first time he has behaved like this.”
My brother pulled his hat lower over his eyes as Mother looked over at him. I adjusted my skirt, not wanting to look up. I was uncomfortable being the barrier between them.
“He is too much of a danger to the other students. I’m sorry, but you need to take your children somewhere else,” she finished.
My mother looked as if she had been slapped. Then she flushed a vivid crimson and grabbed our hands. She dragged us along as she strutted out of the office. We all piled into the family car and sped away from the school for the last time. Mother said nothing, and Brother and I sat in the back keeping a compliant silence.
When we got home, she ordered Brother to go to his room and reflect on his actions. He obeyed without a word of protest. Then she whisked me into the kitchen and started the preparations for baking cookies. That meant that she was really upset. She only baked when she was under extreme mental or emotional stress. The fact that she took me into the kitchen with her was evidence of our underlying problem. My mother liked me better than my brother. Maybe it was because he was troublesome, and only Father truly understood him. This created a rift between my mother and my brother, which was only deepened each time he acted up. It may have been his way of trying to get her attention, to get her to care, but it only just made her more angry. She seemed to calm down as she was baking, getting caught up in the motions of making something beautiful. I helped her mix and I found the ingredients that she needed. When they were ready we popped the cookies into the oven and she began making lasagna for dinner.
When both the cookies and lasagna were ready, we set the table. Right as we called Brother down for dinner, Father walked through the front door.
“Daddy!” I said loudly as I rushed over to hug him.
“Hey kiddo,” he said breathlessly as I squeezed him.
“Honey, we just finished making dinner. Why don’t you come eat?” Mother interrupted.
I unfolded my arms from around him and bounced back to the table as he put his work stuff down. Brother had already slinked over to his spot at the table. He knew that Mother would break the news over dinner. Dad greeted him by lifting his hat to ruffle his dark brown hair endearingly, and then he sat down in his chair.
“Looks good,” he said enthusiastically. Lasagna was his favorite.
To start off dinner we all said grace and started piling our plates. There was the usual small talk at first, but then Mother dove in for the kill.
“So our son got in trouble at school again,” she began, picking up and turning over one of the cookies from their plate like she was examining it for flaws.
Brother wilted like a weed, slumping down as low as he could. Father paused in his chewing, contemplating what could have occurred.
“He punched someone again today. The principal expelled him. We have to find somewhere else where both of them can attend school,” she finished. She bit into the cookie sharply, and it crunched loudly.
“Is that so…” Father trailed off distractedly.
Mom practically turned purple with rage and set the unfinished cookie back onto her plate. She sat and fumed for a few seconds and then exploded.
“Do you not care that he got expelled?! Now we need to find another school for both of them! That was the closest school to here, the next one is a town away. You need to discipline your son.”
“Children, go upstairs. Now. Your mother and I need to have a private talk,” he said with a straight face.
We left our dinner partially uneaten and rushed upstairs. I sat with Brother just above the top of the stairs. He was trembling slightly. I took his hand in mine and cuddled up next to him as we eavesdropped on our parents.
With Father keeping his tone subdued it was difficult to hear what was being said. But we overheard most of the argument. Mother berated Father endlessly until she finally let his biggest secret slip.
“Why should I deal with him?” she screamed hysterically. “He’s not even my son!”
Brother and I looked at each other, finally understanding the obvious differences in our appearance and Mother’s anger. He looked like he was about to cry, so I squeezed his hand tighter. We sat in silence and leaned forward to hear the rest of what was to come.
“Okay then. Have it your way. You won’t have to deal with him, or me anymore. We’re moving out,” my father declared icily.
We could hear Mother beginning to sob loudly. Despite her deep set hatred for Brother, she had always loved Father. We heard the sound of Father’s shoes on the stairs, so we both scurried quickly into Brother’s room. I held him close as he shook in the semi-darkness of the room. He had long outgrown his baby blanket, so I encircled him with my arms hoping to replicate the feeling of safety and love that it had brought him. We heard the sounds of drawers being opened and zippers being closed. Then Father burst into the room. He looked momentarily surprised to see me there. Recovering his composure, he gave Brother the command.
“Pack your things. We’re leaving for San Francisco tomorrow morning.”
The morning came and everyone was in their own melancholy mood. Mother’s eyes were red rimmed and puffy, and her golden blonde hair looked grungy. Father’s hair was fluffed up from sleeping on the couch and his expression was stone cold and impenetrable. Brother had his hat pulled as low over his eyes as it could go, obscuring any expression they may have been reflecting. Their bags were by the door, and there were a strange amount of empty boxes laying all around the house. No sound filled the room except for the sounds of us chewing our toast. Without breaking the oppressive silence we all left the table, and they grabbed their bags. We all squished into the car for the last time. Mother took the car out to the big highway that led to the next town with a train station.
We were almost to the next town when Mother suddenly skidded the car to a stop.
“Out,” she commanded, “both of you.”
Without protest they both stepped out and grabbed their bags from the trunk. They took little with them. Dad started to walk away, and Brother ran a bit to keep up with his long strides. Mother began to cry again. Neither of them looked back. Walking out of my life in such a way, they looked almost picturesque. Two figures walking down a seemingly deserted highway, with a sign advertising the train in the next town off to the side. We watched until they disappeared from view.The only thing kept me from feeling completely alone was Mother’s sobbing.
“Honey, we are moving away,” she managed to gasp through the constant stream of tears. “I got a job offer in New York, so we are leaving as well.”
Every now and then I remember my brother and father fondly. My brother’s dark brown hair and dusty tan cowboy hat, my father’s crisp black suit. I like to imagine that life has treated them well, and that my brother has grown into good man, as I have grown up and matured. As I watch the cars below speed past from the apartment window, I think about my brother seeing the same view from San Francisco, possibly dreaming about me too. I place my hand onto the window pane and clench my fingers, imagining another hand from a city across the country squeezing my hand back.
It took way longer than expected to finish this. I was supposed to finish it in class but I had to take it home over the weekend. Oh well. At least I finished it how I wanted. Thanks for reading!
