and I alone escaped to tell the tale...

I saw the stooped balding man slip into the elevator as I went around the corner to the stairs. I raced up the steps to the court room hoping I would make it before him, but no such luck. I came out of the stairwell just in time to stand in line at the metal detector right behind him, my brother. He was wearing jeans and a UK tee shirt and tossing the contents of his pockets out into the basket. I was glad I choose the conservative classy outfit, black skirt, royal blue blouse, and black sweater, finished off with high heel black boots with silver buckles on the side. I might have know they would set off the metal detector. I do have to give small town police credit for common sense however, because they took one look at me, handed me my pocket book and waved me on. I'm glad the boys from my hood recognized that I had not gone away to the big city to become a terrorist.

My brother and I maintained our long established silence as he sat on one of the benches lining the hall and I walked to the other end, exuding what I hoped was the confidence I did not feel. My sister arrived with her son and an enormous folder of papers. For the past four years she had watched it grow and had become increasing lost counting the trees and pointing out their bark and leaf patterns while I have exasperated her by seeing only the forest. We each seek control in our own way, both of them equally fruitless. Those who had the last measure of command over this situation set this ship sailing directly and unalterably into the wind and then laid them down to sleep. None the less, their ghosts lean over my shoulder, jot things in invisible ink on the lawyers notes, and whisper words in my ear I try to ignore.

I focus on the task at hand. My brother is called to the stand and the first of 23 exhibits is admitted into evidence, my email correspondence with my father's lawyer, now years old and almost forgotten. I find a word that spell check did not correct as I watch the faces of the assembled crowd read the letters from yester-me. Everyone has their moment to speak. I watch as my brother turns red and shakes with rage, caught in lies and schemes that are irrefutable. Through it all I can see that he believes in his entitlement and can no longer sort truth from fiction. As the hours drone on the courtroom becomes more informal. The lawyer asks for a toilet break and no one even mentions rising as the judge comes back into the room. I quickly sit down as I am the only one standing, but no one seems to notice.

We start back on the subject of the difficulty of moving the houseboat. The judge looks puzzled and says, "I don't understand why the boat was so hard to move. How did it get there in the first place?" My brother gesticulates wildly and tells of my father driving the expensive boat full throttle over the Rodchester Dam in high water. "No one else would be fool enough to do that again," says my brother. "No one would even want to ride in it with him much less drive it." I raise my hand like a child in school.

"I would." Immediately I realize where I am and say, "Sorry for speaking out."

"It's okay," says the judge, "We have moved past formal at this point."

I watch the clock on the wall move around the hours. We started at 1:00 and it is now 4:30. The lawyers rest. The judge rises and announces, "I need a Tylenol." He leaves the bench. We sit around looking at each other for a bit until the opposing lawyer comes over, tears streaming down her face, and says,

"There is so little left. Can we just come to an agreement before he returns." She knew my father well and she has a brother much like my own. She is tormented like the rest of us by too much knowledge and too few solutions. Ignoring her tears and sucking my own down I speak up,

"I will not pay my brother for his incompetence in the handling of this estate." The dam breaks and everyone expresses their feelings about the matter, me mostly. I turn to my lawyer and sister. "Mr. Ford, I trust your judgement. You have been fair and complete in everything you have done. Give us your opinion on how to proceed and we will go with your judgment." I do not know if my sister will agree but Mr. Ford writes numbers on paper. We come up with something we can all accept that gives my brother a few thousand dollars, pays half of the lawyer's fees and gives my sister and I the balance of the remainder. We agree to each pay a quarter of Mr. Ford's fee out of our part. My brother's lawyer walks back over to him and in a few minutes we have a deal. The judge comes back into the room looking the most pleased with himself.

About half five the checks are written, the papers signed. Everyone is gone from the courtroom except the bailiff, my brother, his lawyer, and myself. I have been standing with my the ghost of my mother's hand on my shoulder. I look again at the flawed and miserable excuse of a brother sitting so frail and sick across the room. It was not my parent's hand that pushed me, but my own feet that took me over to his table. He was turned away as I bent down and put my arms around him. I find the words to say. "You're my brother and I love you. So sorry it came to this." He is flabbergasted. We chat for a minute. I tell him about my children and grandchildren although he does not ask, has never asked. He recovers and starts to brag about the only thing he has left, his son. He calls him my brother and I gently correct him and agree that Jeff is an exceptional man. After a few minutes of small talk the bailiff says he needs to lock up and go home. I walk out knowing that this is probably the last time I will ever see my brother alive.

In an hour I am back in the car on my way home. My husband had slept the afternoon away so he could drive through the night and get us back safely. Now he wants details but I find I have little to say. The hard knot that had sat in my chest all during the trial is mostly gone, taking with it the tedium, frustration, and anger of the past four years. The further I get from my hometown the better I feel. I will always try to hold tight to the good things my parents gave me, and try to find the grace to forgive the rest. I thank what ever wind, no matter how ill, that blew me from that place and landed me here in Virginia. It is done and I have won after all. I have a life rich and full of love. What more could I ever ask?