Big Brother, Little Sister

November, 1996

Jericho knew he was too tired to drive that far. But with the last concert only 30 miles from his home, he couldn't face another night in a hotel. The stadium parking lot was empty as he made his way to his Harley. Not one fan remained to ask for his autograph as he put his helmet on. The last bus full of musicians, roadies, and crew had left for the hotel over an hour before he left the building. He'd lingered over his shower and four cups of black oil that had been labeled coffee in hopes it would help him stay awake long enough to get home.

As he pulled out of the stadium and headed across the freeway, he encountered little traffic. No one paid any attention to the lone motorcycle as it made its way towards Jericho's home on the outskirts of Malibu. The clear black sky with its millions of indifferent stars were the only source of light on his journey. The wind blew across his leather jacket, sending a lock of his long hair across the visor of his helmet. He impatiently shoved the lock behind him; the action managed to rouse his attention back to the road. He'd almost fallen asleep again.

Just a few more miles, he thought. I know I can make it home.

For a while, his pep talk seemed to work. He actually managed to stay awake for several miles. Then, shortly after entering the long and winding driveway that led to the house at the top of the hill, his eyes began to get heavy. All of the long hours and months--all the traveling and the stress--of his tour came crashing down upon him in that one instant. As he rounded the final curve, his foot slipped from the pedal to drag in the gravel. Jericho fought to keep control of the Harley, but the machine won the round.

His helmet lay three feet in front of the motorcycle; he'd forgotten to fasten the strap again. A trickle of blood left a red streak in his blond hair as it dripped onto his speedometer that now wore an impression of the outline of his face. He had trouble breathing, but he desperately tried to push away the darkness and pain. He couldn't feel his right leg; it was pinned at an odd angle under the rear tire of the bike. His last thought as he slipped into the blackness was Little sister.

It was Tara's first chance to produce an entire album. Thanks to Jericho, she had always been able to produce the songs she helped write. But it was her talent that kept her services as a songwriter and producer in demand.

She was on her way to the recording studio when she picked up the newspaper as she headed to her Corvette. A small item on the back page caught her attention. Rocker Jericho Hurt in Accident. The color drained from her face as she sank to the car seat. She reached for her cell phone as she started the car. The studio would have to wait.

The hospital was an oppressive place. It had a unique scent that had always reminded Tara of death. Everything was painted snow white to give the impression of serenity; it only increased her anxiety.

She inquired about Jericho at the nurse's station and was directed his mother, Amanda, in the hospital chapel. "Amanda," she said, "How's Tommy?"

"He's alive," Amanda replied gratefully. "He'd look better if he'd lost a prize fight with Mike Tyson. He's still unconscious. The doctor isn't calling it a coma yet. But I think he will if Tom doesn't wake up by tonight."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I wasn't sure you'd come. He said you called him Jericho. But you're here, so he was wrong. I'll take you to him."

When Tara entered the room, she almost didn't recognize Jericho. His long hair was combed straight back. His face was severely bruised and cut. One eye was swollen shut. His right leg was in a large cast from hip to ankle that was hoisted in the air by a metal sling that surrounded the leg. A sheet had been pulled up to his waist. Most of his chest was covered with tape; the visible part of his chest was a colorful combination of black, purple, and blue. The only sound in the room was the constant beep of his heart monitor and the drip of his IV.

She sat down in the chair next to his bed. She placed her hand in his and stared at him for several minutes. Finally, she spoke. "My God, Tommy. I leave you for a few months and look at the mess you get yourself into. Dear, God, you look awful. You look even worse than I did the day we met. Do you remember?"

September, 1984

In the heart of Hollywood sat Jack's pride and joy, The Cage. It was 800 square feet of pure party zone. A few tables were scattered around the perimeter of the dance floor. At the front of the club was a 30-foot platform for the bands to perform on. At the back of the club was Jack's throne where he held court over his palace: a twelve foot long wooden bar with an ornately decorated mirror behind it. Four empty beer bottles sat on the edge of the bar.

Jack's ten-year-old daughter, Tara, sat at the bar drinking a glass of root beer. She listened to the band play Bringin' on the Heartbreak by Def Leppard, her favorite song.

"You here listenin' to the band, girl?" Jack asked between swallows of beer.

"Yes, sir," Tara whispered, looking down at her drink.

"Look at me when you talk to me."

She looked up at him. "Sorry, sir."

The band took a break when the song ended. Tara watched the approach of the lead singer in the mirror. He was at least six feet tall and had a mane of blond hair halfway down his back held back by a bandanna. His outfit was designed to make the audience think of sex: skintight black leather pants, knee-high boots, and a leopard-print vest. On his right arm, she saw a tattoo of a black spider with the words Black Widow, the name of his band.

"You need something, Jericho?"

"How 'bout a beer?"

"One root beer comin' up," Jack said, setting down his beer. "You're only sixteen."

"Can't blame a guy for tryin'."

"You be outta here by five, girl. Or . . ."

Her hand automatically touched the bruise on her cheek. "Yes, sir."

Jack laughed at his daughter.

Jericho looked up, startled. He studied Tara in the mirror. He noticed her ponytail that hung to her waist, brown hair so dark it was almost black. He scanned her face and finally settled on her black eye and the bruise marring her cheek. He looked down at his drink.

"What are you doin' here, boy?" Jack demanded. "You're not welcome here anymore."

Lucas removed his hat. "I came to say good-bye to my sister. If that's all right with you, sir."

"I'll be in the back. Be gone when I get back." He grabbed two bottles of beer as he left.

Jericho's face turned red as he listened to the exchange. But there was no graceful way for him to escape. In the mirror, he looked at the marine's uniform with the stripes of a private that her brother wore.

Tara didn't look at Lucas as she said, "You're leaving me with him."

Lucas stood behind his sister. "This is the only way."

"Why?"

"Because if I stay, I'll kill him. I made my choice. Now we both have to live with it."

"I guess we do."

Lucas put his hands on her shoulders. "Write me a song every day, Squirt, and you can endure anything. You are the strongest little woman I will ever know."

She looked directly at him in the mirror. "You're not coming back."

He looked away from her. "No, I'm not."

Tara launched herself into his arms and held him tighter than she ever had-as if by holding him in her arms, she could make him stay.

Finally, he disentangled himself from her arms. Lucas murmured, "I have to go."

"I know," Tara said so softly he almost thought he imagined that she had spoken. He left the bar just as quietly. She sat and watched him go. A single tear wound its way across the bruise on her cheek to splash on the floor.

"I know what it's like to lose you best friend," Jericho said, taking a drink of his root beer. "A year ago, my little sister was killed in a car wreck."

"I like your band," she said, looking directly at him. "And your voice." She looked at him from head to toe and back to his head. She laughed. "And your outfit."

He pulled the bandanna from his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't," he said, "but sex sells. And this"-he gestured at his clothes-"will get us more gigs and, hopefully, a recording contract."

"I wish you still had your sister."

"Maybe you could be . . ." he began. He shoved his hands in his hair as if searching for the right words. "Maybe I could be like your big brother." He turned and stared into the mirror. His long hair fell forward to cover his face.

She was silent for several minutes as she studied him. "You mean like that program at the Y? Where the kids without anyone get someone to do stuff with them?"

"I think it'd be a place to start." He pushed his hair from his face and looked at her.

"I don't even know your name."

"Tom Wyatt. But I prefer Jericho."

Tara smiled. "Big brother, huh?"

"Little sister, huh?

"Maybe."

April, 1991

"I still don't understand why you didn't call Jericho," Melissa, Tara's mother, said. "He should be here."

Tara sighed. "All he wanted," she said, tugging on her braided hair, "was a picture of me in my dress. We can take that later."

"He's your best friend," Amanda said, "and my son. He wouldn't want you to miss your senior prom for any reason." Melissa and Tara had moved into the two-story childhood home of Jericho shortly after Jack had been killed in a robbery seven years before. Amanda had claimed the house was too big and lonely without Jericho who was on the road most of the time. The two women becoming roommates had seemed the perfect solution at the time.

"It's not his fault Rick turned out to be a jerk," Tara said. Besides, Black Widow is on the road with The Scorpions and Aerosmith. That's just a little more important." The band had become one of the most successful metal acts of the late 1980s.

The doorbell rang. "Aren't you going to answer the door, Tara?" Melissa asked, a wide grin painted on her face."

"If that's who I think it is, I'm going to kill you both." She opened the door hoping she was wrong. But she knew Jericho would be on the other side. "Oh, my God."

"Hello, Tim," Jericho said. He had started calling her Timmy because of her initials: TMY. The name had been shortened to Tim as she grew older. "Do I get to come inside.?"

She stepped aside allowing him entrance to the living room. Tara stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. Dressed in a black tuxedo complete with a brocade vest, he was devastatingly handsome. "My God, you cut your hair."

He laughed. "Not even for you, little sister. It's my one point of vanity." He reached behind his head and pulled a long braid from the collar of his shirt.

"What the hell are you doing here, Tommy? You're supposed to be on tour. Nowhere near here."

He shrugged. "I needed a break. Are we gonna argue all night or you gonna go put on that dress I've heard so much about? Don't we have a prom to go to?"

"Maybe."

Twenty minutes later, it was Jericho's turn to stare as Tara descended the stairs. She wore a black strapless dress with a lace overskirt that ended two inches above her knees and bounced when she moved. Her three-inch high heels brought her to within an inch of his head. Her waist-length hair now fell in gentle waves that barely brushed her shoulders. For the first time, he noticed she had the curves of a grown woman. He whistled in appreciation. "You are gorgeous."

"So are you."

Jericho actually blushed at her words. "We should go."

"Four AM curfew, Mom?"

"Whenever you get home is fine, dear," Melissa said as the two went out the door.

"I think you're playing matchmaker," Amanda said. "You can't force them to fall in love."

"But I can dream. Can't I?"

The theme of the prom was Dreams of Gold, a song recorded by Black Widow and written by Jericho. The gym had been decorated with pictures of clouds and golden coins made from construction paper. Gold and white crepe paper streamers hung down from the rafters. It struck Tara as a very cheesy interpretation of the song that had been written about a friend's death.

"So what do we do now?"

"How about a picture?" Tara suggested. The pair made their way across the gym fighting through the sea of bodies gyrating to the sounds of the latest of the new British invasion.

In the far corner of the gymnasium sat a photographer taking pictures under construction paper clouds with gold and white balloons surrounding the scene. The photographer told Jericho to stand behind Tara and put his arms around her. He snapped off six pictures in a matter of seconds.

Jericho asked Tara to dance. They danced through two fast tunes and several slow ballads before Tara asked him if they could go anywhere else. She thought the entire affair seemed like one big cliché with no surprises and few rewards. But it was nice to see Jericho again. He'd been on the road for 10 months.

Jericho drove to Roger's Lookout. It was a place that people often used to be alone with their significant other. It was a grassy knoll atop a cliff that overlooked the beach and ocean. He helped Tara sit on the hood of his car before he joined her.

"So why did you really come?" Tara asked. "I don't believe it was just to take me to the prom."

"The band's contract was canceled."

"But you guys are great."

"After all these years, the company says metal's on its way out. I think it's just an excuse on their part. But Widow is gone. We're not doin' it anymore."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I don't know," he said, "maybe go solo. Or maybe I'll just write songs with you. I should take you home soon."

"Are you kidding?" she asked, looking at her watch. "It's only 1 AM. Our mothers will be disappointed. I think they're trying to play matchmaker with us."

Jericho pulled the elastic band from his braid. "Who knows? Maybe they're right. Maybe we should be involved." He shook his hair free from the braid and ran his fingers through it. "Come here."

"Why?"

"Maybe I wanna see if they're right. How 'bout a kiss?"

"Maybe."

He leaned towards her and brushed his lips over hers. He kissed her softly as if he was afraid she might run away with any sudden movements. When it was over, they stared out at the sea for a long time.

Finally, she asked, "So what did you do after your senior prom? Maybe we could kill time with it."

He blushed. "I don't think so. That was the night I lost my virginity with a one-night stand."

Tara turned red at his words. "We could never be a one-night stand, Tommy. It would have to be forever or nothing at all. That wasn't a forever kind of kiss."

"No, it wasn't," he agreed, "but it was nice. But you'll always be my little sister and I want things to stay that way."

"So were you serious about writing songs with me, big brother?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. We can start now." It was the beginning of a song-writing partnership that few could match. In just under five years, they had written and sold 22 top 20 singles, 11 of them topping the charts.

March, 1996

Where can he be? Tara thought. She looked at her watch again. Jericho was supposed to meet her an hour ago to start working on some new songs. But he'd never shown up. She was beginning to get worried. "What if something happened to him? Maybe I should call Amanda and see if she knows where he is." She began to dial Amanda's telephone number.

Jericho grabbed her from behind and spun her around in the air. "You will never guess what happened with the record company."

"They liked the songs."

"Not even close."

"Okay, they loved the songs and we're getting a million dollars."

"Not quite," he said. "They do love the songs. But they want me, too. I've got a recording contract again, Tim. I'm going on the road. Isn't that great?" He set her down then. He wore the biggest smile she had ever seen.

"Yeah, great," she said. "What about our partnership?"

"What about us? This doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything, Tommy."

"I don't understand. This is my dream. You should be happy for me. You should be part of my dream. There's lots of things you can do on the road with me, Tim. And we'll still have plenty of time to write together."

"That's the problem. You're not listening. This is your dream. Not mine. I never wanted any part of performing. And I don't want you to be part of it. I don't wanna lose you to it."

He ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair in exasperation. He thought she would understand. He thought she would be excited for him. "I can't even believe you said that. You want me to give up the chance of a lifetime. The fulfillment of my every dream. All for some silly fears about losing me?"

"Silly fears?" Tara said. She laughed shortly. It was not a pretty sound. "If that's what you believe, then I've already lost you."

"What the hell are you talking about, Tara?"

She knew then that it was already too late. He'd never called her Tara before. He'd always called her Tim or Timmy from the day they had met over a decade before. Her voice rose on each word. "What do I mean? What do I mean? I mean how can you want to be part of something that eats your soul for breakfast and your dignity for lunch? That takes you away from your home for at least eight months every year and the rest of the time you're in the studio trying to please some idiot in a three-piece suit that doesn't know anything? That watches every move you make and turns you into someone you're not? It destroys you piece by piece from the inside out. It's already done it once with Black Widow. Your mistress-music-will do it again given half a chance."

"Performing is a rush you can't begin to understand. It's addictive."

"So is getting drunk every night until you wake up with a hangover. But that doesn't mean I want any part of it." Tara turned away from him and stared out the living room window.

Jericho crossed the room in three steps and made her face him. "What do you want from me?"

"I don't know." She never saw it coming. It happened so fast.

He kissed her. It wasn't the gentle kiss they'd shared on the night of her prom. It was hard and filled with lust. The power of the kiss surprised them both. Neither had been expecting it. They stared at each for several minutes. He abruptly released her. She staggered. He ran his fingers through his hair again. "I shouldn't have done that."

"And maybe you should have done it sooner."

"There's nothing you can do to change my mind. I've already signed the deal. I'm going on the road."

"Then you are a fool."

"You said it yourself, Tara. We can never be lovers."

"And maybe," she said, "I don't wanna be your little sister anymore. Maybe I don't wanna be your anything anymore, Jericho." She had never once called him Jericho in almost twelve years; he'd always been Tommy. But Tommy was gone. In his place was a total stranger.

"So, what happens now?"

"I don't know," Tara said. "Maybe I'll go solo." She made herself turn and leave Jericho in the house alone. Each of them had gone solo.

November, 1996

She didn't know how long she'd been there. But it seemed as if it had been days instead of hours.

A faint voice penetrated her dismal thoughts. "Tim?"

"I'm right here, Tommy." She couldn't believe he was finally awake.

"Where am I?"

"In the hospital," she said. "You totaled your bike."

"Why?"

"They said you fell asleep and hit a tree."

"No," Jericho said. He was having trouble making his thoughts stay together. But he had to know why she had come. If it was for him. "You're here."

"Right here."

"Why?"

"It's where you are."

"I don't understand."

"Don't try to. Not now. It's a long road back from here, big brother."

He smiled then. "Little sister?"

"Maybe."