Peter Pan stole my brother. Yes, he did, right in front of me. Remember Peter? Yes, that self-centered, careless, boastful, illiterate, domineering, and dangerous boy who never grew up. Some sociopathic traits? Definitely. Yes, he’s the one who stole my brother, John. The year was 1953, and Disney had just released the movie, Peter Pan.

John was 13, while I was 12. He had been sickly since birth, and had recently undergone major surgery. He and I both watched the movie shortly after its release. To me, it was a lighthearted romp in typical Disney fashion and I thought no more of it. But it proved different to John. Neverland became a destination, avoiding the challenge of growing up became his challenge. I was sworn to secrecy, with punishment being the threat to destroy my few possessions. As he was the older brother, I had no interest in the topic at all; I could carry the secret through hell. Surely, this feeling would disappear by the time our bus ride home ended. But it did not.

At his request, we returned to the theatre the next weekend (matinées only cost a dime), but this time I was not allowed to view the movie; the story was now his and part of his world. Did I care? Not a bit. There was a Bugs Bunny cartoon, and I had a box of Raisinets. What more could I want? I left the theatre for him to watch alone, and then we took the bus home.

But that wasn’t the end of it. For the next few months, he would periodically skip school, spend the day at the theatre, watching repeat after repeat until he needed to arrive home at his normal time. His secret remained safe with me. Yes, I even wrote (forged) excuse notices for his return to class. My actions were rationalized as having been the younger brother.

Did my support allow me to remain on the sidelines? You know better. There was more. Peter Pan toys were on the market, and John knew better than to ask our parents to buy them. So, how to acquire them? Theft. Yes, I was good. Together, we mastered a two-person strategy of creating a decoy to allow the theft. The bigger challenge was in finding places to store the booty. Our parents’ house was a modest bungalow, not suited for storing (hiding) products.

Our biggest challenge was a new product, a Peter Pan theater make-believe game. This was a stage, characters that could be affixed to magnets, and moved around the stage with hidden controls. To John, it was “to die for.” He had to have it. My challenge: the product was offered as a gift from a local furniture store as a ploy to entice parents to view their showroom. How were two little boys going to finagle the item from the salesmen there? I do not remember how I did it. The only word that seems to fit is the Hebrew word, chutzpah. At 12 years old, I was fearless and was somehow able to convince salesmen to give me the Peter Pan game. So successful, I was able to do it five times, all at the same store. (Sidenote: My criminal activities in support of John’s requests were significant, far beyond Peter Pan. If it was to be stolen, I did it, right under the noses of sales persons. One of my regrets, but not part of this story.)

Predictably, I was now expected to play the game, being Captain Hook or other characters, while John, as Peter, dominated the scene. Most of the time, however, he played the game alone, always in our shared bedroom alone. As his fascination on Peter Pan continued, he seemed to be retreating more from other contacts. His school grades suffered, and he continued to distance himself. Looking back, my memories of doing activities together all predated his discovery of Peter Pan.

Our parents, not understanding much of this (partly due to my commitment to secrecy), had him see a psychiatrist. Did he like it? Was I jealous? YES. The doctor had a Jaguar roadster, rarer than unicorns at the time, and he gave rides to John. Memories of John’s descriptions of riding in that XK120 roadster are the memories that bring me smiles.

My final memories are from 1955, when he was 15. Late at night, he would awaken me to share news he had presumably heard from our parents, news that I had a terminal illness and would soon die. I was not to talk of it, as that would expose that he had overheard their discussions. Those statements, I later discovered, were lies. He sensed that his health was diminishing, even beyond my parents’ understanding, and was transferring his fears to me. By late December, he was gone forever from my life. Dead a week after turning 16. Peter Pan had won; John would remain forever a child. I miss him, and had posted such here a few years ago. There are no words for this.

Children suffer in this world, and parents sometimes deny (or do not hear) their need to be heard, to be understood, to comfort, to reassure. John needed so much that I could not provide. Yet, it was to me that he confided. Parents and children will always be at odds, hiding truths from each other, truths that need to be known. What I knew then should have been shared. But I was only 12, with guilt never to be absolved. I miss him, I miss having my brother in my life. My childhood promise of secrecy proved to be a curse. My advice to parents: when in doubt, never assume that all is well with your children. In their innocence, they hide the worst of dragons.