* * * *
An hour and a half of incredible warmth. A journey on apparently familiar roads which turned out to be untraveled. A trip to the moon on gossamer wings. An ecstasy like nothing else he’d ever experienced in his plodding, one step in front of the other life.
She was an energetic delight, some part always in motion until she left him just before dawn. Several times he tried to detect which of the daughters he grappled with, but it was impossible to tell. When she’d departed as mysteriously as she’d arrived, he regretted not knowing which one to thank in the morning.
* * * *
—so next morning he looked for, you know, signs to tell which one it was but—
* * * *
When Jeanie blew in his ear while serving a plate of hash, he thought the issue was no longer in question. Then Joanie blew him a secret kiss.
“You look all perplexed, mister,” said Joanie. “Like a sow with silk purses hangin’ offa its head,” said Jeanie.
* * * *
—so he went away, frustrated by the mystery—
* * * *
Back to the daily monotony. Adventures came few and far between these days. Far between? Between this and what? Well, back to shoving unsuitable material into the greased fingers of sleepy storeowners.
He drove his revived car by the house for one final look. He thought he saw two girls in two windows waving at him.
* * * *
—bugged all the next year by the memory, you know—
* * * *
Waking him suddenly at nights. Making him conscious of plaster cracks forming crooked involved rivers along dingy hotel walls. Causing sweat to appear on his forehead at unusual times.
* * * *
—so one day at twilight he found himself on a familiar road and sure enough there was the same farmhouse—
* * * *
Run, Leonard, run. See (in your mind’s eye) the girls. See Jeanie or Joanie at the window. Stop. That’s not the way. Be cool and calm. They must believe this is just a coincidence, that today you found yourself on a familiar road and sure enough you spotted the house of last year’s kindnesses.
“You’re trembling, mister,” said Jeanie at the door. “Like a apple tree bein’ shook by a nervous boy,” said Joanie in the hallway.
* * * *
—so he was invited to spend the night again and the farmer locked him in again and he waited until—
* * * *
“I startle you again? Mister, your skin’s solid ice.”
His reflexes keener from a year’s planning, he reached for the lamp beside the bed. It clicked sharply but gave forth no illumination.
“I pulled the plug. It’s you, me, and the pitch dark, mister. Move over.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ll never tell.”
* * * *
—and they had, you know, one more hot night of it—
* * * *
Better than last year, as if sharpened by three hundred and sixty-four days of training. Metaphysically, an almost-felt electrical current surging through all outlets and connections. Psychologically, ego-building after so many sleepless frustrated nights but also nerve-racking due to the silly confusion of identity. Philosophically, a hasty reshuffling of old values to accommodate new situational contexts.
* * * *
—and he tried to find out which twin had his tony—
* * * *
“Hey Jeanie!”
“You can’t trick me into telling.”
“Why not?”
“That’s my secret.”
“Why is it so important?”
“Secret.”
“But a guy’s got to know who he’s doing it with.”
“No he don’t. It is merely a natural act between two consenting individuals, and identity has nothing to do with it. Identity is superfluous, incongruous, inadequate.”
“Damn it, that’s what knocks me out. You talk different here than both of you do downstairs.”
“A woman’s mantle varies from parlor to bedroom.”
“Well, give me a clue at least.”
“Clue implies a mystery to be solved, a corner puzzle piece to begin interlockment. Therefore, there cannot be clues here, since I do not wish you to arrive at a solution. Quit jawin’.”
* * * *
—again, just before dawn, she disappeared—
* * * *
But where to? Nobody just disappears. Not without a long drum roll and a puff of smoke, anyway. The ritual was same as last year: a quick ascension to a kneeling position, a warm kiss upon his chest, the residual bounce of the bed as she left it, a couple of footsteps.
The absence of further sound upset him. No click of key in lock, no raising of secret trapdoor, no sliding of secret panel, no pushing open of window.
Her departure method was only the penultimate mystery. The question of her identity furnished more mental tension. In daylight there was not sufficient contrast between Joanie and Jeanie’s behavior to provide any indication of who warmed his bed these annual nights.
At breakfast both girls looked a bit puffy-eyed, as if they both had been awake all night. Two pairs of eyes studied him knowingly.
* * * *
—had insomnia all the next year worrying about it—
* * * *
Maybe Jeanie because blondes have more fun. Maybe Joanie since brunettes relish mystery.
And how could he be sure it was the same girl both years? Maybe Joanie one year, then Jeanie’s turn the next. Or vice versa. But the second said the same things as the first. Well, that’s possible. They’re sisters and the first could have told the second all the details of the first’s experience so the second could sneak in the room and pose as the first. Or not really the second posing as the first but the second being the second and, since she was a twin, acting very like the first. The consequences of such possibilities terrified him because then it was not just a problem of which one came to his room, but which one at which time? It had the effect of cubing the mystery.
He developed nervous tics. Chewing on a pillow, then retreating in disgust from the saliva puddles. Mind blanking off in the middle of a sure sale. Stopping at any old farmhouse, but finding the occupants had no daughters or married daughters or homely daughters (who, though they eyed him knowingly, left him alone at night) or pretty daughters (who laughed at his advances).
* * * *
—so he went back to the farmhouse and the farmer and the farmer’s daughters—
* * * *
With his new spectacles he could see the house better than before. It was a genuinely ugly structure. Gray paint peeled off the siding at a thousand places. Windowsills sagged. A corner of porch was held up by old lumber.
Joanie opened the front door and greeted him indifferently, like an old friend. So did Jeanie.
Cyrus came into the hallway, greeted Leonard with a hearty brickshi, and held out his left hand to shake. The right one was missing, lost when he’d tripped and reached up to a thresher for help.
* * * *
—and this time, what do you think—
* * * *
Surprise, Leonard! Here comes Jeanie with a three-month-old kid in her arms. Don’t choke.
“Is he yours?” he said to Jeanie.
“Might be,” she answered.
“Might be mine, too,” Joanie interjected, taking the baby from the arms of Jeanie, who gave him up willingly.
He studied the baby carefully for a clue. A few strands of medium brown hair, about as many as Leonard had on his own head, and the same shade of brown. No other indications.
“Your girls do like to fun me,” he said to Cyrus. “But I’ll bet you’ll tell me whose it is.”
“Can’t, Leonard. Wish I knew. I was in the hospital for five months recovering from this. Came home and found the little tyke nestled in a crib. They won’t tell me neither.”
Leonard’s face revealed his disappointment.
“
You look despairin’, mister,” said Joanie.
“Like a young ‘un when they take down the Christmas tree,” said Jeanie.
“Can’t understand how she done it,” Cyrus said, “whichever one it was. Lock ‘em both in every night.”
* * * *
—so he went to bed that night more mixed up than usual and sure enough—
* * * *
“Move over.”
Acting quickly, he whipped out the flashlight he’d concealed under the covers and shone it on her navel. She grabbed it out of his hands, flicked off the switch, and flung it across the room.
“Now move over.”
* * * *
—so he had another night of, you know, fun—
* * * *
“But I’ve got to know now.”
“I don’t see why it’s so damned important.”
“Because of the kid.”
“Why because of the kid? It’s just a baby like all others.”
“Because it’s mine, that’s why.”
“Who said it’s yours?”
“Isn’t it?”
“That’s a secret.”
“How can you be so callous about your own child?”
“Who said it’s my child?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Secret.”
“I would think, for the kid’s sake, that he ought to know which of you is his mother.”
“Who said either of us was his mother?”
* * * *
—and so another night went by without him being any the wiser—
* * * *
“The trouble with you, mister, is that you think your one-nighter per year is the only thing that happens around here. As if my father, my sister, and I go into suspended animation, lifeless until you saunter in again. Frankly, I nearly forget you from one year to the next.”
“Then—it really isn’t my baby?”
“I never said that.”
* * * *
—and he left the next day as confused as ever—
* * * *
“Here—I saved a can of peach preserve for you,” Joanie said after breakfast.
“And some tomato puree from me,” Jeanie said.
Leonard divided an expression of fury between them.
* * * *
—another year—
* * * *
He developed several plans, as follows:
PLAN A: Scratch her someplace. Draw blood. Next morning see which girl is scratched.
PLAN B: Bring two flashlights.
PLAN C: Set off a tear gas bomb and quickly don gasmask. In ensuing confusion, plug in lamp and turn it on.
PLAN D: Whip out a set of handcuffs and chain her to me so she can’t leave before dawn.
* * * *
—and another return to the farmhouse—
* * * *
The girls, bustling around, paid little attention to him except to show how well little Timmie could walk all by himself. Cyrus sulked in a kitchen, so despondent he even had the girls lock Leonard in his room.
* * * *
—and another night—
* * * *
All plans failed, as follows:
PLAN A: The next morning both girls wore bandages on the spot he’d scratched (the back of the neck).
PLAN B: The second flashlight got lost in the covers when she descended upon him.
PLAN C: He left the bomb in the trunk of his car.
PLAN D: The handcuffs, purchased in a novelty store, were too big for her wrists and she slipped out of them.
* * * *
—and still confusion—
* * * *
“I’m more than just confused. I think I’m on the verge of insanity.”
“Don’t dramatize. You’ve just got a simple ego hangup, that’s all.”
“When I’m in an asylum, you’ll laugh out of the other side of your mouth.”
“If you’re so determined, try catatonia. It might do you some good to shut up for a while.”
“Please tell me.”
“And the truth shall make you free? No deal.”
* * * *
—and, well, he came back again—
* * * *
Puffiness around Jeanie’s eyes, Joanie’s black hair graying. Cyrus, bedridden, just nodded his head hello, never said a word. Timmie bugged him unmercifully, saying look at me do this and look at me do that. The kid was homely enough to be his.
Nobody locked the door. That bothered him.
This year, poised, he asked few questions and she seemed bored.
* * * *
—and again—
* * * *
She came through the door, unslinking, unmysterious. She went through the bed motions like a high priestess at her thousandth sacrifice.
“I’ve had ten women besides you this year,” he said.
“So?”
“I just wanted you to know that I’m compensating, that’s all.”
* * * *
—and again—
* * * *
“Move over.”
“Not tonight. I’m bushed.”
“New strategy?”
“No strategy. I’m just tired.”
“Okay.”
* * * *
—and again—
* * * *
Three years in the army as a middle-aged private and corporal had depleted the curve of his belly. He almost felt jaunty as he approached the farmhouse. With some delight he noted that the house had been painted a dull yellow in the intervening years, as if it too had been rejuvenated by the war.
The kid—how old was he now, six, seven?—played on a swing. His homeliness was not enhanced by the mean expression of his face.
“You again?” Joanie said, looking up briefly from a bowl of string beans she was stripping. Gray locks now balancing the black in her hair, she had also put on weight. What the hell, though, it was still a good build.
“In the war, huh?” Jeanie said, coming out on the porch. It was not an especially perceptive observation, since he still wore his uniform.
The years had ravaged both twins about equally. The sheen of Jeanie’s hair had faded, she was pudgy but also, like Joanie, in fairly attractive places.
Yet there was a difference. Some of the liveliness had gone out of Jeanie’s eyes. No longer as pretty as Joanie, she also seemed more careless in appearance.
“I’d like to say hello to your dad,” he said.
“Cemetery’s four miles down the road,” Jeanie said.
“Oh—I’m sorry.”
“Sure.”
The girls worked at chores until suppertime. They served him a fine meal, but responded indifferently to his compliments. They would not even tell him which one had prepared the dressing for the roast pork.
The door to his room was not only not locked, it was left open. Light plunged in from the hallway. He settled into the bed, noting the lack of resiliency in the springs. Around midnight she came to him. She entered the room in a businesslike sweep, unmindful of the light which outlined her. He could not recognize her; her face and hair were too much in shadow.
“Move over.”
As he shifted quickly to the wall side of the bed, he realized how much he’d been longing for her; how much the memory of her had nagged at his brain while on troop ships, in foxholes, standing around the stage door of the canteen; how much he’d been disappointed by liberated whores whose too-clear faces had mocked him or remained indifferent with vacant looks in their wasted eyes.
Happily they enacted the ritual of returning warrior and girl left behind, their lovemaking more intense than at any time since the first years. Afterward they lay silent, with nothing to say and no questions that required asking, each comfortable in the repetition of myth.
Orbit 9 Page 6
