by Jenna Blum
“Love you too,” Karena says. She watches him walk down the hall, turn and wave, then disappear up the steps to her room.
43
“Where’d you go, Laredo?” Kevin asks.
It is Sunday evening of that week and they are lying in Kevin’s bedroom, the masculine quality of which, Karena has assured him, more than compensates for Mrs. Axlerod’s scraggly impatiens and witch ball. The apartment is a railroad flat, long and dim, its windows screened by oaks and elms so it is like being in a tree house. The woodwork is brown, the davenport and armchair are black leather. But between the initial frenzied lovemaking on the sticky, squeaky couch and the second slower one in here, Karena has wandered the rooms naked, enchanted and exclaiming. There are rocks and fossils everywhere, ammonites as refrigerator magnets, geodes on the sills. The walls are covered with old survey maps—Minnesota, the grasslands, Texas, Cherry County—and with Kevin’s photos of night lightning and supercells. In the bathroom Karena has discovered his childhood copy of The Weather Wizard’s Cloud Book, with Mr. Kevin Wiebke written in painstaking bubble cursive on the flyleaf. And above his bed is a cloud mobile, a present made for him, Kevin explains, by his graduating eighth graders of 2003. The place is a combination of bachelor pad and natural science museum.
“Hello in there,” Kevin says, tapping Karena’s forehead. “Anybody home?”
“Maybe,” says Karena. “Who wants to know?” She is lying with her head pillowed on Kevin’s stomach, smoothing its curve with a hand. Loafy, she thinks, and makes a sound between a snicker and a sigh.
“Mr. Wizard wants to know where he took you today,” says Kevin.
“First time or second?”
“Both.”
“Greedy Mr. Wizard,” Karena says. “Mmmmm . . . the first time, to the A & W.”
“I took you to a root beer stand?”
“Hey,” says Karena, pushing herself up on her elbow, “it’s one of my very favorite places. You want to hear this or not?”
Kevin pats his stomach. “Just lay your pretty little head back down there, Laredo,” he says, “that’s right, smooth those ruffled feathers. I’m with you. Frosty mug, root beer float, the business. Then where?”
“Deer Creek State Park, north side of town. Did I tell you about that place? There’s watercress in the creek, and you can actually eat it, the water’s so clean.”
“No, you didn’t tell me about that,” says Kevin, drawing Karena’s hair over his chest. “Not until just now. But that’s fine. I know you are a woman of many mysteries I must patiently reveal.”
Karena sighs. Kevin doesn’t know the half of it. He doesn’t know, nor can she ever tell him, that she lied just now, that in fact both times they made love she went not to New Heidelburg but a location she hasn’t visited for a long time: the road in Iowa. With the dead man on it. And the green tornado roving in the background.
“There’s that bad sound again,” says Kevin. “That sigh. Okay, what’s up, Laredo? I know this is new for us and everything, but I can tell there’s something else bugging you. Is it Chuck? Is he behaving himself all right?”
“He is,” Karena says. “He’s being an exemplary guest,” and it’s true. Charles has been very respectful. He makes his bed. Shops for organic local produce. Every night, he cooks.
“Wow,” says Kevin. “Can we move him over here? My bathroom needs scrubbing.”
“That’s true, Mr. Wizard,” says Karena, “I meant to mention that.”
“Watch it, mouthy,” says Kevin. “Seriously, what’s it like, having him there?”
Karena thinks about how to explain it. On the one hand, waking up every day with Charles in her house brings a deep comfort and joy Karena hasn’t known since childhood. It’s like Christmas morning, only the present is her brother. On the other, having Charles around all the time is like hearing herself in stereo. As much of a blessing as it is to be with another person who knows her that well, it can also be tiring to have Charles finish her sentences, or to say things at the same time, or to look up and know from across the room what he’s thinking. It can be claustrophobic. And Karena knows—of course—that Charles feels the same way, as indicated by his encouraging her to come over here tonight. Are you sure you don’t mind? Karena asked, feeling guilty. I feel like you just got here, and Charles shooed her out, saying, No, K, go get laid or something. You’re starting to get uptight, and it’s getting on my nerves.
Karena tells Kevin all of this except the conversation, and he nods, looking at the cloud mobile, which spins gently in a warm draft from somewhere.
“That’s really interesting, Laredo,” he says. “I’ve always wondered—I guess most people do—what it’s like to be a twin. Us non-twins fantasize it’s like having a best friend all the time, but I can see how you’d step on each other’s toes too. So . . . what’s it like when his mood swings? Can you feel that?”
“It’s more like I’m more attuned to Charles’s moods than anyone else,” Karena explains, “but it’s not what most people think, he cuts himself and I bleed, for instance. I don’t get agitated when he’s manic or down when he’s depressed.”
“Thank God for that,” says Kevin.
He winnows his fingers through her hair, braiding it. He has five sisters, he has told Karena, and as the youngest he was sternly instructed from a very early age in the art of hairdressing. Karena is being hypnotized by the gentle tug and pull, which she feels all through her body down to her fingertips and toes, when Kevin says, “So, Chuck’s finally found some medication he can tolerate and he’s on it? Taking it regularly?”
Karena’s eyes pop open.
“Well,” she says, “not exactly.”
Kevin’s fingers pause, then pick up again. “What does that mean,” he says, his voice neutral.
“It means no, he’s not on meds, but he seems to be doing really well,” says Karena. “I haven’t seen so much as a blink of the djinn since he got here.”
“Huh,” says Kevin. “And he told you this? That he’s not on medication? Or is it just something you suspect?”
“No, I know he’s not. He doesn’t believe in it,” Karena says. All her muscles are starting to tense, and she makes a conscious effort to relax them. “He has terrible reactions to medication, Kevin. He always has. Ever since we were kids.”
Kevin doesn’t say anything, and he continues to braid Karena’s hair, but she can feel him taking deeper breaths, his stomach rising and falling under her cheek.
“What?” she says.
“I don’t like it, Karena,” says Kevin. “I don’t like his being there with you and not being on medication.”
Karena nods.
“I know. It’s not what I would have wished for either. But you know,” she says thoughtfully, “maybe he has learned to control the disorder. He knows a tremendous amount about alternative medicine. He meditates, he doesn’t drink or smoke, he’s so careful about what he eats, he takes supplements, he sticks to a regular schedule—”
“Karena, sit up, please,” says Kevin. “So I can look at you.”
He takes her hands and they sit Indian-style facing each other, the sheet pooled in their laps.
“What you’re thinking,” he says, “Karena, it’s so dangerous. You can’t fix bipolar disorder through herbal remedies and meditation. You can help it, sure. I’m sure everything Chuck’s doing helps regulate his moods significantly. But it hasn’t gone away, honey. It’s still there, waiting to come out.”
Karena shakes her head and the braid Kevin has finished whips her neck.
“I know that, Kevin,” she says.
“I know you do,” says Kevin, “in here,” and he touches her temple. “But in here,” and he puts a finger on her heart, “I fear it’s a different story. You want it to be all okay now, just because you found him. But it’s not.”
Karena looks away, at a row of vertebrae lying on Kevin’s dresser, next to a Mason jar of old wheat pennies.
“You don’t know th
at,” she says. “Not for sure. Did you know you can cure bipolar disorder? In some cases. When it’s caught early enough. The medication corrects the brain’s chemistry, stabilizes it. Permanently, I mean.”
“I know that, Laredo,” says Kevin. “I’ve read that too. But didn’t you tell me Chuck’s never stayed on meds? Even if you did catch it early, still, he would have had to get on it and stay on it faithfully, and—”
“Okay, Kevin,” says Karena crossly. “I get it. It’s just—there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, you know? It’s not an exact science, psychology, any more than meteorology or any other -ology. How many times have I heard you Whirlwind guys say that even now, after all these years of research, nobody knows why one supercell spawns a tornado and another doesn’t? Why wouldn’t that be the case for people too? Every brain is different and responds differently to treatment, and what might not help one person, for instance holistic medicine, might help the next.”
“That’s an interesting hypothesis,” says Kevin, “and I’ll concede science is inexact. But if we’re going to extend the analogy, I’d say your brother’s disorder is an EF-4 or -5. It’s really damaging. And the only way to test your theory is to wait and see if his moods can be controlled by holistic means. This isn’t an experiment, it’s a gamble, and frankly it’s not a gamble I want to take.”
“Well,” says Karena. “Lucky for you, you’re not the one taking it.” They stare at each other. Karena’s chest has flushed in pink blotches, and she pulls the sheet up. Kevin looks away, his mouth compressed, his face flat and closed.
“Sorry,” he says stiffly. “My bad. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
He gets up and walks naked from the room.
“Where are you going?” Karena says.
“Nature call, Laredo,” says Kevin. “I’ll be right back.”
Karena waits, making a face at herself in the mirror over the dresser. She looks ridiculous, one side of her hair braided, the other not. When Kevin comes back, she has taken it all down and is sitting cross-legged in a square of sunlight.
Kevin stops in the doorway. “Um,” he says. “What were we talking about again?”
“Come here,” says Karena, and Kevin gets back in bed.
“I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing his thigh. “I didn’t mean to snap at you—”
“Just a sec,” says Kevin. He captures her hand and sets it on top of the sheet. “There. You were saying?”
“Just that—no offense, but Charles is my brother. It’s my business to handle him. And who’d know how to do that better than me?”
Kevin opens his mouth as if to argue, then shuts it and runs a hand over his hair.
“Karena,” he says, “believe me when I say I’d rather eat my own arm than ask you this, but . . . do you want to take a break? From this—us? You haven’t seen Chuck in such a long time, and there’s a lot to negotiate. Not that I’d be going anywhere,” he adds, “you could still call me if you needed to, and eventually we could figure out if . . .”
Karena holds up a hand—wait—and takes a gulp of air. This is where she should be a good person, should say, You know, you’re right, maybe this isn’t the best time. Should let Kevin go. Because there’s Charles, and then there’s Karena and Charles, and then there’s Motorcycle Guy, and if Karena felt as if she’d fallen through a trapdoor just now when Kevin’s face closed, how would she feel if it looked like that permanently? Because it surely would if he found out. He would be devastated.
But Karena doesn’t want to let him go. She pictures the change in seasons, summer morphing into fall, visiting him at school. Watching through the little window in the door while he finished a class, standing in front of rows of boys with those Silly Putty faces in that stretchy phase of development—all of them, Kevin included, wearing blazers with crests on them. Swinging his hand in the hall, hearing him josh with the kids. Walking through leaves on a smoky afternoon, taking him to her favorite cabin in Duluth. She adores this man with his curious, nimble mind, his warm body, his watchful hazel eyes. How can she let him go?
“Is that what you want?” she says, looking down. “To break this off? I’d understand, I know it’s a lot to ask, the twin thing and the crazy twin thing and—”
“And whatever,” says Kevin. “Hell, no, I don’t want to break it off. I don’t even want to take a break. I’m just trying to be supportive here.”
“Oh,” says Karena and laughs a little shakily. “Thank goodness.”
“Get on down here,” Kevin says. He draws her back into the pillows and kisses her.
“That’s more like it,” he says. “But two things, Laredo, if we’re going to make a go of this.”
“Uh-oh,” says Karena. “I should have known.”
“One,” says Kevin, “you have to let me know what’s going on over there. I’ll stay out of your business, but if you’re my girl, you are my business, and I need you to be safe. The slightest thing out of whack, you tell me. Promise?”
“I do,” says Karena. “What’s the other thing?”
“We should get together, the three of us, sooner rather than later,” says Kevin. “If I’m going to be in your life, Chuck needs to get used to it.”
Karena nods and sighs. “You’re probably right. I’ll set it up.”
“Woman,” says Kevin, “I am always right. Now, I think that’s enough Chuck talk for a while, don’t you?” and Karena agrees, but as Kevin starts to kiss her more deeply her mind is elsewhere, and not in New Heidelburg this time but back in Austin. The moment when Charles first noticed Kevin sitting at the table in the Best Western breakfast room and looked from him to Karena and back again. So you and Wieb, huh? he’d said. Nice, nice. He’d grinned, but before that, just for a split second, his face had darkened. And now, even as Kevin rolls on top of her and does the Patented Kevin Wiebke Knee Sweep, Karena remembers that first glance and feels a cold foreboding.
44
The following Saturday they go to Lake Harriet, Karena and Charles and Kevin, for a picnic. Lake Harriet, three blocks from Karena’s house, is her favorite of all the Minneapolis lakes. Unlike Calhoun, which is round as a platter, or the confusing, amoeba-shaped Lake of the Isles, Harriet has a fairy-tale air. It’s because of the fanciful turreted bandstand on the north side, but it’s also the shaded paths, the yellow willows trailing their fronds down into the water, the speckled rocks like hens’ eggs Karena can see at its edge. The lake is a perfect mirror of the sky, alternately dark or gray or, like today, a bright blue. There are fish. There are boats. And there is the troll tree.
Charles stops a quarter of the way around, transported with delight. “It’s still here?” he exclaims, turning to Karena. “I can’t believe it!”
“Believe it,” says Karena. “I pass it every day during my run.”
Charles kneels next to the path. The troll tree is an oak with a little door in its trunk, complete with a tiny lion-headed gold knocker. There’s a pebble path leading up to it, and twigs stuck on either side for bushes, and today the roots are also decorated with flowers. The door bulges open slightly with all the offerings the children of Minneapolis—and a good amount of adults too—have placed inside it for the troll. Bottle caps, Barbie shoes, notes folded into triangles, gumball-machine rings. If the troll is pleased with the treasure, the legend goes, he will grant the petitioner’s wish.
“Oh my God,” says Charles. “I used to love this thing. I still dream about it sometimes.” He digs in his shorts pockets and gets up, knees pitted with dirt.
“Here you go, sistah,” he says, handing a penny to Karena, “and here’s one for you, Wieb,” and he gives another to Kevin, who takes out his wallet and finds a coin for Charles in return.
“Ladies first,” Charles says. “Go ahead, Wieb.”
“Ho ho, Hallingdahl,” says Kevin, but he stoops to put his penny in the tree. “Laredo? Your turn.”
“Why don’t we let these guys go first?” says
Karena, smiling at two little girls who are standing shyly to one side, clutching their offerings.
“Yeah, Wieb, where’re your manners?” says Charles. “Ladies, right this way,” and he bows and rolls his hand out toward the tree. The older of the girls, maybe five or six, giggles, while the younger buries her face in her mother’s thighs.
“And what do we have for the troll today?” Charles asks.
The elder girl unfurls her fingers to show a sparkly barrette on her palm.
Charles claps his hand to his forehead and staggers backward. “That . . . is . . . so . . . perfect,” he says. “How did you know trolls love barrettes! It’s their favorite lunch.”
The girl giggles, whirls around to her mom, then turns back to Charles and shouts, “YUM!”
“Yum is right,” says Charles, grinning up at the girls’ mother—or au pair maybe, Karena thinks now, since she is about twenty and wears no ring. She tucks her long curly hair back behind her ears and blushes and smiles.
“Oh boy,” says Karena. “Charles, we’re going to keep walking toward the bandstand, all right? You can catch up with us.”
“Okay,” says Charles distractedly, “be right with you,” and as Karena continues along the path with Kevin she hears Charles talking to the nanny, and the nanny talking back, and the little girls shrieking with laughter and calling, “Byeeee! Byeeee!”
“Namaste,” Charles calls, “bye!” and he jogs up behind Karena, panting a little and flipping his hand open to flash the phone number inked there.
“Anh?” he says. “Who is the coolest? Who is the smoothest?” He nods and points to himself. “That’s right, sistah. Me. Smoooooth as buttah.”
“Oh please,” says Karena.
Charles puts an arm around her. “Thank heavens,” he sings in his Inspector Clouseau voice, “for little girls. . . .”
Karena shoves him off. “Get away from me, you pervert,” she says, laughing.
“What, K? You didn’t think they were adorable? Wieb, help me out here.”
