The Legend of the Ditto Twins (24 page)

It wasn't
long before my pelvis began to undulate, almost of its own accord, in perfect
rhythm with my brother, whose body rose up to meet my every thrust. We had
truly become a part of each other. I've no idea how long we made love in this
position before Clark clutched me around the neck and pulled my ear close to
his lips.

"Want
me to show you what you're missing?" he murmured.

Without a
moment's hesitation, I shifted position and wrapped my legs around his butt.
Before I knew it, he was inside me. In no time, the pain was gone, and it was
my turn to urge him deeper and deeper within me. Again, our individual selves
blurred, and once more we were one. It wasn't until much later that I tried to
decide which role I liked better; it really didn't matter much because both led
to the same, total union. No, fusion is a better word. We traded off so many
times that long night that I can't be certain who came how. At some point, we
must have dozed, one inside the other, but the whole evening was all so
dreamlike, I cannot remember who was
on top and who was on bottom at any given moment. It
just didn't matter.

The next
morning, we awoke, glued together.

"A
lot of new pictures for our memory gallery," I whispered softly.

"Yeah...
A night to remember." A soft snicker. "Too bad we didn't get it on
tape. To watch when we're old and senile."

One kiss,
and we were off and rutting again.

Clay was right.
There is nothing on God's green earth like fucking. In fact, I'd go him one
better. Fucking is God's greatest wonder. So what if He created the earth in
seven days. Big deal. Even that pales beside the miracle of fucking.

The weeks
quickly
cartwheeled
into the dog days of August. Now
that Clay and Lily were aware of what was going on between us—and what's more,
didn't care—Clark and I made no attempt to control our feelings for one
another. Inside the old Victorian house, we moved as one, constantly touching,
often caressing, and every once in awhile pinching each
others
newly discovered butt.

Outside
the house, I respected Clark's wishes and behaved myself as best I could, though
more than once I was stopped by his warning glance when I was about to do
something that had become second nature to me.

Speaking
of things that happened outside the house, the first major project to be
completed in those next few weeks was the restoration of the Mazda. The final
step was to repaint it, and we chose a bright, fire engine red as homage to the
Corvette. When we first showed Clay the new paint job he studied it for a long
time before he spoke.

"I
wish Jay could see it," he sighed. He hadn't mentioned his brother since
the day in the shed.

I jumped
at the opportunity. "Have you ever heard anything more from his
lawyer?"

"Not
in a year. Not one fuckin word."

"Have
you tried to call?" persisted Clark.

"Once
a month. All I get is an answering service."

"Did
you try 'Information' for Jay's home number?"

"Every
month. Still unlisted."

"Well,
I'm sure, if there were any problems, you would have heard. He's probably made
a full recovery, same as you."

"Hell,
yes. If anything bad were to happen to Jay, I'd be the first to know." He
tapped his chest. "Right here."

The
second major project to be completed during August was the painting of the
house. One Saturday afternoon, we were just completing the touch-ups when Lily
and Tanisha appeared. That summer, she and Lily went everywhere together, and
we had almost gotten used to her weirdness. Paintbrushes in hand, we turned to
greet the girls. Tanisha was wearing exactly the same outfit she always wore.
(I wondered if she owned a change of clothing.) Plus, true to form, she was
clutching her book bag as if it contained the Dead Sea Scrolls.

"Tanisha
needs to talk to you both," Lily announced.

"Us?"
In unison, genuinely surprised.

"Both
of you." Tanisha's voice was grim.

From her
book bag, she whisked a big yellow tablet covered with her indecipherable
jottings and held it up.

"Your
moon has moved into Saturn," she declared, as if we would know how serious
that was.

"She's
been doing your chart ever since she met you," explained Lily. "You
fascinate her."

"Saturn,"
repeated Tanisha.
"Saturn!"

Clark and
I put down our paintbrushes. "Is that bad?"

"Well,
it's not good. Trouble ahead. Be on your guard."

"What
sort..."

"...of
trouble?"

"Relationships."

"Relationships?"

"What
kind..."

“...of
relationships?"

"Business.
Family. Friends."

"Can
you be more specific?" In unison.

"'Course
not. What do you think I am—a soothsayer?"

She could
not or would not elaborate, and besides, as Lily was quick to point out, they
were going to the Elton John concert that night and didn't want to be late.

In bed
that evening, between orgasms, I remember remarking, "Geez, I'm glad I
don't believe in astrology."

Clark
murmured agreement and turned his attention to more immediate carnal concerns. In
fact, we didn't give the matter a second thought until the next morning when we
walked into the kitchen, and there sat Mom.

Her back
was to us, which gave Clark and me a moment to untangle ourselves. By the time
she turned around to say hello, we were a respectable foot apart, and our
morning wood had died a quick death. Clark spoke first.

"What
are you doing here?"

It was an
innocent question, but it came out more like the opening salvo of The Spanish
Inquisition.

"Well,
honey, I just decided I needed a little vacation." she began. Scarlet
O'Hara was back, in spades.

"Then
why didn't you come with me yesterday on the bus?" asked Clark.

"Oh,
it was a spur of the moment thing. A whim."

"Where's
Dad? Why didn't he come?" I asked.

"Oh,
he didn't feel up to the drive. And I just had a sudden urge to see how my old
kid brother was doing." She touched Clay's cheek gently. "My, you
look so much better. I guess having Mark around again has been a godsend. And
Clark, too. Why, he's spent almost as much time here this summer as he has at
home. I hope they've been behaving."

"Behaving?"
Clay lifted her hand from his cheek. "They've been working their
fuckin
'
keesters
off."

"Clay.
You know I hate The F Word."

Clay
shrugged. "Haven't you learned by now? It fuckin' comes with the
territory. What do you think of the house?"

"The
house? What about it?"

"C'mon."
He grabbed her and pulled her out of the room, not stopping until they were
outside. "Well?"

She
looked around. "Why, the grass... The latticework... And you painted the
house! Boys, did you do all that? Well. Now that I know you two are so handy, I
have a few things that need fixing back home. You should never have let me
know." She forced a laugh that somehow didn't land right.

"And
that's not all. Clark, show Mom the Mazda.

"Right.
Mom, wait till you see her. She's..."

“...awesome."

"The
Mazda?" she repeated as Clark headed for the shed.

"The
car, Mom. The bonus."

"Oh,
yes, the bonus. How long did it take you to paint the house? It's a very
professional job."

Hastily,
she sprinkled the air with platitudinous praise as she inspected our work. When
she ran out of things to say about paint, she lauded the latticework, and that
kept her busy until the roar of the Mazda's muffler was heard and Clark pulled
up. Her face turned ashen.

"Red,
too. Oh, no!"

Ignoring
this, I ran to the car, hurdled the closed door, and plopped into the
passenger's seat. "Like it was made for us. Isn't it perfect?"

She
didn't answer.

"Of course,
it's not the Corvette. Nothing could ever beat a '57 Corvette," added
Clark. "But it comes close, right? Want to go for a ride?"

Instead
of responding to the offer, she turned on Clay. "What in God's name do you
think you're doing? You promised."

Clay
raised his hands, palms out. "Not guilty. I didn't do a fuckin' thing
except give 'em the car."

"Then
where did they hear about the Corvette?"

"What
about the Corvette?" I asked. "Is there some secret? It's right there
on the videotapes." That's when I recognized the opportunity to do a bit
of acting.

Clark
caught on quick. "Yeah, we found the tapes..."

“...one
day when we were going through..."

“...Clays
video collection, looking for
Star
Wars."

Then I
shifted into the real meat of the conversation. "You're on em, too,
Mom," I began.

"We
almost didn't recognize you," Clark replied on cue.

"You
looked so young," I continued.

"Especially
that one when you're running away from the cotton candy."

"Why
were you so upset?"

"And
why didn't you ever tell us about Jay?"

Like I've
said, Clark always got to the heart of the matter. Mom winced as if she'd been
kicked in the gut, but her resilience was not to be underestimated.

"Why,
what are you talking about? I've mentioned your Uncle Jay from time to time
over the years. Not often, I'll grant you. He's the black sheep, the one who
ran away to Berlin. Remember? Now I seem to recall an offer to go for a ride in
that car. Well?"

The rest
of the day passed uneventfully. We spent most of the afternoon re-watching the
home movies—all but the one kept under the mattress in our room. Now and again,
Mom would lean into the screen to mourn the past, and once I caught her blowing
her nose, but she was careful not to let any of us see the tears, if there were
any.