The Legend of the Ditto Twins (29 page)

Back in
our seats, tucked under our blankets, I showed Clark the card Helmut had given
me. He didn't seem surprised.

"Do you
want to call him?" I asked in a low voice.

"Do
you?"

"I've
told you, Clark, I may be queer, but I'm only queer for you."

"Then
burn it."

"There's
no ashtray."

"Then
save it."

I could
have tossed it under the seat or torn it up, but I didn't. Instead, I tucked it
carefully into my wallet. As soon as I did, I felt guilty and looked over at
Clark. He grinned and held up a duplicate card.

"He
gave me one, too."

"Huh."
I fumbled with my blanket. "Uh... do you ever... think about... you know,
having a threesome?"

Clark
shrugged. "I've thought about it."

We
disembarked next morning in Frankfurt and changed planes for the last leg of
our journey to Berlin's
Tegel
Airport. The flight was
short; no time for another Mile High game. After we got our luggage, we lined
up for a taxi. It was a creamy yellow vehicle, not exactly the color of those
back home, but close enough that I didn't feel quite so much like an alien.
Plus, the driver spoke English, and his cab
was
a Mercedes. I'd
never ridden in a Mercedes before.

By early
afternoon, we found ourselves settling into a hotel called The
Kempinski
, just off the
Kurfürstendamm
,
one of the main drags of the city.

It was
the most elegant place we'd ever seen. For one thing, the bouquets in the lobby
were as tall as we were.

The
bellhop who took us to our room was another blond Nordic youth, clearly every
bit as interested in us as the Lufthansa steward had been. Almost at once, he
announced that his name was also Helmut, and I wondered in passing if every hot
blond in Germany was ever named anything else.

As he
unloaded the luggage cart, his blue eyes darted again and again below our
belts, and we certainly returned the compliment. (We were fast learners.) His
uniform was just as snug as our disco jeans; his package was even more
noticeable than the one that Helmut the First had flaunted on the plane.

"Is
there anything else I can do for you,
b
itte?"

I'd heard
those words before, but all I did was shake my head and reach for my wallet to
tip him. With a seductive nod, Helmut The Second took the bills, his big beefy
fingers lingering against my hand in the process.

After
he'd gone, Clark's only comment was: "Does everyone in Germany want to get
into our pants?"

I
shrugged blithely and suggested we join Clay.

The trip
had been rougher on our uncle than he had anticipated, so we ordered room
service, ate in his room, and though the sun was still up, he retired soon
afterward. We headed back to our own accommodations directly across the hall,
and within a few moments we were making love on European soil for the first
time.

On our
first full day in Berlin, Clay went straight to the American Embassy to see if
his brother were registered. He was not. On our second day, he hired a minor local
functionary-with-connections to check all of the city's hospitals, in hopes of
learning where Jay was taken after his heart attack. Citing patient
confidentiality, not one of them would reveal that Jay had been a patient
there. On the third day, Clay scheduled a meeting with a private detective.

Our job
was much simpler. The letter from the attorney who had contacted Clay about
Jay's coronary was all but useless. He was not listed among members of the bar,
and the address was nothing more than a post office box, but from the code of
the box number, the specific neighborhood branch was promptly pinpointed. Clay
assigned Clark and me to stake out the building. You know, like Mel Gibson and
Bruce Willis.

Fortunately,
the neighborhood
Postamt
in question was situated directly across the street from a
municipal park. Wooden benches lined its perimeters, and it was there we sat
for two days, playing detective, hidden behind sunglasses, staring into the
plate glass window through which we could clearly see the wall of metal post
office boxes. Whenever someone approached them, one of us would high-tail it
into the post office to observe which box was opened, but no one ever went near
the third box in the second row, which represented our only clue to the secret of
Jay's whereabouts. On the third day, I was about to make a coffee run when
Clark pointed to the corner.

"Look!
There's Clay."

We stood
and called out his name. He stopped instantly, and it was only then that we
noticed he was using a cane. He looked about, trying to determine the source of
the voices, but a passing double-decker bus momentarily blocked his view of us.
Once it was gone, he shook his head as if annoyed with himself, and hobbled
slowly into the post office.

We turned
to each other. "Oh, my God, it must be Jay!"

Racing
across the street, we entered the building a few steps behind our long-lost
other uncle. With a determined effort, he made his way to the wall of post
office boxes and stopped to study his
keyring
.
Eventually he found the key he needed and moved to open the third box in the
second row. The small mailbox was filled to overflowing, and he had trouble
removing its contents and transferring the various pieces into the net shopping
bag on his arm. Unsure what to do, we just stood and watched until he'd emptied
the entire box. Finally, I couldn't stand the suspense any longer.

"Jay?"

He turned
around, quite affably. "Forgive me. I've been a bit under the weather the
last year or so. A fuckin coronary." His laugh was an echo of C
lay's. "Do I know you?"

"I'm
Mark."

"And
I'm Clark."

He shook
his head blankly. "Sorry. I've photographed so many boys..." He
reached for the glasses on a chain around his neck and put them on to take a
better look.

We
removed our sunglasses and smiled. Instantly, he turned ashen and reached for
the wall behind him.

"Oh,
my God. You're not going to have another heart attack, are you?" I asked,
moving forward to steady him.

Clark
took his other arm. "We're Sissy's boys."

And then
the most amazing thing happened. He took several deep breaths, and within
seconds, completely rejuvenated, burst into another cascade of laughter.

"Sissy
had twins?"

We
nodded.

"Serves
the bitch right."

Somehow,
we got him out of the post office and across the street to a park bench where
we sat down on either side of him. Finally, he stopped laughing. (Or was he
crying? I'm not sure.) At any rate, his manner changed.

"What
are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Looking
for you." In unison.

"Sissy's
not with you, is she?"

"Oh,
God no. She'd have a shit fit, if she knew."

He
chortled softly. "That's nice." He folded his hands carefully into
his lap before continuing. "Umm... At the risk of sounding like a fuckin
truant officer, aren't you two a little young to be gallivanting all over
Europe by yourselves?"

"Oh,
we're not alone. Clay's with us."

"Clay?"

He did
get the word out before he turned pale again. This time I was sure he was going
to drop dead on the spot.

"Yeah,
he brought us with him..."

“...to
help him find you."

"To
find me?" He took a firm grip on his cane and stiffened his spine.
"To find me? To
'find'
me? I was never lost." He produced a Kleenex and blew
his nose. "Well. He sure as hell took his own sweet time. Thirty fuckin
years. What does he want? The
god-damned-son-of-a-bitching-cock-sucking-mother-fucking-bastard-shithead-asshole!"

And then
he began to sob uncontrollably.

As one, my
brother and I put our arms around him and let him cry, and I'll tell you, he
cried. He cried until he was so drained that the tears stopped long before the
racking sobs did, but eventually, I guess, he didn't have the energy to go on.
The sounds and the spasms gradually subsided, and for a moment I thought he'd
fallen asleep or died in my arms. But he hadn't.

"Clay
is here? In Berlin?"

We
nodded. "He misses you."

He
straightened up. "It took him thirty years to figure that out?"

"Well,
you know, he had a heart attack, too. Maybe..."

Jay
flinched. "He what? When?"

"Last
year. The end of May..."

“...just
before school got out."

"May
27?"

"Sounds
about right. Clay told us..."

“...your
coronary was the same day as his."

"Jesus-fuckin'-Christ,
it's an omen. Thank God I don't believe in such shit." He got up and
started off.

We
hurried to catch up with him.

"Anyway,
he asked us to come along. Help with..."

“...the
luggage... and other problems. He's carrying a lot of baggage,
y'know
," concluded Clark pointedly.

"That's
right," I continued. "I think... we think..."

“...he's
trying in the only way he knows how..."

“...to
make up for lost time. See, we've been..."

“...living
with him for two summers and he's been..."

“...advising
us on how to... uh... love someone..."

“...and
how not to."

"I
see." Jay stopped walking. "Okay. Bring me up to speed, gentlemen.
Would it be fair for me to assume that you two find yourselves in a predicament
not unlike Clay's and mine those many years ago?"

I looked
at Clark; he nodded.

"We
sleep..."