The Legend of the Ditto Twins (36 page)

"Mom
called?" I pulled out my cell phone.

"That's
what I said. Didn't you hear me?"

"We'd
better call her."

"But
what about Jay?"

"Lily,
you'll love him." I punched out our home number. "He's just like
Clay, only more maternal. Now shut up. Oh, hi, Mom. No, not you. I was talking
to Lily."

I lifted
the phone from my ear so they could hear too.

"Don't
you return calls?" Mom asked.

"Sorry,
we were out of town. Running an errand for Clay. How are you?"

"You
tell me. Are we going to see you—as expected—first thing Tuesday morning?"

"Oh,
before that. We're coming home tomorrow."

"Three
days early?"

"No,
no. Just for the day. To talk."

"Oh."
A long pause. "There is nothing to talk about."

"Mom—this
is costing money. See you tomorrow."

The next
day we started early and made the trip in record time. Mom was waiting on the
front porch. "Well? Do I get a kiss?"

I pecked
her cheek and started inside. "Where's Dad?" asked Clark, pecking her
too.

"In
his office."

"Better
go get him. Mind if we make a sandwich? We..."

“...drove
straight through, didn't stop to eat."

We headed
toward the kitchen.

Mom
followed. "Boys, I can do that for you."

"No,
we can manage."

Just then
the screen door slammed, and Dad walked in. "Thought I heard a car. Good
to see you. What's up?"

I took a
packet of boiled ham and a jar of Miracle Whip out of the fridge. Clark passed me
a loaf of bread. "There's Velveeta, too," Mom said helpfully.

Dad sat
down at the kitchen table. "I guess you boys didn't just drop by for
lunch."

"No,
we didn't." Clark sat opposite him, once again in lawyer mode. "Okay.
We assume Mom has told you all about her trip to Clay's."

"Well,
I've heard her side. You want to add anything?"

"She
wants us to come home," he replied. "Finish school."

"Well.
That makes sense, don't you think?"

"Sure,
Dad. That's not the problem. It's the car. She said you two had had a lot of
long talks about the car."

"Well,
we did discuss it a time or two."

"More
than that," snapped Mom.

"That's
neither here nor there, honey. Go on."

"Well,
Mark and I, we've pretty much decided that it would be best—for the sake of our
education—to move back for one more year. See, even though we'll be old enough
to walk out for good, come February, we've decided to yield to her wishes and
stay the whole year. On one condition."

Mom
stood. "And that is?"

"We
keep the car."

"Absolutely
not!"

Clark
stood and turned to me. "Let's go!"

Mom took
a step toward the door as if to block it. "No car! I thought I made that
perfectly clear. You are still minors—you do not question your parents'
authority."

"Honey..."
Dad tried again, but she pulled back.

"That's
okay, Dad," Clark said evenly. "It just seemed to us it'd save you
and Mom a lot of money. See, we've already talked to lawyers, and a trial's not
gonna be cheap. I'd hate to see you guys wiped out over something as trivial as
a little red car."

"We're
not paupers," sputtered Mom.

Clark
tossed it right back at her. "Clay's no pauper either. Says he's willing
to put up every dollar he's got to fight you. Every 'last fuckin penny'—those
were his exact words. Mom, why does he hate you so much? What did you do to
him?"

"Why,
I can't imagine."

"Does
Clay have more money than you do?"

"How
should I know? That's not the point. You cannot keep that car. The law in this
state recognizes..."

“...the
rights of the parents. Yes, we know. But until a judge orders us back into your
custody, we'll be living at Clay's."

"We'll
see about that."

"Well..."
Clark turned to me. "We tried."

I
gathered up the sandwiches and laid some bills on the table. "Will this
cover the food? You're gonna need every penny you've got." I thought it
was a nice touch.

"Mark's
right, Mom. Clay's rich.
So's
Jay."

"Jay?
What's Jay got to do with it?"

We smiled
guilelessly. "Oh. Didn't we tell you?"

"They've
been in touch."

"Seems
Jay had a coronary, too. So..."

“...Clay's
bringing him home to take care of him."

Mom's
eyes rolled back in her head, and she choked on the word "Jay" as she
slumped to the floor.

Dad
rushed to her limp body and scooped her into his arms, trying to find a pulse.
She was out cold for less than ten seconds, and when she began to come to, we
knew everything was okay: She pushed Dad away.

"Stop
fussing over me," she said, then looked up at us. "You can keep the
car."

Our
senior year began the following Tuesday, and I don't like to brag, but we made
quite an impression when we drove up in the little red Mazda, not on our bikes.

After winning
The Battle of the Mazda, we'd left to go back to Clay's for the last few days
and had returned the night before school began. Mom had already gone to bed.
Dad had waited up, and he spent an hour tiptoeing around the topic of Mom's
concern about the "unhealthy atmosphere" at Clay's home, but
eventually he said goodnight, and we went upstairs.

In our
bedroom, we began to undress and decided to measure our dicks. Now at first
that may seem strange, but at the time it seemed like a perfect way to brighten
up our bittersweet homecoming. We'd changed so much during the summer, we
figured maybe our dicks had, too. Just the idea got us real hard real quick. I
found the ruler and leaned down.

"Six
and seven-eighths. Almost seven!" I crowed.

Clark
took the ruler, and I offered up my dick. "Yup. Six and seven-eighths.
Exactly the same!"

"I
knew it! We're..."

“...still
growing! Do you think..."

“...we'll
ever be as big as Helmut III?"

"Don't
worry about it."

"Right.
No more measuring..."

“...till
graduation."

Between
kisses, we discussed the possibility of buying a bolt lock for our bedroom door
and decided against it. Mom and Dad, we suspected, actually preferred not to
know what went on in our room and would never again walk in on us unannounced.
We were right. They didn't come upstairs the following morning or ever again.

Breakfast
an hour later was largely monosyllabic. Mom had cooked our least favorite
breakfast—oatmeal. Apparently she was determined, in small ways if not big
ones, to maintain the status quo of her matriarchy. We ate it without
complaint, refused the money she had set out for school supplies, and started
to leave.

"What
time will you be home?" she asked.

"No
idea," I replied. "It's the first day. But..."

“...we'll
try to call."

"See
that you do."

"Mom,
we said we'll try. Look, this coming year..."

“...isn't
going to be easy for any of us, but let's..."

“...try
not to turn this house into a war zone. Okay?"

We didn't
wait for her answer.

We were
both dressed very casually that first Tuesday morning in white T-shirts, jeans,
and the chambray shirts from the photo shoot. Clark and I had not conferred on
what to wear that day—we never had in the past—but subconsciously (I suppose),
we both had chosen the chambrays as tangible reminders of happier days. In any
event, we were dressed exactly alike. I thought nothing of it at the time, but
the other students seemed to eye us more than ever before. A couple of them
even commented on the effect.

Wednesday
morning, when I came out of the bathroom, Clark was wearing his old chinos and
a navy blue polo shirt, exactly what I was planning to wear. Without thinking,
I slipped on my chinos and polo shirt, too. Clark noticed and nodded. All at
once, we knew Jay had been right—that was the magic—and from that day on, no
one ever saw us again except in matching outfits.

Thursday
after school, in no hurry to go home, we drove downtown to spend some of our
summer earnings on new clothes. It should come as no surprise that we had no
disagreements about our purchases: a pair of black tees emblazoned with the
oversized lips logo of The Rolling Stones, a pair of blue and white striped
rugby shirts, two pairs of white jeans (as snug as our disco pants), and
matching Yankees baseball caps. We stewed for a long time over our final
expenditure but eventually ignored practicality and splurged on two pairs of
black cowboy boots, just like Jay's.

We were
stowing our stuff in the trunk of the car when we were suddenly startled by a
screech of brakes and a car horn blasting right beside us. We both reared back
and looked up. A battered old Toyota had stopped right next to us, and behind
the wheel was the Go-To Guy.

"Hey-hey.
When did you get back?" he asked.

"Just
a few..."

“...days
ago."

"Jesus,
you've sure grown up this summer. Where'd you steal the car?"

We
laughed. "Our uncle gave it to us."

"No
shit. It's a beauty. Not like this old wreck. But at least now I've got
wheels."

"How'd
you manage that?" I asked.

"Oh,
I been
doin
' odd jobs here and there."

"I
thought you were saving up..."

“...to go
to Chicago."

"I
went. Man, I went." He lit a Marlboro. "Business."

"What
kind of business?" In unison.

"Oh,
this and that. Why? You guys
hurtin
' for bread?"

"C'mon,
man, who can't..."

“...use a
few extra bucks?"

He
nodded. "Well, there's always ways to make money." He scratched his
nose for awhile before he continued. "If you don't mind my
askin
', are you two still cherry?"

Our
answer was a pair of disgusted snorts.

His face
slid into his crooked smile. "Yeah, you've changed." He glanced
around too casually, bent down to reach under the driver's seat, and pulled out
a DVD.

"You
ever heard of Biff Brannigan?"

We shook
our heads.