The Legend of the Ditto Twins (61 page)

"In
the blue dress with the blue straw hat."

"We
get her."

They took
off before Clark or I could stop them, but we were not far behind. When Mom saw
the four of us coming straight at her, she panicked and started to run.

"Mom!
Wait! It’s okay!"

Darting
out into the busy thoroughfare, she was nearly sideswiped by a school bus, but
managed to escape as the driver swerved into the stream of oncoming traffic.
The head-on collision with a pick-up truck (piled high with cages of live
chickens) was captured by the TV crews already on the scene. Mom kept running,
and when the cameramen saw who was pursuing her, they instantly shifted focus
to the chase. I guess The Ditto Twins were more newsworthy than chickens
flapping all over the blood-spattered pavement.

Mom
managed to slip through the line-up of protestors, but when we tried to follow,
we were met by a wall of human flesh, at the center of which stood Rev. Abel
Flamm, still holding his "God Is Love" sign.

"Stay
away from me!" he screeched.

As we
lunged to slip through the line, The Good Reverend brought his sign down on my
skull. Before he could land a second blow, though, Libor grabbed the sign and
swung it around to clip the Man of God across the temple. Flamm sank to the
ground, bleeding, and all hell broke loose among his righteous followers. The
next few minutes were a kaleidoscope of fists, knees, elbows, and epithets.
Before we knew it, the police had joined the melee, and dozens of folks ended
up in handcuffs. We were among them.

As they
shoved
us into the police wagons, we saw Mom, standing at a
distance, not a trace of emotion melting her face. We haven't seen her since; I
figure we'll never see her again.

The television
footage conclusively exonerated us, and Clark and I were released within hours.
Riggs willingly paid the small fines leveled against
Pavol
and Libor, knowing that the extensive national coverage of the event would
guarantee full houses at Limbo. Rev. Flamm, on the other hand, spent the night
in jail before his lawyers could spring him. The Ditto Twins had triumphed once
more.

It was a
hollow victory, and neither my brother nor I gloated over it. Nor did Clay, who
did his best to convince us we should cancel the rest of our tour, forget about
the film with the
Hudsons
, and let The Ditto Twins
fade into the mists of oblivion, as so many adult film stars do.

Clark and
I were of two minds on the matter. We knew he was right, but we weren't quite
ready to turn our backs on the bitch goddess called Fame. We missed The Ditto
Twins more than we cared to admit. After a week or so of discussions, we agreed
to let Clay cancel all future dates except one—The Millennium
Gayla
in New York City. After all, that celebration to mark
the turn of the new century promised to be fabulous, and at least we would go
out in style.

But then
what would we do?

What
preoccupied us most during the weeks after Jay's memorial service was our
future. Was there life after porn?

One morning,
just before the last Christmas of the Twentieth Century, we were sitting around
the kitchen table with Clay, trying to get into the spirit of the season and
figure out what to do next. Lily and Phil had bought a tree and spent hours
decorating it, but the holiday hoopla had evaded my brother, my uncle, and me.

"I
hate Christmas." Clay flicked ash over his half-eaten eggs. "I'm not
gonna buy any fuckin presents this year. I'm not in the mood."

"That's
okay. No Christmas presents this year, but..."

“...next
year we'll make up for it."

"No!"
Clay shook his head. "Don't talk to me about next year. There's no such
thing."

"Clay...
c'mon." In unison.

"By
the law of averages, twins are supposed to die about the same time. I hate this
fuckin waiting."

"Maybe
there's a reason..."

“...you're
still around."

Clay
snorted. "Oh, yeah? What?"

"To
watch over us, make sure..."

“...we
don't screw up our future."

"Nah,
I'm tired of playing mentor. Just one fuckin' word of advice: Don't spend all
your money on tight jeans."

"We
won't." In unison. "We don't."

"We've
already stashed a lot away in our savings account. Clay, you know as well as
anyone..."

“...we've
made decent money off the movie—not Steven Spielberg money—but enough to live
on for awhile."

Clay
groaned. "That's not what I'm talking about."

"What
are you talking about?" In unison.

"Jay's
will. Jesus! You haven't read it? It's been lying there on the fuckin' desk for
weeks. Why not?"

"It
was none of our business. We..."

“...didn't
think it concerned us."

He shook
his head angrily. "Babes in the woods. That's what you are. That's what
you'll be till the day you die." He stood and glared at us, and we
couldn't see why. His tone grew sharper. "Jay will be very fuckin'
disappointed when he hears about this."

"What
did we do?"

"Or
not do?"

"Grow
up!"

We
weren't sure if it was an answer or an order.

"And
another thing: Why in hell can't one of you learn to fry an egg? Why can't
anybody fry eggs the way Jay does? He's the only one who knows how to fry eggs
the way I like em. I wonder how he does it. I must ask him."

It really
bothered us that Clay was still speaking of Jay in the present tense. But we
let it pass.

Once he
had retreated into his bedroom, we went directly into the parlor. The will was
a formal document, but it didn't take us long to figure out that Jay had left
everything he owned to us. More importantly, there was also a handwritten note
addressed to "The Ditto Twins."

Dear Heart and Dear
Heart:

By the time
you read this, I will be long gone and not looking my best. If there is a
hereafter—and I wouldn't bet my right nut on it—I will be thinking of you,
grateful that you came to Berlin, rescued me, and in so many ways, gave me the
richest time of my life.

I am so
proud of you, and so envious that Clay and I never had the balls to do what
you're doing. Don't let Sissy cut yours off like she did Clay's or her
husband's. Don't play it safe. Most of all, don't waste a moment of your life
together.

I have
thought long and hard about what to do with my estate. I could have put it in
trust for you, but I have great faith in your wisdom and impetuosity (a good
combo), so I am leaving everything to you, no strings attached. Spend it
wisely. You deserve it, so no thanks are necessary. And don't gush. I am immune
to flattery.

I am
enclosing the business card of my lawyer in Geneva who has been apprised of my
wishes and will make whatever arrangements are legally required to change over
my Swiss bank accounts to you. Watch over Clay. See you later, God willing. If
He exists.

Ditto,
ditto, ditto.

Jay

Clark and
I stared at the will, the note, and the card only briefly before we headed to
the master bedroom. Clay was sitting inert. We handed him the note; he scanned
it.

"Why
us?" we demanded in unison.

"Well,
first of all, he loved you." Then he seemed to come out of his fog for a
moment, "And for another, if I'd predeceased him and he'd died intestate,
everything would have gone to Sissy as next of kin. You can be fuckin' sure
that was out of the question."

We almost
managed to laugh. Clay continued.

"Yeah,
we decided things awhile back. I've left everything I have to Lily and Phil; he
left everything he had to you guys." He smiled wryly. "You got the
better end of the deal, y' know. His estate is high six figures."

"No
shit." In unison.

"Maybe
seven by now. What're you going to do with it?"

Clark
answered first. "I... I've always imagined Mark and me growing old someplace
way out in the country."

I nodded.
"Me, too. A ranch maybe, in Montana or Canada. Someplace where no one
would bother us."

"Good.
Do it. Get the hell out of here."

"Are
you asking us to leave?" In unison.

"Not
right away. But soon. It's time."

"But
you read the note. Jay told us..."

“...to
watch over you."

"Not
necessary.
He
will." There was a long pause. "You know, it's so
fuckin' easy not to believe in the Pearly Gates—till they're
starin
' you in the face. Go fix lunch."

It wasn't
till late that night as we were sitting in the parlor, re-reading the will,
that it really hit us.

"We
just might be a millionaire?" I couldn't grasp it.

"Scary,
isn't it? What'll we do with it?"

"Buy
a ranch. A farm. A condo. What do you want to do?"

Clark
answered at once. "Leave it alone. Not touch it till we need it. 'Course,
we should contact Jay's lawyer."

"Yeah,
put things in motion.
Clay'll
do that for us."

"No.
We should do it ourselves." Clark was adamant. "Clay's not done
mourning yet."

"It's
been almost a month."

"If
you died first, I'd mourn you the rest of my life." He giggled nervously.
"But that's not gonna happen."

"Yeah,
yeah, I know. You forbid me to die first."

"Right.
Wouldn't it be nice, though, if we could both go at the same time?"

"How
you gonna arrange that? A suicide pact?"

"Nah."
He leaned over and kissed me. "I don't think we'd be very good at killing
ourselves."

I reached
for his package. "Yeah, too conceited." He found mine. "Nah. Too
chicken shit."