panties to bed every night.”
“So?”
“Let’s focus. I see blood in the water.”
“Blood?”
“In the tub. And Kathy’s head’s under water. She’s dead.”
He starts moving toward her. Charlie’s forced to follow.
Charlie says, “Slow down. It might be a trap.”
“A trap?”
“She could be playing possum.”
“I have no idea what that means, but there’s blood, Charlie. And did you hear me say her head’s under the water?”
“Maybe she’s holding her breath.”
“Trust me, she’s dead.”
Carlos and Charlie have lived like this since birth. Now that Kathy’s a non-issue, they ease into the natural muscular cooperation that got them through twenty-eight years of life, one hour at a time. Carlos’s legs are better suited to walking, Charlie’s arm and hand is more functional. Carlos instinctively knows how to angle, dip, and turn, so Charlie can see.
“I’ll take her pulse,” Charlie says.
“Good idea. Wonder what we’ll learn,” Carlos says, sarcastically.
The boys lower their bodies until they’re on their knees. Charlie places his hand on Kathy’s neck.
“She’s dead,” he says.
“There’s a shock.”
Charlie looks at Kathy, shakes his head and sighs. “If my time comes, make sure I’m not wearing sweatpants, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Carlos says, “Help me turn.”
“Which way?”
“To the right, so I can reach her.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Still on their knees they make a quarter-turn to the right. When Charlie hears Carlos breathing heavily he says, “What the fudge are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?”
“Hilarious. You know I can’t see what you’re doing.”
“Good. So you can’t tell mom.”
Charlie doesn’t possess the leg strength Carlos does, but when he makes sudden moves, he can temporarily force the action.
He suddenly stands up, loses his balance, and both twins topple to the floor.
“What the hell?” Carlos says.
Charlie lands at an angle that offers him a view of the body. Kathy’s sweat pants and panties have been pulled down to her knees.
“What’s the matter with you?” he shouts.
“I wasn’t going to do her or anything,” Carlos says. “I just wanted to look.”
“That’s disgusting. She’s dead.”
“It’s not like I get lots of opportunities.”
“This is just wrong ,” Charlie says.
“I’m not doing anything. Just looking .”
Charlie sighs. “We’ll get you a hooker tonight.”
“Really?”
“I suppose we’d better, if our choices are prostitution or necrophilia.”
“What about you?”
“You don’t care about my needs.”
“Of course I do!”
“I’m content to suffer in silence,” Charlie says, in his martyr’s voice. “As always.”
“We could see if the escort agency has a guy for you.”
“We’ve been through this a hundred times. I’m not like you. I can’t just do it. Especially with you lying next to us, laughing.”
“I wouldn’t laugh.”
“You would, and you have. And we got beat up and robbed, if memory serves.”
“He got in a lucky punch,” Carlos says.
“Lots of them, as I recall. But paying men for sex is not my dream scenario, okay?”
“Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Your dream scenario.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“No I won’t.”
“Well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind a nice, quiet evening with a decent guy.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“You know, a nice dinner in an elegant restaurant with linen tablecloths and napkins, and candles gracing the table. A handsome, attentive waiter with impeccable taste and washboard abs would personally select our lobsters and prepare them tableside, with brown butter, shallots, pine nuts, and tagliatelle.”
“Tagli—what?”
“It’s a pasta. While waiting, we’d sip a pretentious domestic wine and listen to soft, romantic music. Afterward, if my date is half the man I hope he is, he’d insist I try a flaming dessert, like
“So?”
“Let’s focus. I see blood in the water.”
“Blood?”
“In the tub. And Kathy’s head’s under water. She’s dead.”
He starts moving toward her. Charlie’s forced to follow.
Charlie says, “Slow down. It might be a trap.”
“A trap?”
“She could be playing possum.”
“I have no idea what that means, but there’s blood, Charlie. And did you hear me say her head’s under the water?”
“Maybe she’s holding her breath.”
“Trust me, she’s dead.”
Carlos and Charlie have lived like this since birth. Now that Kathy’s a non-issue, they ease into the natural muscular cooperation that got them through twenty-eight years of life, one hour at a time. Carlos’s legs are better suited to walking, Charlie’s arm and hand is more functional. Carlos instinctively knows how to angle, dip, and turn, so Charlie can see.
“I’ll take her pulse,” Charlie says.
“Good idea. Wonder what we’ll learn,” Carlos says, sarcastically.
The boys lower their bodies until they’re on their knees. Charlie places his hand on Kathy’s neck.
“She’s dead,” he says.
“There’s a shock.”
Charlie looks at Kathy, shakes his head and sighs. “If my time comes, make sure I’m not wearing sweatpants, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Carlos says, “Help me turn.”
“Which way?”
“To the right, so I can reach her.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Still on their knees they make a quarter-turn to the right. When Charlie hears Carlos breathing heavily he says, “What the fudge are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?”
“Hilarious. You know I can’t see what you’re doing.”
“Good. So you can’t tell mom.”
Charlie doesn’t possess the leg strength Carlos does, but when he makes sudden moves, he can temporarily force the action.
He suddenly stands up, loses his balance, and both twins topple to the floor.
“What the hell?” Carlos says.
Charlie lands at an angle that offers him a view of the body. Kathy’s sweat pants and panties have been pulled down to her knees.
“What’s the matter with you?” he shouts.
“I wasn’t going to do her or anything,” Carlos says. “I just wanted to look.”
“That’s disgusting. She’s dead.”
“It’s not like I get lots of opportunities.”
“This is just wrong ,” Charlie says.
“I’m not doing anything. Just looking .”
Charlie sighs. “We’ll get you a hooker tonight.”
“Really?”
“I suppose we’d better, if our choices are prostitution or necrophilia.”
“What about you?”
“You don’t care about my needs.”
“Of course I do!”
“I’m content to suffer in silence,” Charlie says, in his martyr’s voice. “As always.”
“We could see if the escort agency has a guy for you.”
“We’ve been through this a hundred times. I’m not like you. I can’t just do it. Especially with you lying next to us, laughing.”
“I wouldn’t laugh.”
“You would, and you have. And we got beat up and robbed, if memory serves.”
“He got in a lucky punch,” Carlos says.
“Lots of them, as I recall. But paying men for sex is not my dream scenario, okay?”
“Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Your dream scenario.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“No I won’t.”
“Well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind a nice, quiet evening with a decent guy.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“You know, a nice dinner in an elegant restaurant with linen tablecloths and napkins, and candles gracing the table. A handsome, attentive waiter with impeccable taste and washboard abs would personally select our lobsters and prepare them tableside, with brown butter, shallots, pine nuts, and tagliatelle.”
“Tagli—what?”
“It’s a pasta. While waiting, we’d sip a pretentious domestic wine and listen to soft, romantic music. Afterward, if my date is half the man I hope he is, he’d insist I try a flaming dessert, like
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