Read Online The Legend of the Ditto Twins by Jerry Douglas - Free Book Online
Authors: Jerry Douglas
Ads: Link
around, she's just never had her
balls cut off before."
Clark
snickered and gave him a light poke in the gut before he left. Jubilantly, I
raised an imaginary glass to my brother. He found one too, and w e toasted in silence.
My toes
found his crotch. "God, Clark, I could almost believe everything you were
saying."
He was as
hard as I was. "Why not? Some of it was almost true."
As we all
hovered nearby, Mom's phone call to Uncle Clay produced two big surprises. One:
My wages were going to be more than expected. The other: He needed me there by
tomorrow afternoon. The situation wasn't hypothetical anymore. I looked at
Clark, determined not to cry, but if I've got a soul, it was bawling. So was
his, I could tell.
Once the
phone call ended, Mom went into her bedroom to comb her hair and wash up before
she started dinner. Dad dropped into his favorite chair, an overstuffed eyesore
that had come from his own childhood home, and it was as beat up and worn down
as he was. He settled in before he spoke.
"Clark?"
"Dad,
don't say, 'This is all for the best.'"
Our
father winced. "I just thought maybe you'd like to come along for the ride
tomorrow"
"I
wish you would," I murmured.
Clark
shook his head. "I couldn't handle it. No, we'll say our good-byes tonight."
I wanted
to go to him, comfort him, but at that precise second, Mom sailed into the
room, clearly re-energized. Humming softly. Humming! That's
when it hit me. We may have won the battle, but she'd won the war. She'd
managed to separate us for the first time in our lives.
She
cooked up her fried chicken for supper and spent the entire meal prattling on,
trying to convince us (and herself) that the summer promised great opportunity
for all concerned. Every time we asked her to talk about Uncle Clay, though,
she detoured with a description of his house (the family homestead where they'd
grown up), his business (where she'd met my father the day he came in to buy a
muffler), and the city to which I was being exiled (too close to that toddling
town of Chicago to suit her).
Finally, I put down my fork.
"Why won't you tell us about Clay? At least tell me. I'm the one who's
gonna have to go live with him. I can't even remember what he looks like."
"Of course you do. He's a
very handsome man. Always was. Of course, that was his curse."
"Curse?" Clark and I
both looked up from our plates.
"His looks. His charm.
Everyone was in love with him. I know I was—well, not in that way—after all, he
was my brother." She blushed and quickly moved on. "The problem was that
he had no willpower, if you know what I mean."
"No. What..."
"...do you mean?"
"Oh, come on now. You ask us
to treat you like adults." Leaning forward, he barely mouthed the words.
"He couldn't keep his zipper zipped." That said, she gnawed clean an
entire ear of sweet corn before she continued. "He's calmer now. Not so
wild. Otherwise I would never have agreed to let you go." She nodded to
assure herself. "Yes, not wild at all. A heart attack'll do that to
you." She took my hand. "Mark, you do realize: this is privileged
information. I'm only telling you these things on a need-to-know basis. I just
want you to be on your guard in case he starts bringing his wild women into the
house again. If that happens, you call me the minute the rates change."
My brother and I didn't say much
as we packed my stuff for the trip. We'd never divided things up before. Still,
there were no arguments about what clothing stayed, what went. One T-shirt was
little different from another, one pair of jeans like the next. We even wore
the same size sneakers. Clark wanted to keep the ashtray pair.
"Are you ever gonna let me
read our memoirs?" he asked.
"Sure." I produced the notebooks I'd been working on for the last two
years. "You keep em here. Only don't show em to anyone else."
He nodded. I stuffed one carton of
Marlboros in my backpack; Clark hid his in our Boy Scout gear at the back of
the closet. I divided
balls cut off before."
Clark
snickered and gave him a light poke in the gut before he left. Jubilantly, I
raised an imaginary glass to my brother. He found one too, and w e toasted in silence.
My toes
found his crotch. "God, Clark, I could almost believe everything you were
saying."
He was as
hard as I was. "Why not? Some of it was almost true."
As we all
hovered nearby, Mom's phone call to Uncle Clay produced two big surprises. One:
My wages were going to be more than expected. The other: He needed me there by
tomorrow afternoon. The situation wasn't hypothetical anymore. I looked at
Clark, determined not to cry, but if I've got a soul, it was bawling. So was
his, I could tell.
Once the
phone call ended, Mom went into her bedroom to comb her hair and wash up before
she started dinner. Dad dropped into his favorite chair, an overstuffed eyesore
that had come from his own childhood home, and it was as beat up and worn down
as he was. He settled in before he spoke.
"Clark?"
"Dad,
don't say, 'This is all for the best.'"
Our
father winced. "I just thought maybe you'd like to come along for the ride
tomorrow"
"I
wish you would," I murmured.
Clark
shook his head. "I couldn't handle it. No, we'll say our good-byes tonight."
I wanted
to go to him, comfort him, but at that precise second, Mom sailed into the
room, clearly re-energized. Humming softly. Humming! That's
when it hit me. We may have won the battle, but she'd won the war. She'd
managed to separate us for the first time in our lives.
She
cooked up her fried chicken for supper and spent the entire meal prattling on,
trying to convince us (and herself) that the summer promised great opportunity
for all concerned. Every time we asked her to talk about Uncle Clay, though,
she detoured with a description of his house (the family homestead where they'd
grown up), his business (where she'd met my father the day he came in to buy a
muffler), and the city to which I was being exiled (too close to that toddling
town of Chicago to suit her).
Finally, I put down my fork.
"Why won't you tell us about Clay? At least tell me. I'm the one who's
gonna have to go live with him. I can't even remember what he looks like."
"Of course you do. He's a
very handsome man. Always was. Of course, that was his curse."
"Curse?" Clark and I
both looked up from our plates.
"His looks. His charm.
Everyone was in love with him. I know I was—well, not in that way—after all, he
was my brother." She blushed and quickly moved on. "The problem was that
he had no willpower, if you know what I mean."
"No. What..."
"...do you mean?"
"Oh, come on now. You ask us
to treat you like adults." Leaning forward, he barely mouthed the words.
"He couldn't keep his zipper zipped." That said, she gnawed clean an
entire ear of sweet corn before she continued. "He's calmer now. Not so
wild. Otherwise I would never have agreed to let you go." She nodded to
assure herself. "Yes, not wild at all. A heart attack'll do that to
you." She took my hand. "Mark, you do realize: this is privileged
information. I'm only telling you these things on a need-to-know basis. I just
want you to be on your guard in case he starts bringing his wild women into the
house again. If that happens, you call me the minute the rates change."
My brother and I didn't say much
as we packed my stuff for the trip. We'd never divided things up before. Still,
there were no arguments about what clothing stayed, what went. One T-shirt was
little different from another, one pair of jeans like the next. We even wore
the same size sneakers. Clark wanted to keep the ashtray pair.
"Are you ever gonna let me
read our memoirs?" he asked.
"Sure." I produced the notebooks I'd been working on for the last two
years. "You keep em here. Only don't show em to anyone else."
He nodded. I stuffed one carton of
Marlboros in my backpack; Clark hid his in our Boy Scout gear at the back of
the closet. I divided
Similar Books
