by Chris Kenry
One cake, matching presents, questions about who was born first and whether or not we can read each other’s thoughts and feel each other’s pain. That is a birthday for twins. Although we shared the womb for nine months, my sister Carey and I have surprisingly little in common—least of all our appearance: I am tall and slender while she is shorter and tends to be “chunky,” as our mother would say. One can’t help but wonder if the wires didn’t get crossed somewhere along the line, because she has always been more boyish: playing with trucks, excelling at sports, helping our dad with the yardwork, whereas I was perfectly content to stay indoors perfecting recipes for my Easy-Bake oven.
As I went into the kitchen and mixed myself a protein shake I saw my mother in the backyard, trying to position, with the help of her aged gardener, Mr. Matsumoto, what appeared to be a heavy stone lantern on a large stone pedestal. The two of them made quite a pair: a small, hunched man with graying black hair and a weatherworn face, and a six-foot, unnaturally blond woman with a slash of red lipstick and huge, white sunglasses.
She had hired Mr. Matsumoto at the beginning of the summer to help her transform the backyard into a traditional Japanese garden, an interest she’d developed after taking a landscape architecture class focusing on Japan at the botanic gardens. Landscape architecture was a subject she’d developed an interest in on a three-week trip she’d taken to Japan—the same three-week trip to Japan she’d taken to study Japanese pottery. When she returned, her potter’s wheel and kiln were quickly moved from the garage to an obscure corner of the basement, and the garage was filled with sacks of ornamental stones, and the ripe stench of manure and mulch. From a new Peg-Board rack on the wall hung all manner of strange trimming tools arranged with the meticulous intensity characteristic of her new Asian friends.
This garden was the latest in a series of what my siblings and I called “Mom’s campaigns.” These were interests that she would discover, usually by chance, embrace like a new lover, investigate and probe, and then abandon completely when a new, more interesting one came along. My father said it all started when they took possession of the house and she undertook her first—and longest—campaign: to renovate and redecorate. I was too young to remember this, but my father relishes telling the story of how she knocked out walls and erected new ones, ripped up eighty percent of the flooring and replaced it with wood or tile, painted and repainted, upholstered and reupholstered, bought and returned draperies, fought with contractors and tradesmen, and somehow found time to give birth to three children before she had finished.
From there she went on to orchid growing, and from there to cake decorating; then Spanish lessons became her passion, then marathon running, photography, the climbing of all of Colorado’s mountains above fourteen thousand feet, oil painting, furniture refinishing, bird husbandry, macrobiotic cooking (through which we all suffered the most miserable stomach cramps), pottery, etc . . . Each campaign lasted from six months to a year, maybe two, and was then quickly discarded and forgotten about when the next interest hooked her.
Marathon running is the perfect example. Her passion for it started when Jim Fixx died and she became interested in his life while reading his obituary in Newsweek. She then read The Complete Book of Running, quit smoking, outfitted herself with all sorts of shoes and sports bras and nylon shorts, and threw herself into it completely. She got up every morning at five A.M., ran for nearly an hour, came home, stretched, bathed, and read Runner’s World over her morning coffee. Every weekend she was off doing another race and had elaborate charts detailing her splits and finish times. She developed new training friends and running partners, and a new vocabulary in which she spoke of shin splints, carbo loading, and runner’s high. She loved it so much that she, like my father, sought to convert us all. She failed, most notably with my sister, Carey, who was then interested in another form of high that had nothing to do with running, and refused to participate in the family relay in which my mother had entered us.
Japanese gardening was the latest campaign, and as I watched her and Mr. Matsumoto straining to lift the stone into place, I thought I’d better offer assistance.
“Need some help?” I called, stepping out onto the back porch.
“Oh, honey, goodness, yes, this is so damn heavy and I’m afraid Mr. Matsumoto has a hernia, although I can’t find the dictionary to find out for sure. He keeps lifting up his shirt and showing me some scars.”
Together we positioned the stone into place on its pedestal, and they both gave a sigh of relief.
“Oh, sank you, sir,” said Mr. Matsumoto, shaking my hand enthusiastically and nodding rapidly. “You vely stlong.” He then took off his gloves, picked up a burlap sack of pellets, and hobbled over to feed the fish in what had, just a week earlier, been a kidney-shaped swimming pool. Now it was officially “the koi pond,” and was slowly being surrounded by meticulously trimmed shrubs and dwarf trees. Where the diving board had been, a waterfall now trickled down a small mountain made of large, carefully placed stones.
“What time did you leave this morning?” my mother asked, brushing the sweat from her forehead with a grimy glove. “I didn’t even get to wish you a happy birthday!” She hugged me tightly and kissed me on the cheek.
“Uh, I left pretty early,” I lied, and stared intently at Mr. Matsumoto. “I had to open the gym.”
I could feel her eyes regarding me suspiciously from behind her sunglasses. She was about to question me, but I sidetracked her.
“Hey, what is this anyway?” I asked, gesturing toward the stone.
“Oh, isn’t it fabulous!” she cried, clapping her hands together, her suspicion dispelled. “It’s a lantern, of course. Mr. Matsumoto had one of his cousins ship it over from Kobe. The temple it was in was destroyed in the earthquake, and they got it for a bargain-basement price.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “The whole garden is looking great.”
“Thank you, honey, do you really think so? Mr. Matsumoto has been helping me so much with the more traditional aspects. We’re thinking of putting either a teahouse or a Zen rock garden over under the maple in the corner, but he hasn’t decided if the balance is right yet.”
“A teahouse!” I exclaimed. “What will that be for?”
“Well, for having tea ceremonies, of course. It’s all very ritualized stuff. Mr. Matsumoto was trying to explain it to me this morning but his English isn’t very good and I couldn’t really understand it. But whatever—it sounds like a fun idea, doesn’t it?” she said, gesturing vaguely to the maple. “A little teahouse over there under the tree . . .” I nodded.
“You look tired, honey,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulder and leading me toward the house. “Why don’t you lie down before dinner. Your sister and brother won’t be here until seven, and God only knows when we’ll see your father.” I nodded, and was actually glad that I’d be seeing my sister and brother, as I hadn’t seen either of them since Paul’s funeral.
“Maybe I will lie down. Will you wake me in a little while so I can shower?” I asked, heading toward the stairs. She nodded.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she called. “How did the meeting with Paul’s sister go?”
I hesitated for a moment, remembering Wendy as she flicked her ashes and skipped up the stairs.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said, and went up to my room.
My old bedroom was dark and cool, and lying down on the soft bed felt wonderful. I had been staying in the same room I’d had as a child, but there was not a single vestige of me there anymore. When I moved away to college my mother had taken all of my things to the basement and “redid” the room. Gone were my giant posters of David Bowie and Nirvana, my black light and my large water bed, having been replaced by a more conservative decor: two mahogany twin beds with a small table between them, white carpeting, white lace curtains, and a long, low dresser, also of dark mahogany. The walls were sparsely adorned with framed pictures of dead relatives and scenes from a
n English foxhunt. I was glad my decor was gone, as I found the white room relaxing, and I fell asleep easily, feeling the last waves of my hangover lap gently on my brain.
And then I was fishing, by myself, in a small rowboat on a lake high in the mountains. The evening sky was overcast and the air was very still. There was not even a breeze, so the lake was as smooth as a sheet of glass. I was fishing, casting out my line in a graceful arc and then slowly reeling it back in. I cast once, twice, a third time, and then suddenly felt a strike. I reeled in quickly, only to find a pair of eyeglasses at the end of the line. I unhooked them, examined them closely, and realized they were Paul’s. I cast again and a moment later I felt another strike, this one so strong that it nearly pulled the rod from my hands. I pulled back sharply to set the hook and the tugging subsided a little. I reeled furiously for what seemed like a very long time, and eventually I saw a large object rising slowly from the depths. As it neared the boat, I saw that it was Paul, and that I’d hooked him in the mouth. I reached over and pulled him into the boat, noticing how light he felt. He smiled and seemed fine, but was unable to speak because of the hook. I rummaged clumsily in the tackle box and eventually found a pair of pliers, which I quickly used to remove the hook. I expected a lot of blood, but instead I heard a hissing noise and felt air coming out of the hole where the hook had been. The hissing got louder and I watched, horrified, as Paul deflated and rose up, in a spiral motion, out of the boat and into the sky. When he was empty, his sac of a body arced and fell downward, hitting the water with a weak smack.
Suddenly, I heard voices behind me. I looked over at the shore and saw Wendy and the lawyer, nearly doubled over with laughter, pointing at me and clutching their stomachs, she almost unable to hold her cigarette. I stood up, shaking with anger, and as I did so, both of the wooden oars fell from the sides and sank rapidly. The two laughed even harder, if possible, and then reached down and picked up some rocks and started hurling them at me. It was only after they’d landed in the boat (and they all landed in the boat) that I realized they were not rocks at all, but were the heavy pieces of venetian glass from Paul’s house. Thud! Thud! Thud! They clanked as they landed in the bottom of the metal boat, perfect hits every time. Thud! Thud! Thud! And slowly the boat began to take on water and to sink. Thud! Thud! Thud!
I sat up in bed, and it took a moment to realize that what I’d been hearing was not venetian glass paperweights, but knocks on my bedroom door.
“Jaaack.” It was the nasally twang of my mother.
“Are you awake, little birthday man?” The door creaked open and I could see her severe silhouette. She was wearing a black tunic, her hair pulled back in a long ponytail and held in place by what were evidently some very long chopsticks. She looked like a blond ninja as she came over and sat next to me on the bed.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” I mumbled. “Sort of.”
She smoothed my sweaty hair back from my forehead.
“You all right?” she asked.
“Yeah, fine,” I said. “Just a bad dream.”
“Oh, baby, do you want to talk about it? You know I took that dream class at the Free University last year.”
“No, Ma, really.” I sighed, falling back on the bed. “I think I understand this one.”
“Well, you just rest some more. There’s no real rush. Carey’s going to be late, and your dad and Jay and Susan are making drinks in the kitchen. Just take your time. We can eat anytime; almost everything is cold.”
As I came down the stairs I heard laughter coming from the kitchen. I listened for my sister’s voice, but knew that if she were there, hers would most likely be the only voice I’d hear. It’s not that she was loud, necessarily, but her stories did tend to fill up the room and push everyone else to the fringes. In that respect she and my mother are more alike than either one likes to admit. No, the voice I heard then was that of my father, and the subject was, as always, business.
“So I told him, ‘Tommy, we’ve got to keep offering the stock option to new hires; it keeps ’em interested in the company. Keeps ‘em honest if they feel like they’re a part of it.’”
“Oh, I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Thompson,” said Susan, my brother’s fiancée, who owns her own temporary agency. “The worst problem I have is with people who are apathetic about their work.”
“Please, call me Dad.”
“Hey, hey, little brother,” said my brother Jay, jumping up from his stool when he saw me in the doorway. He grabbed me in a headlock and nooggied my scalp as I stood, crouched over, looking at the floor, waiting patiently for him to finish. Ironically, I was hardly the “little” brother. I was taller and weighed at least a third more than he did, his growth stunted from too many hours behind a desk staring at a computer monitor. If I’d chosen to, I could, in one swift movement, have had him flat on his skinny little back. But I humored him, gritting my teeth, and eventually he released my head, and we all laughed as I straightened my hair.
“Here’s one half of the party,” my dad said jovially, patting me on the head and again messing up my hair.
“Funny that you’re here before your sister, since it was the other way around twenty-six years ago. We just about had to bribe you out of there with candy, ha ha ha. Would you like a drink, son?”
My stomach turned.
“Just a soda, thanks,” I said.
I didn’t drink partly because of the amount I’d drunk last night, but mostly because I’ve always felt a bit awkward drinking around my parents, especially my father. Like it’s something I’ll never be quite old enough to do.
“Happy birthday, Jack,” said Susan, smiling broadly and giving me a little wave, the light glinting off her new engagement ring.
“Thanks.” I smiled shyly. I was slightly angry at myself for feeling suddenly shy and intimidated by this crowd, but to me, they were somewhat intimidating, all still dressed in their suits from work, my mother and sister nowhere to be seen.
“So what have you been up to today, Jack?” my father asked, and I could hear in his tone the expectation of my lame response. I did not disappoint.
“Um, I, um, worked at the gym for a while, went and got some of my stuff from Paul’s—”
“Yes,” my dad interrupted, “I saw the boxes. Looks like you’re going to be staying a while?”
“No,” I said, making an effort to stifle the sarcastic response that wanted to come out. “I’m going to be your guest for a while, just until I can find a place.”
“I see,” said my father, making no effort to stifle his own sarcasm. “My guest. Kind of like that tapeworm I picked up in Indonesia in seventy-four.” We all laughed, but seeing the direction the evening was headed, I thought maybe I’d need more than a soda to get me through it. Through the sliding glass door, I spied my mother, once again on the back lawn, cutting some flowers from the garden next to the pool/pond. She looked up, saw me watching, and smiled. I wished she would hurry; my father’s mood usually softened in her presence. Mercifully, I heard the front door slam then, and in trod my twin, looking frazzled and plump in her pale pink nurse’s scrubs. Her hair was a rat’s nest of blond, and her face was attractively offset by a pair of smudged John Denver glasses. She was then employed as an emergency room nurse and had evidently come straight from work. She dropped her sizable hemp purse on the floor with a thud.
“God, what a day!” she said, pushing my brother off his stool and occupying it herself.
“If they made me do one more catheter, damn! I’ve never been so close to throwing in the towel. ‘I’ll lose fifty pounds,’ I thought, ‘and start that modeling career Mom always wanted for me.’”
My mother entered, flowers in her arms, having caught the tail end of Carey’s proclamation.
“That is not true,” she protested. “I’ve always been very proud of your career. I knew you’d go into something medical ever since the day old Mrs. Spellman phoned to tell me that my darling twins had set up a little Barbie hospital out on the front si
dewalk using a box of my maxipads as the stretchers and ketchup for blood.”
Carey laughed and got up and gave her a hug. She spied my father mixing drinks and went over to the improvised bar.
“Drinks!” she said. “Yes, please.”
“What would you like, Caroline?”
“What would I like?” she thought, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on her chin. “Something cold and clear . . . and not at all yellow.” We all laughed.
“How about a Manhattan?” he asked. I winced.
“Hi, little buddy,” said Carey, giving me a big hug and a kiss. In the month since Paul’s death, she had been very . . . sisterly, I guess, and made a point of phoning me every day, which was nice because she had never liked Paul. For the most part, my family had loved Paul, and spoke in reverent tones about how impressive his work was, how smart he was, what a charming accent he had. Carey was the notable exception. She usually maintained a facade of politeness when they were together, but in private that fell away and I would hear things like, “That boyfriend of yours needs to take the stick out of his ass.”
From Paul it was much the same: we would get in the car from a dinner with Carey, and before he’d even start the engine he’d say, “Now I know you two are twins, but I can honestly say that I’m glad you’re nothing like your sister. Obnoxious!”
It was difficult for me being in the middle, trying to gently defend one to the other, explaining that he was just English, or she was just very outspoken, so whenever possible I had kept them apart.
Over the years Carey and I certainly had our differences, but she’d always been accepting of me and my lifestyle. When I was fourteen and my mom discovered the stash of male underwear ads I had painstakingly collected and organized from a variety of catalogs and kept hidden between the mattress and the box springs of my bed, Carey was the only one who didn’t freak out about it, and was a great help in bringing my parents and older brother around to accept the fact that I was gay. For reasons like that, I suppose I was subconsciously dubious about Paul. Although I was happy that the rest of the family adored and accepted him, that happiness was overshadowed by the fact that Carey did not.