Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

They positioned themselves by the stalled car, looking anxiously down the road. The sound of an engine in the distance was promising; maybe this would be their salvation. But the car tore past them—it must have been doing fifty—without its driver giving them so much as a glance. “Speed demon,” Christina said. “And on a winding road like this too.”

  Andy coughed a bit from the road dust the car had left in its wake but didn’t reply. She saw him consult his watch, and tried to see things from his point of view. Hadn’t he said that he’d performed an emergency C-section last night? He was probably thinking of his patient.

  They waited a few more minutes. The day had grown progressively more humid, and Christina was sticky in her pants and dirty shirt. She was also ravenous; that coffee and scone had been hours ago. She glanced at Andy. His eyes were still fixed on the road. Again, they both brightened at the sound of an engine; this time, it was a leather-clad guy on a motorcycle who zoomed by. If that car had been doing fifty, the motorcycle was doing seventy.

  “Damn!” Andy said. He stood staring at the quickly vanishing sight of the cyclist.

  “Maybe we should start walking,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “Up ahead. Toward the diner. There has to be a phone there we can use.”

  “How far is it?” asked Andy.

  “A mile,” she said, though it could have been two. “We can do it.”

  “I guess we’ll have to,” said Andy. Eyeing her sneakers, he added, “Good thing you’re not in heels.”

  Christina felt stung. As if she would be so stupid. He did blame her in some way for what had happened; his comment made it clear. Of course he wasn’t even thinking of what this might mean to her financially; he was too dense and self-involved to think of that. She retrieved her money, phone, keys, and sunglasses from the car. The bulky tote and the binder, both covered by the blanket she kept in the trunk, were left behind. Then they set off.

  As they walked, the air was hot and still. Mosquitoes buzzed and Christina angrily swatted them away. The road was lined on either side with trees, trees, and more trees. She saw no sign of a building anywhere. A mosquito landed smack in the center of her forehead; even though she slapped it, the welt it raised began to itch almost immediately. After about fifteen minutes, the sky began to turn perceptibly darker and the clouds overhead had thickened, forming an ominous gray blanket above.

  “How far did you say it was?” Andy asked finally.

  “A mile or so.”

  “Or so,” he repeated.

  “I never measured it exactly.” She tried not to claw at her forehead; she would only make herself bleed.

  “Uh-huh.” They continued walking, the silence as heavy as the clouds.

  “Look, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure you are.” It sounded like a reproach.

  Christina was willing herself to compose a tactful reply when he stopped, pulled out his cell phone, and again tried making a call. Something seemed to be happening on the other end because she heard him say “Hello? Can you hear me? Hello?” He held the phone to his ear but after a few seconds took it away. “Dropped call.”

  “Let me try,” she said, reaching for her own phone.

  “What for? Why do you think your phone will work when mine didn’t?”

  How rude. Still, she needed this job. She could control herself; she had to control herself—she would start with her hair, pulled up and off her face in its usual twist, which had started to come undone. Vainly she tried to pat it back into place without the aid of a mirror, brush, or comb. “Andy, I know you’re upset. And I’ve said I’m sorry. But it’s hardly my fault that—”

  “Upset!” he interrupted. “Upset! You bet I’m upset! I’m stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, I’m hungry enough to eat my belt, I can’t reach my service, I don’t know how my patient is, and I have no idea when I’ll be able to find out.” He was fairly panting with indignation.

  Christina had had enough. Job or no job, she wasn’t going to be talked to this way. Andy wasn’t the only one feeling the stress. She was mosquito bitten, sweaty, dirty, and just as starved as he was. And she would no doubt have to contend with a ruinous bill for the car when she finally got it towed. But before she could open her mouth to tell him off, there was a loud clap of thunder in the dark sky above and then a virtual torrent of water began to pour down all around them.

  “And now it’s raining!” said Andy. “That’s great. Just great.”

  “So are you going to stand here and complain?” she shot back. “Or are you going to try to come up with a constructive solution?” She was gratified to see a look of surprise cross his arrogant face. Good. If he was going to dish it out, he’d better learn to take it too. Christina started walking again, this time even more quickly than before. There had to be some form of help along this road—a store, a service station, a house, something—there just had to. After a few seconds, Andy started walking too. His stride was longer and he caught up right away. Christina did not look at him, though; she didn’t want to. Instead, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, though in a matter of minutes, both feet were thoroughly drenched. So was her hair—a limp, bedraggled mess, she was sure—and the rest of her. She thought miserably of the rain poncho back in the car. Why, oh why hadn’t she thought to bring it along? And she was so hungry! If Andy had had another one of those protein bars, she would have eaten it in two bites, leathery texture and all. As it was, she trudged on in grim silence.

  Rain was trickling down into her ears now, and rain was sloshing around in her sneakers; with every step she took, there was a soft, squelching sound. She didn’t even mind. The water was soothing to her multiple insect bites and it was rinsing away the sweat and the newsprint too. It might even wash her shirt. She looked down, almost as a reflex. Oh no! The torrential rain had plastered the soft white material to her body and the sheer bra she wore was no protection at all. Her nipples were totally visible through the thin cloth; she could have entered a wet T-shirt contest—and won.

  Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her chest. Had Andy noticed? She hoped not. She realized that she might be calling even more attention to her predicament, but she didn’t care. Once more, her face felt hot, though this time it was from shame. Once a Catholic girl, always a Catholic girl. She remembered how Sister Bernadette would advise them to wear a second layer underneath anything light, white, or sheer. Good advice if she’d bothered to take it. Christina risked looking over at Andy; his face, in profile, betrayed nothing. But then he did an astonishing thing: he peeled the bright red shirt—also sopping—from his body and handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “You can put this on.”

  “Excuse me?” She took the shirt.

  “Go ahead,” he instructed. “I know it’s soaked, but it’s the only thing I have.” When she continued to stand there—unsettled by both the gesture and the sight of his bare, muscular chest, slick with rainwater—he added, “You’ll be more comfortable if you put it on.” She nodded and quickly yanked the thing over her head.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.” What a relief to be covered.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied with great courtesy.

  What a contradictory man. Before she could say anything else, he began, to her surprise, to sing. “I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair,” he sang in a respectable baritone. When Christina said nothing, he stopped. “Come on,” he said. “You have to sing too.”

  “Me?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yes, you. I know you know the words.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw the CD case in your car. You were listening to it. Maybe even today.”

  “I was,” she admitted. “I love that musical.”

  “So do I,” he said. “So come on, sing. Sing with me.”

  “Oh Andy,
I don’t know. . . . I feel so silly.”

  “Any sillier than me?” He gestured to his naked torso and wet pants. When she didn’t answer, he took up the song again, and this time, she joined in, tentatively at first. “I’m gonna wave that man right outta my arms.” The blending of their voices, hers higher and lighter, his deeper and richer, actually sounded all right together. No, they sounded good.

  Surprised at herself, Christina sang louder, and with greater enthusiasm. Andy kept time with his hand, drops of water flying from his moving fingers. They sang the song again, from the beginning, and then moved on—easily, naturally—to some of the other songs too—“I’m in Love with a Wonderful Guy,” “Younger Than Springtime,” “Some Enchanted Evening”—from the same musical. Christina was so engrossed that when Andy stopped singing, she was actually disappointed. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Am I out of tune?”

  “Look,” he said, pointing straight ahead. There was the diner they’d been headed toward, its pink and green neon sign a welcome beacon in the rain. “Let’s go in. You can order a piece of that coconut custard pie you’ve been telling me about while we’re waiting for the tow truck—it’s my treat.” And he pushed open the door, allowing her to enter.

  SEVEN

  After the brutal heat of the sidewalk, Andy was grateful to step into the florist’s at the corner of Sixty-ninth and Lexington. An air conditioner was humming and the cooled shop was heady with scent. “Hello, Dr. Stern. What can I do for you this evening?”

  Andy looked over to see Gus Hendelman, the owner. Under a recessed light in the ceiling, Gus’s bald spot shone brightly. He had patronized Gus’s shop for years; whenever he needed to send flowers to a patient, colleague, or friend, this was where he came. He’d had a standing order of two dozen yellow roses for Rachel’s birthday, their wedding anniversary, Mother’s and Valentine’s Day; he’d ordered a massive spray of those same yellow roses to adorn her plain, pine casket, for which Gus had refused payment.

  “Hi, Gus. I’ll need a small bouquet and I’ll be taking it with me.”

  “Then I’ll wrap them carefully so they won’t wilt,” Gus said.

  Andy picked out a few asters, sweet William, and roses in pink and red; Gus added some greens and put the whole thing in some kind of rustic, rough-hewn basket. “The ladies just love these things,” he said.

  Back outside, the blazing disk of the sun was still visible in the sky. Andy walked east, toward Third Avenue and the Atlantic Grill, another place where he’d been a regular for years. He was meeting Jen and he was eager to see her. The date he’d broken to deliver Linda McConnell’s baby had not been successfully rescheduled until tonight. Jen had been out of town on business, and he’d had what seemed, even for a practice like his, an unusual number of emergencies. But tonight they would finally be able to get together.

  Andy was already planning the evening. He’d bring the flowers to the table, where they could remain while they ate; Jen would like that sort of romantic gesture and he enjoyed pleasing her. Then it would be a short walk back to her apartment on Seventy-ninth Street, where he would tenderly and ceremoniously remove each of her garments and fuck her silly on the queen-sized bed in her room. Just thinking about it got him stiff. He could admit to himself that while he liked Jen, he didn’t love her. But he was profoundly grateful for the pleasure he derived from her lithe, pretty body. That body did not make him forget Rachel, but still.

  Just as Andy reached the restaurant, his phone buzzed. Jen! “Slight change in plans, darling,” she said. “David just canceled at the last minute and I can’t get a sitter for Drew on such short notice.”

  “Do you want to make it another night?” He hoped she’d say no.

  “Why don’t you come here? I’ll order takeout and we can watch a movie. Or something.”

  “Or something.” He was relieved she wasn’t canceling. “I’m in the neighborhood; I’ll be right over.”

  Andy walked the few blocks quickly and announced himself to the doorman. Jen was waiting at the door. Her wavy blond hair tumbled appealingly around her shoulders and she was dressed in a short black skirt and high-heeled gold sandals that made her tanned legs look a mile long. Above the skirt she wore a silky green top and a chain with a medallion that nestled between her small, pert breasts. He handed her the flowers, an offering that elicited small coos of delight. “You look terrific,” he said, his gaze traveling slowly up her body and back down again.

  “Thanks,” she said. “And for these—they’re gorgeous.”

  “You’re welcome.” He took her in his arms then, inhaled her fragrance. She did feel good, all silky hair and golden skin. He wanted to lead her into the bedroom now—dinner could definitely wait. But then, over her shoulder, he saw a little blond girl looking up at him, eyes opaque, mouth a straight, unsmiling line. Drew. Jen must have sensed the change; she turned in the direction of his gaze.

  “Drew, this is Mommy’s friend Andy. Come and say hello.” Drew said nothing but continued to stare at Andy. Andy was discomfited by her stare, and stepped back. It seemed wrong to be embracing Jen in front of this disapproving child. “Drew,” Jen repeated, a touch more sharply than Andy thought necessary, “I told you to say hello.” Drew said nothing and instead popped her thumb into her mouth.

  “Would you stop that?” said Jen, and when Drew did not remove her thumb from her mouth, she reached over and tugged gently on her wrist. Drew dropped her hand; her thumb, still glistening, grazed the edge of her dress.

  “It’s the divorce,” Jen said to Andy. “Makes her regress. And of course it doesn’t help that David canceled at the last minute.” She smoothed a blond wave from her face. “He’s such a prick.” Andy flinched at the word, tossed off so casually. Not that he was a prude. Still, her daughter was right there and David was her father. He looked at Drew: no reaction. But when Jen looked away, the small thumb went right back into her mouth.

  Dinner was strained. Andy ate his sushi because he was hungry, but it was merely fuel, not enjoyment. Drew picked at her gyoza; Jen was impatient and scolded her several times. When the meal was over, Jen excused herself to put Drew to bed. Andy waited in the living room, channel surfing on the large, flat-screen television. He watched a few minutes of a Law & Order rerun he’d seen before, then switched to a cooking show, and finally settled into Casablanca on TCM. Jen returned just as Ingrid Bergman’s lovely face—an unusual combination of refinement and sensuality—filled the screen. “Finally!” she said, settling down beside him. “I thought she’d never go to sleep.” She began to nuzzle his neck, planting tiny kisses behind his ear. Usually this turned him on, but he couldn’t shake the memory of that small, grave face. “Hey,” Jen said, sitting up. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he said. Now Humphrey Bogart had come into the frame.

  “Liar,” she said. “You’re like ice.”

  “I’m not,” he said, turning his eyes reluctantly from the television screen to look at her. She was pretty, with full lips and big brown eyes; she had accentuated them with some kind of bronze, sparkly powder. He kissed her then, sending his tongue deeply into her open mouth. Maybe the evening could be saved. Caressing her throat, he let his hand graze the skin exposed by the opening in her blouse. He felt himself getting hard. “Let’s go into the bedroom—” Andy stopped, sensing someone behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

  “Drew!” Jen pulled away, flushed and annoyed. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, Mommy.” She put her thumb in her mouth and began to suck vigorously. Andy realized this was the first time he had heard her speak.

  “Well, it’s back to bed for you,” Jen said. She got up and tried to pull the hand away from Drew’s face, only this time, Drew would not budge. Jen tried again, a little harder, and Drew uttered a tiny sound, somewhere between a grunt and a mew: clearly Jen had hurt her. But Drew
won this round: the thumb remained planted firmly in her mouth. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” she said to Andy.

  “That’s all right.” Andy stood up. “I’m really tired. Wiped out, in fact. Why don’t I phone you tomorrow?”

  “But I won’t be long,” she said.

  “It’s okay.” Andy moved toward the door. Jen looked disappointed. God, he hated to disappoint a woman. But the mood had been broken. If he waited and let Jen tempt him back to bed, his heart would not be in it and he really, truly didn’t want that. It had taken him nearly two years to get to the point of feeling something, anything, for a woman again; that feeling was too new and too precious to taint.

  “I’ll call you,” he said. He walked to the door and said good night with only a chaste peck on her cheek.

  Outside, it was darker but not appreciably cooler. Andy walked slowly downtown, toward his apartment. He was in no hurry to go home. He’d been looking forward to seeing—and, okay, screwing—Jen, but the evening had been ruined. Couldn’t she see how her kid was hurting? It was so clear. But then he thought of Oliver; was he any more clued in? After the discovery of the Baggie filled with pot under Oliver’s pillow, there had been the obligatory just-say-no-to-drugs talk. Oliver had made a show of listening, said he was sorry, and promised to stay on the straight and narrow. Andy believed not a word of it, but what could he do? The kid had started seeing the school-vetted shrink a couple of weeks ago. Maybe it would help; Andy certainly hoped so. If Oliver got himself kicked out of Morningside, there weren’t too many options left.

  He stood at the corner of Seventy-second Street, waiting for the light to change. He wasn’t on call tonight: a rare evening of freedom. So what could he do with it? He’d already eaten dinner and he wasn’t the sort to sit in a bar by himself. It was too late for the theater or a concert and somehow a movie didn’t seem appealing. What he really wanted to do, he realized, was see Christina Connelly. Ever since her little wardrobe malfunction, he found himself thinking about her in an altogether new way. Before, she’d struck him as prim and sexless, but that brief glimpse of her breasts—perfectly outlined by the wet shirt, their pinkish nipples erect—had been wildly erotic. Or would have had she not been so utterly mortified; he had seen the embarrassment register on her face with the force of a slap. So instead of enjoying a sexy or even humorous moment—he imagined another woman might have just laughed it off—he found himself behaving in a chivalrous, old-fashioned way. Offering his shirt had been such a throwback it was almost comic, except that her profound gratitude made it anything but. He decided not to mention it then—or ever—and once they had started singing and found the diner, the equilibrium between them had been restored.