Early Warning (35 page)

The bus stop to the swimming pool was across from the playground. There was nobody standing there, but it was in the shade. He decided it was too risky to stop for candy—besides, he had his Rice Krispie treat—so he went and stood right next to the pole that said “Bus Stop”; those words he could read, though they could also be “suB potS” if you wanted them to be. He was in the lowest reading group, and had been all year. Miss Lewis was not happy when he told her all the words he saw on the page. She wanted him to see “words” when he might really be seeing “sword.” And she always wanted him to read the words in order, from the left side to the right side, even when it might be more fun to read them from the right side to the left side. That was why he had to go to summer school. But, as Mom said, there was no reason to get mad, and so he never did, and so Miss Lewis liked him anyway, more than she liked John King, who was also in his reading group and spent a lot of time snapping his fingers and drawing pictures of men parachuting out of airplanes, and more than she liked Billy Swenson, who just stared at the book and picked his nose. No girls were in their group.

The bus came, and halted, and the door opened. The driver, who was a fat man, leaned forward and looked around Charlie to see if there was a grown-up with him, but when Charlie handed him the dollar, he took it and gave him three quarters, two dimes, and a nickel. Charlie reached up and put his dime and his nickel in the machine, where they rattled down through the glass part, and then he put the rest in his pocket and went and sat down. Five other people were on the bus; two of them were Negroes, one was a very old lady, and two looked like high-school kids. When Charlie was sitting in his seat, the bus pulled away, and his mom's car went by, going the other direction. Charlie sat back in his seat and arranged the rolled-up towel on his lap. It was very important not to forget it or lose it. He thought he was doing a good job.

—

DEBBIE
, indulging herself by going for the first time in her life to the National Horse Show in Madison Square Garden, was sitting maybe eight rows up and toward the middle of the arena. She was watching the “Gambler's Choice” class, in which the horse and rider had a minute to get over as many jumps as they could. The jumps were assigned points—most points for most challenging jumps. She hadn't looked at the program, but she recognized Fiona as soon as she trotted into the ring. What was it now—eight years—since she'd spent the night at Fiona's house before Fiona left for college out in Missouri, and they'd gotten into a little argument, though any argument was unusual for them. Fiona was riding a wiry chestnut; she cut the turn and headed for the triple bar (a big one, too). Debbie nearly stood up and shouted with glee. How terrific she looked, how light her hands and how straight her back as the horse jumped perfectly, landed on his left lead, did a flying change, and galloped for one of the high-point fences, a hogback heading away from the gate. Debbie looked at the scoreboard, and maybe Fiona did, too—she had ten seconds, so she sat deep, pulled the horse sharply around, and raced for the Liverpool, a water jump at least fourteen feet wide. As the bell rang, signaling the end of Fiona's minute, the horse landed, never touching the water with even his back toe. Debbie stood up clapping, and so did a few around her, but then Kathy Kusner, who had been on three Olympic teams, came in on a gray, and everyone was looking at her. Debbie watched Fiona leave the ring on a loose rein, nodding at Kathy as she went out. She looked at her program. Fiona's horse's name was Torch. Fiona Cannon, the girl who would do anything, was now Fiona McCorkle, and her barn was called Ranlegh Stables. If she was in the “Gambler's Choice,” then probably she would still do anything. Her trainer had ridden in some Olympics. Debbie couldn't remember which one, though 1952 stuck in her mind. Debbie picked up her handbag.

At the aisle, she made her way along the barrier until she came to the gate. Then she waited, looking at the standings. Fiona was third, but there were six more riders. Debbie sat down and watched. Of the last six, four had knockdowns, which lopped four points off your total, and one had a refusal, which was a loss of three and wrecked his time. Fiona had jumped seven jumps in a minute; this guy got over two. When the class ended, Kathy Kusner was first and Fiona
was third. She was beaten for second by a single point. Debbie wondered whether Kathy had ever galloped straight downhill, standing on her horse's back. All the winners entered the arena and received their ribbons and their applause. The “Gambler's Choice” was not an Olympic-type class, but the audience appreciated it. Debbie made sure that she was visible when Fiona led her horse past, smiling and holding up her ribbon. Fiona glanced in her direction, smiled an impersonal smile, and then, after she had passed, looked back. Debbie saw that she was recognized—the impersonal smile changed to a look of surprise and then seriousness. Debbie jumped the barrier. There were a few “Hey!”s but she hurried away from them.

Torch's hindquarters were disappearing into the tunnel that must have led to the stabling, and Debbie went after him as smoothly and calmly as possible—she knew how to act around horses. A moment later, a short man—the groom, no doubt—appeared and held out his hand. Fiona, who had taken off her hard hat and her hairnet, gave him the reins. As he led the horse away, Debbie called out. Fiona looked around, took off her gloves, made a little fake smile, but kept walking, though more slowly. When Debbie caught up with her, she said, “Debbie! How nice to see you! I had no idea…”

“You did so well! I loved how you went for that water jump! You really—”

“It's a fun class.” Then she said, “Well, wonderful to see you. I have to get ready for the next class.” And she turned and walked away.

Debbie ran after Fiona and grabbed her by the arm. Fiona spun around and shook her off. She was strong—Debbie could feel the tension of her biceps through her jacket. Debbie said, “I am glad to see you! I wish you were glad to see me!”

They stood staring at one another for what seemed like a long time, and then Fiona said, “I am. I really am. You look grown up.” Debbie laughed, and said, “Is that a compliment?”

“I don't know.” But she did smile. She did at last smile. Then she said, “Do I look grown up?”

“No,” said Debbie. “You look like a boy.”

“Dreams do come true, then.” She was back to being serious. Then she said, “I am sorry, Deb. I was very wound up about that class. We've never come all the way to the Garden before. You know me. I was never very nice.”

Without meaning to, Debbie said, “I loved you.”

Fiona smiled again, leaned toward her, and kissed her on the cheek. She said, “You were very patient. What are you doing now?”

“I teach eighth grade at a private school.”

“Do you ride anymore?”

Debbie shook her head.

“You should. You were so game, and I made you do lots of things that most girls would have been scared shitless to do. I am scared shitless just thinking about them.”

Debbie laughed.

“So what is your cute brother doing?”

At first Debbie thought she meant Dean, and she said, “He graduated from Dartmouth in the spring, and he's—” But then she realized, and she said, “Oh. Do you mean Tim? I didn't realize you knew him.”

Fiona said, “How could I not know the cutest boy in school?” She looked blank, innocent. Debbie licked her lips, and her eyes filled with tears. “He was killed in Vietnam six years ago.”

Fiona went white.

It was funny how it all rolled back through you, how you relied on everyone you knew knowing that your brother had been killed, had had his skull pierced by a grenade fragment, and so you never had to say the words or think the thought, because every time you did, it was too fresh to tolerate, if only for a minute.

Fiona twisted her gloves in her hands and said, “I didn't know that. I'm sorry.” She looked down. “Did he ever tell you that he used to”—she paused—“he used to give me rides sometimes in his car?”

“I never knew what Tim did.” But had Tim somehow been Fiona's boyfriend? This idea was so impossible that Debbie couldn't process it, and therefore decided not to.

But the tears now in Fiona's eyes spilled down her face. She brushed them away with her hand, and then she said, “I do have to get ready for the next class. The horse is pretty green and takes a lot of warming up.”

“I'm glad I saw you.”

“Me, too,” said Fiona.

She turned and walked down the tunnel toward wherever they kept the horses.

Debbie made her way back to her seat and sat quietly for the next two classes, but she didn't see Fiona again, even though she was in the program, on a horse named Restless. There was no explanation or announcement. With the traffic, Debbie was home by midnight, and she lay awake in her bed until four, wondering if they had ever really been friends, she and Fiona, or if it had always been the way she sometimes saw among her students—the one girl, Fiona, the dedicated, oblivious rocket heading into the future as fast as she possibly could, and the other girls milling about her, locked in the day-to-day contest for position and love. Which would you rather be? Debbie thought. And yet there was the picture in her mind of that chestnut horse, airborne over the Liverpool, his forelegs folded, his neck stretched, his ears pricked, Fiona crouched on his back. As with every arc, she knew, there was a moment of weightlessness in there. Once you felt it, you were doomed always to long for that feeling again.

J
ANET THOUGHT
that Marla Cook, who moved into their house after Liza went to live with her boyfriend, looked exactly like Cicely Tyson, but she knew perfectly well that you weren't supposed to talk to black people about how they looked or discuss how they looked with others. There were a lot of land mines there, because, even if you came from a family where only your grandparents ever used the word “Negro” (no one in Iowa that she had ever heard used the other “n” word), there were plenty of words that you had to be careful of, like “boy.” When she was (and it was rare) feeling fond of Richie or Michael, she would say, “You are a cute boy!” And then, one day in Oakland, when she was talking to Hunter Morrison, who was about the same age as the twins and worked with her at Lasagna Paradise, she laughed and said, “Oh, you are a cute boy!” and that was that. They were both so embarrassed for her that they never joked around again, and yet she couldn't apologize.

Marla's room was next to hers, and they shared a bathroom—she had moved in because she knew Bobby at Safeway and also knew Cat, who had gone from nude modeling to being in a movie—admittedly, a short movie, but nevertheless a movie. Maybe because Marla was so beautiful, she and Cat were rather formal with each other. After about four days, Marla got more relaxed with Janet, and invited her into her room. It was important in a house like theirs not to form
teams or gossip about one another, and so neither of them talked about anything that was going on (including food storage, which was an issue). They talked about French plays and movies. Whereas Janet had seen two Alain Delon films, Marla had seen eight—if there was a tiny little theater somewhere playing something obscure, Marla made an effort to get there. As beautiful as she was, she did not want to be a movie star; she wanted to be a director. She was saving the money she made working two jobs so that she could go to France—she wanted Janet to talk French to her. Marla knew two things about France: a beautiful woman, black or white, could get ahead there, and a play in France could be about anything; it could be about four people sitting on a stage, crossing and uncrossing their legs and occasionally coughing.

Marla was from Los Angeles—not Hollywood, but Crenshaw. Nothing about Los Angeles impressed her. When Janet asked her about it (especially on rainy days), she turned her feet edgewise and wiped them on the rug. Her father worked for the city and her mother for the costume department at Paramount, sewing.

Marla was impressed only by Paris—all Janet had to do was say words like “Tuileries” and “Montparnasse” and Marla would smile. After a week, she got Janet to read plays to her in French. The first one was
Rhinocéros
, by Ionesco, then
Antigone
, by Jean Anouilh. They each had a copy; Janet would translate a line, then read it in French, and then Marla would read the line. If her pronunciation was wrong, even a little bit, Janet was supposed to stop her and correct her. Marla was absolutely dedicated to this, and since she had a sense of her own future that was built of stone, Janet thought of this as her vocation more than her job at Lasagna Paradise. She told Marla that her father was a farmer in Usherton, Iowa, and that she had gone to the University of Iowa. Marla didn't ask if the University of Iowa had a junior-year-abroad program. Anyway, in a just world, Uncle Joe would be her father and Aunt Minnie would be her mother. It was a good thing to lie about.

Cat was nice, too. In the ongoing tensions about food, Cat was the only one who didn't care if one of the boys drank her milk, as long as they didn't drink directly from the carton, and she was the only one who brought popcorn into the living room when everyone was watching television and passed it around. The source of the
food problem was really Louis, the mailman. He was always hungry. He bought a lot of food, but if he had eaten it all and it was late at night and there was leftover spaghetti Bolognese in the refrigerator, he would eat it. As for Janet herself, she got a free lunch at Lasagna Paradise, so she didn't care about anything except dried apricots, and she kept them in her room. She was white, she was bland, she had no stories to tell. She was glad they let her stay and were nice to her.

—

ITHACA WAS
farther north than Richie had lived before—already in May it was light into the evening. He looked at his watch, wondering what he was going to eat. He was half a block from the Haunt, and it was a Sunday night. He'd been studying most of the day, which he had to do in order to make up almost the whole semester's work in his American Twentieth Century History course before his final exam in a week. He liked the Haunt—just the night before, he'd taken Alicia there for a Roscos set and she had gotten pretty wild. Back at his dorm, she had left while he was still sleeping. Since then he hadn't heard from her. Balch Hall was a good walk from his dorm, and the weather had been cold.

But today was sunny. As Richie came around the curve on Willow, he saw the door open, and a couple come out of the Haunt, laughing. The couple was Alicia and himself. They turned left and headed toward the golf course. He slowed down, because they weren't walking very fast, and followed them.

Even though he hadn't seen Michael in a week, the two of them were wearing about the same clothes—jeans, leather jacket. Michael's hair was longer than his, but only by half an inch or so. Alicia was wearing what he'd last seen her in—a long green skirt, brown boots, and a coat she made herself out of old jeans cut up and sewn together in a star pattern. She had her big canvas bag over her shoulder. Clothing design was her thing; she was a freshman, intending to major in art. Michael had his arm around Alicia's waist. Richie thought, in a sort of brainless way, “How alike do we look? Does she think she's with me?” He had never introduced her to Michael.

Michael and Alicia came to the T in the road, where Willow turned left along the inlet where the boat docks were, and Pier Road went right, around the golf course. Since it was May, the golf course
was quite green. The sky was clear, too, which was a change. If Michael had decided to take Richie's girlfriend out to the golf course and fuck her in a sand trap the day before, he would have been out of luck because of rain.

Richie and Alicia had been dating a couple of months. She was from Indianapolis—Alicia Tomassi. She talked a lot, so he knew a lot about her. Her dad worked for a big supermarket chain. Her brother had gone to work there, too, after graduating from Indiana University. Alicia had gone on a hunger strike to get her dad to let her go as far away as Cornell, but that was okay—she'd lost ten pounds and looked a lot better in her designs. She had dark hair to her waist, usually pinned up, and a wiry, serious body, evidently destined for professional success. She never minded a hunger strike, though at Cornell they were called “fasts.” Her hair was already going gray—she plucked a hair or two every day, but she had plenty to spare. She had a great ass, pretty good tits, and great lips. She had a temper, and she hated any kind of tardiness. He'd met her walking across campus: she slipped on some ice, and he caught her. He had not told her that he had a twin.

They passed the green and walked along between the boats and the fairway. He was still maybe twenty-five yards behind them. One foursome was on the green, and he could see another in the distance, getting ready to tee off, waiting for the first foursome to putt. Michael pinched Alicia on the ass. She jumped and yelped, then pushed him away. He laughed a laugh that Richie recognized with his whole body—good-natured on the surface, but vengeful underneath. If there was anything Michael was sure of, it was getting even. Richie's steps were making sounds on the pavement; he was surprised that Michael hadn't looked around, because Michael was as jumpy as a cat, a lot like their dad in that way. And if he did look around? Well, that would save Richie a little trouble.

Michael and Alicia paused to watch the foursome at the tee hit their balls. The fairway was long and narrow, but no balls went into the water, and one got most of the way to the green. Michael, Alicia, and of course Richie resumed walking. Ahead, beyond the golf course, was a little park, with plenty of trees. Richie sped up. The breeze was blowing in his direction, and he could just hear what they were saying to each other—Michael had a naturally resonant voice,
and Alicia's was high and piping. Michael was saying, “…should stay around here for the summer. You never know what might happen if you go home.”

“Anything might happen, right?”

“Right.”

They both laughed in a conspiratorial way, and then she said, “You could come to my Dairy Queen. I would serve you.”

“I bet you would.”

They laughed again. Now they came to the woods, and as they stepped from the road onto the path, Alicia took off her coat and handed it to Michael to carry. She was wearing a different shirt from last night—one she had tie-dyed to look like sunbursts were popping out of a blue sky. Last night she'd been wearing whitish lace, also homemade. Richie followed them into the woods, and when they were all three pretty deep in the shadows, he scraped his feet in the dirt and leaves, and the other two spun around. Really, he was no more than fifteen feet behind them at this point.

Michael grinned, and said, “Shit, man! What the hell?”

Alicia's mouth opened in a little O, but then she smiled, too. She swayed her hips and let her eyelids drift half shut. She moved away from Michael just a centimeter, but he pulled her to him and made her keep walking. He said, “How'd you do that, man? You popped out of nowhere.”

Richie didn't say anything, just went up on the other side of Alicia and put his arm around her, though her bag bounced between them. Three Musketeers. They kept walking.

Richie couldn't have said that they were both going to have sex with her. He didn't know if his mind proposed the idea or received the idea, and though he often received ideas from Michael, he also didn't know if this idea was Michael's or Alicia's. Alicia seemed to like rough sex—she fought him off a little bit, and then laughed when he pushed her. She picked fights about other things, too, like whether a compliment he gave her was sincere or not, and then she made up quite enthusiastically, so he had come to realize that arguing was a bit of a game with her. He'd thought she was beyond him in some ways, but now Michael was looking down at her and laughing at her as if she were funny.

At a clearing, not grassy but soft with leaves and mulch, Michael said, “Lie down, bitch,” and Alicia said, “Fuck you, asshole.” Richie couldn't tell if they were joking. He held back for half a second, and then stepped over the tree root. He said, “You two been seeing each other long?”

“Couple of weeks,” said Michael. “Long enough.”

Picking her bag up and setting it beside her, Alicia said, “How about you guys?”

Michael said, “Never saw this little fucker in my life before,” and laughed.

Alicia said, “Looks like two against one.”

But which two against which one? thought Richie.

In their two years at Cornell, Richie had made it a point to wait a split second before Michael said what he was going to do, and then say that he was going to do a different thing. Their paths had not diverged; they had run parallel. Some people knew that they were twins—they did still look very much alike—and some people had been fooled. One professor the previous spring had told Richie he'd taken that class already. The first thing Richie said was “How'd I do?” and the professor looked at him like he was crazy while saying, “You got a B+. You could have worked harder.” Richie said, “Must have been my twin brother. I'm sure to get a B–.” Then the teacher looked at the roster of students and laughed, as if this were a joke. A girl who had met both of them at mixers but was able to tell them apart said, “I met your brother last week.” Richie said, “How do you know?” She said, “Your left eyelid is a little droopy, and his right one is.” Richie had been impressed. He'd told her she ought to be a private investigator. They'd danced a few times and had a beer. But he was not going to ask how Michael met Alicia, or whether Michael knew Alicia was his girlfriend. Then it occurred to him that maybe Michael had met her first.