When Justine and Sheila came back from the ladies, Lauren was chatting with two good-looking men. Sheila had brought somebody from work, while Lauren and Justine were on their own—and on the hunt.
“That looks promising,” Sheila said. “Good luck, especially with that blond one. He reminds me of one of those Commie posters. Or a Nazi one. Blonds with biceps.”
Lauren chuckled. “One with a tractor, the other with a tank?”
“The other guy’s not bad either. But I’m bespoke and I’m off. Have a great night. Call me tomorrow, any time after ten.” Sheila peeled away and Justine made her way to the bar.
Lauren made the introductions, raising her voice. To overcome with the twenty-something crowd’s racket.
She addressed the buff blond. “This is my friend, the one you asked about. Justine, this is Simon.”
Simon smiled warmly, nodded.
“And I’m Vincent,” said the dark-haired one, moving a bit closer to Laura.
“Simon and Vincent,” said Justine. “Got it.”
“They come bearing gifts,” said Lauren and pointed at two fresh Manhattans squatting primly on white cocktail napkins.
The flirting began without me, thought Justine.
“Manhattans in Manhattan,” mused Vincent blithely. Classy.
“Two lovely Manhattanites in a magnificent Manhattan bar, drinking Maker’s Mark Manhattans,” Simon declaimed while looking Justine over like an antique dealer checking out a Queen Anne loveseat.
“Lauren was specific,” said Vincent, moving even closer to Lauren. “About the Maker’s Mark.”
Lauren shrugged. “What can I say? I like what I like.”
As Simon listed toward Justine, she caught a whiff of sandalwood. She was glad she’d gone for the tight cocktail dress.
Lauren and Vincent moved a little away and began trashing some movie they’d both seen.
Justine looked at Simon, deadpan. “Tell me a joke,” she demanded. It was one of her icebreakers, one of her tests.
Simon laughed and rubbed his chin. “A joke on demand? Well, okay, if you promise to tell me one, too.”
“Deal.”
“Okay. So, it’s summertime. This high school kid is trying to make some extra money. He bikes to a fancy neighborhood, knocks on doors, asks if anybody wants their lawn mown, hedges trimmed, has any odd jobs. Rich guy sticks his head out of his air-conditioned mansion, looks the kid up and down, and says yeah. He wants his porch painted, painted orange, and offers a hundred bucks. The kid’s thrilled. A hundred. The man tells him everything he needs is in the garage, that some friends are picking him up for a round of golf, and he’ll be back in two hours. When he gets back, the kid’s waiting, looking pleased with himself and asking for his money. The porch hasn’t been touched. What’s up? the man demands. The kid smiles proudly and says it’s all done. In fact, he says, there was so much paint, he put on two coats. Oh, and by the way, your Porsche? It’s actually a Maserati.”
Though she didn’t think much of it, Justine laughed. “I like jokes about misunderstandings,” she said. “But tell me the truth. That’s really one of those dumb blonde jokes, isn’t it?”
Simon blushed. “Busted,” he said and pretended to pout fetchingly. “Okay, your turn.”
Justine remembered a joke from a surprisingly lively linguistics elective she took her junior year. She’d had a brief crush on the young professor.
“Okay. A road down south. Macho guy’s tooling along in his pickup and comes to the bottom of this steep hill. A woman in a convertible comes over the hill, slows and yells “Pig!” The guy’s enraged. He tosses her the bird and yells, “Bitch!” Then he floors it, roars up over the hill, and crashes into a huge sow in the middle of the road. Messes up his face, breaks two ribs, totals his truck.”
Simon, laughing companionably, leaned in still closer. “Totaled the sow too, I’ll bet.”
Lauren and Vincent came back to take their leave. Lauren grinned like it was her sixteenth birthday. Vincent nodded at Simon
Justine gave Lauren a quick farewell hug and turned back to Simon, “Favorite books?”
Simon thought for a moment then said he favored Russian novels with double names. “You know, War and Peace, Crime and Punishment, Fathers and Sons, Life and Fate. The kind that are so long you feel like you’re living a sort of alternate life.”
“How about The Master and Margarita?”
“A gem,” he said. “One of your favorites?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay. My turn now. Favorite movie stars?”
“Cary Grant, Marlon Brando, Bill Nighy.”
“No women?”
“Katherine Hepburn, Jeanne Moreau, Meryl Streep.”
“Two dead, and one still alive, like with the actors,” Simon observed, and sipped his Manhattan.
“Your Russian novels are even older than my actors. Old-fashioned, aren’t we?”
“A pair of fuddy-duddies, I guess.”
The next hour of banter went well, excitingly, with another round of Manhattans.
Justine, buzzed, invited Simon back to her apartment in SoHo, a studio which, with her exiguous salary from a tiny but adventurous publishing house, she could afford only with a parental subsidy.
They slept late on Saturday. Justine woke first, after nine. She made coffee, bacon, eggs, and a toasted everything bagel for Simon. She had her usual yogurt and blueberries.
“Mmm,” said Simon from the bed. “I love the smell of bacon in the morning.”
“Even turkey bacon?”
“Yum. Almost healthy.”
They giggled together, touched each other, made love, showered, then Simon left, and Justine walked on air the rest of the morning.
At noon, she phoned Lauren. Things had not gone well with Vincent.
“Turns out he’s a bit of a pig,” she said. “You and Simon?”
“Wonderful, actually.”
“Spill.”
Justine Kuszalt was raised Catholic Lite. There were masses, but not masses of masses. She attended public school and went to CCD classes. She picked up that sex was wrong and dangerous unless you were married. In high school, she capably repelled the urgency of her dates, endured their pleas and occasional insults. She was pretty and knew that was what mattered.
Justine’s grades were good enough for the Ivies or the Seven Sisters, but she enrolled in the state university, like her older sister Jemma. The price was still steep for her family; a work-study job in the bursar’s office helped.
In her sophomore year, she pledged a sorority, the one with the most popular coeds. She was shocked by the way the girls talked, what they talked about, by their drinking and most of all by their sexual competition. Justine’s father, an Air Force veteran and a licensed electrician, was a WWII buff. She’d watched a lot of movies and documentaries with him. Though she was grossed out by the sisters who taped used condoms to their doors on Sunday mornings, it made her think of victorious fighter pilots who painted rising suns and swastikas on their Hellcats and Mustangs.
Justine got drunk on beer at her first frat party. She lost her virginity at the second and cried about it to her roommate, who told the sisters. The sorority threw her a party with a cake, rum punch, and streamers. She got a diaphragm, watched her drinking, and was selective. She didn’t join the competition, but she did keep track of it. She enjoyed sex. It was fun, recreational, stress-reducing. She liked experimenting, changing partners without any strings attached.
Simon Legnari and his identical twin Spencer were from infancy extraordinarily, even bafflingly close—siblings sans rivalry. They never fought, hardly ever disagreed. When they were little, their parents dressed them the same and thought it amusing when one pretended to be the other. Fooling their parents was fun and reinforced. When they started school, they fooled their classmates and later their teachers, which was even better. Nobody could tell them apart. They moved into the big world but retained a little city of their own with a population of two. They had private jokes, codes, references, their own slang. They were sporty, liked working out together. They were good doubles players and won a championship. The enjoyed rowing together and for a time tried synchronized diving. The twins shared everything from their socks to their sweatshirts, their fondness for Monty Python and Martha Grimes and distaste for eggplant and German films. “The Tinder Box” was the favorite fairy tale of both, roast beef their favorite meal. They both wore boot-cut jeans, white Reeboks, Bass Weejuns, and black blazers. They preferred the same novels and porn stars—all Russian.
It was in high school that they started sharing girlfriends. This wasn’t to bring them closer together; nothing could. It was more the other way around; they were so close in all things, why not this as well? It made their intimacy more intimate and gave them a lot to talk about. They relished comparing their experiences with girls, loved it far more than the girls. There was even teamwork of a sort. If Simon got to first base, Spencer would try to steal second. If Spencer made to third, Simon would try for home. They favored the girls with bad reputations and only one of them ever figured it out. That was Marybeth Nowak who thought it was better than fine. She had her own game, guessing which was which, and what she did with one she would try to outdo with the other.
In their senior year, Simon and Spencer decided to go to NYU. Neither wanted to leave the city, the Yankees, Knicks, or Giants; neither was willing to live too far from Wall Street, the capital of the world and their setting for their future. In addition, they had heard that NYU had a lot of gay undergrads and figured, if it were true, there would be less competition in harvesting coeds, especially if they were feeling cheated, deprived, horny.
It was Simon who spent Friday night with Justine but Spencer who phoned Sunday morning. The weather was fine, and Justine thought it would be nice to have a picnic in Hudson River Park. She suggested they meet at Pier 25, by the minigolf. Spencer said he’d bring a blanket, Prosecco, and pick up a basket from Zabars. Simon had shown his brother plenty of jpgs, so he recognized Justine just as quickly as she did him.
It was dusk, the blue hour, as they meandered past the ferry slip and toward the Battery, when Justine suddenly pulled Spencer close, kissed him, and said she loved him—though, of course, she thought Spencer was Simon.
The affair continued for three weeks, nearly a record for the twins.
Then, one night, Spencer asked Simon, “Are you in love with Justine?”
“In love? Nope. You?”
“Not even a little bit. Anyway, you’re the one she says she’s in love with.”
“Just checking.”
“But the sex is really wonderful.”
“Sure has been.”
“I’ve been thinking things have, you know, run their course with Justine.”
“Well yeah, maybe. We could definitely use more time with Vanessa.”
“And Sumi. Don’t forget Sumi!”
Simon didn’t call for two days then said he’d be out of town on business for the weekend. Justine said she’d miss him. Her period was late, but she didn’t want to say anything. She bought a test, awaited the result with dread. The short wait was long. Two pink lines. She gasped, felt scared and, for ten minutes was a little hysterical. Then she felt something else, a positive feeling she couldn’t name. She took deep breaths and made a cup of herbal tea to calm down before phoning Simon. She got his voice mail. “It’s me. Call me. It’s important.” When he didn’t call back, she kept trying, pleading that it was urgent. Finally, at around dinner time, he picked up.
“Sorry,” he fibbed. “Had my phone turned off. Been in meetings all day. Clients. Investors. What’s up?”
“I’m pregnant, that’s what.”
Simon felt his stomach tumble down to his crotch.
“Shit,” he said in a strangled voice. “Jesus Christ. Bad news.”
“Well, yes.”
“But how?”
“You know how. Remember that time?”
“No, I don’t. But, well, it’s abortion time now.”
“What?”
“What else?”
Justine was stunned, felt the panic rising. Her Catholic upbringing hadn’t prevented premarital sex, lots of it; but it had inscribed a red line bolder than those two pink ones.
“I’m going to have the baby,” she said resolutely and more icily than she meant to. “I mean, we are.”
Simon had been thinking fast. “We? How do I even know it’s mine?”
Justine gasped and started to weep, then she howled her fury into the phone.
Simon hung up.
Spencer’s view of the matter was the same as Simon’s. Fatherhood just wasn’t on the agenda, marriage not on the menu.
“Anyway, I’m tired of Justine. She was always too clingy.”
“And needy.”
“And she snores, sometimes.”
“Damn. Birth and death,” Spencer mused philosophically. “They can both really screw up your plans.”
Simon chuckled, albeit nervously.
They talked it through that night and decided not to take any calls from Justine, not to reply to her texts.
“We ghost her.”
Justine kept phoning Simon, sent texts, then a long letter. When she came to their apartment, they didn’t buzz her in. They hid.
A thick envelope arrived addressed to Mr. Simon Lagnari. It was from a lawyer. Justine was suing. They read the attorney’s letter and the legal document that came with it over and over.
Spencer and Simon wanted inconsequential lives, lives without consequences, comic lives. Fatherhood, marriage, they were consequences. They were for later, much later. A paternity suit wasn’t funny but a radioactive boulder.
They stewed in its shadow.
“Should we get a lawyer?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. There’s Jeremy, but he only graduated two years ago. And Brett, but I don’t trust him.”
“Dad? He’s got two lawyers.”
“No. We don’t want Dad involved,” said Spencer firmly. Then he broke into a sly smile.
“Bro, you’ve got an idea.”
“I do indeed.”
Since their teens, the brothers had collected news stories and magazine articles about identical twins. There was one about twins whose umbilical cords got tangled but who, according to the doctors, avoided suffocating in the womb by hugging each other. Another was about identical twins who married identical twins, then divorced within a week of each other. There was the story of twins adopted as newborns by different families and reunited at forty to discover that both become pediatricians, suffered from tension headaches, bit their nails, smoked Salems, drove Volkswagen Jettas, and took their vacations in Coral Gables, Florida.
Spencer fetched the file and extracted two yellowed newspaper articles held together with a rusty staple.
“Remember?”
“Remember what?”
“The German thieves?”
“Ah, sure! One of my favorites.”
“Mine, too. Especially now.”
In the early hours of Sunday, January 25, 2009, three persons made their way to the roof of the Kaufhaus des Westens, Berlin’s premier department store. Dropping through a skylight, wearing masks and avoiding motion detectors, they lowered themselves to the main hall, broke open display cases, and collected over six million dollars’ worth of jewelry. Police investigators found a discarded rubber glove. It had traces of DNA with which they identified twenty-seven-year-old twins with criminal records, Hassan and Abbas O. The twins said nothing, admitted nothing, declined to cooperate in any way. Both charged and indicted. At the trial, the chief investigator testified that at least one of the brothers was certainly guilty but admitted that the authorities were unable to determine which one. The court was therefore compelled to release the twins. The third thief was not identified, the loot never recovered.
The Lagnari brothers composed a reply to Justine’s attorney and sent a copy to her. In unadorned prose, it stated that they were identical twins, that Justine Kuszalt had willingly slept with both of them on numerous occasions, and that, if pregnancy was the result, a DNA test would not determine paternity. Simon added an unnecessarily brutal sentence: “Moreover, it is not inconceivable that Ms. Kuszalt had other partners during the period in question.”
Spencer grunted and gave Simon a fist bump.
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About the Author
Robert Wexelblatt is a professor of humanities at Boston University’s College of General Studies. He has published ten collections of short stories; two books of essays; two short novels; three books of poems; stories, essays, and poems in a variety of journals, and a novel awarded the Indie Book Awards first prize for fiction.
