Palindrome

CHAPTER 27

Liz came back to the cottage in the late afternoon from a good day's work to find Keir sitting on the deck with a drink. He had slept with her most nights lately, but not the night before. She had missed him more than she had meant to, and not just the sex. There was an attachment growing here, and she both wanted and resisted it. "Home is the hunter, home from the hill," he said.

"And the photographer, home from the shoot," she replied, grabbing his drink and taking a sip. "Where were you last night?"

He smiled slightly. "Riding on the wind, soaring like the hawk."

"You're so fucking poetic when you don't want to give a straight answer to a question," she said, turning his face up and kissing him.

"Straight answers are boring, don't you think?"

"Not always," she said, flopping down on the lounge with him, pulling his arm around her shoulders. She stole another swig from his drink.

"Hey, do you think I'm made of bourbon?"

"I think you're made of snakes and snails and puppy dogs' tails, at very best."

"That's the nicest thing anybody's said to me all day," he said, kissing the top of her head.

"Nobody ever says anything to you but me, because you don't see anybody else but me," she said. "Not that I mind, much."

"Wrong. I see Buck Moses; I see Grandpapa; I see Germaine."

"Not much, you don't. I don't know about Buck, but you don't see much of your grandfather or your sister."

"More than you know."

"Why don't we see some people tonight?" she asked. "I'm going to dinner at the inn; want to join me?"

"Thanks, but no," he said, with a touch of regret in his voice.

"Why not?" she asked. Now and then she felt like goading him about Hamish. He must know his brother was at the inn; he seemed to know everything that happened on the island.

"What you call the inn I still think of as Greyfield House. Grandpapa's old-maid sister, Jenny, lived there when I was a kid; my great-grandfather built it for her. I loved her, and I loved the house; I don't like it with strangers sleeping and eating there."

Well, she thought, that's the most direct answer I've ever had from him. She got up. "I'm into a shower and out of here," she said.

"I like you a little sweaty," he said, catching her hand. "Can I interest you in a roll in the hay?"

"What a charmer!" she shouted. "A real smoothy! A roll in the hay, yet!" She headed for the shower, stripping off clothes as she went. When she came out, he was standing at the bathroom sink, rubbing the fog off the mirror with his hand. He was wearing only some old khaki shorts, and she admired his lean, brown body for a moment as she toweled dry. "Your hair's getting longer," he said, turning to look at her. "It doesn't stick up on top anymore."

"And about time, too," she said, snapping at his bare legs with her wet towel.

"Ow!" he yelled. "You're vicious with that thing!"

"A woman scorned," she called over her shoulder as she went into the bedroom.

"I didn't scorn you; I invited you to bed."

"You scorned my dinner invitation," she said, picking a cotton sheath from her closet and pulling it over her head. She deliberately did not put on underwear; she knew he liked that. She grabbed a brush and ran it through her hair. A quick look in the mirror told her that her sunburn would do for makeup. She slipped into some low shoes and turned her back to him. "Zip me up?" She knew that the open dress came exactly down to the crack of her ass.

"I'm better at unzipping these things," he said.

"Well," she said, grabbing her car keys, "stick around and you might get to unzip it when I get back."

"Maybe," he said.

"See you later, then," she called, heading for the back door. Her voice was gayer than she felt. Somehow, she had thought she might goad him into coming to the inn with her, but she should have known better. She had been anxious to get out of the house before he pulled her into bed; she would have given in, she knew, and she wanted to exert a little control.

At least she would have time for a drink in the bar before dinner. She parked in front of the inn and saw young Aldred Drummond sitting in a crook of the giant live oak on the broad lawn. The tree must be two hundred years old, she thought. Its limbs touched the ground in places-perfect for a small boy to climb.

"Good evening," she called out. "Hello, Miss, uh…"

"I'm Liz," she said, walking over. "You having a good time on the island with your father?"

"Yep," he said. Apparently a man of few words.

"You been to the beach yet?"

"Nope."

"Well, I live up at Stafford Beach Cottage. When you go to the beach, why don't you get your dad to bring you to see me?"

"My dad's going to Jacksonville tomorrow, and I can't go with him," he said.

"Maybe your mother can bring you to Stafford."

"Mom's leaving tomorrow. That's why Dad's going to Jacksonville. He's taking her to the airport. I'm staying with Germaine."

"Well, if I can arrange it, would you like to come up to Stafford for lunch tomorrow? You can go in the water, and you can play in the dunes, too." He looked doubtful.

"Maybe I'll even let you drive my Jeep," she said.

"Oh, boy, yes!" he practically shouted. "Will you ask my mom?"

"Sure, I will."

He scrambled down from the tree. "I'd better go now. I've got to have my supper with Ron in the staff room."

"Okay, I'll see you later." He ran up the steps and into the house; she followed more slowly.

The front porch was deserted, and when she entered the house, so was the main floor. She had a look in the living room and library, then turned into the little self-service bar. She was pouring herself a Wild Turkey when a familiar man entered. "Evening," he said, "drinking alone?"

"Not anymore," she replied. "What's your pleasure?"

"Can you make a decent martini?"

"Just watch me." She grabbed the gin and vermouth and went to work. It took her a minute to place the man. "How's your book coming, the one on twins?"

"Pretty good," he replied. "We're looking forward to a publication next fall. I'm sorry, I didn't get your name last time we were at the inn. You're here for some photographs, I believe?"

"That's right. I'm Liz Barwick."

"Douglas Hamilton. Call me Ham. This is our third time down here this year; we love it."

"So do I." She handed him his drink. "How's that?"

He sipped it and stared at the ceiling. "Classic. How's your work coming?"

"I'm getting a lot of beautiful stuff. It's easy on Cumberland; all you have to do is point the camera."

"Good." He sipped his drink, and they both seemed at a loss for words.

"Doctor… ah, Ham?"

"Mmmm?"

"Can I engage you in a little shoptalk for a moment?"

"Sure," he said, flopping down on a sofa. "Let me guess. You have this friend and she has this problem."

"Nothing like that. Just a hypothetical question about twins."

"Shoot."

"These twins"

"Male or female?"

"Male."

"Identical?"

"Perfectly. They're fortyish. They had the sort of ultraclose relationship as boys that you described as typical of identical twins the last time we met."

"I remember. The closest of all human relationships."

"Until they were eighteen."

"What happened when they were eighteen?"

"Nobody knows. Or nobody who'll say, at any rate."

"They grew apart?"

"No, one day they just stopped speaking to each other."

"For how long?"

"Until the present moment."

The doctor's face registered surprise. "Extremely unusual. I remember one case of women twins who fought over a man. They were both in love with him, and when one of them announced their engagement, her twin wouldn't speak to her again."

"For how long?"

"For a couple of years, until the couple were divorced. When the twin with the man had to choose between her husband and her sister, she eventually chose her sister."

He sipped his martini. "These hypothetical twins of yours, what do they have to say about each other? Haven't they ever given anyone who knows them a clue to what breached their relationship?"

"No. What's more, neither will so much as acknowledge the other's existence."

The doctor's face collapsed in astonishment. "That's very disturbing," he managed to say.

Liz was worried by his reaction. "Why disturbing?"

He didn't answer at first. "Well," he said finally. "For identical twins who have grown up ultraclose, as you put it, not speaking to each other for twenty years would put an unbearable emotional strain on both of them. I've known of cases where identical twins were forcibly separated from each other, and the effects on both were, in each case, terrible-worse, perhaps than losing a twin to death, because each knew that the other was alive somewhere, and they couldn't reach each other. There was a case in World War II where one twin ended up in a concentration camp, and the other escaped. The twin in prison died of the effects of the camp, and the other-well, pined to death. Wouldn't eat, because he knew his brother was in that camp."

Liz didn't speak.

"With your hypothetical twins-it's difficult even to imagine a trauma that would cause them not to speak for so long a time. But that's not the really disturbing part. The fact that neither will even acknowledge the existence of the other is terrifying; psychiatrically, what you're talking about is a kind of voluntary schizophrenia."

"I see," Liz said, for lack of anything else to say.

"Liz, if your twins were real, and not hypothetical, then I have to tell you that I believe they would both be very seriously disturbed human beings." There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside the door, and, a moment later, Hannah Drummond walked in.

"Good evening, Liz," she said brightly. "Are you tending bar?"

"Sure," Liz managed to say.

"Then I'll have a Scotch on the rocks, please."

Two couples entered the room, talking cheerfully. Dr. Hamilton got up and came to the bar. "I'll have another martini, as long as you're at it," he said. He produced a card from his pocket. "We're leaving in the morning," he said quietly, "but if you ever want to talk further about this, please call me." Liz poured the Scotch and mixed the martini, but, under the countertop, her hands were trembling.

"There she is," a voice said. Liz looked up to see Germaine leading an elderly man into the bar.

"Liz, I want you to meet Dr. Blaylock. Doctor, this is Liz Barwick, the lady I was telling you about."

"I'm very pleased to meet you," the man said in a courtly manner.

"Liz, Dr. Blaylock is the head of the Anthropology Department at the University of Georgia. He's brought a group of students down to move the family graveyard."

"Yes, Hamish told me about it. Angus wants to get it onto higher ground, doesn't he?"

"Afraid of the crabs getting his bones, I think," Germaine replied. "I wonder if you'd do us all a favor and photograph the place before they move the graves? No matter how perfect a job they do, it's never going to look quite the same again, and I'd like to remember it the way it is now."

"Sure, I'll be glad to," Liz said.

"I'm afraid we'll have to get you up early," Dr. Blaylock said. "We plan to get an early start tomorrow morning."

"Suits me," Liz said. "I'm an early riser. You've got one empty grave down there, you know."

"Empty?"

"Better tell him about Light-Horse Harry Lee," Liz said to Germaine. She looked up to see Hamish enter. He came around the bar next to Liz and made himself a drink while Germaine introduced him to Dr. Blaylock and explained to the anthropologist about the Lee grave.

"That looks like a lot of work for one man," Hamish said to the man.

"Oh, I've got half a dozen students who'll do the dogwork," Blaylock said. "My job is just to direct them and to restrain their enthusiasm for their work. They have to be taught to go slowly, given the age of some of the graves, or they'll just make a mess of it."

"Are your crew staying in the inn?" Liz asked. She hadn't seen any students.

"No, they're camped out with our equipment, down near the cemetery." He sipped his drink and laughed.

"Heaven only knows what they're up to." Hamish laughed. "The same thing we were all up to at that age, I expect."

"Oh, God,!" the professor said.

At dinner, Liz watched Hamish as he entertained Dr. Blaylock with stories of the island. She couldn't find anything disturbed about him, nor about Keir, come to that, though he was less conventional than most people. She glanced across the room at Dr. Hamilton. He had just been issuing opinions off the top of his head; he didn't know the Drummond twins, and he was in no position to pass judgment on them. She began to relax and enjoy the evening. She turned and spoke to Hannah Drummond, who was sitting next to her. "I invited Aldred to come up to Stafford Beach Cottage tomorrow," she said. "Would you mind if he came?"

"Not at all," Hannah said. "I'm leaving tomorrow, and Hamish is taking me to the airport. I'm sure Germaine would be happy to have him off her hands."

"I've got to take some photographs down at the cemetery tomorrow morning. How about if I pick him up on the way back? Say, about nine?"

"Perfect. We'll be leaving for the airport about then."

"Tell him to bring his swimsuit."

When Liz got home, pleasantly tired and wanting Keir, the house was empty. Maybe he had felt snubbed when she had declined to make love to him, but she didn't care much. If he wanted to be antisocial, that was his problem. She had no trouble falling asleep.

But when she woke in the night, and he wasn't there, it hurt.