the Third Twin (1996)

38

JEANNIE WOKE UP IN HER COMPACT WHITE-WALLED LIVING room, on her black couch, in Steve’s arms, wearing only her fuchsia pink terrycloth bathrobe.

How did I get here?

They had spent half the night rehearsing for today’s hearing. Jeannie’s heart lurched: her fate was to be decided this morning.

But how come I’m lying in his lap?

Around three o’clock she had yawned and closed her eyes for a moment.

And then … ?

She must have fallen asleep.

At some point he had gone into the bedroom and taken the blue-and-red-striped quilt off the bed and tucked it around her, for she was snug beneath it.

But Steve could not be responsible for the way she was lying, with her head on his thigh and her arm around his waist. She must have done that herself, in her sleep. It was a bit embarrassing; her face was very close to his crotch. She wondered what he thought of her. Her behavior had been very off the wall. Undressing in front of him, then falling asleep on him; she was behaving as you would with a longtime lover.

Well, I’ve got an excuse for acting weird: I’ve had a weird week.

She had been ill treated by Patrolman McHenty, robbed by her father, accused by the New York Times, threatened with a knife by Dennis Pinker, fired by the college, and attacked in her car. She felt damaged.

Her face throbbed gently where she had been punched yesterday, but the injuries were not merely physical. The attack had bruised her psyche too. When she recalled the fight in the car, her anger returned and she wanted to get the man by the throat. Even when she was not remembering, she felt a low background hum of unhappiness, as if her life were somehow of less value because of the attack.

It was surprising she could trust any man; astonishing that she could fall asleep on a couch with one who looked exactly like her attackers. But now she could be even more sure of Steve. Neither of the others could have spent the night like this, alone with a girl, without forcing himself on her.

She frowned. Steve had done something in the night, she recalled vaguely; something nice. Yes: she had a dreamy memory of big hands rhythmically caressing her hair, it seemed for a long time, while she dozed, as comfortable as a stroked cat.

She smiled and stirred, and he spoke immediately. “Are you awake?”

She yawned and stretched. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you. Are you okay?”

“The blood supply to my left leg was cut off at about five A.M., but once I got used to that I was fine.”

She sat upright so that she could see him better. His clothes were creased, his hair was mussed, and he had a growth of fair stubble, but he looked good enough to eat. “Did you sleep?”

He shook his head. “I was enjoying myself too much, watching you.”

“Don’t say I snore.”

“You don’t snore. You dribble a little, that’s all.” He dabbed at a damp spot on his pants.

“Oh, gross!” She stood up. The bright blue clock on the wall caught her eye: it was eight-thirty. “We don’t have much time,” she said in alarm. “The hearing starts at ten.”

“You shower while I make coffee,” Steve said generously.

She stared at him. He was unreal. “Did you come from Santa Claus?”

He laughed. “According to your theory, I come from a testtube.” Then his face went solemn again. “What the hell, who knows.”

Her mood darkened along with his. She went into the bedroom, dropped her clothes on the floor, and got into the shower. As she washed her hair, she brooded over how hard she had struggled over the last ten years: the contest for scholarships; the intensive tennis training combined with long hours of study; the peevish nit-picking of her doctoral supervisor. She had worked like a robot to get where she was today, all because she wanted to be a scientist and help the human race understand itself better. And now Berrington Jones was about to throw it all away.

The shower made her feel better. As she was toweling her hair, the phone rang. She picked up the bedside extension. “Yeah.”

“Jeannie, it’s Patty.”

“Hi, sis, what’s happening?”

“Daddy showed up.”

Jeannie sat on the bed. “How is he?”

“Broke, but healthy.”

“He came to me first,” Jeannie said. “He arrived on Monday. Tuesday he got a little ticked off because I didn’t cook him dinner. Wednesday he took off, with my computer and my TV and my stereo. He must have already spent or gambled whatever he got for them.”

Patty gasped. “Oh, Jeannie, that’s awful!”

“Ain’t it just. So lock up your valuables.”

“To steal from his own family! Oh, God, if Zip finds out he’ll throw him out.”

“Patty, I have even worse problems, I may be fired from my job today.”

“Jeannie, why?”

“I don’t have time to explain now, but I’ll call you later.”

“Okay.”

“Have you talked to Mom?”

“Every day.”

“Oh, good, that makes me feel better. I talked to her once, then the next time I called she was at lunch.”

“The people who answer the phone are really unhelpful. We have to get Mom out of there soon.”

She’ll be there a lot longer if I get fired today. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good luck!”

Jeannie hung up. She noticed there was a steaming mug of coffee on the bedside table. She shook her head in amazement. It was only a cup of coffee, but what astonished her was the way Steve knew what she needed. It seemed to come naturally to him to be supportive. And he didn’t want anything in return. In her experience, on the rare occasions when a man put a woman’s needs ahead of his own, he expected her to act like a geisha for a month in gratitude.

Steve was different. If I’d known men came in this version, I would have ordered one years ago.

She had done everything alone, all her adult life. Her father had never been around to support her. Mom had always been strong, but in the end her strength had become almost as much a problem as Daddy’s weakness. Mom had plans for Jeannie, and she was not willing to give them up. She wanted Jeannie to be a hairdresser. She had even got Jeannie a job, two weeks before her sixteenth birthday, washing hair and sweeping the floor at the Salon Alexis in Adams-Morgan. Jeannie’s desire to be a scientist was utterly incomprehensible to her. “You could be a qualified stylist before the other girls have graduated college!” Mom had said. She never understood why Jeannie threw a tantrum and refused even to take a look at the salon.

She was not alone today. She had Steve to support her. It did not matter to her that he was not qualified—a hotshot Washington lawyer was not necessarily the best choice to impress five professors. The important thing was that he would be there.

She put on her bathrobe and called to him. “You want the shower?”

“Sure.” He came into the bedroom. “I wish I had a clean shirt.”

“I don’t have a man’s shirt—wait a minute, I do.” She had remembered the white-Ralph Lauren button-down Lisa had borrowed after the fire. It belonged to someone in the math department. Jeannie had sent it to the laundry and now it was in the closet, wrapped in cellophane. She gave it to Steve.

“My size, seventeen thirty-six,” he said. “Perfect.”

“Don’t ask me where it came from, it’s a long story,” she said. “I think I have a tie here somewhere, too.” She opened a drawer and took out a blue silk spotted tie she sometimes wore with a white blouse, for a snappy mannish look. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He went into the tiny bathroom.

She felt a twinge of disappointment. She had been looking forward to seeing him take off his shirt. Men, she thought; the creeps expose themselves without being asked; the hunks are as shy as nuns.

“Can I borrow your razor?” he called.

“Sure, be my guest.” Memo to self: Do sex with this guy before he becomes too much like a brother.

She looked for her best black suit and remembered she had thrown it in the trash yesterday. “Damn fool,” she muttered to herself. She could probably retrieve it, but it would be creased and stained. She had a long-line electric blue jacket; she could wear that with a white T-shirt and black pants. It was a bit too bright, but it would serve.

She sat at her mirror and did her makeup. Steve came out of the bathroom, looking handsomely formal in the shirt and tie. “There are some cinnamon buns in the freezer,” she said. “You could defrost them in the microwave if you’re hungry.”

“Great,” he said. “You want something?”

“I’m too tense to eat. I could drink another cup of coffee, though.”

He brought the coffee while she was finishing her makeup. She drank it quickly and put on her clothes. When she went into the living room, he was sitting at the kitchen counter. “Did you find the buns?”

“Sure.”

“What happened to them?”

“You said you weren’t hungry, so I ate them all.”

“All four?”

“Uh … in fact there were two packets.”

“You ate eight cinnamon buns?”

He looked embarrassed. “I get hungry.”

She laughed. “Let’s go.”

As she turned away he grabbed her arm. “One minute.”

“What?”

“Jeannie, it’s fun being friends and I really like just hanging out with you, you know, but you have to understand this isn’t all I want.”

“I do know that.”

“I’m falling in love with you.”

She looked into his eyes. He was very sincere. “I’m getting kind of attached to you, too,” she said lightly.

“I want to make love to you, and I want it so bad it hurts.”

I could listen to this kind of talk all day, she thought. “Listen,” she said, “if you fuck like you eat, I’m yours.”

His face fell, and she realized she had said the wrong thing.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make a joke of it.”

He gave a “never mind” shrug.

She took his hand. “Listen. First we’re going to save me. Then we’re going to save you. Then we’ll have some fun.” He squeezed her hand. “Okay.”

They went outside. “Let’s drive together,” she said. “I’ll bring you back to your car later.”

They got into her Mercedes. The car radio came on as she started the engine. Easing into the traffic on 41st Street she heard the news announcer mention Genetico, and she turned up the volume. “Senator Jim Proust, a former director of the CIA, is expected to confirm today he will seek the Republican nomination in next year’s presidential election. His campaign promise: ten percent income tax, paid for by the abolition of welfare. Campaign finance will not be a problem, commentators say, as he stands to make sixty million dollars from an agreed takeover of his medical research company Genetico. In sports, the Philadelphia Phillies—”

Jeannie switched off the radio. “What do you think of that?”

Steve shook his head in dismay. “The stakes keep getting higher,” he said. “If we break the true story of Genetico, and the takeover bid is canceled, Jim Proust won’t be able to payfor a presidential campaign. And Proust is a serious bad guy: a spook, ex-CIA, against gun control, everything. You’re standing in the way of some dangerous people, Jeannie.”

She gritted her teeth. “That makes them all the more worth fighting against. I was raised on welfare, Steve. If Proust becomes president, girls like me will always be hairdressers.”