Sons of Fortune

“Why not?” asked Nat.

“Because it’s an absentee ballot, and I’m no longer certain which one of you to vote for.”

51

“Losing three pints of blood doesn’t seem to have slowed down Mr. Cartwright,” said the duty nurse as she placed his latest chart in front of Dr. Renwick.

“Maybe not,” said Renwick, flicking through the pages, “but it sure made one hell of a difference to Senator Davenport. It saved his life.”

“True,” said the nurse, “but I’ve warned the senator that despite the election, he’ll have to stay put for at least another two weeks.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” said Renwick, “I anticipate that Fletcher will have discharged himself by the end of the week.”

“You could be right,” said the nurse with a sigh, “but what can I do to prevent it?”

“Nothing,” said Renwick, turning over the file on his desk so that she couldn’t read the names Nathaniel and Peter Cartwright printed in the top-right corner. “But I do need you to make an appointment for me to see both men as soon as possible.”

“Yes, doctor,” replied the nurse, making a note on her clipboard before leaving the room.

Once the door was closed, Ben Renwick turned the file back over and read through its contents once again. He’d thought about little else for the past three days.

When he left later that evening, he locked the file away in his private safe. After all, a few more days wouldn’t make a great deal of difference, after all what he needed to discuss with the two men had remained a secret for the past forty-three years.

Nat was discharged from St. Patrick’s on Thursday evening, and no one on the hospital staff imagined for a moment that Fletcher would still be around by the weekend, despite his mother trying to convince him that he should take it easy. He reminded her there were now only two weeks to go before election day.

During the longest week in his life, Ben Renwick continued to wrestle with his conscience, just as Dr. Greenwood must have done forty-three years before him, but Renwick had come to a different conclusion; he felt he’d been left with no choice but to tell both men the truth.

The two combatants agreed to meet at six A.M. on Tuesday morning in Dr. Renwick’s office. It was the only time before election day that both candidates had a clear hour in their agendas.

Nat was the first to arrive, as he had hoped to be in Waterbury for a nine o’clock meeting, and perhaps even squeeze in a visit to a couple of commuter stations on the way.

Fletcher hobbled into Dr. Renwick’s office at five fifty-eight, annoyed that Nat had made it before him.

“

Just as soon as I get this cast off,” he said, “I’m going to kick your ass.”

“You shouldn’t speak to Dr. Renwick like that, after all he’s done for you,” said Nat, with a grin.

“Why not?” asked Fletcher. “He filled me up with your blood, so now I’m half the man I was.”

“Wrong again,” said Nat. “You’re twice the man you were, but still half the man I am.”

“Children, children,” said the doctor, suddenly realizing the significance of his words, “there is something a little more serious that I need to discuss with you.”

Both men fell silent after hearing the tone in which they had been admonished.

Dr. Renwick came from behind his desk to unlock his safe. He removed a file and placed it on the desk. “I have spent several days trying to work out just how I should go about imparting such confidential information to you both.” He tapped the file with his right index finger. “Information that would never have come to my attention had it not been for the senator’s near-fatal accident and the necessity to check both your files.” Nat and Fletcher glanced at each other, but said nothing. “Even whether to tell you separately or together became an ethical issue, and at least on that, it will now be obvious what decision I came to.” The two candidates still said nothing. “I have only one request, that the information I am about to divulge should remain a secret, unless both of you, I repeat, both of you, are willing, even determined, to make it public.”

“I have no problem with that,” said Fletcher, turning to face Nat.

“Neither do I,” said Nat, “I am, after all, in the presence of my lawyer.”

“Even if it were to influence the outcome of the election?” the doctor added, ignoring Nat’s levity. Both men hesitated for a moment, but once again nodded. “Let me make it clear that what I am about to reveal is not a possibility or even a probability; it is quite simply beyond dispute.” The doctor opened the file and glanced down at a birth certificate and a death certificate.

“Senator Davenport and Mr. Cartwright,” he said, as if addressing two people he’d never met before, “I have to inform you that, having checked and double-checked both your DNA samples, there can be no questioning the scientific evidence that you are not only brothers,” he paused, his eyes returning to the birth certificate, “but dizygotic twins.” Dr. Renwick remained silent as he allowed the significance of his statement to sink in.

Nat recalled those days when he still needed to rush to a dictionary to check the meaning of a word. Fletcher was the first to break the silence. “Which means we’re not identical.”