was sure most of our friends believed that when one
of them said something to one of us, the other would
soon know it. They all sensed that there were no
secrets I would keep from Cary or he from me. He
just naturally hovered about me, protected me as we
grew older. Being twins, it took only a glance or a
look for us to communicate a fear or a happy idea. Perhaps our friends resented this magical
connection; perhaps they were jealous and that was
why they wanted to hurt us. It was easy for them to
turn Cary's devotion to me into something dirty and
sick.
And then, a more fearful voice, tiny, hiding in
the back of my mind, stepped up to say, "Maybe Cary
was so angry because he realized some of what they said was true.. . . He was too devoted to you. Maybe he realized his own problem and maybe his violence
was his way of trying to deny it."
I turned over in bed and buried my face in the
pillow to shut off that tiny voice and the memories it
evoked. Memories of strange looks, lingering touches,
intimate words that were meant for lovers, not
siblings. I was afraid for Cary, afraid that if I gave this
tiny voice even an iota of credence, I would avoid
Cary's eyes, find his touch burning, flee from being
alone with him. The separation that had begun the day
we were born would reach its final stage, and soon
Cary, my poor beloved brother, would be alone. I cried for him, feeling anger and confusion, as
well as shame. He was still above me, shut up in his
attic workshop. It was very quiet, but I thought I heard
him crying. I listened hard, but it was silent again. The
wind had died down, yet there was still enough of it to
make the walls creak. Outside, the moon played