Snake Eyes Read online

  Still, he was smiling. Saying, philosophically, “Well!—it’s lucky Mother didn’t make the trip out here, after all. Gina wouldn’t have felt strong enough to see her, certainly.” Janet, who had been thinking the same thing, at the same moment, said, “Maybe next week …” Her voice trailed off unconvincingly. Michael laughed.

  It was a sun-splotched windy day, still winter, yet with a faint taste of spring. How immature the elder Mrs. O’Meara seemed to her children, with her hypochondriacal obsessions!

  At Janet’s car, they paused, suddenly shy with each other; as if there were more to say, unsaid. (Janet had forestalled asking Michael about his situation at Pearce, Inc.: she dreaded hearing he might lose his job. But now was not the time to ask.) Michael squeezed her hand and said, frowning, in his earlier, more somber tone, “I had no choice about it, Janet. I had to—confront the man. To put an end to it. I—”

  Janet threw her arms around her brother, saying, passionately, as if the point had been contested, “You did what you had to do, Michael, and everyone knows it. You’re a hero.”

  That sharp cloying-sweet smell, what was it?—cognac?

  And why, mixed up with her sleep, her wayward dreams, something so unexpected as—cognac?

  Janet was asleep. Yet not quite. Recalling how, some time ago, it seemed now like a very long time ago, she had had a romance of a kind with a Lebanese gentleman; a handsome, courtly, cultivated man in his forties attached to the Lebanese delegation to the United Nations. The romance, a typically New York sort of romance, had come to nothing, as Janet had anticipated; the man was married, must have been married; and, in any case, would not have married her. He had taken her to astoundingly expensive restaurants, however, and he’d bought her curious gifts, though they had never been lovers, nor even friends. One of the gifts he’d given her—surprisingly, since he, a Moslem, did not drink—was a bottle of Courvoisier “Very Special” cognac. Years later, the bottle was still quite full.

  Waking from a dream in which a face floated near, a net of scars through which blind, vacant eyes stared, Janet found herself smelling cognac. How was it possible?

  She switched on a bedside lamp: the time was only 2:30. She’d thought it much later.

  She’d hoped it was much later, her sleep had been so restless.

  Drawn by the faint cognac smell, she went out into the hall, barefoot, in her flannel nightgown: seeing, to her amazement, her mother sitting in the living room, a single lamp burning. Mrs. O’Meara held a glass in her hand; the shapely green bottle of Courvoisier was on the table beside her.

  “Mother, what on earth—?”

  Mrs. O’Meara turned her bland moon face toward Janet, unsurprised. She had rubbed a whitish cream into her soft, flaccid skin, and her eyebrows, unpenciled, seemed to have disappeared. But her mood was agreeable. “It’s just as well, dear,” she said. “I have something to tell you.”

  “… it was an accident. An accident. It was an accident, in two feet of water. I always believed that, and your father always believed that. To his dying day. We simply didn’t wish to speak of it, that’s all.

  “There are some things you don’t talk about, no one wants to hear. It happened on August ninth, nineteen fifty-three. A long time ago. The sand flies were biting. The sun was so very hot. I’ve never gone on any beach since then, that’s my prerogative. And we moved away, to Darien, within the year, and never looked back. I had friends there, in Manchester, young mothers like me, they were heartbroken for me (they said!) but I broke off all contact with them. It’s what you must do. It’s like cauterizing a wound. Make a decision and stick with it. You see, little Sean drowned; and little Michael did not drown. That was a fact. That is a fact. Sean is buried in Manchester, New Hampshire, but we moved away. I don’t believe in the immortality of the spirit so he would not know. Michael does not know—he has forgotten. We encouraged forgetfulness, it’s what you must do. They were two and a half years old and so close. One of my memories is of them sleeping in their crib, that intense sleep of infants so you think almost they will never wake again. One would quiver and twitch in his sleep, and the other would quiver and twitch, and their skin was clammy, but hot; like something white-hot; and strange to touch. (You were so different, when you came along: a happy child! And only one of you.) Never had there been twins in my family, but we discovered afterward there were twins, identical and fraternal both, in your father’s family, through the generations—oh yes! Not that I blamed your father, of course I did not. There could be no warning. In those days you were not prepared. No X rays, I mean. ‘Am-ni-o-cen-te-sis’: is that how it’s pronounced? And no abortions either. In those days, no. Certainly not. It’s a different world now for women, isn’t it? Oh, but, as I say, why look back. It was an accident, they were two and a half years old, why dwell upon the past, and sorrow. My eyes could not see what I was looking at because of the sun, I was blinded. The lifeguard too had not seen. And if we’d seen, would that have brought the poor baby back to life?—it would not. The other was playing, splashing. Oh, that yellow plastic seahorse! If only that had been twins! But, well, in my circle of friends now, widows like myself, do you suppose there is a single one of us without sorrow? hurt? heartbreak? tragedy?—in Florida, I mean. In Palm View Villas. At our age. And I’m not old. In our bridge set, they treat me like a baby sometimes—so scatterbrained at cards. Well, you know. We all have our weaknesses. I dwell upon happy memories, for there are many. You, on television, don’t you suppose I’m proud of you. And Michael, and his lovely family. It was Michael, we believed. Of course it might have been … Sean. The survivor. Oh, poor Sean: in two feet of water, only imagine! The children’s swimming area was roped off. There were others there, or I’d thought so. And, of course, the lifeguard. I was up the beach, I hadn’t gone far. I looked, and my eyes saw, but didn’t see. They hadn’t any names really—when they are born, when they shove out of you, all bloody and gasping, they have no names: even, when you name them, later, it doesn’t change them. That was what I think I was seeing in the water amid the splashing. The lifeguard saw too at the very same moment. I was screaming, and he blew his whistle, so loud. The one baby was floating facedown in the water (such shallow water!) and the other was close by him and there was the yellow plastic seahorse big as they were, they’d been pulling at it, fighting over it … no, not really fighting: playing with it. I looked, and I screamed.

  “My feet were burning on the sand. I could feel the sun beating down like fire on my skull. That was why I’d gone up the beach. I screamed, but it was too late. He just kept playing there by his twin, with the seahorse. The lifeguard ran over to them, but it was too late. Everyone stared. There was one of those helicopters overhead with an advertising streamer behind and I swear the pilot was staring too! We ran over, and pulled the child out, and the lifeguard started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but it was too late. I was running on the fiery sand, but it was too late. I’d thought I was so pretty in my two-piece bathing suit, oh my!—twenty-eight years old and a nice, shapely figure and curly hair like yours, I thought I was someone special, the way you do at that age. Later, you learn. Quickly, you learn. Oh in my dreams even now it happens so differently: I would see clearly, in spite of the sun, and I would run to the water, and I would pull him out of the water, two feet of water, such shallow water, and so warm. You can drown in six inches of water. The most tragic accidents happen right in the home. In broad daylight. You can’t know. You can’t be prepared. You must be prepared. If only we’d bought a second seahorse. If I hadn’t left my straw sandals at the cabana. Then maybe … oh God, maybe. I don’t know, and it’s better not to know. We never talked about it. Your father and I. He had his business, and it was a good business, but it took up his time. It ate up his life. The way the tanners strip those poor beautiful wild creatures of their furs and hides, to make them into coats, that’s the way your father was stripped of his life … like his soul was on the outside of his body and unprotected. But what am I sa
ying? Am I drunk?—well, shouldn’t I be? We never talked about it, afterward. It was a good move, from New Hampshire to Connecticut. It turned out so. I gave up my friends, but what are friends?—friends pass away. You can’t depend on them, and they shouldn’t depend on you. We never talked about it out of consideration for the one who survived. Michael, that was. The other was Sean. In those few minutes, in two feet of water, and gone forever. It doesn’t seem possible, does it? It’s like missing a plane I suppose. A matter of minutes. Maybe of seconds. Like when they extract blood from your arm and can’t find a vein, and when they finally find a vein, and it’s twenty seconds, the nurse says: twenty seconds: a long time. You don’t think so, but it is. I was twenty-six when they were born, and twenty-eight when they died.

  “I mean, when Sean died. Michael survived. Michael did not come close to drowning. He was a good swimmer afterward, a good athlete, on the football team. It scared us to watch him, running on the field. Your father never said so, and I never said so, but I knew. That look in his face. In his jaws. You see it in their jaws. A high school boy, and so sweet, except on the football field, then you could see. Then you knew. Oh, what am I saying? (Am I drunk?) (I am not drunk!) We are all strangers, in time. To ourselves I mean. I don’t remember that woman who was twenty-eight years old and she would never have guessed me: so old! So changed! But I am not old really, am I old?—sixty-seven? Is that old? My face, my hands. They give you away if you’re careless. If you’re not clever. He is very clever, your brother. Which is why he is a lawyer. Forty-one years old, and his poor brother is only two. The dead are always dead. The dead never age. They are all they can be while we, who are living, are never all we can be. Isn’t that strange? Why is that? Of course, he has forgotten. Maybe he never knew. It must have happened quickly. Or, without much struggle. In six inches of water it can happen. The depth of the water doesn’t matter. Only the intent. Years later there was another accident, in junior high school, in the swimming pool, but the other boy did not drown. He and Michael bumped heads, I think. It was serious, but not fatal. Michael himself may have helped pull the boy out. No one was to blame really. They both swallowed water—ugh, that nasty chlorine water! (Did you know, boys swim naked together in school pools, at that age? Girls wouldn’t swim naked at any age, would they?—I would not.) The gym coach punished him by dropping him from the team. That was unfair, but we didn’t protest. He went out for football in high school, and he made the team. He grew fast, put on weight. He was very strong. He’s stronger than he seems. You can see it in his jaws, and sometimes in his eyes. Not always, but sometimes. If you know the signs. You don’t, of course. And neither did Gina.

  “It seemed to have begun at about the age of eighteen months. Something I couldn’t name then, and I can’t name now. Where they had been peaceful together sleeping, eating, taking their bottles, playing and laughing together, now there was something else. You might say ‘hate’ but it was not ‘hate.’ You might say ‘evil’ but it was not ‘evil.’ Just one twin seeking dominance over the other, and that other resisting. Sometimes it was Sean (we thought it was Sean!) who was dominant, and sometimes it was Michael (we thought it was Michael!)—but they were identical, they were mirror-twins, and most of the time we could not tell. Of course, I pretended to know, I was their mother, I loved them both, how very queer it would have seemed to everyone if I hadn’t known one child from the other! They say that men fight one another simply because one thinks he can win. Nations go to war because one thinks it can win. There is no other reason. Oh, yes, there are reasons, but only this single reason. We needn’t ever speak of it, dear, after tonight. The yellow plastic seahorse might not have mattered. August ninth, nineteen fifty-three, might not have mattered. For there would have been another day. (Your father believed so. We never spoke of it, but he spoke of that, just once, to me. And then, never again!) When the one who had not drowned saw his brother’s body on the sand, and the lifeguard giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, when he saw me, my hysteria, he seemed to forget who he was too. Of course, he was so young. At that age, they don’t understand about death—its finality. They can die, and they can cause another to die, but they don’t understand about death. It might have been Sean who died, and it might have been Sean who was taken away. I was screaming—hysterical. Why did anyone take my word? I screamed, ‘Sean! Sean!’ So it was Sean, on the death certificate. So the other was Michael. What difference would it have made?—they had the same face, they were the same child, both pushed out of my body and I loved them both. I was screaming, and had to be sedated.”

  It was three o’clock in the morning, and then four o’clock. As Mrs. O’Meara spoke to Janet in her even, unemphatic voice, like a boat bobbing in placid, sheltered waters. As Janet listened, numb with horror. Hearing what she could not believe. Unable to believe what she heard.

  For a very long time, Janet O’Meara listened and did not interrupt. She had never heard her mother speak in such a way, nor even at such length.

  Her icy toes curled beneath her, on the sofa. Her long flannel nightgown fanning about her. As, outside the window, the city at night resembled vertical hives of winking lights, a chill stellar beauty. As, from time to time, she heard her mother draw in her breath sharply as if to forestall a sob, or a hiccup. And there was the occasional touch of the green cognac bottle against Mrs. O’Meara’s glass.

  Janet had fetched herself a glass too and was drinking. By slow degrees. Thinking, If we both get drunk, maybe we’ll forget.

  Finally, Mrs. O’Meara seemed to have stopped. Her last words trailed off into a silence that melded with the night beyond the window. She’d rummaged about in the pocket of her quilted bathrobe for a handkerchief and was vigorously blowing her nose.

  Janet said, louder than she intended, “Let me see if I understand this, Mother. My brother Michael had a twin—was a twin—and has forgotten? You really think he has forgotten?”

  Mrs. O’Meara said, naively, “Why would he remember?”

  “And his twin, Sean, drowned?—in a swimming accident?—at a lake in New Hampshire?—in nineteen fifty-three?”

  “It was an accident.” Mrs. O’Meara nodded grimly.

  “And you don’t really know—I mean really know—if my brother is Michael, or the other?”

  “‘Michael’ and ‘Sean’ were just names, dear. We give our children names to domesticate them, like pets. Sometimes it has that effect, and sometimes it does not. Shall we share this last ounce of cognac?”

  “Wait,” Janet said. She spoke carefully, with the air of one gripping a ledge with weakening fingers. “They were identical twins—absolutely identical?”

  “I identified Sean as the boy who drowned. The name simply leapt from my lips, and everyone assumed, as of course they would assume, that a mother knows her own child. Even a hysterical mother knows her own child.” Mrs. O’Meara took up the cognac bottle and poured a small portion into her glass and an equal portion into Janet’s glass: Janet was holding the glass out to her, with slightly trembling fingers. “And so, the boy who did not drown has always been ‘Michael.’

  “And no one doubted?—he did not doubt?”

  “He was two years old. When his twin drowned, half of himself drowned. You could argue that both ‘Sean’ and ‘Michael’ drowned that day, in two feet of water. The one who survived was someone else.” Mrs. O’Meara spoke slowly, reasonably. She was resting the nape of her neck against the back of the sofa; the flesh beneath her chin was revealed as soft and raddled, and the sockets of her eyes were lost in shadow, as if in calculating thought. “When your father arrived, I screamed at him that Sean had drowned. How could I have said, ‘One of our sons has drowned!’—as if I hadn’t known?”

  There was a brief silence. Thirty storeys below, on Second Avenue, a siren wailed, followed closely by another. Janet realized she’d been hearing sirens much of the night, in the near-distance, and in the distance. For this was New York City after all.

  Quick
ly, she drank down the last of her cognac. There!—the fiery liquid spread up into her sinuses, through her lungs, her very bloodstream.

  She stared not at, but toward, the window. Her gaze was as sightless as if she were blind.

  The thought that glimmered on the threshold of consciousness—No. It’s unthinkable.

  Janet laughed, lightly at first. Then, she was on her feet. She could bear this no longer!

  “Why are you telling me these hideous things, Mother?—why now? Are you trying to be rid of them, yourself?” she asked. Her voice rose sharply. Her hair seemed to be lifting from her head, crackling with static electricity, appalled. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

  Next morning, Janet O’Meara systematically destroyed it all: every one of her notes, drafts, documents, taped and transcribed interviews for “‘Snake Eyes’: An American Romance.”

  EPILOGUE

  And this, the first morning of the first day.

  So many mornings over the past several months, he has felt so!

  And why, he can’t say. Why, he can’t know. But he knows.

  “Michael?—Are you there?”—the question is faint, plaintive, barely audible.

  He is down below, on the beach, whistling, briskly raking leaves and other debris from the previous night’s thunderstorm, when, glancing up, shading his eyes against the sun, he sees her, unexpectedly, on the threshold of the doorway: a thin, wavering figure, in layers of clothing, a pale gauzy scarf knotted about her head, oversized dark glasses disguising much of her face. She wears loose-fitting summer clothes, white trousers, a shirt, a bulky sweater in pale pink, one of those currently stylish sweaters so deliberately big the shoulders slump halfway down to the wearer’s elbows, and the sleeves must be rolled up conspicuously at the wrists. Something of the old Gina remains, in such touches: but then of course all her clothes had been bought before the slashing.