the Third Twin (1996)

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?”