Three Months after the Accident
JUNE 1983
I don’t tell Jude about my encounter with Nancy or my quest to find Madame Destiny, although this omission feels dangerously close to deception. I don’t want to lie to my sister, to do the very things I wrongly suspected of her. I remind myself that she is out every day, working to pay off my hospital bills, and that my detective work should not become cause for worry or concern. I imagine solving the mystery of myself and presenting my findings to Jude: “Voilà!” I’d say, with a magician’s flair. “Behold the girl with the unscrambled brain, but don’t ask me to reveal my tricks.”
Today’s mission is restitution, and it requires a disguise.
I drop the carousel photo into my bag and then transform myself into my twin—not just the bruised eyes and outlined lips but the part of my hair, combing it from left to right, battling my cowlick to fall counterclockwise. The result is more disorienting than any photograph; instead of looking at Jude and seeing myself, I am looking at myself and seeing my twin, a reversal of the reversal. Now I understand Jude’s uneasiness, and with this understanding, I myself feel more at ease.
I find a pay phone and dial Sab’s number. After four rings and the sound of his answering machine, I hang up. It’s four o’clock on a Tuesday, an hour after his shift ended, and if his past schedule is any indication he’s at Exiles right now, having a beer before heading into the snug room. I start walking in the direction of the bar, talking to myself in Jude’s voice, which tells me that I have the chance to make money and help to pay the bills. It tells me I can corral my flailing energy and put it to good use.
I spot the bar’s green awning, loosened on one side and billowing in the pre-storm wind. I find a compact mirror in my bag and scrutinize myself, picking a wayward flake of mascara from my cheek. My Jude-parted cowlick has begun to rebel and is now rising toward a neutral position, refusing to align itself with either side. I push it back into Jude territory, smoothing it down, channeling her indominable force to make it stay.
Sab is at the end of the bar, alone, a bottle of beer and a newspaper set in front of him. I hover by the door and watch him, imbuing each mundane gesture—a swallow of beer, a turn of the page—with a kind of romantic significance Jude would viciously mock.
A voice yanks me back to the moment: “Yo!” The bartender flings a towel around his shoulder and turns an accusation into a question: “You busted up the cabinet in the back?”
Sab spins in his seat. “Kat!” he says. “What are you doing here?”
One sleeve of my sweatshirt falls to expose my shoulder. I settle into my Jude mask and walk to the bar.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say. “That was my twin sister. My name is Jude. I want to apologize and assure you I’ll compensate you for any damage she’s done.” I find the carousel photo in my bag. “See? This is me and this is my twin.” I point to Jude as me and to me as Jude. “She’s not been herself lately, not that it’s any excuse.”
Sab angles himself toward me, studying the picture. “I can vouch for this,” he tells the bartender. “I know she has a twin.” The bartender shrugs and returns to wiping glasses. Sab’s eyes do a slow scan of my body, top to bottom, trying to decide who I am. I let my expression go slack and my eyes blank, giving him nothing. I feel a prick of guilt, but I want to wear Jude for just a while longer.
From the door comes the expected chorus: “Yo, Sab!” Ryan, Guy, Steve, Booch, and Chinch bound in. I approach, meeting them halfway. “Hey,” I say. “My name is Jude. I’m Kat’s twin sister and I want to apologize for what happened at the last game. She’s going through some heavy shit—medical issues that have affected her brain. She was playing poker to try to pay off her hospital bills and didn’t take it well when she lost. Obviously.”
They look to Sab, who nods his confirmation.
“I hope you’ll consider letting me play with you today,” I add. “First round is on me.”
Back in the snug room, a piece of cardboard spans across the section of broken cabinet. The conjoined twins and mummified hand are set side by side; the pickled human heart has not been replaced. Wanting a clear view of Sab’s face, I sit opposite him on the bench, squeezing in between Guy and Booch. A waitress arrives with three pitchers of beer, and I make a show of pouring everyone a glass.
“To evil twins,” I toast.
“To evil twins,” comes the echo and a round of robust clinks.
My Jude costume envelops me, seeping into my skin. It is familiar but vaguely uncomfortable, severe in all the ways I expect but vulnerable in ways I don’t. As Jude I am sharp in my words and savage in my glances, all the while cowering around my heart.
One round, two, three. My pile creeps steadily higher. Jude is a plotter, a creature of patience and cunning, a fox on the scent of hesitation and doubt, as inscrutable as a corpse. From the corner of one eye, I watch Sab watching me, studying my face for expressions he thinks he knows. I tease him, flashing a glimpse of Kat’s giddy verve before Jude draws the curtain, leaving him in the dark.
They begin dropping out: Guy, Ryan, Chinch. I keep buying rounds but hardly drink, sipping just the top of the foam. Jude is the arbiter of my choices, the engine that makes me go. I have never seen so much money in one place in the few months I remember being alive. Booch is out. Steve is out. Sab and I are the only ones left.
By now he is certain I’m a stranger—no history between us, nothing given and nothing owed. It is better this way; he will be ruthless in his attack, and I sanguine in my kill.
“You ready?” Sab asks. I imagine it is the voice he uses with coworkers, directing the spreading of cement and scooping of stone.
“And waiting,” I say in Jude’s hatchet tone.
He deals four cards, two and two. I slide mine up my chest and take a peek: a Six and Seven of Hearts. I call; it’s on.
Sab deals the flop: Jack of Clubs, Three of Hearts, Five of Clubs.
I’m one card away from a straight. I slide three fourths of my chips to the center of the table and look at Sab, quelling any hint of expression.
He calls.
“Getting a bit hot in here,” Booch narrates. “What will the turn bring?”
It brings a Four of Hearts, giving me a straight—and one card away from a straight flush. I push my remaining chips into the pile. My heart jabs at my ribs. I worry that my Jude veneer is rubbing away, that Kat might peak through. I tamp myself down and coax Jude back to the surface. Jude, Jude, Jude, I tell myself. I am Jude.
Jude’s hands push my remaining chips into the pile.
“Well, look here,” I say, sounding not at all like myself. “The twin is as ballsy as the original.”
“Which she’ll regret,” Sab says. “I’m in.”
His chips join mine and he flips the final card: a Jack of Hearts.
I have a flush.
I have a flush, which beats a straight.
I force myself to sit still, imagining Jude’s hands pressing into my shoulders.
“Moment of truth,” Ryan says. “Sab, what do you got?”
Sab turns over his two cards: Ace of Clubs and Two of Hearts, which gives him a mere straight. I won.
Jude’s voice corrects me—she won. I let her have the victory, revel in her success; she’s earned it in ways I will probably never know.
“Fuck,” Sab says, and his voice is a growl—genuinely furious, all the fun of the game squeezed out, the difference between playing me and playing Jude. He doesn’t look at me as I collect the rest of the chips.
“Biggest pot we’ve had in months,” he says. “Four hundred and fifty bucks.”
My body begins to wilt and I clutch the edge of the table just in time, steadying my stance, reminding myself that I am Jude. I let her intrude upon my thoughts, giving me orders: stand straight, take the money you earned, compensate the bartender for damages, and get out without explanation or apology.
“Thanks, everyone,” I say. “Great game.” Then I silence Jude’s voice in my head, letting Kat take over. I skim my fingers down Sab’s arm. “Can I talk to you outside for a second?”
He follows the trail of my fingers and looks up just as I alter my expression, wiping it free of Jude. I feel the hairs on his arm stand up, bristling against my skin.
“Kat?” he whispers.
I wink in a way that would make Jude cringe.
“Just let me settle up the damage with the bartender,” I tell him. “I’ll meet you outside.”
“It’s already settled,” he says. “Come on.”
He pulls me through the crowd, his arm stretched all the way back, gripping my hand. There’s a feverish grace to his gestures, a sense of calm beneath his shock. Outside, the awning gives us cover from sharp needles of rain, just beginning to fall.
He clutches both of my wrists, trapping me.
“What was that in there?” he asks. “Who was that in there?”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I needed to be Jude for a bit. I wouldn’t have been allowed to play any other way. We’re in a really bad spot with my medical bills and I knew Jude could win. Or that I could win as Jude.”
I don’t want to cry—Jude would not cry—and yet I can’t stop it. Tears blur my vision and I blink once, hard, feeling them fall.
He relaxes his grip, letting his hands dangle like bracelets. “I know,” he says. “Do you want to go somewhere else? Get a drink and talk about it?”
“I don’t want to be around anyone else right now,” I say, freeing my hand to wipe my eye. “I just want to be alone.”
“Do you want me to drive you home,” he asks, “or do you want to be alone with me?”
We run to his car, the rain heavy now, attacking us from all sides. He opens the door for me and we ride in silence, listening to the sounds of the streets. I try to move in my seat. I want to turn to him—to look at the hard angles of his face, the duck-tail swoop of his hair, but I’m immobile, as if tied by invisible rope. My heart moves enough for all of me, a panicked pulsing I’m certain he can hear.
Two minutes later and we’re running again, moving in unison, our steps falling on the same beat. He fumbles through his movements: finding and turning a key, leading me up three flights of stairs, flipping on and extinguishing a light. He leads me down a hallway that seems long as a highway, so much space between where we are and where we’re going, until the door closes behind us and we are there, Jude nowhere to be found.
His lips are on my neck, a soft but persistent flutter that makes me think of trapped moths. I turn, meeting him halfway, and as his mouth lowers to mine I tell myself: This is my second very first kiss, slow down and remember everything, and his hands glide along my waist and suddenly his chest is bare—it is all so astonishing and wondrous and I am certain I have never seen anyone who looked like this, like him, so sweet now with his closed eyes and open expectations, awaiting strange gifts.
“You,” he whispers, opening his eyes. “Let me just look at you.” He seizes my wrists in his hands, lifts my arms above my head, and in that moment of capture I am neither Jude nor Kat but someone else entirely, a beast of unknown species that goes on the attack: elbows to his chest, the heels of my palms to his face, my leg a mighty axe chopping against his torso, my knee a bullet to his groin. After he’s flat on the ground, showing his belly in surrender, his hands in supplication, I attack again, flesh smacking flesh, drawing blood, a roaring quiet in my ears.
“Kat!” he says, a muffled scream, and at the sound of my name I realize what I’ve done. I look at my hands, knuckles raw, flecks of blood caught in their creases, my dry breath scything my throat.
The beast retreats, leaving him alone in the dark.