Jorrie doesn’t want to tap dance on the graves alone because she doesn’t want to do anything alone. If she keeps at it she can nag Tin into attending these doleful bun-fests with her, even though he says he has no desire to be bored out of his occiput by a crowd of faux-gloomy old farts gumming the crustless sandwiches and congratulating themselves on still being alive. He finds Jorrie’s interest in such terminal rites of passage excessive and even morbid, and has told her so.
“I’m only being respectful,” she says, at which Tin snorts. It’s a joke: neither of them has ever made respectfulness a priority except for outward show.
“You just want to gloat,” he replies; and Jorrie snorts in her turn because this is so accurate.
“Do you think we’re brittle?” she’s been known to ask him. Terrific sense of humour is one thing, but brittle is another.
“Of course we’re brittle,” he has answered. “We were born brittle! But seek the bright side: you can’t have much taste unless you’re brittle.” He doesn’t add that Jorrie fails to have much taste anyway; less, as time goes on.
“Maybe we could have been brilliant psychopathic murderers,” she said once, perhaps a decade ago, when they were barely in their sixties. “We could have committed the perfect crime by killing a total stranger at random. Pushed them off a train.”
“Never too late,” Tin replied. “It’s certainly on my bucket list. But I’m waiting till we get cancer. If we’ve got to go, we’ll go in style; take a few with us. De-burden the planet. More toast?”
“Don’t you dare get cancer without me!”
“I won’t. Cross my heart and spit. Unless it’s prostate cancer.”
“Don’t do that,” said Jorrie. “I’d feel left out.”
“If I get prostate cancer,” said Tin, “I pledge to arrange a prostate transplant for you so you can share the experience. I know a lot of guys who wouldn’t mind heaving their prostates out the window about now. They could at least get a good night’s sleep: dispense with the pee parade.”
Jorrie grinned. “Thanks a bundle,” she said. “I’ve always wanted a prostate. One more thing to whine about in the golden years. Think the donor might like to throw in the whole scrotum?”
“That remark,” said Tin, “is lacking in fastidiousness. As you intended. More coffee?”
Because they’re twins they can be who they really are with each other, a thing they haven’t managed very well with anyone else. Even when they’re putting on a front, they fool only outside people: to each other they’re transparent as guppies, they can see each other’s innards. Or that’s their story; though, as Tin is well aware – having once had a lover with an aquarium – even guppies have their opacities.
He gazes fondly at Jorrie as she frowns at the obituaries through her crimson-framed reading glasses; or frowns as much as she is able to, given the Botox. In recent years – in recent decades – Jorrie has developed the slightly pop-eyed expression of someone who’s had too much work done. There are hair issues as well. At least he’s been able to stop her from dyeing it jet black: way too Undead with her present-day skin tone, which is lacking in glow despite the tan-coloured foundation and the sparkly bronze mineral-elements powder she so assiduously applies, the poor deluded wretch.
“You’re only as old as you feel,” she says too frequently, while trying to talk Tin into some absurdity – rumba classes, watercolour painting holidays, ruinous fads such as spinning. He cannot picture himself on a stationary bicycle, wearing Spandex tights, whirring away like a sawmill and further destroying his wizened crotch. He cannot picture himself on a bicycle of any sort. Painting was a non-starter: if he were going to do that, why would he want to do it in a group of whinnying amateurs? As for the rumba, you have to be able to swivel your coccyx, a skill he lost around the time he gave up on sex.
“Exactly,” he replies. “I feel two thousand. I am older than the rocks among which I sit.”
“What rocks? I don’t see any rocks. You’re sitting on the sofa!”
“It’s a quotation,” he says. “A paraphrase. Walter Pater.”
“Oh, you and your quotations! Not everyone lives in quotation marks, you know.”
Tin sighs. Jorrie is not a wide reader, preferring historical romances about the Tudors and the Borgias to anything more substantial. “Like the vampire, I have been dead many times,” he cites to himself, though he doesn’t wish to alarm her by saying it out loud: an alarmed Jorrie is always a lot of work. She wouldn’t be afraid of vampires as such: being rash and curious, she’d be the first into the forbidden crypt. But she wouldn’t like the thought of Tin turning into one, or turning into anyone other than her idea of him.
Meanwhile, she’s firmly bent on turning into someone else herself. She does not come up to her own standards. Her only superstitions have to do with the labels on expensive cosmetics. Jorrie actually believes the deceitful come-hither labels – the plumpings, the firmings, the unwrinklings, the returning of youthful dews, the hints of immortality – despite having been in advertising herself, a vocation guaranteed to take the bloom off ornamental adjectives. There are so many things in life about which she ought to know better but does not, the art of makeup being one of them. He has to keep reminding her not to halt the sparkly bronze procedure halfway down her neck: otherwise her head will look sewed on.
The hair compromise he finally agreed to is a white strip on the left side – geriatric punk, he’d whispered to himself – with, recently, the addition of an arresting scarlet patch. The total image is that of an alarmed skunk trapped in the floodlights after an encounter with a ketchup bottle. He crosses his fingers about that blood-coloured blotch, and hopes he will not be accused of elder bashing.
Gone are the days when Jorrie – once known for her sultry gypsy image and her vivid African prints and clanky ethnic jewellery – could pull off any fashion whim that caught her eye. She’s lost the knack, though she’s kept her flamboyant habits. Mutton dressed as Spam, he’s longed to say to her from time to time, though he hasn’t said it. Instead he’s clamped himself together and held himself back, and said it about other women to make her laugh.
He does usually manage to steer her away from the steeper and more lethal precipices. There was the interlude with the nose ring, back in the ’90s: she’d sprung the tacky doodad on him without prior warning, and asked him point-blank what he thought. He’d had to sew his mouth shut, though he’d done some hypocritical nodding and murmuring. She’d jettisoned the tawdry accessory once she’d caught a cold and practically torn her nostril off when her handkerchief got snagged on the ring.
After that came the threat of a tongue stud, but luckily she’d consulted him first. What had he said? “You want the inside of your mouth to look like a biker’s jacket?” Maybe not: too much risk of the answer being yes. Certainly he wouldn’t have informed her that some men view such baubles as blowjob advertisements: that might have been an incentive. A health warning: “You could die of septicemia of the tongue?” Health warnings don’t work with her, as she considers them a challenge: her superior immune system will surely crush any microbe the invisible world may toss her way.
More likely he’d said, “You’d sound like Daffy Duck and you’d spit all over everyone. Not attractive, in my books. Anyway, the stud wave has passed. Only stockbrokers get them any more.” That at least made her giggle.
It’s best not to overreact to her. Push, and she pushes back. He hasn’t forgotten her childhood tantrums and the fights she used to get into, flailing her long arms ineffectually as the other children laughed and jeered her on. He’d watch, almost in tears himself: he couldn’t extricate her, confined to the boys’ side of the schoolyard as he was.
So he avoids confrontation. Languor is a more efficient method of control.
The twins were christened Marjorie and Martin, at a time when parents thought alliterative names for children were snappy, and were costumed alike in miniature overalls. Even their mother – not the sharpest knife in the drawer – realized that it would not do to stick Martin into a dress because he might turn into a pansy, her term. So there they are, aged two, in their matching sailor suits and their tiny sailor hats, holding hands and squinting into the sun with their elvish, lopsided smiles: his skewed up at the left, hers at the right. You can’t tell whether they’re boys or girls, but you have to admit they’re delicious. Behind them is a man’s body in a uniform, it being the war: their father with the top part of his head cut off, which was shortly to happen to him in reality. Their mother used to weep buckets over that photo when she’d been drinking. She viewed it as a premonition: if only she’d held the camera straight, Weston’s head would not have been cropped like that and the fatal explosion would never have happened.
Gazing at their past selves, Jorrie and Tin feel a tenderness they seldom display to anyone in the present. They’d like to hug those scrumptious little scamps, those yellowing, fading echoes. They’d like to assure the pint-sized seafarers that, though their voyage through time is about to take a turn for the worse and will remain worse for a while, it will all work out in the end. Or near the end; which is, let’s face it, where they are now.
Because, voilà, here they are together again, full circle. A few inner wounds, a few scars, a few abrasions, but still standing. Still Jorrie and Tin, who’d rebelled at being nicknamed Marje and Marv, and who’d taken to using their last syllables as their real, secret names, known to them alone. Jorrie and Tin, in revolt against society’s plans for them: no white weddings, for instance. Jorrie and Tin, who’d refused to knuckle under.
Again, that’s their story. Privately Tin can recall quite a few mortifying though satisfying knucklings-under he has submitted to, in the wild nighttime shrubberies of Cherry Beach and elsewhere, but no need to sully the ears of Jorrie with those. At least he never ran into any of his students while nervously prowling the midnight pathways. At least he never got mugged. At least he never got caught.
“So heavenly,” says Tin, smiling at the photograph, which is framed in fumed oak and resides on the dining room wall above the art deco buffet, a steal when Tin acquired it forty years ago. “Too bad our hair went dark.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Jorrie. “Blond is overrated.”
“It’s coming back,” says Tin. “The ’50s are having a moment again, have you noticed? It’s the Marilyn thing.”
He does not believe in the ’50s moment as portrayed recently on screens large and small. While they were going on, the ’50s seemed like normal life, but now they’ve become the olden days: fodder for television shows in which the colours are wrong – too clean, too pastel – and the crinolines are too numerous. Hardly anyone had a ponytail in real life, nor did the adult men always wear tailored suits, with fedoras tilted at a jaunty angle and white pocket handkerchiefs starched into triangles.
They did smoke pipes, however, though pipes were fading even then. On the weekends they mooched around in moccasins and jeans – primitive jeans, but jeans. They read their newspapers while sitting in their Naugahyde lounge chairs with matching hassocks, drinking a relaxing Manhattan and smoking fit to kill; they lovingly washed and waxed their sharp-finned and over-chromed gas-guzzler cars; they mowed their lawns with push mowers. Or that’s what the fathers of the twins’ friends did. Tin has a spot of wistfulness in his heart about the bulbous lounge chairs and the shiny, lethal cars and the cumbersome push lawn mowers. If their own father had lived, would things have been better for Tin himself?
No. Things would not have been better, they would have been horrific. He would have had to go fishing: hoick fish up out of the water and assassinate them while uttering manly grunts. Crawl under cars with wrenches, saying things like “muffler.” Be slapped on the back and told his dad was proud of him. Fat chance.