Never!"

There was a knock on the door. "Not now, thank you," Dr. Patel called out.

"The other day? Last week, it was? I went to the convenience store. My girlfriend says, 'We're out of milk, Dominick. Go get some milk.' So I go to the convenience store and I put a gallon of milk on the counter and this clerk-this fat fuck with orange hair 281 281.

and a pierced nose-he's just . . . he was just staring staring at me like . . . at me like . . .

like I'm . . ."

"Like you were what?"

"Like I'm him him! Thomas. Thomas. Which I . . . Which I probably Which I . . . Which I probably will will be before I'm through. I mean, we're twins, right? It's going to happen eventually, isn't it?" be before I'm through. I mean, we're twins, right? It's going to happen eventually, isn't it?"

"What, exactly, do you think is going to happen, Dominick?"

"He's going to pull me under. I'm going to drown."

I did her stupid breathing exercises. Laced my fingers like she instructed and rested them on my belly. Filled my stomach with air like a balloon. Breathed out in a long, steady stream. In again. Out.

It felt stupid, but I did it. And by the sixth or seventh breath, it worked. Calmed me down. Brought me back.

"It frightens you, doesn't it, Dominick: the thought that you, too, could become mentally ill? How could it not not have frightened you all these years? His brother? His twin?" have frightened you all these years? His brother? His twin?"

De- fense! fense! De- De- fense! fense!

"It's not like . . . Look, I'm not saying he never never hit her. Ray. He did. It's just-" hit her. Ray. He did. It's just-"

The office door banged open-so loudly and abruptly that the doc and I both jumped. "Jesus!" I snapped at Sheffer. "You ever hear of knocking?"

"At my own office door?" she shot back.

She threw a stack of files on her desk. Took in the tape recorder, the warning look I caught Dr. Patel giving her, the way I guess I must have looked right about then. Sheffer looked a little whipped herself.

Her hands went into the air, palms up. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Give me a couple of minutes, will you? I just need to go to the ladies' room for a second."

After the door closed behind her, Dr. Patel asked me if I was all right.

I told her I'd live.

282 282.

"Which do you want first?" Sheffer asked us. "The bad news or the good?"

"The bad," I said and, simultaneously, Dr. Patel said, "The good."

Sheffer said the probate judge had decided to drop the criminal charge against my brother. The weapon thing. The bad news- potentially bad, anyway bad, anyway - - was that Thomas had been released to the custody of the Psychiatric Security Review Board. was that Thomas had been released to the custody of the Psychiatric Security Review Board.

"The law-and-order guys, right?" I said. "The ones that want to lock up everyone and throw away the key?"

"Not everyone, Domenico. But the headline-grabbers do tend to have a built-in disadvantage." She looked over at Dr. Patel. "In my my opinion, anyway." opinion, anyway."

"But Lisa," Dr. Patel said, "Mr. Birdsey's case is quite different from some of the other high-profile cases that have come before the Board. There's no criminal charge, no victim."

"Arguable," Sheffer said. "The other people in the library that day were terrified, right? Afraid for their safety? Doesn't that make them them victims? They could argue that." victims? They could argue that."

I thought of Mrs. Fenneck's appearance at my front door-that librarian telling me how she hadn't been able to eat or sleep since.

"Who could argue it?" I said. could argue it?" I said.

"The Review Board. Or how about this: that Thomas was both perpetrator and and victim. They could say they need to commit him long term to keep him safe from himself. Which may be a perfectly valid point. The weird part-the thing that worries me, frankly-is that they've already scheduled his hearing. Know when it is? The thirty-first." victim. They could say they need to commit him long term to keep him safe from himself. Which may be a perfectly valid point. The weird part-the thing that worries me, frankly-is that they've already scheduled his hearing. Know when it is? The thirty-first."

"The thirty-first of October October?" Dr. Patel said.

Sheffer nodded. "Trick or treat, kids."

"But that's next week, Lisa," Patel said. "His medication will have barely had time to stabilize him by then. He'll have been back on his neuroleptics less than three weeks."

"Not to mention that the fifteen-day observation period will be up that day. that day. " "

283 283.

"Ridiculous," Dr. Patel said. "How are they proposing to use our recommendations if we don't even have time to observe him and write them up?"

Sheffer said the judge wouldn't even listen listen to her argument about postponement. "Ironic, isn't it?" she said. "I'm usually complaining about how to her argument about postponement. "Ironic, isn't it?" she said. "I'm usually complaining about how in in efficient the judicial system is, but in this case, it's the efficiency that scares me. Why are they being so efficient the judicial system is, but in this case, it's the efficiency that scares me. Why are they being so expe-dient expe-dient?"

"I'll tell you one thing," I said. "If this is some kind of bag job-if they're trying to rush this through so they can sentence him to this rathole for another whole year-I'm going to raise holy hell."

"You know, Domenico," Sheffer said. "Hatch might be be the most appropriate place for Thomas. Or it might the most appropriate place for Thomas. Or it might not not be. That's the point: it's just too soon to call it. But I'll be honest with you: if you show up at the hearing 'raising holy hell,' that may just be your best shot at getting him out of here. At least it'll make a statement: that he's got family that cares. That his family might be willing to shoulder some of the responsibility. They might hear that, if you put it right. be. That's the point: it's just too soon to call it. But I'll be honest with you: if you show up at the hearing 'raising holy hell,' that may just be your best shot at getting him out of here. At least it'll make a statement: that he's got family that cares. That his family might be willing to shoulder some of the responsibility. They might hear that, if you put it right.

It all depends."

"Depends on what?"

She looked over at Dr. Patel. "I don't know. On politics, maybe.

On who-if anyone-might be pulling from the opposite direction."

When I got up to go, Dr. Patel asked me if I'd wait for a minute while she returned the tape recorder to her office. She'd see me to the front entrance, she said. She'd only be a minute.

Sheffer went over to her filing cabinet. She was wearing a tan suit and little matching high heels. Dressed up like that, she looked even more more like a pip-squeak. like a pip-squeak.

"Where's your sneakers?" I asked her.

"Excuse me?"

"Your high-tops. I almost didn't recognize you in your lady lawyer disguise."

284 284.

She rolled her eyes. "You've gotta dress the part for these conservative judges. Nothing wilder than Sandra Day O'Connor. You see the lengths I go to?"

"I'm starting to," I said. Caught her eye. "Thanks."

"I just hope it works," she said. "Rough session today?"

"What?"

"Your brother's session? You looked a little shell-shocked when I barged in here. Which I apologize for, by the way."

I shrugged. Looked away from her. "No problem," I mumbled.

When Dr. Patel returned, she took my arm and walked me back through Hatch's liver-colored corridors. Past the guard station, up to the metal detector at the front entrance. Under the halogen glare, her gold and tangerinecolored sari was almost too much to take.

"It was difficult for you today," she said. Gave my arm a squeeze.

"And yet, I hope, productive."

I told her I was sorry.

"Yes? Sorry for what, Dominick?"

"For losing it. For screaming. All those four-letter words I was letting rip back there."

She shook her head vigorously. "Your reactions-your insights-have been very helpful to me, Dominick. Perhaps they'll prove crucial in the long run. One never knows. I think, however, that we should discontinue the practice of having you listen to the tapes of your brother's sessions."

"Why? I thought you said it helped." I thought you said it helped."

"It does. But one brother's treatment should not put another brother at risk."

"Look, if I can help him . . . I want want to help him. If you can learn things." to help him. If you can learn things."She reached for my hand. Squeezed it. "I learned something very useful today," she said.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"I learned that there are two two young men lost in the woods. Not one. Two." young men lost in the woods. Not one. Two."

285 285.

She gave me one of those half-smiles of hers-one of those non-committal jobs. "I may never find one of the young men," she said.

"He has been gone so long. The odds, I'm afraid, may be against it.

But as for the other, I may have better luck. The other young man may be calling me."

286 18.1969.

The summer Thomas and I worked for the Three Rivers Public Works was also the summer of Woodstock, Chappaquiddick, and Neil Armstrong's "giant leap for mankind." Ray was so thrilled that we were about to beat the Russians to the moon that he went down to Abram's Appliance Store the week before the launch and traded in our old black-and-white Emerson TV for a new cabinet-model color Sylvania. He said he didn't care for himself, but he wanted my brother, Ma, and me to be able to see history being made on a TV where the picture didn't roll whenever it felt like it and make everyone look like a bunch of pinheads.

Ray spent that whole first week jumping out of his chair to re-adjust his tint and contrast buttons; none of the rest of us was allowed to adjust the color on the new set. He must have been trying to get his money's worth, I guess, because he always made the picture ridiculously bright-so vivid it seemed obscene. He'd fiddle with those little knobs until the NBC peacock's tail feathers bled into each other and the field at Yankee Stadium turned psychedelic 286 286 287 287.

lime green. Newscasters' complexions glowed like jack-o'-lanterns.

On the big night of the moon landing, I was on Ray's shit list because I'd made plans with Leo Blood to drive down to Easterly Beach. "One of the biggest moments in American history and you're going to some dance hall?" he asked.

"That's the beauty of America, Ray," I said. "It's a free country."

The wisecrack was one I could afford to spend in the wake of Ray's tantrum with the pickle jars. For several days, he'd acted sub-dued with Ma. Indulgent, even. With Thomas, too, who had walked barefoot into the kitchen the morning after Ray's jar-smashing and stepped directly onto the one jagged shard my mother's cleanup had missed. The one-inch piece of glass had lodged itself so firmly into the heel of Thomas's foot that neither Ma nor I had wanted to extract it. Instead, we hustled Thomas to the emergency room, where an intern poked and prodded and removed the glass. Thomas passed out during his ordeal. The gash had required both inside and outside stitches. By the time we got back home, Ray had returned from work and cleaned up the blood that trailed from the kitchen through the house and down the front stairs. He waited for us at the front door, pale and shaken. "What the hell happened?" he said. The three of us let him wait for an answer until Thomas had negotiated the cement stairs with his crutches.

More than anything, the new TV was Ray's unspoken apology.

And my going out on the night of the moon landing was my way of saying thanks but no thanks.

"They serve alcohol at this place you're going to?" he asked, passing me as I waited at the front door for Leo to show.

"I can't get into a place that serves alcohol," I said. "They card you at the door."

"They better," he said. "I catch you doing something you're not supposed to be doing and I'll make your ass bleed."

Like you made his foot bleed, you son of a bitch, I thought.

Leo's horn finally honked somewhere after the landing of the Eagle Eagle but before Armstrong's descent to the moon. He no longer drove his mother's Biscayne. Now Leo tooled around in his own car, 288 but before Armstrong's descent to the moon. He no longer drove his mother's Biscayne. Now Leo tooled around in his own car, 288 288.

a '66 Skylark convertible, cobalt blue, with a V-8, four on the floor, and a built-in eight-track with rear reverb speakers. He'd gotten a good deal on it because the engine leaked oil and the convertible top was stuck down, more or less permanently. He kept a case of Quaker State, a plastic sheet, and a stack of bath towels in the trunk for emergencies.

Leo drove the convertible fast and recklessly, which appealed to me, especially that night. Neil Armstrong and company may have torn through the heavens, but Leo and I were tearing down Route 22 with the Stones on the tape deck and a wall of oxygen rushing against us. I felt like I could breathe again. We drank beers all the way down there, chucking the cans out on the side of the road as we flew. Fuck Ray and fuck the moon and the astronauts, too. We were cooking.

Leo wanted to check out two clubs, the Blue Sands and a new place called the Dial-Tone Lounge. "We're gonna get us some action, tonight, Birdsey Boy," he called over to me. "I can feel it underneath the old loincloth."

"The old loincloth?" I laughed. Leo let go of the steering wheel and beat his chest. Then he grabbed the wheel again, stood up straight, and yelled like Tarzan. The Skylark weaved and wobbled onto the shoulder and back again.

In the Blue Sands parking lot, Leo handed me a bogus majority card and told me to memorize my name and birthday and to look the guy at the door right in the eye. Don't ask me why I still remember this, but I was Charles Crookshank, born January 19, 1947.

"Where do you get these things, anyway?" I asked Leo.

"It's a kit. You send away."

The guy posted at the door looked like something out of Planet Planet of the Apes. of the Apes. He studied our IDs with his flashlight, then shone the light right in our faces, pretty much killing off the idea of eye contact. "So," Leo said. "How about this moon landing stuff? Pretty wild, eh?" He studied our IDs with his flashlight, then shone the light right in our faces, pretty much killing off the idea of eye contact. "So," Leo said. "How about this moon landing stuff? Pretty wild, eh?"

The gatekeeper ignored Leo and looked at me. "You got a driver's license or some other form of identification, Mr. Crookshank?"

he asked.

289 289.

"Funny you should mention that," Leo intervened. "We're both from Manhattan, see? With all the buses and subways there, we just never bothered to get licenses. You don't really need them in New York."

"Wasn't that you who just drove in? In the Buick with Connecticut plates?"