The Theory of Big and Small VII: Bud

Bud stared at Sara for a moment.
“Plat!” he said, turned on his heel and disappeared into the bowels of the house. She heard a door slam.
Nate made as if to get up and then fell back, waving his hand dismissively.
Sara sat motionless, unsure what to do.
Or say.
“He’s having a bad day,” was Nate’s only comment before picking up his bottle again and sucking at it noisily.

“Don’t you have anything to offer me except beer?” Sara felt no desire to leave and the leather on the chair had warmed.
“Nope.”
He eyed her slowly. Now that she wasn’t running out the door he could take his time assessing her. She was wearing some old flannel shirt that looked like it had come from her dad’s closet and a pair of unattractive corduorys in some god-awful shade of puke green. Her hair would be quite nice in a thick, brown-y kind of way if she hadn’t put it into a ponytail and plastered it down with a sweaty wool tam. It lay on the floor next to the chair where she’d dropped it. He smiled. She must have ripped it off her head when Bud came in.

Like that would have made a difference.

She swiveled around, taking in the living room again. Nothing had changed, except the lumpy thing in the corner had been stripped of its canvas drape, revealing a drum set.

“You play?” She saw him drop his gaze out of the corner of her eye.
“Naw, that’s my brother’s stuff.” She exhaled. Of course he would be a musician. Moondoggy?
Why do you call him…..
“He thinks he’s a surfer and for some stupid reason he goes out to the lake every day in the summer looking for a good ride”. Nate laughed derisively and foam in the beer bottle volcanoed out and sprayed along the sofa in a delicate imitation of a cresting wave.
‘But….”
Nate laughed, then glared at her.
“He’s nuts, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Sara looked wildly back into the murky depths of the house.
“But…”
“Yeah, he’s cute isn’t he?” He was snarling. Or laughing, she couldn’t tell which.
“No, I mean….”
“Oh, you mean the waves? Or the lack thereof on Lake Ontario?”
She was getting frustrated.
“You said….!” Nate stopped whatever he was about to say. “You said he was going to school!” She was shouting now and there was the echo of a crashing sound in the back of the house.
For a moment Nate looked reflective. He swirled the contents of the amber bottle and watched the bubbles dance around the lip.
“He is in school. And he works part-time to pay for this palatial residence in which we both reside…..”
He catapulted up off the couch so suddenly Sara fell back into the Barkerlounger. She put her hands up over her face.
Nate lumbered to the kitchen and went straight through pushing the door in front of him with a loud bang. It swung back with equal force and cut her off into silence.

Where was her hat?
She stretched sideways over the side looking for it and was planning to make a run for it when Nate returned. He was carrying a wooden tray with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits visible above the curved edges.
Sara tried to hide the tam, her hands were every which way. She ended up shoving it under her behind.
“’S okay,” he remarked without meeting her gaze. With the tray balanced deftly in one hand he pulled a small table over to her chair with the other and then set the tray down. Next to the delft-blue teapot, a delicate cup and saucer in a thorny rose pattern. The biscuits were dipped in chocolate. How had he put this together so quickly? The fluted china and teapot were another mystery.

“I have hot chocolate if you’d prefer,” he said in a fake English accent.
“This is nice, thanks,” she said a littled dazedly. It was then Sara noticed he’d included a large cotton napkin, neatly folded into a silver ring. She reached for it.
“Just don’t put it under your chin,” he said, wiggling his ringed fingers at her like it was a royal command.

The tea was steeped to a dark peaty color when she poured it into the cup. The aroma of caramel steamed up toward her and curled around her face and hair. Not knowing where else to put it, she took a biscuit and put it on the rim of her saucer. It was all a bit awkward, maneuvering over the chunky contours of the lounger and she remained perched on the edges, trying balance everything. It took her mind off the situation at hand, at least momentarily. The two of them passed a few minutes in complete silence. She sipped.

Then,
“Your brother.” Sara started again with more authority. "Is there something wrong with him?” She’d only heard barely two words out of him anyway, and he’d started out on the right foot.

“Nothing a little medication wouldn’t cure,” came the reply. She looked for signs of sarcasm on the face visible over the rim of her cup but found none. She took a sip and thought some more.
“I’ve seen that look,” said Nate.
“I’m just confused.” About Bud, and about the tea and biscuits suddenly appearing by her side.
“He’s really not nuts.” Nate sighed. Every bit of air came out of him like a deflated balloon. “He just likes to fake people out.” Nate shoved the empty bottle under the couch with one huge, bare heel. Somewhere along the line he’d shed his flip-flops which were askew like two bunny ears next to the couch.
He leaned forward.
“You don’t know what it’s like to grow up with a twin brother who looks like an underwear model.” He was expressionless. “I kind of went a different way with my look.”
“And yes…..we are identical twins if that’s your next question.” To her silence he added, “Hence the oddness of it all, wouldn’t you agree?”
That being the obvious elephant in the room (she forgave herself the pun), Sara tried to stick to the point.
“He seemed….well, a little strange at the end there,” She wasn’t sure how else to put it. He’d spat.
“It’s my brother’s way of evening out the playing field.”
“That’s insulting!” she managed before realizing what she’d said.
Nate lifted his hand and slapped the wattled flesh around his thighs. “I’ve been this way since second grade. It is an old habit, my brother’s lame way of protecting me.”
Sara took a bite of the biscuit. It was homemade, delicate and flaky. Buttery. She held it aloft.
“Did you?”
“Yes. One of my hobbies”
“And the tea?”
“My brother put the tray together for you. There’s another door to the kitchen from the back.”
She turned at that moment to see Bud re-entering the room. He was wearing a valet’s uniform with a red vest and little black bow tie. From the neck down he looked ridiculous. From the neck up……Sara realized then why it had been so hard for Nate to exist in the same space as his twin. Bud couldn’t help sucking the life out of everything around him, and time stopped. He was truly beautiful.
She turned wildly seeking the reflection of something in Nate’s face. It was a reflex, as primal as a wary animal looking for patterns in the shifting shadows of the brush, listening for something new, something foreign. Everything had to make sense, to fit together or there would be danger.

Nate sat impassively, waiting for the moment to pass. He had long ago stopped trying to help, to suck in his gut or turn his face to match that of his brother, to show off the angular line of their cheeks, the square jaw, the vibrant, alive eyes. He was beyond truculent (another phase), beyond defensive. He let her scan his features, the pouchy flesh under his eyes, the pinky stretched bum-cheeks, the jowls falling away into his neck. He sat and waited.

Bud barely slowed down.
“Bye.” It came out mumbled. Strangled.
Nate's brother totally avoided her, she was a leper to him and he got out of the door as fast as he could, the metal screen door banging open and snapping back on his shins as he fled.

She heard the truck start up and drive away. Nate hadn’t moved.
The cookie was still in her hand, the chocolate warmed and coating her fingers. She put it down.

“You’re sitting on your hat,” said Nate.

The Theory of Big and Small VI

Nate was standing there, fully functional in flip-flops, a pair of baggy cotton shorts and a gigantic teeshirt with Keep On Truckin’ emblazoned across his ample man-breasts. She had forgotten how tall he was – over six feet, broad shouldered. Not all of him was lost to fat – his massive arms showed muscular underpinnings, and his calves were firm and surprisingly well formed. But these details were overshadowed by the rolls of extended flesh around his face, neck, and the swell of his gigantic belly. And the fingers, like sausages, were still adorned with an array of flashy rings. He stood in the doorway for a moment behind the protection of the outer glass screen before reaching out and unlatching it.

Sara wasn’t white sure what to say but as Nate stepped aside she came in, this time to a room that was familiar in memory, still dark and shadowy, but not so frightening.

“I……”, she started and then gave up. What was she doing here? Feet thudding on the floorboards, Nate moved past her to his post on the sofa where he let himself down but not without tremendous objection from the furniture, which squealed and groaned. The cast was gone so he was walking with much more confidence, though his bulk still made movement difficult. The room looked clean, no fluke there, she thought. Someone was taking care of the place.

She stood awkwardly at the door until he gestured to a Barkalounger chair next to the sofa. She’d hadn’t remembered it being there before. It was dark brown leather and obscenely padded, with a wooden lever on the side to shoot the out the footstool. She gingerly ventured into its depths and was immediately engulfed, legs dangling. Nate had her at an advantage.

He didn’t look like the young teenager she’d mistaken him for either. Now it was obvious he was much older than that, just as he had claimed. And to prove his point he reached down beside him and lifted a half-empty bottle of Labatt’s Blue.

“Can I get you one?” he said with a malicious gleam.

Sara found her voice. She scooted forward on the chair and hung there in the balance, hands firmly on the armrests. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t come by sooner…” Nate looked like he’d heard this all before. He gave an exaggerated sigh.
“My brother bought me another guinea pig, if that’s what’s worrying you,” his expression made clear that he thought otherwise.
“Yes, well, about that.” He watched her with some interest. “I think I should pay for….pay for…well. “Yes, let’s not beat around bush, shall we,” Nate interrupted. “Her name was Mabel. Mabel! She was twenty-four guinea years old, liked pistachio ice cream, quiche, and moonlight walks on the beach.” He chortled. Sara stared.

“You know, I’m really sorry!” The chair was getting uncomfortably hot and it seemed to be taking her back into its depths.
“Sure, that’s why it took you two months to come by and tell me so.”
Had it been that long?
“Yes, I know.”
“Inexcusable,” she squeaked out at last.
Nate licked his lips. “Well anyway, my new g-pig is a guy this time. He’s big and bad works out every day on that wheel of his and anytime you want to bring your little dustmop around for a slap-down I’m sure he can take it on.”

She deserved this.
“Okay, okay, just let me know what I can do to make this up to you.”
She had inched forward on the chair and had almost got her tippy toes on the floor when the kitchen door banged open and she started with a yelp and pitched forward.
Nate turned and cocked his head, but his eyes were on Sara who was still trying to regain her balance. She was always falling down in this place!

“Hey bro, have you…..” The voice behind her stopped and she turned half-expecting to see another large apparition. She froze.

The man was tall and lanky, wearing a maroon hoodie over a black teeshirt and jeans. His dark hair was tousled into thatchy peaks. He had a strong chin, with a bit of stubble, which he was rubbing, looking sleepy. His feet were bare. As he stood rooted to the spot staring at Sara, she saw he had the same green-flecked eyes as his brother.

She was bent over and scrabbled to right herself. The chair! She moved as far away from it as possible.

Nate didn’t bother to get up. He leaned back and lifted his beer to his lips.
“Hey Moondoggie. Thought you were already at work." His eyes flickered back to Sara. "I’m just hanging out with my gal-pal.”
“But I’m not…..” Sara sputtered and then stopped. “I mean….’
“Oh, that’s right,” Nate said with exaggerated politeness, “I guess you haven’t met my brother.”
His free arm hand extended out in the parody of a grand gesture. The rings clinked.
“Bud, meet……” he looked at her pointedly.
“Sara,” she managed.
“Sara, meet Bud….my twin, “ he finished with no small amount of satisfaction.

The Theory of Big and Small V: False Start

The bitter cold snap was gone by Sunday – a bright, warm kind of day that often came on the heels of winter’s false start. A last gift before bowing to the elements and turning on itself, giving up like a sigh unto death. In the transition time the impermanence of spring-like weather was like forbidden honey, to taste and taste.

And the morning sun had come on strong, turning the night’s freeze into rivulets of fresh water pouring down from glistening roofs and dripping into the sodden earth. The thin layer of snow on the streets had melted into patches of evaporating dampness. Soon all traces of the storm would be gone Sara noted with some satisfaction as she stood at the living room window watching a sparrow (her mother called them ‘little brown jobbies’) peck at something in the damp earth of the rose garden. From the warmth of her bed to the cool darkness of the rest of the house she now felt drawn to the sun, to get out and feel it on her face and arms. A bike ride would do.

Sara had no place to go in particular but after taking Bertie for his morning constitutional she put on a an old pair of corduroys pinched at the ankles by a pair of bike guards, and a hat to guard against the sun. The sky was very blue, washed clean of city soot, the kind of pleasing warmth against a sweater that felt almost like spring. She had a beach bike with thick tires and simple gears. The green paint had long since chipped away but Sara thought the harsh, changeable weather of the city and the constant wind coming off Lake Ontario full of acid rainwater made repainting it a waste of time.

She put her leather satchel in the big wire basket and pushed off, coasting slowly down the long driveway, feet grazing the pavement, thin scarf flying behind. Hands on the handlebars, she looked up and saw the friendlier clouds, the small white ones that had so often taken up her thoughts as she lay under the plumeria bush in the backyard. Her parents, who’d been to Hawaii once on a tour, had bought it home as a seedling and while made it through year after year of winter to grow spreading branches heavy with fragrant blossoms of yellow and cream, they’d told her often of their night at the luau in Wakiki when their host had threaded dozens of these flowers into leis which were put around their necks before the feast began. The way they described it, looking at each other, the pungent aroma that her mother said made her giddy and a little bit ‘fast’. She would laugh then, like Katherine Hepburn, looking heavenward, and her father would always blush.

The plumeria shouldn’t have survived in this cold climate but her mother bagged the huge bush in plastic every winter and then wrapped it in an extra layer of burlap. Then she sprayed a layer of water on it during the first hard frost in January and there it stayed, silent and sleeping, until April when the longer days and warmer weather gradually dried up outer covering and her mother would free it again. The neighbors declared it a marvel.

Sara had never been to Hawaii but her mother had once told her she was not so different from the plumeria. She’d come home from school one afternoon with scratches on her face and arms.

“What happened?” It was a rare day when Delys was home. She was usually down the street taking care of the neighbor’s children. Sara had fled directly into her room and refused to come out.

“My bangs aren’t straight!” was all that came muffled through the door after much pleading. When her mother found it unlocked an hour later Sara was sitting on the old wooden vanity, her hair sopping wet flattened under strips of scotch tape across her forehead. She was pressing her palms on her hair, smoothing it down and rocking back and forth.

“What happened!” her mother demanded again, taking her by the shoulders. Sara looked off into the mirror and saw everything in the backwards world. There were so many unexplainable things there. She didn’t understand, but it didn’t stop them from happening. Her mother’s cornsilk hair curled away from her face like a spent dandielion, ready to rise up into the air, like the rest of her. She was all soft and simple. A simpleton. She watched Sara with all the intensity she posessed and still it wasn’t enough to penetrate the density between them.

But she was waiting for an explanation.

“They took me to a closet.” The supply room at the school. The others thought she’d told her teacher about their glue sniffing marathons out by the gymnasium door. The Principal had come for them, there was blood to pay. The girls found a key, pushed her inside and held her up against the wall, clawing at her, stoned and enraged. She didn’t scream. When they were done they left, one by one and she had crept out after them and taken her place in English class as if nothing had happened. They filed in later, defiant and glaring at her. From now on she'd be labled as a snitch.

It was useless to tell her mother any more. She’d long ago stopped trying to cross the divide, to pluck at the strings of her mother’s heart. There were too many children vying for her attention and she’d always said Sara could take care of herself.

“Like water off a duck’s back,” Delys marveled to her friends. “I don’t worry about my Sara!” And then would come the darkness when she complained of the menial jobs she had to take to support them and her spendthrift husband.

But that day her mother had looked hard into her daughter’s eyes and sighed.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” she asked. And she looked off for a while, still holding on to Sara in a protective fashion. Daughter leaned into mother and it was then Delys said,
“You aren’t so different than my plumeria.” Sara didn’t care what she was saying, so lost she was in the embrace. Her mother put her face close to Sara’s lank hair but stopped at putting a hand up to stroke it. “This isn’t your time, she said with resignation, “and you’ve got to cover yourself up and wait for summer to come.” It was then Sara realized just how much drudgery the delicate Hawaiian transplant had been, demanding her mother’s time without mercy, unrepentant. And only Sara to lie under it each flowering spring to breathe in its perfume and dream its dreams.

There was no traffic on the street, dappled as it was from the trees still heavy with fall foliage, the distance beckoned. She set out for unknown territory. Today would be an adventure!

But it was not to be. One turn led to another and she was on the street where Nate lived. She didn’t care if he lived or died. But the house was suddenly there and in the driveway sat a red pick-up truck.

Something new.

She parked her bike on the kickstand and unlatched her pant guards. Shaking out like a dog coming from the rain she made her way up the path and finding the door closed and locked this time, she knocked and waited for someone to let her in.