Demographic Heterogeneity

There was nothing I could say. No words could ever excuse my presumption. No words could ever undo her revulsion.

I handed her the greasy bag.

"Tracy, wait."

But I couldn't.

---

I went to the library. To a lonely carrel in the most secluded corner. I didn't want to infect anyone.

I couldn't close my eyes without seeing her look of shock and revulsion, as vividly as if it were happening all over again. I couldn't open them without seeing, just as vividly, how repulsive I must have looked to her.

No one came by. The bell rang. The library closed. I went back to the dorm. I didn't know where else to go. I would have slept in the car, but I didn't have one. I went around back and counted windows. Our light was still on. There was a little study lounge on the first floor. I put my head on the table. Later I went out and counted again. The light was off. I crept into the room. I curled up under my blanket. I didn't want to infect anyone. I would leave before she got up.

When I woke up it felt, for a moment, as if the world were normal and whole. But then I remembered, and the marrow in my bones began again to ache. Alex was rustling about. I lay stone still. She went to the bathroom. I grabbed my backpack and left.

I stayed away from the room every waking hour for the next several days. I'd drop myself off at the carrel like a parcel of laundry. Later, I'd pick myself up and drop myself somewhere else. My card worked at the other dining hall. The law library stayed open until 1 am. The chapel on the first floor of Maynard was never locked.

I'd read a paragraph, and it would strike me, all over again, how absurd is was to have thought that Alex would ever have been attracted to a conceited, namby-pamby wimp like me. What a fool I'd been to think that my best hand was just to try to be myself. That had worked like a charm. She'd seen what kind of man I was. I was the only one who hadn't.

I'd refocus on the paragraph and realize, all over again, just how far trying to act more like a man had gotten me. A failure if I didn't, a failure if I did. Eventually I'd just have to come to grips with it. A failure either way. I could become a monk, maybe. A hermit. A little man who sat at a little desk and went home to a little apartment.

The words of the paragraph would still be there but they wouldn't make any sense. It was all for the better anyway. Alex would find herself an all-American, red-blooded guy with plenty of vitality who would sweep her off her feet, show her a good time. Someone she would have no trouble having real feelings for.

The letters of the paragraph would still be there, but they wouldn't even make words anymore. Why had it been so hard for me to see what was so plainly obvious? If there'd been even a whiff of manliness about me, would Alex have ever agreed to share a room with me in the first place?

I'd try to clear my thoughts. Enough time on this paragraph. There were lots more paragraphs to go. I'd move on to the next one, and it would strike me, all over again, how absurd is was to have thought that Alex would ever have been attracted to a conceited, namby-pamby wimp like me.

---

Life seemed like it was being played through tinny speakers. Every song sounded the same. If I put one foot in front of the other I usually ended up where I needed to go. If not, I turned around and went back in the other direction. If someone asked me a question, an acceptable answer usually came out. If not, they usually got tired of waiting and left me alone.

"I'm taking a little break. Care to join me?" Beverley had found me in the library. She spoke with a simulated brio as if she thought I couldn't see through it.

"You seem so down. Is it just finals? Or is it something else?" Alex must have told them what had happened. She must have asked them to keep an eye on me. That made me feel even sadder. Like I was strung up naked in the hallway display case, with an information card for people to squint at and felt arrows pointing out my noteworthy features. But she was just trying to be nice. I summoned up every ounce of willpower and tried to squeeze out a feeble smile.

---

I kept sneaking back into the dorm room at night. I didn't know where else to go. Finally one night Alex caught me. She sat up in bed and turned on the light.

"How are you doing?" The pattern of her modulation indicated concern.

.

"I've been worried about you." The type of thing that someone might think that someone might be expected to say.

She started to cry. She got up. She came to my bed. She sat down beside me. She put her arms around me. Maybe I would have felt something if it had been the real Alex and not just a cardboard cutout. The atoms of my body continued to occupy space. Time continued to tick-tock along.

She kept holding me. I'd had my English final that morning. Sonnets, words, gobbledygook. Logic that afternoon. Syllogisms, symbols, gobbledygook. Preparing me for my life as a bank teller. Who could count to sixteen. Tell his p's from his q's.

She kept holding me. Christmas would be coming. Parking lots. Slush. Relatives. Disappointment. Then that other holiday. Noise. Hangover.

She kept holding me. Tighter, perhaps, than a cardboard cutout. I could hear her breathing. I could feel the heat from her body. I could smell her scent. Unwashed exertion. Chamomile.

She kept holding me. I began to feel incredibly sad. Like a little kid who had fallen down and scraped his knee. Sad, hurting; but no longer infinitely so. Sad, but almost ready to get up and try again.

She kept holding me. Like she was trying to resuscitate a frozen bird. Like she was trying to squeeze some life force back into it. Like she wouldn't stop until it was alive again.

She kept holding me. What if I were alive, but it was a life without her? What if all the sweetness I'd imagined would never come true? What if all I had were empty streets to shuffle down alone?

She kept holding me. But wasn't she alive too? Not a creature of my imagination. Not a character I could just right-click into my fantasies. A real person. Hadn't I known that? Who saw things her own way. Who had her own streets to shuffle down.

She kept holding me. Central Avenue. Broadway, Perkins Drive. Not altogether empty, those streets. There were shops, houses, restaurants. People strolling by, chatting, laughing, on their way from one place to another. Her street and my street might not even be that far apart. They might even cross from time to time.

She kept holding me. I put my hands up on her arms and gave her a little squeeze in return.

She kept holding me. I kept holding her back.

---

Gradually she slackened her grasp. She wasn't sobbing anymore, just breathing deeply, as if the bout was finally over. I don't know if I was breathing at all.

"Can I sleep here with you tonight?" she asked, in a small voice.

I looked at her. She was worn and disheveled, her hair matted every which way, her eyes red and tear stained. She was in the midst of the finals gauntlet too. She'd had papers to write, exams to study for. She'd had an unstable roommate to worry about. To patch up.

The sheets were damp with sweat. She turned off the light. She got in beside me. I put my arm on hers. We lay in silence for the longest time.

"Do you remember the night of the blackout?" she asked. "We slept together that night too. I was really scared---the darkness, the thunder. We were pretending we were camping out, remember? It was so dark we couldn't even see each other. But you were right there, and it made me feel safe and protected.

"That first night, when we finally decided to share the room, I was all set to call it off. I thought everything was going wrong. I was so sad and miserable. I thought for sure that my crying would scare you away. But it didn't. You told me that everything would be all right. You gave me that little hug. You told me that everything would be OK.

"And it was. You always had time for me, you always listened to my ramblings. I was kind of scared to be sharing a room with a boy. Not scared of you, but scared that things would be . . . too frank, too . . . locker room. But you always made it feel like home. You always made me feel like whatever differences we had were hardly differences at all.

"That night of the blackout, well, you know how sometimes when you wake up in the morning, before you open your eyes, you kind of forget where you are, and then it just comes to you---you're in two forty one, the door is over here, the window is over there. It was like that. You were right there beside me, in the darkness, and that very spot where you were was familiar somehow in my mind. It was a spot that I recognized, like it had been there my whole life. It was the spot where my twin brother would be. Right there beside me, going through the same things I was going through, not knowing the answers any better than I did, but trying just as hard. Not the same as me, but exactly the same as me. Helping me, protecting me, comforting me, needing my help and comfort and protection in return.

"That's the way I've thought about us ever since. That we're twins. That we're cut from the same cloth. We're alike in so many ways, we share the same room, we have these silly sibling squabbles, we sometimes pretend we don't have anything to do with each other. But you're always there, you're always on my side, you're always so proud of me. No matter what happens, no matter what comes, it's always all right because if it happens to you, it happens to me."

The dorm was dead quiet. The stars in the poster swirled faintly in the night sky.

"I just can't think of us any other way.

"I've been trying. But look at us. Lying in bed together. If we tried to be boyfriend and girlfriend . . . I'm just not ready for that. Not with anyone yet. And I really, truly don't know if those kind of feelings would ever come for you. It just doesn't seem to work that way for me.

"I should have told you all this before. I'm sorry. I guess I always just assumed that you felt the same way. You always treated me exactly the way I thought a brother would treat his sister.

"So, I guess I'll just come out and say this. Maybe it's time . . . for us to strike out on our own, like twins have to do. There's an opening on the third floor. For a boy. They'll let you have it since you're already here. It doesn't mean we'll stop looking at pictures and maps and going to breakfast and proofreading each other's papers. It doesn't mean we'll stop sharing our year together. It doesn't mean we'll stop caring for each other. That's what twins do.

"I know it isn't fair. I know it's what I want, not what you want. Always before we've tried to work things out. But this time I just don't see how."

It was way late. The cypress tree in the poster rose up like a dark flame in the starry sky. I was remembering the way the rain had drummed against the window, the way she had spread out the little cloth for our picnic. I closed my eyes and tried to see more clearly the spot she occupied in my mind. But I was really tired.

"It's all right," I said, summoning up my most reassuring voice. "It's all right. We'll both get to stay in Maynard, at least." I gave her my tightest hug. "Thank you for being here." That part came out in more of a whisper. "One day I'll tell you how much I really mean that." I kissed her forehead. "But you've got Renaissance Florence tomorrow I think. I've got Japan. We should try to get some sleep."