Gemini Season
My twin brother Paul is an OK guy. And when I say he’s OK, I mean that exactly.
He’s not the kind of guy who would go out of his way to help a little old lady cross the street. But he’s also not the douche who’ll cut you in line either. He’s kind of just there, participating in capitalism and breathing the oxygen.
Paul is not tall, and Paul is not short. He’s got wavy brown hair and brown eyes. He’s not specifically attractive, and he’s not specifically unattractive either. Put him in J Crew corduroys and a button down, give him a shower, and it works.
Humor? Like, kind of?
Intelligence? Paul is your classic B- student.
He played lacrosse in college and still has lacrosse friends.
*
On Friday, he’s in the neighborhood, so he calls me up.
Hey Cass, let’s grab a drink.
It’s not going well at the architecture agency. Well, it actually is going well; it could be going very well, but Paul struggles with commitment. His boss Dave is trying to give him ownership of more projects, but Paul says he’s wary of the responsibility of his name on the dotted line.
Before I can impart my sisterly wisdom, tall young men with sharp jaws walk towards us up the sidewalk. As they pass the Apple store and the corner taco depot, all the men jut chins towards each other in greeting.
Paul is heading out for the night with Garrett and Landon.
Good luck tonight with the ladies, I say to them as I stand up gathering my purse.
Garrett chokes on a half-laugh, half-snort in his throat. Landon shifts his weight to the other foot and zips his puffy vest higher up his chest.
The subtle revelation of this wordless code between them is my cue to head home.
The pack of men stalks out into the night.
*
On Sunday our aunts call to say our parents have died in a wreck on the turnpike.
We fly east. I deliver the eulogy. Shoulder-to-shoulder, Paul and I drop soil into the grave.
Our parents leave half to Paul and half to me.
After Swedish meatballs and manicotti, Paul pushes back from the table and catches a flight for an interview. (The architecture thing didn’t work out.)
I trade my black dress and kitten heels for t-shirt and cutoffs.
Upstairs, my mom’s sisters lead the way. We go room by room placing ties, cuff links, tennis bracelets, and a stuffed pony, along with some of my tears, forever into cardboard boxes.
Downstairs my uncles watch the game eating chicken wings. They slurp their fingers during the commercial breaks.
Outside, nature breathes into full bloom.
