1972

He stepped from the shower and rubbed his hair vigorously with a large bath towel. He felt good this morning and found himself humming a Beatles' tune under his breath as he dried off and slipped into his jeans.

He wiped the steam from the mirror with the damp towel and studied his face for the tell-tale signs of many sleepless nights. The dark circles were still there beneath his eyes.

He knew sooner or later he would have to try sleeping without the help of the pills. He was tired of depending on the Seconal or Delmane to bring on the floating sensation he used to feel when sleep overtook him.

He hated the thought of the harder drugs with which he and his brother had been experimenting. Barry enjoyed them a little too much and a little too often. Barry wanted Brad to try everything he brought home, and Barry would not let it go until Brad did. Barry was like a dog with a new bone.

It took a lot of convincing on Barry's part, but Brad eventually gave in.

The doctors and psychiatrists the Crawford kids visited regularly were no help at all. They thought the drugs they prescribed were all this family needed to get itself right. Brad knew it was not the answer. What was left of his family after the car accident had taken a downhill slide. He knew things would never be right again.

Brad stroked the scattering of young whiskers on his chin, opened the medicine cabinet, and took the razor from the shelf. Flipping on the hot water, he let it run into the sink while he shook the can of shaving cream. The steam rose up to fog the mirror. Brad realized the futility of wiping it again and opened the bathroom door.

With a yelp, he jumped back, one hand on his chest, glaring at the face that mirrored his own. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would jump right out of his chest. Quickly, he grabbed for the shirt hanging on the doorknob and shrugged into it.

"Dammit, Barry!" he shouted. His finger trembled as he tried to work the buttons. "Stop sneaking around like that! You scared the hell out of me!"

The hand that hung in mid-air getting ready to knock on the bathroom door now fell to Barry's side. "I'm not sneaking around," he said. “and I've already seen your boo-boos."

"There not boo-boo's," Brad hissed. "They're scars. And, unlike you and Brenda, I got them from the car accident."

Barry came into the bathroom, flipped down the toilet seat, and sat down. "I need some cash. I'm flat broke."

"Yea, okay," Brad mumbled under his breath as he turned back to the sink. He wished his heart would stop pounding. He took a deep breath as he waited for his hands to stop shaking. When they finally did, he picked up the can of shaving cream and shook it forcefully.

Brad watched his brother in the mirror. In so many ways, they were a perfect match, same height, same build, same face. Only when Brad looked into his twin's eyes could he see the difference. Barry had survived the accident all right, but not without its consequences. It showed in his eyes, buried deep, where no one but Brad could see it. He knew what to look for, and it scared him. It scared him bad.

It scared him ever since the day he had walked into his mother's bedroom and found Barry lying close to her in the bed, the ventilator tube pulled from the machine, his mother's hands clutching at her throat, and the gasping noises coming from her. Barry had the tube in his hands. He watched their mother with a strange fascination as she suffocated to death.

The cry had ripped from Brad's throat as he rushed into the room and grabbed the tube from his brother. He didn't know how it worked; he didn't know how to hook it back up. He stared helplessly at it as it hissed in his hands.

"Barry! What did you do?" The tube fell from Brad’s nerveless fingers and landed hissing like a transparent snake as it whipped across the carpet. "How did you take it out? Tell me! I have to fix it!" He grabbed Barry by the shoulders and shook him so hard his head rolled back and forth on his neck.

Barry's eyes were glazed. When he finally did speak, his voice was emotionless. "I didn't take it out, Brad." He turned his eyes to Brad. "She pulled it out. She did it herself."

Gloria Crawford's death certificate stated asphyxiation as the cause of her death. A Judge ordered Barry to a mental health facility for an evaluation, but the court found nothing wrong, and Barry was released.

But the subject would not die, and Brad was growing weary of the argument concerning the incident. It had been three years. Brad and Barry were not children anymore, but nineteen, which was the legal age in Arizona. No one had come to take Barry away, Vince was still their guardian in his eyes, and their sister Brenda had disappeared two years ago with no word. Brad's shoulders felt so heavy he thought he just might collapse on the ground and never get up again.

Vince Gerard filled the doorway as he crossed his muscular arms over his broad chest and leaned lazily against the door jamb. The man was solid muscle, and with his deep-set blue eyes and full dark beard, he appeared to be ominous. Brad knew better. Inside this big man was a kind and generous human being.

"What's the occasion?" Vince asked, long slender fingers stroking the beard that covered most of his face.

"Yea, good morning to you, too," Brad grinned at him in the mirror.

"Must be," Vince chuckled. "I can't imagine putting myself through that kind of torture first thing in the morning. You got somewhere to go all clean-shaven and smellin' pretty?"

He puffed out his cheek and continued shaving, running the razor over his smooth face.

Vince watched Brad work the razor, silent and thoughtful. Absently, he fingered the beard he had worn since returning from Viet Nam. "So," he said suddenly. "What's her name?"

Brad swore as he felt the sting of the blade and grabbed the towel to dab at the trickle of blood running down his neck.

"I thought so," Vince chuckled.

Barry laughed and pointed at his brother. "I knew it! That's why you've been acting strange."

Brad's eyes held his friends in the mirror. "Give me a break, huh? I haven't been to Kelly's in a while."

It was exactly one month and two days, yet Brad went through this routine every morning. He was jumping from the bed at the crack of dawn, hitting the shower, shaving a virtually non-existent beard, plowing through his closet for something to wear like a teenage girl. He just had not developed the nerve to go back to the diner.

Not since she had first shown up in the pouring rain.

Barry snorted under his breath. "He won't tell anyone. It's a big goddamn secret."

Vince glanced sharply at Barry but remained silent. Brad caught the look and tried to think of something to say. When words failed him, he shrugged, pulled the towel from his shoulder, and wiped his face clean. It wasn't a secret. Of course, it wasn't. He just wasn't ready.

Barry would not let it end, though. He turned to Vince. "It's such a big goddamn secret he won't even tell me, his brother."

"Shut up, Barry," Vince warned.

"Lay off, Vince," Brad pleaded, suddenly feeling trapped in the small room.

"Me, lay off?" Vince echoed.

"It's none of your damn business anyway," Barry hissed at Vince.

"It is my business," Vince corrected him. "You guys made it my business the day I signed the guardianship papers."

"Vince!" Brad shouted as Barry rose from his perch on the toilet seat. Brad was sure there would be fists drawn, but Barry left the room in a huff.

He came back a minute later and glared at Brad. “Cash, Brad,” he said with his hand out.

“Give me a minute,” Brad answered.

“Cash for what?” Vince interrupted.

“Like I said,'' Barry smiled menacingly. “It’s none of your goddamn business.”

Vince angrily reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wad of bills. “How much?”

“Fifty should do it,” Barry answered.

“Fifty bucks? What are you buying? The entire store?”

“Still none of your goddamn business.”

“Here, take it,” Vince growled, shoving the fifty-dollar bill at Barry.

Without hesitation, Barry grabbed the money out of Vince’s tight fist and angrily left the room.

“Jesus, Vince,” Brad swore. “Do you have to get him all riled up?”

"Ah, bullshit, Brad. You let him walk all over you."

"He’s fine," Brad stated. “He just gets a little moody.”

Vince snorted. “Moody, yea, I guess that’s what you call it. You’ve got blinders on where he’s concerned. You know you don't have to put up with it."

"I don't have much choice, do I?

"Yes, you do. You could reopen your mother's case."

"No!" Brad said sharply. "No way. I can't have him put away in some institution. He's all I have left. Especially with Brenda missing." This last, he whispered under his breath.

A shadow crossed Vince's face, and his eyes darkened. "Okay, kid," he muttered. "You know best. I'm out of here. You know where to find me if you need me."

The sound of the front door closing signaled Vince's departure, and Brad left the bathroom and headed to the sanctuary of his bedroom. Sitting down on the bed and heaving a sigh of relief, he stuffed his foot into one tennis shoe.

***

Her face jumped out at him.

It had been raining so hard that night that he had decided to hang around the diner for a while longer to see if it would let up. Kelly had just made a fresh pot of coffee, and they were getting ready to sit down and play a tiebreaker game of chess when the bell over the door rang.

Brad saw her enter and his breath caught in his throat.

She had been drenched to the skin, her blue eyes wide and frightened in the pale face. In her hands, she clutched the handle of a well-worn suitcase. She had stepped timidly into the diner and slipped hesitantly into the first booth by the door. The bag she slid between her feet on the tile floor. She folded her hands on the table and waited quietly.

Kelly came through the swinging metal kitchen doors with a whistle on his lips that died as soon as he saw the girl. He glanced at Brad, who shrugged his shoulders. Setting the hot carafe of coffee on the counter in front of Brad, Kelly slowly approached the girl.

When she glanced up at him, she looked as if she had seen a ghost. She started to rise from the booth. As soon as her feet touched the floor, her eyes rolled back in her head.

Kelly moved quickly. He caught her before she hit the ground. Her body was limp, and Kelly had cried out for Brad.

Brad scrambled from his stool at the counter as soon as he had seen the girl fainting and took her from Kelly's arms. He laid her gently onto the seat of the booth and brushed his hands lightly across her forehead. It was warm but not feverish.

"Do you think she's sick?" he asked, his eyes never leaving her face.

"I don't know. Stay with her," Kelly wheezed from the exertion. "I'll get some water."

Kelly left Brad's side and moved quickly to the side counter.

Brad glanced down at the girls’ hands. She was clutching something tightly in her left hand. He pried the paper from her fingers and studied the old black and white photograph. Without a word, he replaced the glass of water in Kelly's hand with the picture.

"What's this?" Kelly asked.

"Don't know," Brad answered, holding the glass of water to the girl's mouth. The water ran across her lips and down the front of her blouse. She was unconscious.

"Well, I'll be," Kelly breathed.

Brad rose from his haunches and peered over Kelly's shoulder. "That's you?" he asked incredulously.

Kelly nodded.

"Who's the guy with you?"

"That's Jack Woods," Kelly said in wonderment. "We were in World War II together. Remember the story I told you about getting shot down in the ocean?"

Brad nodded, his eyes never leaving the picture.

"Well, Jack was one of the pilots. We spent..."

"Eighteen days on a raft in the Pacific Ocean," Brad finished. He knew the story well. "She looks like him."

Kelly nodded. "She does at that." He stuffed the photo into his apron pocket. "Guess we'll know more after she wakes up. Watch her for a minute," he tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the back room where his apartments were. "I'm going to make up the sofa. Poor kid," he mumbled under his breath as he hurried away.

Brad knelt by the side of the booth and took her cold hands in his. He cupped them in his own to warm them and studied her face.

She was breathing evenly, and her chest rose and fell gently with each breath. Her lashes were long against the pale face. Even though it was still very wet, her hair was so blonde it was almost white. She wore it down her arms like a white blanket. Brad lifted some of the strands and let them run through his fingers. Under the hair was a long scar running from her temple to her earlobe.

Brad narrowed his eyes as he studied the scar. Something about it---he shook his head. A vague feeling of Deja vu crept over him. It was almost like a memory. But at the sound of Kelly’s footsteps, he let the feeling go.

Brad lifted her from the booth and followed him back to his apartment. Kelly took off her coat and shoes and put a pair of warm socks on her feet before slipping her into the sofa bed, pulling the quilts up to her chin. Even though she still lay unconscious, she shivered visibly beneath the covers.

Kelly watched her breathing, his face a worried mask.

"Do you think she's any relation to the guy you knew in the war?" Brad's whisper was loud in the quiet diner.

Kelly shrugged. "Come on, Brad," he said instead. "I'll buy you a cup of coffee for your help."

Brad took one last look at the girl before reluctantly following Kelly from the apartment. It was late, and the rain had stopped. They never did finish their game of chess. And Brad never did return to the diner to find out if the girl was all right.

***

Brad wiped the shaving residue from his face and left the bathroom. He was glad that Barry and Vince were both gone. Now he could get dressed in peace. He was going back to the diner today, come hell or high water.

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