Everyone who saw the twins remarked on their difference one from the other and seemed puzzled that this should be so. Cal was growing up dark-skinned, dark-haired. He was quick and sure and secret. Even though he may have tried, he could not conceal his cleverness. Adults were impressed with what seemed to them a precocious maturity, and they were a little frightened at it too. No one liked Cal very much and yet everyone was touched with fear of him and through fear with respect. Although he had no friends he was welcomed by his obsequious classmates and took up a natural and cold position of leadership in the schoolyard.
If he concealed his ingenuity, he concealed his hurts too. He was regarded as thick-skinned and insensitive—even cruel.
Aron drew love from every side. He seemed shy and delicate. His pink-and-white skin, golden hair, and wide-set blue eyes caught attention. In the schoolyard his very prettiness caused some difficulty until it was discovered by his testers that Aron was a dogged, steady, and completely fearless fighter, particularly when he was crying. Word got around, and the natural punishers of new boys learned to let him alone. Aron did not attempt to hide his disposition. It was concealed by being the opposite of his appearance. He was unchanging once a course was set. He had few facets and very little versatility. His body was as insensitive to pain as was his mind to subtleties.
Cal knew his brother and could handle him by keeping him off balance, but this only worked up to a certain point. Cal had learned when to sidestep, when to run away. Change of direction confused Aron, but that was the only thing that confused him. He set his path and followed it and he did not see nor was he interested in anything beside his path. His emotions were few and heavy. All of him was hidden by his angelic face, and for this he had no more concern or responsibility than has a fawn for the dappling spots on its young hide.
2
On Aron’s first day in school he waited eagerly for the recess. He went over to the girlside to talk to Abra. A mob of squealing girls could not drive him out. It took a full-grown teacher to force him back to the boyside.
At noon he missed her, for her father came by in his high-wheeled buggy and drove her home for her lunch. He waited outside the schoolyard gate for her after school.
She came out surrounded by girls. Her face was composed and gave no sign that she expected him. She was far the prettiest girl in the school, but it is doubtful whether Aron had noticed that.
The cloud of girls hung on and hung on. Aron marched along three paces behind them, patient and unembarrassed even when the girls tossed their squealing barbs of insult over their shoulders at him. Gradually some drifted away to their own homes, and only three girls were with Abra when she came to the white gate of her yard and turned in. Her friends stared at him a moment, giggled, and went on their way.
Aron sat down on the edge of the sidewalk. After a moment the latch lifted, the white gate opened, and Abra emerged. She walked across the walk and stood over him. “What do you want?”
Aron’s wide eyes looked up at her. “You aren’t engaged to anybody?”
“Silly,” she said.
He struggled up to his feet. “I guess it will be a long time before we can get married,” he said.
“Who wants to get married?”
Aron didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t hear. He walked along beside her.
Abra moved with firm and deliberate steps and she faced straight ahead. There was wisdom and sweetness in her expression. She seemed deep in thought. And Aron, walking beside her, never took his eyes from her face. His attention seemed tied to her face by a taut string.
They walked silently past the Baby School, and there the pavement ended. Abra turned right and led the way through the stubble of the summer’s hayfield. The black ’dobe clods crushed under their feet.
On the edge of the field stood a little pump house, and a willow tree flourished beside it, fed by the overspill of water. The long skirts of the willow hung down nearly to the ground.
Abra parted the switches like a curtain and went into the house of leaves made against the willow trunk by the sweeping branches. You could see out through the leaves, but inside it was sweetly protected and warm and safe. The afternoon sunlight came yellow through the aging leaves.
Abra sat down on the ground, or rather she seemed to drift down, and her full skirts settled in a billow around her. She folded her hands in her lap almost as though she were praying.
Aron sat down beside her. “I guess it will be a long time before we can get married,” he said again. “Not so long,” Abra said. “I wish it was now.”
“It won’t be so long,” said Abra. Aron asked, “Do you think your father will let you?”
It was a new thought to her, and she turned and looked at him. “Maybe I won’t ask him.”
“But your mother?”
“Let’s not disturb them,” she said. “They’d think it was funny or bad. Can’t you keep a secret?”
“Oh, yes. I can keep secrets better than anybody. And I’ve got some too.”
Abra said, “Well, you just put this one with the others.”
Aron picked up a twig and drew a line on the dark earth. “Abra, do you know how you get babies?”
“Yes,” she said. “Who told you?”
“Lee told me. He explained the whole thing. I guess we can’t have any babies for a long time.”
Abra’s mouth turned up at the corners with a condescending wisdom. “Not so long,” she said.
“We’ll have a house together some time,” Aron said, bemused. “We’ll go in and close the door and it will be nice. But that will be a long time.”
Abra put out her hand and touched him on the arm. “Don’t you worry about long times,” she said. “This is a kind of a house. We can play like we live here while we’re waiting. And you will be my husband and you can call me wife.”
He tried it over under his breath and then aloud. “Wife,” he said. “It’ll be like practicing,” said Abra.
Aron’s arm shook under her hand, and she put it, palm up, in her lap.
Aron said suddenly, “While we’re practicing, maybe we could do something else.”
“What?”
“Maybe you wouldn’t like it.”
“What is it?”
“Maybe we could pretend like you’re my mother.”
“That’s easy,” she said.
“Would you mind?”
“No, I’d like it. Do you want to start now?”
“Sure,” Aron said. “How do you want to go about it?”
“Oh, I can tell you that,” said Abra. She put a cooing tone in her voice and said, “Come, my baby, put your head in Mother’s lap. Come, my little son. Mother will hold you.” She drew his head down, and without warning Aron began to cry and could not stop. He wept quietly, and Abra stroked his cheek and wiped the flowing tears away with the edge of her skirt.
The sun crept down toward its setting place behind the Salinas River, and a bird began to sing wonderfully from the golden stubble of the field. It was as beautiful under the branches of the willow tree as anything in the world can be.
Very slowly Aron’s weeping stopped, and he felt good and he felt warm.
“My good little baby,” Abra said. “Here, let Mother brush your hair back.”
Aron sat up and said almost angrily, “I don’t hardly ever cry unless I’m mad. I don’t know why I cried.”
Abra asked, “Do you remember your mother?”
“No. She died when I was a little bit of a baby.”
“Don’t you know what she looked like?”
“No.”
“Maybe you saw a picture.”
“No, I tell you. We don’t have any pictures. I asked Lee and he said no pictures—no, I guess it was Cal asked Lee.”
“When did she die?”
“Right after Cal and I were born.”
“What was her name?”
“Lee says it was Cathy. Say, what you asking so much for?”
Abra went on calmly, “How was she complected?”
“What?”
“Light or dark hair?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t your father tell you?”
“We never asked him.”
Abra was silent, and after a while Aron asked, “What’s the matter—cat got your tongue?”
Abra inspected the setting sun.
Aron asked uneasily, “You mad with me”—and he added tentatively—“wife?”
“No, I’m not mad. I’m just wondering.”
“What about?”
“About something.” Abra’s firm face was tight against a seething inner argument. She asked, “What’s it like not to have any mother?”
“I don’t know. It’s like anything else.”