Leilani didn’t ask the obvious question.
Geneva answered it anyway. “Strictly speaking, it’s not really a goiter. It’s a tumor, and because it’s benign, she won’t have it removed. Clarissa doesn’t trust doctors, and given her history with them, who can blame her? But she just lets it hang there, getting bigger. Even if they could cope with her age and weight, prison officials would worry about that goiter scaring the other inmates.”
Leilani drained the last of the vanilla Coke from her glass. “Okay, so when the obituary appears, if you’d track down an address for Tetsy’s parents and mail the penguin back to them, that would be swell. I’d do it myself, but Preston doesn’t let me have money, not even enough for a few stamps. He buys me anything I want, but I think he figures that if I had an allowance, I’d ramp it up with shrewd investments until I had enough to afford a hit man.”
“You’ve still got half the Coke in the can, dear. Would you like me to add some fresh ice and vanilla to your glass?”
“Yes, thank you.”
After Geneva had built a second serving for each of them, she sat opposite Leilani once more. Worry drew connecting lines through her constellations of coppery freckles, and her green eyes clouded. “Micky will think of something we can do.”
“I’ll be okay, Aunt Gen.”
“Honey, you’re not going to Idaho.”
“Just how big is the goiter?”
“Can you come for dinner this evening?”
“Great! Dr. Doom is supposed to be out again, so he won’t know. He’d stop me, but old Sinsemilla’s too self- involved to notice.”
“I’m sure Micky will have some strategy by then.”
“Is it, say, bigger than a plum?”
“I’ll turn on the air conditioning this evening, so we’ll be able to think clearly. You can bet the governor never does without.”
“Bigger than an orange?”
Chapter 43
Resplendent in acrylic-heeled sandals and navel opals, these two Cinderellas have no need of a fairy godmother, for they are magical in their own right. Their laughter is musical, infectious, and Curtis can’t help but smile even though they’re laughing at his ridiculous and shakily expressed fear that they might be clones.
They are, of course, identical twins. The one he met outside is named Castoria. The one he encountered second is Polluxia.
“Call me Cass.”
“And call me Polly.”
Polly puts down the big knife with which she was chopping vegetables. Dropping to her knees on the galley floor, with squeaky baby talk and vigorous ear scratching, she reduces Old Teller at once to licking, tail-lashing adulation.
Placing a hand gently on Curtis’s shoulder, Cass brings him out of the lounge and into the galley.
“In Greek mythology,” says Curtis, “Castor and Pollux were the sons of Leda, fathered by Jupiter disguised as a swan. They’re the patron deities of seamen and voyagers. They’re famous warriors, too.”
This knowledgeable recitation surprises the women. They regard him with evident curiosity.
Old Teller turns to stare at him as well, though accusingly, because Polly has stopped the baby talk and the ear scratching.
“They tell us half the kids graduating from high school can’t read,” says Cass, “but you’re mythology savvy in grade school?”
“My mother was big on organic brain augmentation and direct-to-brain megadata downloading,” he explains.
Their expressions cause Curtis to review what he has just said, and he’s chagrined to realize that he revealed more about his true nature and his origins than he ever intended to share with anyone. These two dazzle him, and as with Donella and Gabby, dazzlement seems to evoke in him either a looseness of the tongue or a tangling of the same potentially treacherous organ.
In a lame attempt to distract them from what he revealed, Curtis continues with a harmless lie: “Plus we had a Bible and a useless ‘cyclopedia sold to us by a mercantile porch-squatter.”
Cass plucks a newspaper from the table in the dining nook and hands it to Polly.
Polly’s sparkling eyes widen, and blue beams seem to flash at Curtis as she says, “I didn’t recognize you, sweetie.”
She turns the newspaper so Curtis can see three photos under the headline SAVAGE COLORADO MURDERS TIED TO FUGITIVE DRUG LORDS IN UTAH.
The photos are of the members of the Hammond family. Mr. and Mrs. Hammond, shown here, are surely the people who were asleep in their bed, in the quiet farmhouse, when the fugitive boy shamefully took twenty-four dollars from the wallet on the dresser.
The third picture is of Curtis Hammond.
“You’re not dead,” Cass says.
“No,” Curtis replies, which is true as far as it goes.
“You escaped.”
“Not quite yet.”
“Who’re you here with?”
“Nobody but my dog. We’ve pretty much hitched across Utah.”
Polly asks, “Whatever happened at your family’s farm in Colorado — is that all tied to this hullabaloo in Utah?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
Castoria and Polluxia make eye contact, and their connection is as precise as that between a surgical laser and the calculated terminus of its beam, so that Curtis can almost see the scintillant trace of thought passing from one to the other. They share their next question in a duologue that does nothing to diminish his dazzlement:
“It’s not just — “
“—a bunch of—“
“—crazy drug lords—“
“—behind all this—“
“—like the government says—“
“—is it, Curtis?”
His attention bounces from one to the other as he answers the question twice, “No. No.”
When these twins exchange a meaningful look, which they now do again, they seem not to convey just a quick single thought, but whole paragraphs of complex data and opinion. In the womb, fed by the same susurrus river of blood, soothed by the two-note lullaby of the same mother’s heart, gazing eye to eye in dreamy anticipation of the world to come, they had perfected the telemetric stare.
“Over there in Utah—“
“—is the government—“
“—trying to cover up—“
“—contact with—“
“—extraterrestrials?”
“Yes,” Curtis says, because this is the answer they expect and the only one they will believe. If he lies and says that no aliens are involved, they will either know that he is dissembling or will think that he’s merely stupid and that he’s as bamboozled by the government spinmeisters as is everyone else. He’s drawn to Cass and Polly; he likes them partly because Old Yeller likes them, partly because the genes of Curtis Hammond ensure that he likes them,
