The Echo Maker

  Of their years of estrangement, Cappy and Luther said nothing. They sat at opposite ends of a ratty sofa in front of the river stone hearth in Luther’s hand-built cabin, one of them calling out a name from their Nebraska childhood and the other identifying. Luther told his niece and nephew fantastic tales about young Cappy: how he’d gotten the gash through the bridge of his nose by dropping a granite boulder that he was lifting over his head on a dare. How he was married to a girl before Joan. How he did time over a misunderstanding involving a two-ton Chevy grain truck and thirty-eight bales of hay. With every fable, their father grew stranger. Strangest of all was how Cappy Schluter sat still and abided the remembrances, in awe of this sallow, shaky old man. The children had never seen their father so cowed by anyone. Their mother, too, put up with comments from the recovered relative that she wouldn’t have suffered from Satan.

  They left after two days. Luther gave each child five dollars in silver and a copy of The Outdoor Survival Field Manual to share. Karin made him promise to come out to Nebraska, pretending not to understand that the man would be dead within four months. As they left, Karin’s new uncle grasped Cappy with two talons. “She did what she did. I never meant her memory no disrespect.”

  Cappy barely nodded. “I made things worse,” he said. The two men shook stiff hands, and took leave. Karin remembered nothing of the trip home.

  Uncles from nowhere and siblings disappearing. On Dedham Glen’s fake duck pond, she felt Mark’s distress. She was causing it, by not being who she was. His amygdala, she remembered. His amygdala can’t talk with his cortex. “Do you remember Uncle Luther?” she asked. Tugging at him, maybe unfairly.

  Mark hunched against the wind in the baseball jacket and blue knit stocking cap he’d taken to wearing to hide the scars under his returning hair. He walked as if performing acrobatics. “Don’t know about you, but I got no uncles.”

  “Come on, Mark. You remember that trip. A third of the United States, to visit a guy they hadn’t even bothered to tell us about.” She grabbed his arm too hard. “You remember. Sitting in the backseat for hundreds of miles, not even allowed to pee, you and your friend Mr. Thurman, chatting away like the two of you…”

  He pulled his arm free and froze. He narrowed his eyes and pressed his cap. “Man, do not mess with the insides of my head.”

  She apologized. Mark, shaken, asked to go back in. She steered him toward the building. Mark zipped and unzipped his coat, thoughts racing. He seemed for a moment about to break free, to know her. At the door of the lobby, he murmured, “I wonder whatever happened to that guy.”

  “He died. Right after we got back home. That was the point of the trip.”

  Mark stumbled, his face twisted. “What the fuck?”

  “Serious. They’d had some fight about their mother’s death. Cappy had cut the man off, for saying…But the minute he heard Luther was dying…”

  Mark snorted and waved her off. “Not that guy. He was never anything to me. I mean Mr. Thurman.”

  She stood gaping, appalled.

  Mark just laughed, low and clicking. “I mean, imaginary friends: do they go bug another whacko kid when you’re done with them? And hey!” His face screwed up, mystified. “Whoever told you about that trip? They got it all wrong.”

  Jack is that person’s father, but that person isn’t Jack’s son. Who is that person? The question’s obviously meaningless, to anybody who thinks twice. The questioner should be in rehab, not him. How in living hell should he know who that person is? Could be anyone. But they keep asking him such crap, even when he politely points out that it might all be just a wee bit screwy. Today the questioner is a woman fresh from the university in Lincoln, about Mark’s age. Not a dog, but with an awful growl, spewing out craziness like:

  A girl goes into a store to apply for a job. She fills in the application form. The manager looks at her data and says: “Yesterday we got an application from someone with your same last name, same parents, and exact same birthday, down to the year.” “Yes,” the girl explains. “That was my sister.” “So you must be twins,” the manager concludes. “No,” the girl says. “We’re not.”

  And Mark is supposed to figure out what the hell they are. So…what? One of them is adopted or something?

  But no, the university chick tells him, with a mouth like two little bait worms doing it. Useful little mouth, probably, in a pinch. But a pain in the ass at the moment, with its trick questions. She tells him: two girls with the same last name, the same parents, the same date of birth. Yes, they’re sisters. But no, not twins.

  Do they look alike, or anything?

  Super Questioner says it’s not important.

  It is important, Mark tells her. You’re telling me that if two girls who have to be twins say they aren’t twins and you can’t tell whether they’re lying or not by looking at them and seeing if they look identical, that’s not important?

  Let’s go on to the next question, Super Questioner says.

  I’ve a better idea, Mark says. We go into that supply closet and get to know each other.

  I don’t think so, the worms say. But they twitch a bit.

  Why not? Might be nice. I’m a good guy.

  I know that. But we’re supposed to be learning about you.

  Uh, what better way to learn about me?

  Let’s try the next question.

  So you’re saying, if I get the next question right…?

  Well, not exactly.

  Let me ask you a sister question: Where’s mine? Can you talk to the authorities, please?

  But she won’t. She won’t even tell him the twins answer. She says if he comes up with anything, let her know. It bugs the crap out of him. The question is so supremely fucked up it keeps him awake at night. He thinks about it, in his little room in the Cripple Home. He just lies there, in the bed they’ve made for him, thinking about the twins who claim they aren’t twins. Thinking about Karin, where she might be, the truth about what has happened to her, the facts that no one will mention. The docs say he’s got a syndrome. The docs must be in on the con.

  Maybe it’s some kind of sex riddle. You know, like: Want to meet my sister? He tries it on Duane and Ruppie. Duane-o says: It may have something to do with Parthian Genesis. Are you familiar with Parthian Genesis? Also known as the phenomenon of virgin birth.

  Rupp busts Cain’s chops. You been eating mad cow? It has no answer, Rupp declares. And he’s one smart bastard. If Rupp can’t figure it out, it’s unfigurable.

  Maybe you’ve confused the question, Duane-o suggests. There’s a phenomena called garbling. It’s like the game of telephone…

  Chill, Potato Head, Ruppie blasts him. Too much mercury ingestion. You’re in a tuna-fish fog. The game of telephone! Christ.

  I’ve got Collapse on my cell, Mark says. Used to be great. But somebody screwed with my settings.

  Look, Rupp says. It’s simple logic. What’s the definition of twin? Two people, born of the same parents, at the same time.

  Just what I said, Mark says. How come they don’t examine you, too?

  Rupp gets upset. What’re you complaining about? You’re living la vida loca, man. Maid service, hot meals. Cable. Skilled women giving you workouts.

  Could be worse, Duane agrees. You could be one of those Afghani terrorists down in Gitmo. None of them going anywhere, anytime soon. How about that American they captured? Was that guy high, drunk, crazy, brainwashed, or what?

  Mark shakes his head. The whole world’s on crack. The therapists, working overtime to get Mark to think there’s something wrong with him. The fake Karin, trying to distract him. Rupp and Duane, as clueless as he is. The only one he trusts is his friend Barbara. But she works for the enemy, just a lowly guard here at Sing Sing Lite.

  Rupp is deep in thought. Maybe they’re two test-tube babies, he says. Those sisters. Two different embryos, implanted…

  Remember the Schellenberger twins? Duane-o asks, all stoked. Anybody ever have sex with them?
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  Rupp scowls. Clearly someone had sex with them, Einstein. Didn’t one of them go away to foal, senior year?

  I knew it had something to do with sex, Mark says. You can’t have twins without sex, right?

  I meant anybody of the three of us, Duane-o whines.

  Rupp shakes his head. I wish that Barbara Gillespie had a twin. Can you imagine? What you call your twofer!

  Duane-o howls like a coyote. That chick’s old, man.

  So? Means you don’t have to teach her anything. The woman’s killer, I tell you. You gotta know she’s got some deep waves going, under those still waters.

  She does have a great walk. If they gave an Oscar for walking, she’d have a shelf full of little bald homonculi. You two are familiar with the concept of the homunculus?

  Then Mark is raging. He’s shouting, and can’t stop himself. Get the hell out of here. I don’t want you here.

  He frightens them. His friends—if they are his friends—are scared of him. They’re all: What? What did we do? What’s got into you?

  Leave me alone. I’ve got things to figure out.

  He’s on his feet, pushing them out of the room while they try to reason with him. But he’s sick of reason. All three of them are shouting at one another when Barbara appears from nowhere. What’s wrong? she asks. And he starts spraying. He’s sick of it all. Sick of being kept in this holding tank. Sick of the deceptions, everybody pretending things are exactly normal. Sick of trick questions with no answer, and people pretending there is one.

  What questions? Barbara asks. And just the sound of her, coming from that moon-round face, calms him a little.

  Two sisters, Mark says. Born at the same time, to the same parents. But they say they’re not twins.

  Barbara sits him down, and she’s soothing his shoulders. Maybe they’re two-thirds of triplets, she says.

  Rupp smacks himself on the forehead. Brilliant. The woman is brilliant.

  Duane waves his hands in the air for a timeout. You know, I was thinking about triplets. Right at the beginning. But I didn’t say it.

  Of course you were, latent boy. We were all thinking about triplets. It’s obvious. Face it. You’re a idiot. I’m a idiot. The whole human race is a idiot.

  Mark Schluter tenses under the woman’s arm, fighting rage. So why am I the only one locked up?

  Two days later, Barbara Gillespie comes to take him for a walk.

  Don’t I need to check with my parole board? he asks.

  Very funny, she says. This place isn’t that bad and you know it. Come on. Let’s go outside.

  Outside is not exactly to be trusted. Much wilder than before his bang-up. They say it’s April, but one confused April, doing a pretty good January imitation. The wind cuts through his jacket and his skull freezes, even underneath his cap. His head is always cold now. His hair takes forever to grow back; something to do with the feed here.

  Barbara practically pushes him out of the foyer. Watch your step there, sweetie. But once they’re out, all she wants to do is hang around the bench by the parking lot.

  Fine, he says. The Great Out of Doors. I give it five stars. Can we go back inside?

  But Barbara keeps him out, teasing. She takes his arm as if they’re an old couple. Which would be okay with him. In a pinch.

  Five more minutes, friend. You never know what might come along and surprise you, if you wait long enough.

  Tell me about it. Like this terrible accident I apparently had.

  Barbara points her finger, all excited. Well, would you look who’s here!

  A car rolls up to the curb, as if by chance. Unmistakably feeb Corolla, with the big dimple on the passenger door. His sister’s car. His sister, at last. Like rising from the dead. He jumps up and starts shouting.

  Then he sees through the windshield, and crashes again. He can’t take it anymore. It isn’t Karin, but the not-so-secret agent who has replaced her. There’s a dog in the passenger seat, pressed to the glass, clawing at the top of the window to make it go down. Another border collie, like Mark’s. Smartest breed there is. The dog sees Mark through the window, and it’s frantic to get at him. It bursts through the door the instant Barbara opens it. Before Mark can move, the pretty creature is all over him, herding. Up on its hind legs, muzzle skyward, letting out these pathetic yips and howls. That’s the thing about dogs. There isn’t a human being in the world worthy of any dog’s welcome.

  The actress Karin comes out of the driver’s door. She’s crying and laughing all at once. Look at that, she says. You’d think she thought she’d never see you again!

  The dog is leaping dead vertical into the air. Mark puts out his arms to fend off the attack. Barbara braces him. Would you look who’s here! Barbara says. Look who has been dying to see you. She leans down and nuzzles at the dog. Yes, yes, yes you are—back together! The dog yips at Barbara, that border collie–crazed affection, then assaults Mark again.

  Quit with the licking. Get out of my face, will you? Can somebody please leash this thing?

  Pretend sister hangs on the driver’s door, her face one of those birthday streamers gone soggy. You’d think he punched the woman in the gut or something. She starts to rag him again. Mark! Look at her! What other animal on earth could love you like that?

  The dog starts this confused little squealing. Barbara moves toward the fake Karin, calling her sweetie, saying: It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. You did a good thing. We can try again later.

  What later? Mark groans. Try what? What the hell is this about? This dog is mad. Rabies or something. Somebody put this beast down, before it bites me.

  Mark! Look at her! It’s Blackie.

  The agent’s dog starts yapping in bafflement. It’s got that much right. Blackie? You gotta be shitting me. Down!

  Maybe he makes a motion, like he’s gonna strike the dog, because Barbara steps in between Mark and the howling thing. She gathers up the dog and waves at the imitation Karin like it’s time to get back in the car.

  Mark goes a little wild. You think I’m nuts! You think I’m blind. It’s going to take a lot more than this to fool me.

  Barbara bundles the howling animal back into the car and Karin starts the ridiculous four-cylinder engine. The miserable cur spins in circles on the passenger seat, whining and staring at Kopy Karin. Mark curses everything that moves. Don’t bug me anymore. Don’t ever let that thing back in my sight.

  Later, when he’s alone again, he feels a little bad about it all. It’s still eating at him the next day, after he sleeps on it. When Barbara comes to check on him, he tells her. I shouldn’t have yelled at that dog. It wasn’t the dog’s fault. Certain human beings were just using it.

  Karin dragged Daniel out to North Line Road. She’d shunned the scene for two months, as if it might harm her. But she needed to understand what had happened that night. When she at last summoned the courage to see the site, she brought protection.

  Daniel pulled off the road where Mark must have spun out. The intervening weeks had erased most of the evidence the police had mentioned. The two of them picked through the shallow shoulder ditch on the south side of the road, looking for all the world as if they were tracking an animal. Bring your sphere of sound inside your sphere of sight. They crawled over the new spring sedge and grasses, the pokeweed, thistle, and vetch. Nature’s job was to grow over, turn the past into now.

  Daniel found a patch of ground dusted with glass, invisible to anyone but a naturalist. Karin’s eyes adjusted. She saw where the truck must have lain for hours, upside down. They climbed to the road, crossed over to the north side, and drifted back east, toward where Mark had lost control. The road was empty, the middle of the afternoon in the thaw of the year. The surface was layered in smears. She couldn’t tell the age of a given track, or what had made it. She walked two hundred yards in each direction, with Daniel in her wake. The forensics investigators must have combed this stretch, re-creating that night from a few ambiguous measurements.

  Daniel saw
it first—a faint pair of westbound burn marks, all but erased by the weather, that swerved into the eastbound lane. Karin’s eyes picked it out; the violent skid feinted to the right before veering, as close to a left turn as a light truck at high speed could make. She worked her way along the lip of the skid, head down, searching for something. Against the long, low, bathwater-gray horizon, with her fall of carrot hair hanging in the windless air, she might have been some Bohemian immigrant farm girl gleaning the fields for grain. She spun around like a struck animal, flinching as the accident unfolded in front of her. When Daniel reached her, she was still shuddering. She pointed down at a second set of tire skids at her feet.

  The second skid broke one hundred feet in front of the first. Another vehicle coming from the west had careened into the oncoming lane, where it fishtailed before swinging back into its own. From the start of the second car’s jag, Karin looked east and downward into the ditch where her brother had landed, the hole down which her own solidity disappeared.

  She read the snaking lines: the car coming from town, perhaps blinded by Mark’s headlights, must have lost control and swerved into Mark’s lane, just in front of him. Startled, Mark dipped right, then swung back hard to the left, the only slim chance of survival. The swing was too sharp, and his truck left the road.

  She stood with her toe on the tire mark, shaking. A car approached; she and Daniel drifted to the southern shoulder. A townie woman of about forty in a Ford Explorer with a ten-year-old girl strapped in the backseat pulled over to ask if everything was okay. Karin tried to smile and waved her on.