Two Much! Read Free

there you are,” Liz said, the Liz in purple. To the non-Liz in white she said, “This is the riffraff I told you about.”
    â€œYou’re the sister,” I said.
    Liz said, “They can’t get them past you, can they? Come on in, before we fill up with mosquitoes.”
    And so I entered the Kerner household. Too late, they closed the door.
    We were together in a small vestibule, the three of us. Through an arched doorway was a section of party scene painted by a member of the Royal Academy; the accompanying sound effects were polite conversational murmurs, unobtrusive ice cube clinking, and the modest piano segueing into “My Funny Valentine.” Our three heads were close together, the double Liz and me, and looking from one to the other I said, “That’s truly amazing.” Except for differences of expression and hairdo the faces were absolutely identical.
    The non-Liz said, “But I thought you had a twin brother.”
    How our thoughtless fibs return to plague us. “Oh, of course,” I said. “But I’ve never met any other twins before. Not as identical as you two.” To get us away from that subject, I thrust my hand out to the non-Liz and said, “I’m Art Dodge, by the way.”
    She smiled, in the bland way that one does at parties, and said, “I’m Betty Kerner.” Her hand was cool and dry.
    Then they brought me through into the next room, and what a collection of store-window mannequins they’d assembled for their party. There were men present in cummerbunds, I swear to God. Most of the men appeared to be named Frazier and most of the women Grahame. The piano was being played by a hireling, a lanky black youth with Belafonte good looks and a totally untrustworthy smile; he was probably saving his money to buy a machine gun. Two automaton black girls in black uniforms and small white aprons circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres, while the bartender blockaded behind his white-cloaked table was a beefy Irishman of about fifty who laughed heartily at all the drink orders, as though phrases like “dry vermouth on the rocks” or “two rye and ginger ale, please” were both witty and profound.
    What kind of party was this to be hosted by two girls in their mid-twenties? There were perhaps forty people present, but only about a quarter of them were under thirty, and they were as stiff as their elders. There was no dancing. In fact, there was scarcely any commingling of the sexes at all; women stood with women to discuss department stores, Arthur Hailey novels, absent friends and other parties, while men grouped with men to talk transportation, taxes, politics and horses—breeding, not racing. I actually did hear one man say, as I was strolling past, “After all, racing does improve the breed.”
    â€œQuite the contrary,” I said. “In point of fact, all our effort is the other way, to make breeding improve the race.”
    This being the most incisive remark any of them had ever heard in their lives, I was immediately absorbed into the group, where the man I’d contradicted thrust his hand out and said, “Frazier.”
    I gave him my honest grip and said, “Dodge.”
    Another man said, “Of the New Bedford Dodges?”
    â€œDistantly,” I said.
    We chatted about horses for a while, then transposed to a critique and comparison of several North Carolina golf courses, during which I excused myself and headed for the bar. “Rum and tonic,” I said.
    â€œHa ha ha,” he said. “Got no rum.”
    â€œMake it vodka.”
    â€œHo ho ho,” he said, and made my drink.
    Liz sidled up and said, “My usual, Mike.”
    â€œHa ha,” he said, gave me my drink, and made Liz’s usual: one ice cube in a glass, vodka to the brim.
    Waiting for it she said to me, with a head-nod toward the rest of the party, “See why I wanted you