Ripples in Opperman's Pond

CHAPTER ONE We were identical, Dorian and I, but not at all alike. We both stood six feet two with light brown hair and an untamable cowlick, grey eyes, and the sure hands of a shooting guard. He was first-born, seconds before midnight, December 31, and I followed on January 1, twelve minutes later. Those twelve minutes shaped my world, because Father loved his first-born more than anyone else. Growing up, we were inseparable. We wore the same clothes, ate the same foods, and shared the same tubes of Brylcreme, Colgate, and Clearasil. Dorian squeezed from the top and left the cap off. We even dated the same girls. No one could tell the Double Ds apart, so it was easy for Dorian to appear faithful to one while dating another, using me as his stand-in. We played on the same football and basketball teams, and could read each other’s minds, anticipating where the pass would be thrown or a block needed. Defenses seeing double went crazy. Father said we could be whatever we wanted — after we graduated medical school. That presented a dilemma, because Dorian partied throughout our four years at Dartmouth College. We were sitting in my brother’s new office. I had missed my father’s funeral because of flight delays from Kenya and my mother was angry, certain I was late on purpose. I wasn’t unhappy about not being there. “She’ll get over it, Daniel, not to worry. She’s lost her anchor, is all. Jesus, she’s never gotten a driver’s license or even balanced a checkbook.” I looked around his office. “Looks like you own the checkbook.” The view from the fortieth floor of the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle was spectacular. I could see Central Park through the picture window behind Dorian’s desk, with the trees boasting pink, yellow and white blossoms, and fresh green grass carpeting the ground. Dorian smiled and swept his arm around the office. “I do now, but I put in plenty of dungeon years under him.” “Yeah, right, poor guy. Weren’t you driving a Mercedes last time I checked?” “Relatively speaking, they were dungeon years.” Dorian looked pensive. “You know, the old man died last week sitting at this very desk, opening his fourth pack of cigarettes at five o’clock in the afternoon. He was only sixty-six. Hard to believe. No way in hell I’d be the CEO at age forty if he hadn’t.” Dorian shook his head and leaned back, putting his feet on a corner of the huge cherry wood desk. “I figured I had at least ten more years of slavery before he freed me.”