Things were going unusually well for the Langston family. After their many trials, they were relieved and happy to settle into a "normal," boring routine.
The twins were learning fast. Their teachers were impressed. They had overcome the frustration at the difficulty of everyday chores that are so easy for others: getting dressed, taking showers. They were making friends in the neighborhood. They were used to jokes at their expense. Joey was adept at taking the sting out of them.
Whenever they met a girl, the twins would compete for her attention. Joey did it with humor. “We’re very close,” he joked to a striking brunette. “...inseparable, in fact.” When she laughed gaily, Jerry pinched him fiercely. Joey pretended not to notice.
All the little girls gravitated toward Jerry, who was a natural leader. He was the one who decided what games to play and he was the one who made up the rules. When one cute young thing asked Joey if he resented Jerry always bossing him around, Joey shrugged, winked, and said, “He’s my brother -- I’d follow him anywhere!” She laughed. Jerry punched his arm, hard.
The one topic they avoided, the one thing they never joked about, was the disfiguration. If someone brought it up, no matter how politely or sympathetically, they received only cold stares from both twins. Their mother never mentioned it. The topic was an unspoken taboo in the Langston home.
The twins decided to set up a lemonade stand to raise some extra money. Joey would be the executive and Jerry would be marketing. This would be no ordinary lemonade stand, they agreed. They would offer treats to go with several flavors of beverage. They would prepare special orders upon request.
"We've got to have a name for our company," Jerry said. "Two Heads are Better Than One," Joey cried without a moment's hesitation.
Joey arranged the menu and stocked the stand. Jerry printed circulars to pass out in the neighborhood. His charm attracted customers, especially female.
One day an exceptionally attractive brunette came up to the stand. "Hello," she said. "I'm new in the neighborhood."
"Have a lemonade -- on the house," Jerry said.
That was the start of a long line of Jerry's admirers. Rather than be put off by the continual presence of Joey, the girls seemed to view it as a badge of honor to date a "handicapped" boy -- although neither Jerry nor Joey considered themselves handicapped, and quickly made it clear to anyone who hinted that they were. Each considered it an advantage to be permanently attached to his best friend and brother. "Most people, if they need a helping hand, have to look on the end of their arm," Joey was fond of saying. "I've got that beat times two."
As the boys got older, going on dates was no problem. Joey made himself inconspicuous, unhearing, unseeing, much as a gentleman's gentleman in the upper class. Seldom did it work the other way. Jerry was the popular one, although they did on occasion go on double dates, when Jerry's girl had a friend who did not have a date.
One sunny day sitting outside an ice cream shop, one of Jerry's admirers, one of his favorites, asked the fatal question: "Look -- I know you're sensitive about it, and I don't want to cause you pain..oh, I'm saying it all wrong. I'm you're friend. Can't you tell me about the scar?"
The pretty girl received the same cold stares.
Later that same evening, with the family all seated around the dinner table, Jerry confronted his mother. "What about that?" He demanded, pointing at the scar. "You never told us. We want to know."
Mary gasped, terrified. Her fear showed clearly on her face. But in the next instant she recovered. "It was an accident," she mumbled. "...At birth. It was difficult. The doctors did what they could. We almost lost you both." She hugged her treasures and cried. "And we're so glad to have you."
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