Big Brother Eric, Little Sister Sam
A drain spout splashing
rusty stains on concrete,
the taste of doorknobs
you kiss before squinting
through the musty keyhole
at the knife-sharpener's daughter,
while across the city
the knife-sharpener
limps his pushcart
with its dinging axles,
with its screeching whetstone
up wet alleys
crying: scissors! knives! axes!
-Stuart Dybek-
.
"… Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes, I am sure! We need to hurry, before Mummy starts to worry."
The bell above the doorway clattered as the pair stepped inside. The dark smell of shaving cream met them immediately, followed by that of chemical gels and musky-sweet shampoo. The slanting of light through the window made hot patches on the tile floor and a vacant leather chair. The seat was kicked back, posing as if it were filled when it was not. An all-encompassing conversation of gossip from every side of the room threaded the air with impassable strings, weaving itself through hair and busy scissors into waiting ears.
"Ah, the Coleman twins!" a man with a brisk, pleasant voice and kind tone laughed at the children standing in his threshold. He rubbed his arms with a cotton towel, the skin thick and velvety with a collection of long grey hair. His mustache was held with a coating of wax; no hair fell from place when he smiled. The sleeves of his white barbers smock were rolled high, to the elbows, the man paying no mind as one slipped a smidgen. His mustache quirked curiously when he stopped before the twins.
"Didn't I trim your hair the other day, Eric?" the man asked. The boy answered by lifting a shoulder.
The youngest twin (but only by eleven minutes she would argue whenever the topic arose) was the one to address the man vocally.
"Good day, Mr Michaels," she said with a fine embellishment of honey and properness. "How are you this afternoon?"
Pleased and charmed, the man answered with a smile that he was well. The girl continued the polite small-talk, making love with her words, comforting the man to where she wanted him. He, finally, asked:
"Why did come all the way here? It wasn't just to talk to me, was it?"
Eric looked to his sister and waited for her answer. The girl had a mischievous and clever glare in her hazel eyes, mouth upturned. It was the same expression she had after she had convinced their mother they were going out to buy sweets with their pocket money, a keen ruse, the success of the enacted plan joyful to her. She made sure to bat her thick eyelashes before she continued.
"Mr Michaels, would you be ever so kind and cut my hair?" she cooed this, with the upmost sweetness.
The man laughed jovially at her request, a frown pinching her mouth at the reaction.
"If you want a trim you should go to the beauty salon down the road," he joked in good-spirits.
They had attempted this first, only to be met with refusal. The girl even teared up to try and persuade them, giving her best show of heartbrokenness. Being mothers, the women beauticians knew this tact, remaining staunch
'You have such pretty hair, why would you want to cut it all off?'
Because I hate it, she wanted to scream to these unforgiving women, but said nothing, instead taking her brother's arm and muscling him out the door and away from that place.
Mr Michaels was her last hope.
"But I want a haircut like Eric's," she clarified, still feeling like she had the upper hand. "I want it short."
"It is already short," he told her, indicating the bobbed haircut she had done up in curls. "What would your mother think if you made it shorter?"
"Oh, she doesn't mind," the girl lied easily in a way that matched her young age. "She even gave me money for it."
A pile of bills her and her brother had been hoarding for weeks was produced. The flashing proof of money piqued the man's interest. He was given the stack of pounds and counted it quickly, a thoughtful look crossing his face. His mustache veered sidelong again.
"Well..." he began. "All the money is here. If you really want it that short, I don't see why not."
A glittering brilliance illuminated the girls face. She thanked the man thoroughly, Mr Michaels laughing at her excitement. She then turned to her brother and became elated with him. Eric smiled when she took his hands haphazardly, leaning forward, eyes wide and staring into his own. They giggled together childishly.
"Come along, little lady," Mr Michaels ushered to one of the barber chairs. "I'll get you cleaned up straight away."
.
"Samantha Jennifer Coleman!"
A cold knot of dread curled in her stomach. It was strangely sickening, for the icy fear delivered by the raised voice was paired with the fiery and violent bristles of hearing her full name (more-so her first name). Panicked, the girl dashed from the parlor.
'You look like you could be identical twins!' Mr Michaels commented teasingly when he finished shearing the girl's neck.
However, the twins could not see it. They knew how similar they appeared, even being of opposite genders, but could not recognize themselves in each other. They saw their matching golden-brown hair and eyes and round faces and fairy-saddle noses, but Sam saw her brother's single check-mark eyebrow and fickle cowlick and could not believe they looked anything alike, while Eric saw his sister's black eyelashes and sinistral ways before he saw himself.
Sam simply grinned sweetly, sporting a haircut that gave her a springing confidence until she arrived home. That was when her mother shrieked at her as soon as she entered the door, startling the girl into scurrying off.
Her escape was foiled when she sharply turned into the hallway and smacked into something. She bounced to the floor with a grunt, dizzied by the impact. The battered object, (or person, rather) lowered itself with her, speaking.
"Where are you going in such a hurry, Eric, m'boy?" the father inquired, picking up the girl snapping herself back with a shake of the head. She grimaced at the question.
"I'm not Eric, I'm Sam," she informed him, the man raising a quizzical brow. He was burrowed against when another roar sounded.
"Samantha! Samantha!"
The young mother appeared in the hallway, hair frizzling, cheeks plum-colored. Eric followed behind to prevent the death of his sister if needed.
"Oh, Samantha, what ever did you do to your hair?" she cried. The girl was shielded by her father's husky arm when she began to shiver and sniffle in the most pitiful and intentional way.
"I didn't like it. Long hair is annoying. It was ugly. I hated it," Sam said the excuses into her father's shoulder, the tartness of the words still clear.
"I wasn't even very long," her mother tried to argue. Her father was more sympathetic, rubbing her back and shushing her, the man ensnared in the trap she laid before him.
"It is alright, duck," he soothed. "I like it, I think it looks nice."
For good measure the girl murmured a final snivel, her eyes glossy with unshed tears as she looked up at her father. A stray hand rubbed at her eye.
"Really, Papa? You really think so?"
He boomed with laughter. "It looks better than when you found the kitchen shears and cut your pigtails off!"
Sam acted the part and giggled happily at the silly memory from when she was only two. She gave her father a squeeze before being set down, the girl's mother scowling at her defeat. She spun and thundered off, hissing.
"With the plane ride within a week..."
The twins left to their own devices after a fatherly pat on the head each, Eric leaned towards Sam, a sly smile crossing his face.
"You're despicable."
The girl smirked and touched her brother's cheek, holding it almost flirtatiously.
"I know," she whispered.
She was a manipulative little girl, at least when she wanted to be, for her sex made it easy.
.
"Sam, wake up."
The girl shifted, coughed, and rolled over, eyes opening to find her brother. The bolly of fern leaves she was under was pushed aside, Eric shaking her and waiting for her to rise. She at first wondered where his jersey went, then remembered it was underneath her, her own cushioned under her head. (Or was it the other way around? She would have to look at the cross-stitched letters on the collar to see.)
"Something is being done."
Before she could ask what ever he meant, a low, guttural noise carried through the forest. It startled a tropical bird of an unknown name into squawking and fluttering off. The sound was enough to get Sam sitting upright over the wide leaves.
"Come on, let's see what's being sorted."
The twins took a jersey each before picking their way through the jungle. They were more cautious than the night before when they ran hell-bent through the ripping creepers and angry Pacific rain. They, eventually, found shelter against the angled roots of a tree and under a plot of ferns, remaining there until morning.
Pausing, Sam plucked the limb of a clingy undergrowth from her stocking. Mr and Mrs Coleman decided long ago Sam could not be trusted in ladies clothing unsupervised, beginning when she was young and hung upside-down in a tree, showing the old lady next door a full view of her pants. The ruling was solidified when Sam chose to fight one of the neighborhood boys for calling her Samantha and gave the child much the same view. She only wore skirted clothing while at school in her pinafore uniform or for formal occasions, her parents determined to preserve the last scrap of her feminine dignity.
"Look! What's that?"
The siblings exited the jungle onto the beach. The sun was high and hot, the heat reflecting in waves off the sand, the crisp and damp shade of the forest missed as soon as it was left. The shimmering presence of the heat and vacillating reflection of white strings of light upon the ocean hurt to look at for too long a time, the twins left with memories of the glare in their vision afterwards. They looked down the strip of golden sand, beyond the torrid façade, viewing a raised area between the frothing surf and idle jungle. Dark and moving figures congealed upon the platform under the arched and fallen palms. Shadow and person were seen as one.
The fierce note sounded again.
"Eric!"
"Let's go!"
A race began, the two tearing down the beach towards the platform. Sand kicked into their shoes as they tried to scramble passed one another, neither gaining ground on the other, even as the final league was completed. The ambled up the platform together, breathing hitched, sweat prematurely coating their faces. They collapsed in unison on the grass of the platform. Breathless, they grinned, turning to the boy before them with a shell to his lips.
Were Sam not so young and were she knowledgeable about the aesthetic appeal of attractive older men, she might have found him handsome. The dancing light mirrored from the pool below and soft shade from the palms gave him an almost god-like appearance. He was fair, both in skin and hair, his tresses flicking points of water from the tips. His raised arms and visible collarbone were artfully shaped with the beginnings of a wonderful tone of muscle. His vision lowered momentarily, aqua-colored eyes taking notice of the twins at his feet.
Another boy leaned down to them, light skimming over his round spectacles. He was plump in a hindering and displeasing way. Sam and Eric were wary of his likeability immediately, feeling a prickle of guard as he inched closer to be heard over the blaring noise of the fair boy.
"What's yer name?" he asked politely.
"Sam."
"Eric."
"Sam, Eric, Sam, Eric..." he repeated to himself while indicating his finger between the two. Somewhere in the middle, and reasonably so, he got himself backwards, telling Sam she was Eric and Eric he was Sam. The twins shook their heads to stop him, pointing at each other and grinning.
"No, I'm Sam-"
"-and I'm Eric."
The platform of boys erupted in laugher at the mistake. The boy lowered his head and flushed, glasses flashing. The humor of the synchronization of Sam and Eric was a thing that would not be comical were they not twins, and made them unique among the group of many.
Eventually, the trumpeting noise was ceased entirely, the fair boy sitting with the shell lowered. His cheeks were ruddy from the effort and he hunched over himself with long, deep breaths. The laughter faded after the final bugling. Silence fell. They waited.
When the boy raised himself again he did not look at the crowd, instead along the water's edge. The length and intensity of his gaze drew all attention to the beach, Sam and Eric glancing over their shoulders.
A dark cloud was moving along the sand, in-step, to a certain marching rhythm. As it passed the wall of hazing heat, cloaks could be seen. Every boy in the procession was dressed in a lengthy cloak of black with a frill collar and square hat. Crosses were pinned to their caps and on the left of their cloaks, all silver except for the golden embellishments of the leading boy. The group moved wearily, fighting to keep line with one another in the shifting sand. They halted with a sharp order from the leader.
The boy himself left his party on the sand alone, hurrying up the platform with his cloak catching the air and sweeping in an almost villainous manner. He stopped at the top, blinking blindly with the sun in his eyes.
"Where's the man with the trumpet?" he demanded.
The fair boy who noticed his troubles replied.
"There is no man with a trumpet. Only me."
His face pinched up as he peered at the boy who spoke. His already unattractive face made the ugly expression selfish, rude to view. His nose was sloped to a point with the nostrils exposed, lips thin and crinkly in shape. A shock of ginger hair paled his already fragile skin, freckles plentiful. The promise of sunburn was already poised on the bridge of his nose and cheekbones.
His sneer was awful.
"Isn't there a ship, then?" he asked with a harsh impatience. "Isn't there a man here?"
"No," the boy with the shell answered coolly, "We're having a meeting. Come and join in."
The idea of sitting under the shade of the palm trees excited the group of choir boys. They shifted from their perfect rows.
The leader shouted them back to order, "Choir! Stand still!"
With hopes dashed they reformed their formation, flushed and dejected looks upon all of them. They wavered.
"But, Merridew. Please, Merridew... can't we?"
One member fell forward and the entire group scattered. Sam thought it funny to watch six boys haul one fainted child onto the platform, setting him below a standing tree. Merridew, the leader, his mouth set in a stark line, watched the process.
"All right then. Sit down. Let him alone."
"But Merridew."
"He's always throwing a faint," Merridew said with a brush of his words. "He did in Gib; and Addis; and at matins over the precentor."
The reminders brought a collection of snickers from the choir. Now in the shade and resting upon a fallen trunk they had much cheerier spirits, watching the fair boy and his sizeable shell with interest. The fat boy shielded himself with the fair boy, obviously intimidated by the choir party. He cleaned his glasses nervously.
"Aren't there any grownups?" Merridew continued with the fair-hair boy.
"No."
Merridew perched upon a log and looked with distaste to the group around him. Eric felt a spark of contempt when the boy appeared to raise his lip in disgust as he looked at Sam. Sam did not see what was not there and did not happen.
"Then we'll have to look after ourselves," he supposed.
"That's why Ralph made a meeting," the fat boy with the spectacles said about the fair boy. "So as we can decide what to do. We've heard names. That's Johnny-" he made motion to a young boy of six- "Those two- they're twins, Sam n' Eric. Which is Eric-? You? No-you're Sam-"
"I'm Sam," she provided savorlessly.
"'n I'm Eric," he finished.
The siblings looked at each other, dislike for the fat boy readable on their faces, judgement passed. They could not empathize with his struggles.
"We'd better all have names," Ralph cleared up, "so I'm Ralph."
"We got most names," the fat boy said. "Got 'em just now."
"Kid's names," Merridew said hatefully. "Why should I be Jack? I'm Merridew."
"That would be very troublesome..." Eric leaned and whispered to his sister, indicating the inconvenience of being called the same name. She nodded.
"Then," the boy with glasses went on, "that boy- I forget-"
"You're talking too much," Jack Merridew said, feeling threatened. "Shut up, Fatty."
The laughter began.
"He's not Fatty," argued Ralph, "his real name's Piggy!"
"Piggy!"
"Piggy!"
"Oh, Piggy!" the twins shrieked, falling back into laughter. The platform was a cruel storm of joined laughter, even the littlest following the tease. Hurt, Piggy lowered his head, polishing his glasses.
After the humor was slated the introductions in the choir commenced, starting with kind-faced Maurice, and then the boy with a secluded air named Roger, then Bill and Robert and Harold and Henry. The boy who had fainted, and who looked rather cute once he smiled, sat up and said his name was Simon. His black eyes were warm and skin a pretty, dark shade.
Not missing a beat, Jack spoke.
"We've got to decide about being rescued."
The words began a catalyst. Joy was forgotten and the situation remembered. All became painfully aware of their distance from home, the littlest realizing the absence of their mother and fathers. One reacted by crying he wanted to go home.
Eric took his sister's hand and squeezed it, trying to communicate that they would be all right, no matter what. Even though the gesture was uncertain and Sam did not need assurance, she appreciated the thoughtfulness.
"Shut up," Ralph told the disturbed crowd. He held the cream-colored shell above his head. "Seems we ought to have a chief to decide things."
"I ought to be chief," Jack declared with a proper and pompous motion to himself, "because I'm chapter chorister and head boy. I can sing C sharp."
A hum came from the platform. The boy felt he had triumphed.
"Well then, I-"
He paused. The hesitation allowed the choir boy named Roger to speak, his voice plain and severe.
"Let's have a vote."
"Yes!"
"Vote for chief!"
"Let's vote-"
The utterances of agreement made the idea of a vote very grand. The question then became who to vote for, in which the single boys seemed to concur collectively upon one. Piggy had shown intelligence, and Jack experienced leadership, but Ralph was something else entirely. His age and size and comely features set him above others, as well as his already partial control over the platform of boys with his ability to bring them together. The conch was a powerful thing only he had, and that everyone admired.
"Him with the shell."
"Ralph! Ralph!"
"Let him be chief with the trumpet-thing."
Sam and Eric took to seconding this point, the twins announcing that Ralph should be the leader. The fair-hair boy raised his hand and silence fell: an already chiefly command.
"All right. Who wants Jack for chief?"
The group of black-cloaked boys sighed, hands raised in loyalty to their head boy.
"Who wants me?"
The twins shot their hands in the air instantly, the others quick to follow. Piggy was the only hesitant one, raising his hand after a conflicting moment. Ralph counted the votes.
"I'm chief then."
The crowd sounded a multitude of cheers and applause. The choir celebrated as well, their leader blushing and gapping at his horrible defeat. He stood to voice his abhorrence, then thought better of it, sitting weathervane-straight with tangible loathing in his posture.
Not wanting to leave him completely to shame, Ralph turned to him.
"The choir belongs to you, of course."
"They could be the army-"
"Or hunters-"
"They could be-"
Ralph shushed the crowd. Calm and his normal coloring returned to Jack's face, at ease with the sense of control he was given.
"Jack's in charge of the choir," said Ralph. "They can be- what do you want them to be?"
"Hunters."
The two then smiled at one another, Jack showing his thankfulness and ability to express a friendly nature. He was not utterly dreadful.
.
As his first verdict as chief, Ralph decided to take a triad of boys and climb the rocky mountain to see if they were indeed stranded on an island. Piggy wished to go ever so, but Ralph denied him the right, taking with him instead Jack and Simon. The meeting was adjourned and the party set off.
The others were left to explore the area around the platform of palms. The littlest soon found a close grove of fruits and took to climbing and eating, washing their faces with the sweet flesh. Others removed their shoes and played at the waterline, some finding shade in the jungle to nap. Sam and Eric sat by the tranquil pool beside the platform and rested their bare feet in the warm water.
Sam began to notice something was wrong when, slowly but certainly, boys began to lose their clothing. It began with their jacket or jersey, then went their shoes and stockings, then their dress shirts and tie, ending with a removal of their trousers and pants. They laughed and ran, playing naked in the surf.
Sam was kicking her feet in the water when Maurice came beside the pool. He said nothing to the twins, pulling off his stockings and collared shirt. In a single fluid motion his trousers were down and lower half stark and bare.
A disbelieving and mortified pinkness came to the girl's face. She had no real objection to the male body, no disgust with its form, but the cultured part of her knew to wrongness of this action. She knew it was unacceptable for females and males with no relation to undress in front of one another, to show themselves in such a way. Her redness came from second-hand embarrassment for Maurice and from her own embarrassment for having to see him in such a personal way.
Eric's temper flared. A noise of protest came from him, an angry heat rising in his face. He gripped the sand.
"Have some decency!" Eric cried to the boy swimming in the pool. Maurice spun around, a confused look upon his features. Eric scowled at his naïve audacity.
"Let's leave," Eric said shorty, pulling his sister to stand. The twins collected their scattered clothing, leaving a puzzled Maurice in the pool to watch them depart.
Eric became increasingly agitated as they moved along the beach and saw more and more uncovered boys. He saw it as an incredible rudeness and disrespect towards his sister, who was trying her best to hide her face from the view. Eric stopped at a tree and sat, facing the jungle and steaming.
"It is indecent, immortal," Eric said after Sam had settled beside him in the shade. "They shouldn't undress in front of girls."
Sam nodded accordance, then decided to think upon the statement. At the airport and during the plane ride she had paid little mind to the others on the trip, much less the gender demography. As she thought back to the faces and voices she remembered from the platform meeting she realized something. There were no girls: only her, a girl.
This cognizance did not explain Maurice's behavior, however. In a reasonable situation he would have asked the girl to leave or left on his pants to swim or not gone in at all. The circumstance bewildered the girl. Boys only undressed and ran dishabille among one another, such as when they went on adventures to swim in the creek. They would never act so careless in front of a female.
It was at once she understood. Maurice and the others did not parade naked before a girl intentionally. They showed themselves casually even while around Sam because they believed she was male, like her brother. This also explained Piggy mixing them up, for he saw the twins with the same haircut and facial features and outfit as identical, both in gender and appearance.
"… Eric," Sam said after a heavy moment of thought and understanding, "they think I'm a boy."
"What?" he choked, gapping at her. "How do you know that? That isn't possible."
"That is why Maurice undressed in front of me and why that boy, Piggy, muddled us up. They think I'm like you, that I'm a boy."
Eric said nothing, shaking his head. His brows furrowed for a moment, the boy waiting and sorting his thoughts.
"That's not right. We need to tell them you're not."
"… What if we don't?"
"Then they will continue to be naked in front of you," Eric said, nose scrunching at the idea.
"But they will not have an excuse to leave me out of their games," Sam persisted. She was reminded of the times she would go with her brother to the park and be butted out of a game of football due to her sex. It was unfair being excluded on a basis she could not control. Eric would object and try to persuade the players, sometimes succeeding and sometimes not. They would play together or sit on the sidelines together: there was no compromise.
"Then they cannot think of me as any different from everyone else."
"How will you bathe?"
"I won't," Sam grinned, her brother hissing at the vulgar notion.
"I can wash in my clothes. Or we can go in the jungle, I am sure there is a river somewhere."
Eric looked at his sister incredulously. She batted her eyelashes, golden eyes innocent and begging. She giggled as he wavered.
"… Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes."
"Even though you will be surrounded by nudity."
"I am sure I can live with it."
"Sam..."
"Please, big brother, please?"
That cracked him. He released an exasperated breath, finally nodding his approval with reluctance. Sam cheered at her victory, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing.
"You are the best big brother ever!"
Eric grunted, mumbling under his breath.
"You're despicable."
She patted his head sympathetically, knowing this fully well.
"I know."
The girl was finally given power over how she was viewed in society and it was wonderfully liberating.