Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

“What would you tell Jazz?” Gaylen was whispering, but Maggie saw something in her eyes. A spark.

“The truth.”

“No way could she keep it secret. She tells my daughter everything. Now you’ve got four people in on your secret and two of them are eight years old. How long till they slip and tell someone else? If you to do this, I don’t think you can tell Jazz, at least not yet.”

“So, you’ll help me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you will. How well did you know her?”

“As well as anyone, I suppose, but she was a hard person to get to know. Most of what I could tell you, I’ve learned through Jazz. She practically lives at my place.”

“Then I’m going to have to tell the children.”

“Children?”

“If Jazz is going to tell your daughter anyway, she might as well hear it from me.”

“You wouldn’t tell Jazz to keep it from her?”

“I couldn’t ask her to do that. Not if they’re as close as you say.”

“You’ve got that bump on your head. You could tell them you had an accident and you’ve got some kind of amnesia that makes you forget stuff. You could say you need their help remembering. You could even tell them if they slipped up and told anyone, the police would think you’re not able to take care of Jazz and they’d take her away to live with her father. That way if they do screw up and blab, you won’t have the cops descending on you.”

“No one’s going to believe a story like that.”

“The girls will. They’re eight. It’ll be a grand secret adventure.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said.

“For what?”

“For helping me.”

“I think I’m doing it as much for me as for you. I kind of miss the old Gaylen. The last ten years have been happy, except for the bad time when I lost my husband. He was a big Irish man with a smile to die for and a heart the size of Chicago. But he was a man, you see, and he was white. I was the ultimate feminist, what would the world have thought if Gaylen Geer got married? A black guy would have been bad enough, but a white guy? Nobody would have listened to me anymore. So to avoid the humiliation, I dropped off the face of the earth. At first I hated myself. It was like I was selling out, but then one day I found out I was pregnant and a whole new world opened up.

“Were you gay?”

“Is that what you thought?”

“No, I saw a photo of you last night. Harvey Milk had his arm around you. You had that Afro.”

“Ah, Harvey. I haven’t thought about him in a long time. All he ever wanted was for everybody to get along.” She sighed. “God, he had that dopey smile. So courageous. Most people don’t know.” She sighed again. “I was just a kid, but I believed in Harvey and what he stood for.”

“So, what do you do now?”

“I work at a beauty shop up on Main Street. My sister-in-law and I run it. Own it actually. None of the customers know about me. I’m just one of the women they give a ten dollar tip to if I do a good job on their head.”

“I’ve never tipped ten dollars in my life.”

“Then you haven’t been to Huntington Heads.”

“Huntington Heads?” Maggie laughed. It felt good.

“Best head job on the Coast. That’s our motto.” Gay laughed too.

“Then you could cut my hair. And I bet you’ve got black hair dye in your medicine cabinet.” Maggie stopped laughing.

“Why would you want to cut your hair?”

“Anybody who sees me as Margo will notice the haircut and a dye job, but anybody from my old life might pass over me. They think I’m dead, so if they see a woman with short dark hair, they might not give her a second look, might not take the trouble to notice the resemblance.”

“I’ll get my stuff.” Gay got up. “And I’ll order a pizza for the girls. That and a video should keep them entertained for a few hours.”

“So, what don’t you remember?” Jasmine was sitting in one of the rattan chairs next to Sonya. Both girls stared with saucer eyes, blue and brown pools of wonder at Maggie’s new hair. The once shoulder length blonde hair was now cropped close and it was as black as Gay’s.

“I don’t know,” Maggie said. “But I remember you and Sonya and Gay. That’s enough for starters, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Jasmine said. “I guess so. Then, “Your eyebrows look funny.”

“What?”

“Your hair’s too dark for them.”

“Eyebrow pencil,” Gay said.

“Good idea,” Maggie said.

“So, I understand how you can forget stuff because of the bump on your head, but why’d you change your hair?” Jasmine said.

“I needed a change,” Maggie said. “Besides, I think it makes me look younger, more like a college student, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”

“No, it does,” Maggie said. The shock of the hair cut and the new color was wearing off. When the girls first saw it, all they could do was gape.

“You don’t want to look like an old lady when you go to class,” Sonya said.

“Right, exactly,” Maggie said. “I felt uncomfortable with all the kids.” She hated lying. She wanted it to stop.

“So, you remember about school and that kind of stuff?” Jasmine said.

“Some,” Maggie said. “Not enough, but enough to know I want to blend in more.”

“But you guys have to remember something,” Gay said, rescuing Maggie. “If anybody finds out Margo has amnesia, then Jasmine’s dad is going to swoop down here like white on rice, and he’ll scoop Jazz up and take her away, and she might never be allowed to come back, even after Margo gets all her memory back.”

“Swoop and scoop,” Sonya said. “We won’t tell.”

“Yeah, we can keep a secret,” Jasmine said.

“Just not from each other,” Sonya said.

“It’s just like one of those Jack Priest scary stories you’re always reading,” Jasmine said.

“Jack Priest?” Maggie said.

“Writes horror stories, your big vice,” Gay said. “The kind of stories you want to write someday.”

“Yeah, you love spooky stuff, don’t you remember?” Jazz said.

“I do now.”

“See how easy it’s going to be?” Gay said. “We just remind her and she remembers. It’s not going to be hard at all.”

They spent the next couple of hours talking, Maggie gently probing, seeking information about her twin, but also seeking information about Jasmine. She wanted to know everything about the child, what she liked, disliked, friends, how she got on in school.

Jasmine and Sonya told how Mrs. Roberts, their third grade teacher, wasn’t coming back after Spring break, because she got married. The girls were wondering what the new teacher was going to be like when Maggie started to feel faint. She touched the bruise on her forehead.

“You okay, Margo?” Sonya said.

“Call me Maggie.” Oops.

“What?” Jasmine said.

“It’s just something else I remember,” Maggie said, thinking fast. “When I was a little girl, one of my teachers at school thought Margo was short for Margaret and she called me Maggie for some reason and it stuck. That’s what everybody called me when I was growing up.” She was making it up on the fly and she hoped the girls were buying it.

“Okay, girls, I want you to go next door and play,” Gay said. “Margo, I mean Maggie, and I have some things to talk about.”

“Well,” Gaylen said after the girls left, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a little tired.” She sighed. “Overwhelmed, too.”

“So, you’re really going to do this?”

“I think so. I don’t quite know how I’m going to pull if off though or how I’m going to earn a living.”

“Margo had a little money,” Gaylen said.”