Jichael didn't attract the least bit of notoriety in either the local or national press until he/they began playing varsity football as high school freshmen. Which proves that very few Americans give a damn about either conjoined twins or soccer. Neither twin was the fastest player or even a particularly good kicker. But both John and Michael could flip the ball up to whoever was on top at the time, and both could catch it between their feet and hold it as the other ran full-tilt. Only a foul could prevent the top twin from chucking the ball into the goal at point-blank range. Their exile from the United Home-Schooled Juniors Soccer League, under the auspices of safety, raised protests from Liz, Bobby, their coaches, and even a few soccer moms, but no one could dispute the safety concerns as opposing players were resorting to fouls more and more often. And no one besides Liz and Bobby felt entirely comfortable watching Jichael anyway. That changed once they started playing football the next fall.
His/their special football helmet provided just enough anonymity to allow fans, coaches, and other players to stare in disbelief, then giggle like children, while watching the top twin catch short-yardage touchdown passes over the outstretched hands of defenders who lacked any defense short of pass interference, after leading their team down the field with jaw-dropping somersault runs, one twin jumping and the other diving in perfect synchronization, covering over three yards at a time as would-be tacklers whooshed by or watched them fly overhead. When the coach accepted them on the team under Bobby's threat of a discrimination lawsuit (and signing of a liability waiver), he hadn't expected to give them any playing time. Now he agreed with Bobby that they could go pro if they were separated, if each could run and jump without 160 lbs. balanced on his head.
After each game, Jichael lay on the grass in the fetal position, and Bobby unfastened the heavy-duty plastic clasps on the back and front of his reinforced dual-helmet. Together, he and Liz peeled it away like a shell. Then they combed through their sons' hair, peering into it, probing it, as if checking for lice rather than fractures.
Teammates and other passers-by always shouted, "Good game, Jike!" or, in really bad Jamaican accents, "Hey, Mohn, way to run."
Sooner or later, Liz would groan, "I hate those stupid nicknames." She'd cut her eyes at Bobby and add, "Almost as much as I hate Jichael."
"Hey!" Jichael would say.
"You know what I mean."
Bobby looked at John and Michael lying on their baby blanket, chuckled with good-natured mania, and then took a long swig of his beer. He tilted his head, putting Michael underneath John in his view. Still tilted, he pondered the possibilities—in deep concentration at first, followed slowly by drunken delight. Laughing out loud, he swayed to the breakfast bar and put down his beer.
"This'll work, by God," he said as he returned to his sons. "Thirty months old now, it's about damn time, not just possible but probable. Even if it don't, it'll be hilarious."
He worked his left hand under the rigid joint of John and Michael's skull. He paused and met each of their eyes in turn, pondering more possibilities. They stared back in that blank infant way. With a deep breath, Bobby grabbed John's feet with his other hand and lifted while supporting their heads. They stood without crying. He blew out a puff of air and held them steady.
Michael had been waiting for this moment. He took one step, waited, then dared another. Step, pause, dare. Bobby stood, tingling with excitement. Step, pause, dare.
Bobby backpedaled with each repetition, as though being pushed by his sons. Michael held his hands out for balance, but there was none of the unsteadiness, the buckling knees, the wobbling typical of first steps. John rode on top happily, cooing encouragement. They circled the living room until Bobby lost count of their laps, and then they kept going. And he kept laughing in his joy, his disbelief, his drunkenness.
They circled until John started fussing, and Bobby laid them down, cradling their heads. He studied John's flushed face and realized how much blood must have rushed to it. As Bobby cursed himself, John began kicking and jerking his arms in an effort to roll over. Bobby helped them. Then John started pushing off the floor. Bobby righted them again, this time with Michael on top. And John took off. He walked even better and longer than his brother.
The door opened as they were rounding the couch for the nth time. Bobby's heart skipped a beat as he looked up. Liz's eyes darted to her children, then widened. Her jaw dropped, followed by four bags of new baby clothes. To which Bobby slurred, hoping to turn the scene into a joke, "Look, honey! Jichael can walk!"
Instead of yelling as Bobby had feared, tears welled up in her eyes from the sudden rush of never-dreamed-of-possibilities. Though she couldn't imagine exactly how they would change, she knew their lives would never be the same.
Eric Sentell lives in the DC-metro area with his wonderful wife, Jessica, and teaches composition and directs a writing center at Northern Virginia Community College. His short fiction has been published or is forthcoming in The Rivendell Gazette, Long Story Short, Red Ink Journal, Moon City Review, Blink Ink Online, Short, Fast, and Deadly, and Six Minute Magazine. In September 2010, Long Story Short selected "Stolen Thunder" as its Story of the Month.