Twins Under the Christmas Tree

“I bet he’s dead.” The same voice spoke again.

“Poke him and see.” A second voice, slightly higher in pitch than the first, whispered.

Conway grinned, glad the hat hid his face.

“Get Mom.”

“She’s sleeping.”

The sound of a food wrapper crinkling reached Conway’s ears.

“Shh.”

“I’m hungry.” Crunching followed the statement.

Conway shifted on the couch and groaned.

“He’s alive.”

“Maybe he’s sick.”

“Look under his hat.”

“You look.”

“Chicken.”

“Am not.”

Conway’s chest shook with laughter as he waited for his assailants’ next move. Small fingers lifted the brim of his hat and Cheerio breath puffed against in his face.

On the count of three. One...two...three. Conway opened his eyes and his gaze clashed with the boys’. The kids shrieked and jumped back, bumping into each other. The Cheerio box sailed through the air, the contents spilling onto Conway’s chest. He studied the mess then turned his attention to the daring duo.

“Sorry, mister.” The brothers scooped oat rings off of Conway’s shirt and stuffed them back into the box. Conway swung his legs to the floor and sat up. The twins were identical. They wore their hair cut in a traditional little-boy style with a side part and both had their mother’s almond-shaped brown eyes.

He pointed to the kid holding the cereal box. “What’s your name?”

“Javier.”

Conway moved his finger to the other boy.

“I’m Miguel. Who are you?”

So Miguel was the outgoing one and Javier the shy one. “Conway Twitty Cash.”

“That’s a long name,” Miguel said.

“You can call me Conway.” It wasn’t enough that his mother had slept with every Tom, Dick and Harry across southern Arizona, but she’d also possessed a strange sense of humor in naming all six of her sons after country-music legends. “How old are you guys?”

“Four.” They answered in unison.

“Are you a real cowboy?” Miguel asked.

“That depends. You asking if I work on a ranch?”

Miguel nodded.

“I’m not that kind of cowboy.”

Javier made eye contact with his brother and Conway swore the boys conversed telepathically. “What kind of cowboy are you?” Miguel asked.

“Part-time rodeo cowboy. When I’m not bustin’ broncs, I work on a farm.”

The boys stared with blank expressions.

“You know what pecans are, don’t you?”

They shook their heads.

“Nuts that grow on trees. People eat the nuts or use them in pies.”

Javier whispered in his brother’s ear then Miguel asked, “How come you’re in our house?”

Not sure what answer Isi would want him to give her sons, he asked a question of his own. “Have you ever seen a man in your house after you woke up in the morning?”

They shook their heads again.

For some stupid reason that pleased Conway.

Javier whispered in his brother’s ear.

“You can ask me questions yourself, Javier,” Conway said.

“I mostly talk.” Miguel’s chest puffed up. “Why are you sleeping on our couch?”

“Your mom wasn’t feeling well, so I stayed the night in case something bad happened.”

“Is Mom dying?” Miguel paused, then said, “Like what?”

“No, your mom isn’t dying. For Pete’s sake!” Conway had trouble following the conversation—he’d never talked with four-year-olds before. “Like what, what?”

“What kind of bad things?” Miguel asked.

“Well, there could have been a fire in the middle of the night.”

Javier ran from the room then returned with a small fire extinguisher.

“We know how to put out a fire,” Miguel said.