“His death created an opportunity,” I said. “Brother Billy saw that and seized the moment. When he showed up a few months after the funeral and told you what he had for you, you thought your prayers had been answered. The timing was perfect. Let everyone think old Henry had finally come through- in spades. Bequeathed you not one but two beautiful little baby girls.”

“They were beautiful,” she said. “So tiny, but already beautiful. My own little girls.”

“You renamed them.”

“Beautiful new names,” she said. “For a new life.”

“Where did your brother tell you he got them?”

“He didn’t. Just that their mother had fallen on hard times and couldn’t care for them anymore.”

Hard times. The hardest. “Weren’t you curious?”

“Absolutely not. Billy said the less I knew- the less any of us knew- the better. That way, when they got older and started to ask questions, I’d be able to honestly say I didn’t know. I’m sure you disapprove, Doctor. You psychologists preach the gospel of open communication- everyone bleeding all over everyone else. I don’t see that society is any better for your vile meddling.”

She emptied her glass again. I was ready with the pitcher.

When she’d finished most of the refill, I said, “When did things start to go bad?”

“Bad?”

“Between the girls.”

She closed her eyes, put her head back against the cushion. “In the beginning, things were lovely-exactly like a dream come true. They were bookends, so perfect. Perfect blue eyes, black hair, pink cheeks- a pair of little bisque dolls. I had my seamstress fashion them dozens of matching outfits: teensy gowns and bonnets, chemises and booties- their feet were so tiny, the booties were no larger than a thimble. I took a shopping excursion to Europe, brought back the loveliest things for the nursery: an entire collection of real bisque dolls, hand-printed wall coverings, a pair of exquisite Louis Quatorze cradles. Their bedroom always smelled sweet, with fresh-cut flowers and sachets that I prepared myself.”

She lowered her arms, allowing the glass to tilt. A rivulet of liquid ran down the side and speckled the stone floor. She didn’t move.

I broke into her reverie. “When did the troubles start, Mrs. Blalock?”

“Don’t pick at me, young man.”

“How old were they when the conflict became apparent?”

“Early… I don’t recall exactly.”

I stared, waited.

“Oh!” She shook a fist at me. “It was so long ago! How on earth can I be expected to remember? Seven, eight months old- I don’t know! They’d just started crawling and getting into everything- how old are babies when they do that?”

“Seven, eight months sounds right. Tell me about it.”

“What’s there to tell? They were identical but were so different, conflict was inevitable.”

“Different in what way?”

“Sherry was active, dominant, strong- in body and spirit. She knew what she wanted and went right for it, wouldn’t take no for an answer.” She gave a smile. Satisfied. Strange.

“What was Sharon like?”

“A wilted flower- ephemeral, distant. She sat and played with one thing over and over and over. Never demanded a thing. One never knew what was on her mind. The two of them established their roles and played them to the hilt- leader and follower, just like a little stage play. If there was a bit of candy or a toy that they both wanted, Sherry would just move right in, bowl Sharon over, and take it away. In the very beginning Sharon put up some resistance, but she never won, and soon she learned that, one way or the other, Sherry was going to triumph.”

That strange smile again. Applauding that triumph.

The smile I’d seen so many times on the faces of ineffectual parents saddled with extremely disturbed, aggressive youngsters.

He’s so aggressive, such a tiger. Smile.

She beat up the little girl next door, really demolished her, the poor thing. Smile.

He’s a real ass-kicker, my boy. Gonna get into serious trouble one day. Smile.

The do-as-I-feel, not-as-I-say smile. Legitimizing bullying. Granting permission to knock down, gouge, scrape, pummel, and, above all, win.

The kind of off-kilter response guaranteed to get a therapist hmm-ing and noting “inappropriate affect” in the chart. And knowing treatment wouldn’t be easy.

“Poor Sharon really did get knocked around,” Mrs. Blalock said.

“What did you do about it?”

“What could I do? I tried reasoning with them- told Sharon she needed to face up to Sherry, be more self-confident. I informed Sherry in no uncertain terms that this was no way for a young lady to behave. But the moment I was gone, they’d revert to type. I do believe it was a little game between them. Collaboration.”

She was right about that, but she’d gotten the players wrong.

She said, “I’m long past blaming myself. Their characters were predetermined, programmed from the very start. In the end Nature triumphs. That’s why your field will never amount to much.”

“Was there anything positive about their relationship?”

“Oh, I suppose they loved each other. When they weren’t fighting, there were the usual hugs and kisses. And they had their own little nonsense language that no one else understood. And despite the rivalry, they were inseparable- Sherry leading, Sharon tagging behind, taking her licks. But always, the fighting. Competition for everything.”

Strange phenomenon, mirror-image monozygotes… given an identical genetic structure there should be no differences at all…

“Sherry always won,” she was saying. Smile. “By the age of two she’d become a real little martinet, a little stage director, telling Sharon where to stand, what to say, when to say it. If Sharon dared not to listen, Sherry lashed out, slapping and kicking and biting. I tried to separate them, forbade them to play with one another, even got them separate nannies.”

“How’d they react to being separated?”

“Sherry threw tantrums, broke things. Sharon just huddled in the corner, as if in a trance. Eventually, they always managed to sneak back and reconnect. Because they needed each other. Weren’t complete without each other.”

“Silent partners,” I said.

No reaction.

“I was always the outsider,” she said. “It wasn’t a good situation, not for any of us. They drove me to distraction. Getting away with hurting her sister wasn’t good for Sherry- it hurt her too. Perhaps even more than it hurt Sharon- bones may mend, but once injured, the mind never seems to set properly.”

“Were Sharon’s bones ever actually broken?”

“Of course not!” she said, as if addressing an idiot. “I was speaking figuratively.”

“How serious were her injuries?”

“It wasn’t child abuse, if that’s what you’re getting at. Nothing we had to call a doctor for- clumps of hair pulled out, bites, scratches. By the time she was two, Sherry knew how to raise a nasty bruise, but nothing serious.”

“Until the drowning.”

The glass in her hand began to shake. I filled it, waited until she’d drained it, kept the pitcher at hand. “How old were they when it happened?”

“A little over three. Our first summer away together.”

“Where?”

“My place in Southampton.”

“The Shoals.” Item one on a list I’d just read in a social register: Skylark in Holmby Hills. Le Dauphin in Palm Beach. An unnamed flat in Rome. Her real children.

“Another sun-room,” I said. “A latticed pool house.”

My knowing shook her further. She swallowed hard. “You seem to know everything. I really don’t see the need-”

“Far from everything.” Refill. I smiled. She looked at me with gratitude. Boozer’s version of the Stockholm syndrome. “Bottoms up.”

She drank, shuddered, drank some more, said, “Here’s to glorious, glorious truth.”

“The drowning,” I said. “How did it happen?”