by Joyce Carol Oates
Approximate Word Count: 3000
It was midsummer, the heat rippling above the macadam roads,
cicadas screaming out of the trees, and the sky like pewter,
The days were the same day, like the shallow mud-brown river
moving always int he same direction but so low you couldn't see
it. Except for Sunday: church in the morning, then the fate
Sunday newspaper, the color comics, and newsprint on your
Rhea and Rhoda Kunkel went flying on their rusted old bicycles,
down the long hill toward the railroad yard, Whipple's Ice, the
scrubby pastureland where dairy cows grazed. They'd stolen six
dollars from their own grandmother who loved them. They were
eleven years old; they were identical twins; they basked in their
Rhea and Rhoda Kunkel: it was always Rhea-and-Rhoda, never Rhoda-
and-Rhea, I couldn't say why. You just wouldn't say the names
that way. Not even the teachers at school would say them that
We went to see them in the funeral parlor where they were waked;
we were made to. The twins in twin caskets, white, smooth,
gleaming, perfect as plastic, with white satin lining puckered
like the inside of a fancy candy box. And the waxy white lilies,
and the smell of talcum powder and perfume. The room was crowded;
there was only one way in and out.
Rhea and Rhoda were the same girl; they'd wanted it that way.
Only looking from one to the other could you see they were two.
The heat was gauzy; you had to push your way through like
swimming. On their bicycles Rhea and Rhoda flew through it hardly
noticing, from their grandmother's place on Main Street to the
end of South Main where the paved road turned to gravel leaving
town. That was the summer before seventh grade, when they died.
Death was coming for them, but they didn't know.
They thought the same thoughts sometimes at the same moment, had
the same dream and went all day trying to remember it, brining it
back like something you'd be hauling out of the water on a
tangled line. We watched them; we were jealous. None of us had a
twin. Sometimes they were serious and sometimes, remembering,
they shrieked and laughed like they were being killed. They stole
things out of desks and lockers but if you caught them they'd
hand them right back; it was like a game.
There were three floor fans in the funeral parlor that I could
see, tall whirring fans with propeller blades turning fast to
keep the warm air moving. Strange little gusts came from all
directions, making your eyes water. By this time Roger Whipple
was arrested, taken into police custody. No one had hurt him. He
would never stand trial; he was ruled mentally unfit and would
never be released from confinement.
He died there, in the state psychiatric hospital, years later,
and was brought back home to be buried--the body of him, I mean.
His earthly remains.
Rhea and Rhoda Kunkel were buried in the same cemetery, the First
Methodist. The cemetery is just a field behind the church.
In the caskets the dead girls did not look like anyone we knew,
really. They were placed on their backs with their eyes closed,
and their mouths, the way you don't always look in life when
you're sleeping. Their faces were too small. Every eyelash
showed, too perfect. Like angels, everyone was saying, and it was
strange it was _so_. I stared and stared.
What had been done to them, the lower parts of them, didn't show
in the caskets.
Roger Whipple worked for his father at Whipple's Ice. In the
newspaper it stated he was nineteen. He'd gone to DeWitt Clinton
until he was sixteen; my mother's friend Sadie taught there and
remembered him from the special education class. A big slow
sweet-faced boy with these big hands and feet, thighs like hams.
A shy gentle boy with good manners and a hushed voice.
He wasn't simpleminded exactly, like the others in that class. He
was watchful, he held back.
Roger Whipple in overalls squatting in the rear of his father's
truck, one of his older brother driving. There would come the
sound of the truck in the driveway, the heavy block of ice
smelling of cold, ice tongs over his shoulder. He was strong,
round-shouldered like an older man. Never staggered or grunted.
Never dropped anything. Pale washed-looking eyes lifting out of a
big face, a soft mouth wanting to smile. We giggled and looked
away. They said he'd never been the kind to hurt even an animal;
all the Whipples swore.
Sucking ice, the cold goes straight into your jaws and deep into
People spoke of them as the Kunkel twins. Mostly nobody tried to
tell them apart: homely corkscrew-twisty girls you wouldn't know
would turn up so quiet and solmen and almost beautiful, perfect
little dolls' faces with the freckles powdered over, touches of
rouge on the cheeks and mouths. I was tempted to whisper to them,
kneeling by the coffins, _Hey, Rhea! Hey, Rhoda! Wake up!
They had loud slip-sliding voices that were the same voice. They
weren't shy. They were always first in line. One behind you and
one in front of you and you'd better be wary of some trick.
Flamey-orange hair and the bleached-out skin that goes with it,
freckles like dirty raindrops splashed on their faces. Sharp
green eyes they'd bug out until you begged them to stop.
Places meant to be serious, Rhea and Rhoda had a hard time
sitting still. In church, in school, a sideways glance between
them could do it. Jamming their knuckles into their mouths,
choking back giggles. Sometimes laughter escaped through their
fingers like steam hissing. Sometimes it came out like snorting
and then none of us could hold back. The worst time was in
assembly, the principal up there telling us that Miss Flagler had
died, we would all miss her. Tears shining in the woman's eyes
behind her goggle glasses and one of the twins gave a breathless
little snort; you could feel it like flames running down the
whole row of girls, none of us could hold back.
Sometimes the word "tickle" was enough to get us going, just that
I never dreamt about Rhea and Rhoda so strange in their caskets
sleeping out in the middle of a room where people could stare at
them, shed tears and pray over them. I never dream about actual
things, only things I don't know. Places I've never been, people
I've never seen. Sometimes the person I am in the dream isn't me.
Who it is, I don't know.
Rhea and Rhoda bounced up the drive on their bicycles behind
Whipple's Ice. They were laughing like crazy and didn't mind the
potholes jarring their teeth or the clouds of dust. If they'd had
the same dream the night before, the hot sunlight erased it
When death comes for you, you sometimes know and sometimes don't.
Roger Whipple was by himself in the barn, working. Kids went down
there to beg him for ice to suck or throw around or they'd tease
him, not out of meanness but for something to do. It was slow,
the days not changing in the summer, heat sometimes all night
long. He was happy with children that age, he was that age
himself in his head--sixth-grade learning abilities, as the
newspaper stated, though he could add and subtract quickly. Other
kinds of arithmetic gave him trouble.
People were saying afterward he'd always been strange. Watchful
like he was, those thick soft lips. The Whipples did wrong to let
him run loose.
_They_ said he'd always been a good gentle boy, went to Sunday
school and sat still there and never gave anybody any trouble. He
collected Bible cards; he hid them away under his mattress for
safe-keeping. Mr. Whipple started in early disciplining him the
way you might discipline a big dog or a horse. Not letting the
creature know he has any power to be himself exactly. Not giving
him the opportunity to test his will.
Neighbors said the Whipples worked him like a horse, in fact. The
older brothers were the most merciless. And why they all wore
coveralls, heavy denim and long legs on days so hot, nobody knew.
The thermometer above the First Midland Bank read 98 degrees F.
On noon of that day, my mother said.
Nights afterward my mother would hug me before I went to bed.
Pressing my face hard against her breasts and whispering things I
didn't hear, like praying to Jesus to love and protect her little
girl and keep her from harm, but I didn't hear; I shut my eyes
tight and endured it. Sometimes we prayed together, all of us or
just my mother and me kneeling by my bed. Even then I knew she
was a good mother, there was this girl she loved as her daughter
that was me and loved more than that girl deserved. There was
nothing I could do about it.
Mrs. Kunkel would laugh and roll her eyes over the twins. In that
house they were "double trouble"--you'd hear it all the time like
a joke on the radio that keeps coming back. I wonder did she pray
with them too. I wonder would they let her.
In the long night you forget about the day; it's like the other
side of the world. Then the sun is there, and the heat. You
We were running through the field behind school, a place where
people dumped things sometimes, and there was a dead dog there, a
collie with beautiful fur, but his eyes were gone from the
sockets and the maggots had got him where somebody tried to lift
him with her foot, and when Rhea and Rhoda saw they screamed a
single scream and hid their eyes.
They did nice things--gave their friends candy bars, nail polish,
some novelty key chains they'd taken from somewhere, movie stars'
pictures framed in plastic. In the movies they'd share a box of
popcorn, not noticing where one or the other of them left off and
a girl who wasn't any sister of their sat.
Once they made me strip off my clothes where we'd crawled under
the Kunkels' veranda. This was a large hollowed-out space where
the earthy dropped away at one end and you could sit wihtout
bumping your head; it was cool and smelled of dirt and stone.
Rhea said all of a sudden, _Streip!_ and Rhoda said at one,
_Strip! Come on!_ So it happened. They wouldn't let me out unless
I took off my clothes, my shirt and shorts, yes, and my panties
too. _Come on_, they said, whispering and giggling; they were
blocking the way out so I had no choice. I was scared but I was
laughing too. This is to show our power over you, they said. But
they stripped too just like me.
You have power over others you don't realize until you test it.
Under the Kunkels' verand we stared at each other but we didn't
touch each other. My teeth chattered, because what if somebody
saw us, some boy, or Mrs. Kunkel herself? I was scared but I was
happy too. Except for out faces, their face and mine, we could
all be the same girl.
The Kunkel family lived in one side of a big old clapboard house
by the river, you could hear the trucks rattling on the bridge,
shifting their noisy gears on the hill. Mrs. Kunkel had eight
children. Rhea and Rhoda were the youngest. Our mothers wondered
why Mrs. Kunkel had let herself go: she had a moon-shaped pretty
face but her hair was frizzed ratty; she must have weighed two
hundred pounds, sweated and breathed so hard in the warm weather.
They'd known her in school. Mr. Kunkel worked construction for
the county. Summer evenings after work he'd be sitting on the
veranda drinking beer, flicking cigarette butts out into the
yard; you'd be fooled, almost thinking they were fireflies. He
went bare-chested in the heat, his upper body dark like stained
wood. Flat little purplish nipples inside his chest hair the
girls giggled to see. Mr. Kunkel teased us all; he'd mix Rhea and
Rhoda up the way he'd mix the rest of us up, like it was too much
trouble to keep names straight.
Mr. Kunkel was in police custody; he didn't even come to the
wake. Mrs. Kunkel was there in rolls of chin fat that glistened
with sweat and tears, the makeup on her face so caked and
discolored you were embarrassed to look. It scared me, the way
she grabbed me as soon as my parents and I came in, hugging me
against her big balloon breasts, sobbing. All the strength went
out of me; I couldn't push away.
The police had Mr. Kunkel for his own good, they said. He'd gone
to the Whipples, though the murdered had been taken away, saying
he would kill anybody he could get his hands on: the old man, the
brothers. They were all responsible, he said; his little girls
were dead. Tear them apart with his bare hands, he said, but he
had a tire iron.
Did it mean anything special, or was it just an accident Rhea and
Rhoda had taken six dollars from their grandmother an hour
before? Because death was coming for them; it had to happen one
way or another.
If you believe in God you believe that. And if you don't believe
in God it's obvious.
Their grandmother lived upstairs over a shoe store downtown, an
apartment looking out on Main Street. They'd bicycle down there
fore something to do and she'd give them grape juice or lemonade
and try to keep them awhile, a lonely old lady but she was nice,
she was always nice to me; it was kind of nasty of Rhea and Rhoda
to steal from her but they were like that. One was in the kitchen
talking with her and without any plan or anything the other went
to use the bathroom, then slipped into her bedroom, got the money
out of her purse like it was something she did every day of the
week, that easy. What did you _do?_ knowing Rhea had done
something she hadn't ought to have done but not knowing what it
was or anyway how much money it was. They started in poking each
other, trying to hold the giggles until they were safe away.
On their bicycles they stood high on the pedals, coasting, going
down the hill but not using their brakes. _What did you do! Oh,
what did you do!_
Rhea and Rhoda always said they could never be apart. If one
didn't know exactly where the other was that one could die. Or
the other would die. Or both.
Once they'd gotten some money from somewhere, they wouldn't say
where, and paid for us all to go to the movies. And ice cream
You could read the newspaper articles twice through and still not
know what he did. Adults talked about it for a long time but not
so we could hear. I thought probably he'd used an ice pick. Or
maybe I heard somebody guess who didn't know any more than me.
We liked it that Rhea and Rhoda had been killed, and all the
stuff int he paper, and everybody talking about it, but we didn't
like it that they were dead; we missed them.
Later, in tenth grade, the Kaufmann twins moved into our school
district: Doris and Diane. But it wasn't the same thing.
Roger Whipple said he didn't remember any of it. Whatever he did,
he didn't remember. A first everybody thought he was lying; then
they had to accept it as true, or true in some way: doctors from
the state hospital examined him. He said over and over he hadn't
done anything and he didn't remember the twins there that
afternoon, but he couldn't explain why their bicycles were at the
foot of his stairway and he couldn't explain why he'd taken a
bath in the middle of the day. The Whipples admitted that wasn't
a practice of Roger's or of any of them, a bath in the middle of
Roger Whipple was a clean boy, though. His hands always scrubbed
so you actually noticed, swinging the block of ice off the truck
and, inside the kitchen, helping to set it in the icebox. They
said he'd got crazy if he got bits of straw under his nails from
the icehouse or inside his clothes. He'd been taught to shave and
he shaved every morning without fail; they said the sight of the
beard growing in, the scratchy feel of it, seemed to scare him.
A few years later his sister Linda told us how Roger was built
like a horse. She was out age, a log younger than him; she made a
gesture toward her crotch so we'd know what she meant. She'd
happened to see him a few times, she said, by accident.
There he was squatting in the dust laughing, his head lowered,
watching Rhea and Rhoda circle him on their bicycles. It was a
rough game where the twins saw how close they could come to
hitting him, brushing him with their bike fenders, and he'd lunge
out, not seeming to notice if his fingers hit the spokes; it was
all happening to fast you maybe wouldn't feel pain. Out back of
the icehouse, the yard blended in with the yard of the old
railroad depot next door that wasn't used any more. It was
burning hot in the sun; dust rose in clouds behind the girls.
Pretty soon they got bored with the game, though Roger Whipple
even in his heavy overalls wanted to keep going. He was red-faced
with all the excitement; he was a boy who loved to laugh and
didn't have much chance. Rhea said she was thirsty, she wanted
some ice, so Roger Whipple scrambled right up and went to get a
big bag of ice cubes! He hadn't any more sense than that.
They sucked on the ice cubes and fooled around with them. He was
panting and lolling his tongue pretending to be a dog, and Rhea
and Rhoda cried, Here, doggie! Here, doggie-doggie! Tossing the
ice cubes at Roger Whipple he tried to catch in his mouth. That
went on for a while. In the end the twins just dumped the rest of
the ice onto the dirt, then Roger Whipple was saying he had some
secret things that belonged to his brother Eamon he could show
them, hidden under his bed mattress; would they like to see what
the things were?
He wasn't one who could tell Rhea from Rhoda or Rhoda from Rhea.
There was a way some of us knew: the freckles on Rhea's face were
a little darker than Rhoda's, and Rhea's eyes were just a little
darker than Rhoda's. But you'd have to see the two side by side
with no clowning around to know.
Rhea said OK, she'd like to see the secret things. She let her
bike fall where she was straddling it.
Roger Whipple said he could only take one of them upstairs to his
room at a time, he didn't say why.
OK, said Rhea. Of the Kunkel twins, Rhea always had to be first.
She'd been born first, she said. Weighed a pound or two more.
Roger Whipple's room was in a strange place: on the second floor
of the Whipple house above an unheated storage space that had
been added after the main part of the house was built. There was
a way of getting to the room from the outside, up a flight of
rickety wooden stairs. That way Roger could get in and out of his
room without going through the rest of the house. People said the
Whipples had him live there like some animal, they didn't want
him tramping through the house, but they denied it. The room had
an inside door too.
Roger Whipple weighed about one hundred ninety pounds that day.
In the hospital he swelled up like a balloon, people said,
bloated from the drugs; his skin was soft and white as bread
dough and his hair fell out. He was an old man when he died aged
Exactly why he died, the Whipples never knew. The hospital just
told them his heart had stopped in his sleep.
Rhoda shaded her eyes, watching her sister running up the stair
with Roger Whipple behind her, and felt the first pinch of fear,
that something was wrong or was going to be wrong She called
after them in a whining voice that she wanted to come along too,
she didn't want to wait down there all alone, but Rhea just
called back to her to be quiet and wait her turn, so Rhoda
waited, kicking at the ice cubes melting in the dirt, and after a
while she got restless and shouted up to them--the door was shut,
the shade on the window was drawn--saying she was going home,
damn them, she was sick of waiting, she said, and she was going
home. But nobody came to the door or looked out of the window; it
was like the place was empty. Wasps had built one of those nests
that look like mud in layers under the eaves, and the only sound
Rhoda bicycled toward the road so anybody who was watching would
think she was going home; she was thinking she hated Rhea! Hated
her damn twin sister! wished she was dead and gone, God damn her!
She was going home, and the first thing she'd tell their mother
was that Rhea had stolen six dollars from Grandma: she had it in
her pocket right that moment.
The Whipple house was an old farmhouse they'd tried to modernize
by putting on red asphalt siding meant to look like brick.
Downstairs the rooms were big and drafty; upstairs they were
small, some of them unfinished and with bare floorboards, like
Roger Whipple's room, which people would afterward say based on
what the police said was like an animal's pen, nothing in it but
a bed shoved into a corner and some furniture and boxes and
things Mrs. Whipple stored there.
Of the Whipples--there were seven in the family still living at
home--only Mrs. Whipple and her daughter Iris were home that
afternoon. They said they hadn't heard a sound except for kids
playing in the back; they swore it.
Rhoda was bent on going home and leaving Rhea behind, but at the
end of the driveway something made her turn her bicycle wheel
back . . . so if you were watching you'd think she was just
cruising around for something to do, a red-haired girl with
whitish skin and freckles, skinny little body, pedaling fast,
then slow, then coasting, then fast again, turning and dipping
and crisscrossing her path, talking to herself as if she was
angry. She hated Rhea! She was furious at Rhea! But feeling sort
of scared too and sickish in the pit of her belly, knowing that
she and Rhea shouldn't be in two places; something might happen
to one of them or to both. Some things you know.
So she pedaled back to the house. Laid her bike down in the dirt
next to Rhea's. The bikes were old hand-me-downs, the kickstands
were broken. But their daddy had put on new Goodyear tires for
them at the start of the summer, and he'd oiled them too.
You never would see just one of the twins' bicycles anywhere, you
always saw both of them laid down on the ground and facing in the
same direction with the pedals in about the same position.
Rhoda peered up at the second floor of the house, the shade drawn
over the window, the door still closed. She called out, Rhea?
Hey, Rhea? starting up the stairs, making a lot of noise so
they'd hear her, pulling on the railing as if to break it the way
a boy would. Still she was scared. But making noise like that and
feeling so disgusted and mad helped her get stronger, and there
was Roger Whipple with the door open staring down at her flush-
faced and sweaty as if he was scared too. He seemed to have
forgotten her. He was wiping his hands on his overalls. He just
stared, a lemony light coming up in his eyes.
Afterward he would say he didn't remember anything. Just didn't
remember anything. The side of a grown man but round-shouldered
so it was hard to judge how tall he was, or how old. His straw-
colored hair falling in his eyes and his fingers twined together
as if he was praying or trying with all the strength in him to
keep his hands still. He didn't remember the twins in his room
and couldn't explain the blood but he cried a lot, acted scared
and guilty and sorry like a dog that's done bad, so they decided
he shouldn't be made to stand trial; there was no point to it.
Afterward Mrs. Whipple kept to the house, never went out, not
even to church or grocery shopping. She died of cancer just a few
months before Roger died; she'd loved her boy, she always said;
she said none of it was his fault in his heart, he wasn't the
kind of boy to injure an animal; he loved kittens especially and
was a good sweet obedient boy and religious too and Jesus was
looking after him and whatever happened it must have been those
girls teasing him; everybody knew what the Kunkel twins were
like. Roger had had a lifetime of being teased and taunted by
children, his heart broken by all the abuse, and something must
have snapped that day, that was all.
The Whipples were the ones, though, who called the police. Mr.
Whipple found the girls' bodies back in the icehouse hidden under
some straw and canvas. Those two look-alike girls, side by side.
He found them around 9 P.M. that night. He knew, he said. Oh, he
The way Roger was acting, and the fact that the Kunkel girls were
missing: word had gotten around town. Roger taking a bath like
that in the middle of the day and washing his hair too and not
answering when anyone said his name, just sitting there staring
at the floor. So they went up to his room and saw the blood. So
The hardest minute of his life, Mr. Whipple said, was in the
icehouse lifting that canvas to see what was under it.
He took it hard too; he never recovered. He hadn't any choice but
to think what a lot of people thought--it had been his fault. He
was an old-time Methodist, he took all that seriously, but none
of it helped him. Believed Jesus Christ was his personal savior
and He never stopped loving Roger or turned His face from him,
and if Roger did truly repent in his heart he would be saved and
they would be reunited in Heaven, all the Whipples reunited. He
believed, but none of it helped in his life.
The icehouse is still there but boarded up and derelict, the
Whipples' ice business ended long ago. Strangers live in the
house, and the yard is littered with rusting hulks of cars and
pickup trucks. Some Whipples live scattered around the county but
none in town. The old train depot is still there too.
After I'd been married some years I got involved with this man, I
won't say his name, his name is not a name I say, but we would
meet back there sometimes, back in that old lot that's all weeds
and scrub trees. Wild as kids and on the edge of being drunk. I
was crazy for this guy, I mean crazy like I could hardly think of
anybody but him or anything but the two of us making love the way
we did; with him deep inside me I wanted it to never stop. Just
fuck and fuck and fuck, I'd whisper to him, and this went on for
a long time, two or three years, then ended the way these things
do and looking back on it I'm not able to recognize that woman,
as if she was someone not even not-me but a crazy woman I would
despise, making so much of such a thing, risking her marriage and
her kids finding out and her life being ruined for such a thing,
my God. The things people do.
It's like living out a story that has to go its own way.
Behind the icehouse in his car I'd think of Rhea and Rhoda and
what happened that day upstairs in Roger Whipple's room. And the
funeral parlor with the twins like dolls laid out and their eyes
like dolls' eyes too that shut when you tilt them back. One night
when I wasn't asleep but wasn't awake either I saw my parents
standing in the doorway of my bedroom watching me and I knew
their thoughts, how they were thinking of Rhea and Rhoda and of
me their daughter wondering how they could keep me from harm, and
there was no clear answer.