The Brothers Guilford

My earliest and most enduring memories were those of my brother, Cyril Guilford. Throughout our lives, we were always close, much closer than most other siblings, in fact. When I was a youngster, I considered myself most fortunate to share so close a relationship with another human being. With Cyril at my side, I was never bored, never frightened and never lonely. My brother was not only my childhood playmate, but he was also my confidant and a great source of emotional support as we grew up. Over the years, friends would come and friends would go, yet my brother remained the one true constant throughout my life.

Cyril and I both excelled in school. He was good in mathematics and the sciences, whereas my strengths were British literature, creative writing and world history. Consequently, between the two of us, we always managed to score high grades on our homework assignments and tests.

As we grew older, my brother and I developed the same tastes. We read the same books, listened to the same music, watched the same movies, enjoyed the same sports and routed for the same teams. Unfortunately, our tastes extended to liking the same girls. This mutual taste in young women was to create the first and only schism in our hitherto perfect kinship.

Cyril and I first met Paula Keller at the bookshop that was just around the corner from our parents' home. We had gone in to look for a book on ancient Greece, never suspecting that we would meet a girl who would change our lives so drastically. My brother and I were discussing the comparative merits of two scholarly volumes when I raised my head and spotted her standing behind the counter. She had been staring at us—at me—and when our eyes met, she quickly lowered her head. A pink blush spread over her fair cheeks.

"Her," I replied, conveying in that simple, one-syllable pronoun, my admiration for her considerable charms.

Although Paula seemed to be giving her undivided attention to the elderly customer at the register, the blush was still visible on her cheeks. I had the distinct impression that she was deliberately avoiding looking in my direction.

Cyril, meanwhile, went back to examining the back cover of his book, but I could detect the quick, furtive glances he cast in the young woman's direction.

I wanted to get to the cash register while there were no other customers in line. I wanted to savor the experience of being waited on by this beautiful woman and to draw it out as long as possible.

My brother barely had time to grab the second book before I hurried him over to the empty counter. Paula looked up from underneath her feathered blond bangs, and the blush on her cheeks spread and darkened to a rosy red.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her eyes briefly looking into mine before settling on the books we'd placed on the counter.

Paula was blatantly nervous. Her hands shook so badly that she nearly dropped my brother's books on the floor when she put them in the bag.

"Charge," Cyril replied, producing a platinum Visa card from inside his wallet. "May I borrow your pen?" he asked, as he reached over to sign the sales slip.

My brother's calm, quiet demeanor seemed to put Paula at ease. She looked him straight in the eye. He smiled, and she smiled back at him. That was the moment I felt the first twinges of jealousy stir within my breast.

Our lives continued without any apparent deviation from the norm. Beneath the surface, however, my emotions were boiling.

"You've been unusually quiet these past few days," my brother noted. "Are you feeling all right, Basil?"

The question was unnecessary. Cyril knew only all too well what was bothering me.

The sadness in my brother's eyes revealed the compassion he felt toward me for what he considered a hopeless, unrequited love. I immediately felt the stirrings of anger in my heart.

"How do you know? Modesty aside, I feel that I have a lot to offer a young woman. I'm intelligent, sensitive, loving, well read ...."

My brother didn't contradict me. He merely lowered his eyes, a gesture that spoke louder than words.

"That's true," Cyril grudgingly agreed. "But just suppose this young woman—or any other young woman, for that matter—did return your feelings? How could you ever hope to have a normal relationship with her?"

It was at that precise moment that I started to hate my brother. It was also at that point that I became determined to win the affection of that beautiful young woman at the bookstore.

I began my pursuit by conducting a weekly pilgrimage to the bookstore in which she worked. It didn't matter what books I bought or if I bought any at all, for with each trip I learned more about the fair-haired beauty named Paula Keller. After several seemingly innocent conversations, I learned where she lived and where she had gone to school. I also discovered, much to my chagrin, that she had a boyfriend, but I was not about to let him stand in the way of our happiness.

My brother always accompanied me on these shopping excursions, just as he followed me everywhere else I went. Although I used to love his companionship; now I loathed it. I longed to be free of his prying eyes. I grew to hate those sad expressions of his that held nothing but pity for me. I'd show him, thought!

As the months passed the three of us—Paula, Cyril and I—developed a friendship. At the time, I found it odd that the closer I grew to Paula, the shyer my brother became. Initially, it seemed as though he was embarrassed by my growing feelings for Paula. That was natural under the circumstances; neither of us had ever gone out with a girl.

"I was wondering where I should take Paula on our first date," I commented one morning over breakfast, hoping my brother would offer a good suggestion.

Later that day, my brother and I were sitting in the living room, having coffee and sharing the Sunday edition of The Boston Globe. Cyril was reading the world news, while I was thumbing through the entertainment section.

"The Boston Pops are about to kick off their 2001 season. I'll bet Paula will be quite impressed if I invite her to a quiet, romantic dinner followed by an evening an evening of music."

Cyril sighed and, choosing his words carefully, he inquired, "I think it's good to develop friendships, but just where do you intend this one to go?

"Look, Basil, I know how much you care for this girl, and I don't want to be the one to burst your bubble, but you're my brother and I love you. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I can't go through life avoiding relationships just because they may not work out."

Cyril didn't answer; he didn't have to. I knew what he was thinking: other people have relationships, fall in love and get married, but not you, Basil, because you're different.

Different. It was a word I had heard all my life but always in contradictory contexts. I would often be told that I couldn't do something or go somewhere because I was different. Then the following day I'd be told not to expect special treatment because I was no different than anyone else. In either case, I was tired of being different.

Despite my brother's loving concern, I did ask Paula out, and as I had hoped she accepted. Unfortunately, the manner of her acceptance left me less than delighted.

While it was important to me that she like my brother, I had hoped she would consider the evening a date with me and not a family outing.

We began our evening at Mistral, a popular, expensive French restaurant, that I chose not for its food but because it offered an intimate setting for our first date. Thankfully, as we ate my brother was the personification of tact. He spoke only when spoken to and appeared to distance himself from my private conversation with Paula.

Ironically, it was my date that disappointed me by repeatedly turning away from me to address my brother. Was she ill at ease with having not one, but two dinner companions? Were her smiles for Cyril simply the result of good manners, or did they have a deeper meaning? If a woman was attracted to one twin, wasn't it only natural that she would be attracted to his brother, a man who was, for all intents and purposes, his double?

Of course, Cyril and I were not so much identical twins as we were mirror images of each other. He was right-handed; I was a lefty. I parted my hair on the right, he on the left. But these differences were minor. I began to panic at the thought that Paula would like my brother as much as and in the same way that she liked me.

Despite my insecurity-bred fears, the evening was a pleasant success. I even found the courage to give her a good night kiss—a chaste one, albeit, befitting a first date. After all, I was a gentleman. Besides, how could I display any passion under the watchful eye of my brother?

Paula thanked us both for a wonderful evening, kissed my brother on the cheek and disappeared into her house.

The wistful look on Cyril's face turned my blood to ice. As close as we were, he never could keep anything from me. I knew he was attracted to Paula and might even be in love with her. From that point on, I thought it prudent to avoid discussing my feelings with my brother.

Cyril and I continued to make our regular visits to the bookstore. We had lunch with Paula on several occasions, and she accompanied us to the art museum and to the symphony. Just when I was sure that I was on my way to establishing a solid relationship with her, my hopes were suddenly dashed.

As my brother was paying for a book on the maritime history of Salem, Massachusetts, I took the opportunity to invite Paula to the theater.

"I'm sorry, Basil, but I've got plans for the weekend," she said, not merely smiling but absolutely beaming.

The boyfriend! I had completely forgotten about him. After all, he was three states away studying architecture, while I (and Cyril) had been escorting the lovely Paula around Boston.

"Great!" I exclaimed, summoning a false bravado. "I would love to meet him. Why don't you bring him along?"

"Oh, so now that your handsome Prince Charming has come home, you don't need us," I foolishly cried. "Or is it more than that? Maybe you're ashamed to be seen with ...."

"Come on now, Basil," Cyril said, jumping to her aid. "They're in love. They want to be alone. It's only natural."

I shot my brother a look of fury that under other circumstances would have made him cringe.

"Enjoy your weekend, Paula," he said politely and then turned to me. "Let's go, Basil. NOW."

"Because you were embarrassing that poor girl, and you were embarrassing me as well."

Cyril and I walked to our car. The chauffeur opened the door, and we took our argument inside.

"I tried to tell you all along," Cyril said. "Paula is a wonderful person, but she's not interested in you, not in the way you want her to be."

"You're lying. She likes me, really likes me. I could tell it the first day we met. It was obvious by the way she was staring at me."

"No. It wasn't the same thing. She didn't look at me because I was different. She was interested in me as a person."

As Cyril's eyes searched mine, there was a look of insufferable agony on his face.

I felt the constriction in my throat. I wanted to cry, but not now, not in front of my brother.

"I'm not like you," I spat out at him. "I don't run and hide from the world, like a pathetic, spineless little coward."

When I saw my brother's tears roll down his cheeks, I could no longer hold back my own.

"I used to be glad we were twins," I continued unmindful of the hurt I was causing to the dearest person in my life, "but not anymore. Now I wish I'd never had a brother!"

I didn't know it at the time, but those were to be the last words I'd ever say to Cyril.

In the weeks that followed that dreadful conversation, I avoided all communication with my sibling. Even on the occasion of our last visit to the bookstore, I remained stonily silent despite his valiant attempts to patch the rift that was widening between us.

"There is Paula. She'll bring a smile to your sour face," my brother declared, although his own smile was forced. "Let's go talk to her."

I followed his lead but spoke not a word. As we neared the checkout counter, a flash of light caught my attention. It emanated from the third finger of Paula's left hand, from the brilliant diamond ring that she now wore. I stopped short.

"Basil? Where the hell are you going in such a hurry? I haven't even had a chance to pay for my books."

I didn't answer. My only concern was to get as far away from Paula Keller as possible. I couldn't bear to see the look of happiness on her beautiful face or the gleam of the diamond engagement ring on her finger, nor did I want to see the look of pity that I knew would be on the face of my brother. Silently, we headed for home.

I lay awake that night drowning in a miasma of emotions. I felt love for Paula, heartbreak at her engagement to another man, a longing for the love of a woman, fear of the long, lonely life that seemed to stretch out in front of me and, above all, a deep, blind, irrational hatred of Cyril. Poor Cyril! His only fault was that he had learned to accept the cruel hand fate had dealt to us and to others whom the world considered different. I, on the other hand, would never accept it.

I got little sleep that night. The next day I went about the business of living as though I were one of the walking dead. In a zombie-like trance, I went to my classes and listened with deaf ears to the lectures of my professors. My grades didn't matter anymore. Let Cyril worry about getting his degree. From here on in, I would just go along for the ride.

I slept fitfully the following night as well, and the next, and the next. By the end of the week, I began to look like the cadaverous creature I felt I was. My bloodshot eyes had large dark circles beneath them, and my head ached unbearably.

"Basil," he said with genuine concern, "you must see a doctor. He can give you something to help you sleep."

"Basil, look at me," my brother implored. "Don't keep treating me as if I don't exist. Good God! Why blame me? Do you think I'm any happier than you are? I'll tell you the truth. I thought Paula was beautiful, too. I would have given anything to hold her in my arms, to kiss her, to make love to her as though I were a normal man. But I'm not, and neither are you. We're different, Basil, and the sooner you come to terms with that fact the sooner you'll be able to lead a happy, productive life."

The idea was so preposterous, so laughable that I nearly broke my silence. I wanted to scream at him, "What should I do, brother, go off and join the circus? Look for friendship and love in the freak show? Maybe I'll fall in love with the fat woman or the bearded lady."

But I didn't answer. I had forsaken my brother for two new companions: silence and a constant, blinding headache.

I haven't had more than a few hours of sleep since the day of my last visit to the bookstore. The pain in my head has become so severe that I often suffer from dizzy spells and double vision. Cyril has stopped his incessant questions and futile attempts to improve my humor. He has, however, developed the annoying habit of staring at me.

I can no longer tolerate this miserable existence. Cyril watches me day and night. I have thus decided to rid myself of this parasite once and for all.

So ends Basil Guilford's tragic narrative. The next day, the following article appeared in The Boston Globe.

In a most bizarre incident, 21-year-old college student Basil Guilford shot his brother, Cyril, in the head with a .38 revolver. A simple case of murder, right? Wrong. Basil and Cyril Guilford were conjoined twins, connected at the hip since birth. The two brothers shared a single digestive tract and circulatory system, which made it impossible to surgically separate them. When Basil fired that lethal shot, Cyril died instantly, but Basil himself later bled to death from the fatal wound he inflicted on his brother. Was Basil Guilford, therefore, guilty of murder, suicide or both?

The image below is of Kim Novak and Pyewacket in Bell, Book and Candle. (Phoenix Productions Inc., 1958)