Free Rich Friends by Jacqueline; Briskin

realized how ruthless her snobbish proclivities were. It must be the Van Vliet in me, she thought. And argued no more.
    Sheridan moved on the bed, stroking thin, pale hair, breathing peanut butter on her, calling her his little puffy.
    2
    Exactly nine months to the day of their wedding, Sheridan drove Em to the hospital. Her labor was hard and protracted, lasting over thirty hours. She did not, however, beg for additional painkillers. There was no talk—as there might have been—of a cesarean section. In due time she was given a spinal. Around noon of March 28, she gave birth, normally, to twin sons. The first weighed in at eight pounds two ounces, the second, who was longer, at seven-thirteen. A huge burden, Dr. Porter told the bleary-eyed father, for so tiny a woman.
    â€œBoys,” Sheridan beamed, proud. “Twins.”
    â€œFraternal, not identical.”
    3
    When Sheridan came to the hospital that evening, he kissed her freshly rouged cheek, presenting her with gladiolus. “Should’ve bought two bunches,” he grinned, sitting next to the bed.
    â€œWhat do you think of Van Vliet?” she asked.
    â€œFor a supermarket?”
    â€œFor one of the names.”
    â€œRoger, after my father. We already decided.”
    â€œWe have two babies.” (Em, until she’d been wakened by the delivery room nurse with the news, had refused to speak of this eventuality.)
    â€œAnd you aren’t calling either of ’em after a market, Em.”
    â€œA Family name.”
    He shifted uneasily on the chair. “Yours.”
    She lay back on the hospital pillow. This was not a gesture of weakness—she’d been strengthened immeasurably by her two-day battle—but because she had a splitting headache.
    â€œVliet for short,” she said.
    â€œNo.”
    She stared him down. I’ll win, she thought. This was the first time she had considered their marriage in terms of victor and vanquished. I’ll win.
    She did. In less than a minute he surrendered.
    â€œWhich one?” he asked.
    â€œThe blond. He looks like Family.”
    â€œThe older?” Sheridan had been given the routine peek at his offsprings’ lack of deformity and sex. He wasn’t yet sure which was which.
    â€œNo. The older one’s heavier, dark. He looks like you. He’s Roger. This is the longer, thinner baby.”
    â€œVliet?”
    Em smiled secretly. She said, “Vliet Reed.”
    They brought her babies alternately.
    Just from the holding, blindfolded, sightless as a mole, Em could have told them apart. Roger, the dark boy, had a heavier center of gravity, he cried more lustily, kicking out, relaxing totally when he took the bottle, finishing every drop. The blond baby, Vliet, the longer one who resembled Family, whimpered rather than howled, and never finished. One evening he smiled up at her. “Gas,” was the opinion of the nurse. Em knew better. She stroked soft white down with her forefinger. Van Vliets could be hard, cruel, yet their smile held charm.
    Mrs. Van Vliet stood in front of the nursery window gazing at two bassinets in the front row: Reed male 1, Reed male 2. She rapped glass with her emerald. The dark-haired baby looked up with unfocusing blue eyes. He flailed his arms. Sleeve drawstrings were tied, hiding his hands. The other infant slept on. Mrs. Van Vliet glanced from Reed male 1 to Reed male 2 and back, her amused appraisal bearing no relationship to the grandmaternal clucking and cooing around her.
    She went to the desk, requesting in her clear voice to know Mrs. Reed’s room. The head floor nurse, although busy with charts, clasped red hands subserviently, leading the way through corridors that were crowded with visitors to this, the heavy first crop of postwar babies. Em presented her two roommates to the tiny lady in the sable coat. Both girls gawked. The head nurse drew green curtains, marking off Mrs. Van Vliet’s domain.
    â€œThe