“Not yet. My biggest problem is, ignorance,” Skinner said. “I know all about this town and a little bit about women, but not nearly enough about women. Nothing about children, except from having been one. I need to go to college; I need some street time. Maybe even some Army time, like you and Holland. I need to get out in the world.”

“You’re a smart kid,” Virgil said. “Do all of that. When I told my father that I wasn’t going to be a minister of any kind, he said that I should never take cover in life, that I should stand out in the wind. Feel it. I’m trying to do that.”

“Standing out in the wind,” Skinner said. “I like it. I’ll do that.”

—

The next week, driving into Mankato for the much-anticipated ultrasound, Frankie said, “Listen, Virgie, I know what I’ve said . . . how I’ve been talking . . . I didn’t mean it . . . but I know what I’ve said about having a daughter, and it sounds like that’s all I want, but that’s not true. If it’s another boy, I think that’s wonderful. You’d be a boy’s greatest father. My boys think you’re a great dad. Sam worships you.”

“Hey, I don’t care,” Virgil said. “Either one is absolutely great with me. I’m so looking forward to this—it’s an adventure. I’m praying that the kid’s healthy, that’s all. Boy, girl, I don’t care.”

The doc, whose name was Karel, came out to meet them. They’d both known him socially for years. He was a jolly fat man with a Czech accent, and he called them Virgie and Frankie. He took Frankie away and made Virgie sit on a couch.

Frankie was out of the lab in a half hour, looking concerned. “I could see the images of the video screen, but I’ve got no idea of what they were. They looked like potato salad,” she said.

Virgil was instantly on guard. “There’s nothing wrong?”

“I . . . don’t know. He said everything was okay, but he was acting a little odd, said he wanted to look at the printouts.”

Karel came out five minutes later, carrying a piece of paper.

Virgil: “Everything okay?”

Karel: “Everything is fine. Everything is coming up tulips, as we say in my country.”

Frankie: “Oh, thank God.” She leaned across and kissed Virgil on the lips and then turned back to Karel, and asked, “So . . . boy or girl?”

Karel smiled. “Well, folks . . . it looks like we’ve got one of each.”

—

Frankie was jubilant.

She was on the phone all the way back to the house, calling everybody she knew. Sam, her youngest son, a nine-year-old, met them in the driveway, and asked, “Well, do I get another brother?”

“You get a brother and a sister,” Virgil said, still stunned. “We got twins.”

“Holy shit,” Sam said.

—