Urban Legend: New York City’s birth rate spiked nine months after the 2965 Blackout.

False: New York City maternity records, 8/9/1966, show no statistically significant difference from the five previous August 8ths.

November 9, 1965

As this year I’d resolved not to be again caught in the holiday crowds. I’d already been to Macy’s to buy Dad a vest. Of course we don’t actually celebrate Christmas, per se -- just the tree part -- but the fact is, Jesus was a Jew.

Dad was still at his office and Mom was at Stoney Brook for some event about art education, her being neither an artist nor an educator, but liking to associate with such.

I figured we’d blown a fuse, something the super would hop to.

“Holy shit! Look out there.” It was David, two grades ahead of me, and about five years behind in social skills. He motioned me to the living room window. Something was wrong, but the obvious didn’t click.

“There’s no lights, dummy!”

I looked again and he was right -- dark windows all the way to the Hudson.

“Holy shit!” David’s vocabulary of emphasis. “There’s no electricity.”

“What happened?”

“Beats me. ConEd will fix it.”

I wouldn’t want to be on some stalled subway with a bunch of guys in dreads.

There really wasn’t much to do except to look down at the traffic.

At least the phone still worked and Dad called pretty quickly, concerned that we might not be there. The alarm was out at his office, so he’d stay until things got back on track. Stay put. Keep the deadbolt set.

Mom called to say that with the train snarl-up, she’d be staying with somebody from her meeting. She didn’t seem distraught, though, other than she hadn’t brought her bag.

By 6:30, it had been an hour and we ate some crackers and peanut butter. The sun dipping behind the high-rises made the buildings appear cut from black paper.

By 8:00, it was truly weird, people on the street seeming to move almost normally, taxi horns, but at the same time, hardly a flicker of light in the windows above them.

In regular times, we’d claim opposite ends of the sofa, but this time we shared the middle. My friends with sisters are all the time leaning on each other, but a sister and brother don’t get as close. This evening, though, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders, buddy-like, and I appreciated it.

By 9:00, we weren’t sleepy, but couldn’t think of what else to do but head for bed. Our rooms, though, were black, and when we lit a candle, the black looked blacker. I’ll sleep in the living room, I decided.

I’d not have expected David to decide the same, but what could I say? Sure, we’d both sleep out there. I’d get the sofa; him, the rug.

We lugged out our bedding and claimed our spots. Undressing was no problem, it being dark, my pajamas being my flannel ones with the balloon design. Girls can wear silly ones.

“Night, Miriam.”

“Night, David. No school tomorrow, you think?”

“We’re supposed to have a practice.” He was fun to watch on the basketball court and I liked hearing my friends say he was a hunk, but that’s just girl talk. No way that he’s actually that.

As the sofa wasn’t that comfortable, I abandoned it for the rug. Not as soft, but at least without the cushion divisions.

I was still awake two hours later. They should have fixed this power thing by now. Maybe it was some sort of Russian sabotage. Attack while the radar is down, sort of plan. More scary, though, was that somebody might have snuck into our hall -- I pictured a Haitian, but it could have been anybody -- and was testing the doors, one by one. I could hear what might be exactly that sort of sound, a thump, but quieter.

If somebody breaks in, first thing, they’ll tie us up. Then they’ll put all our valuables in a pillowcase. Then they’ll rip off my clothes. But no, not that. They’ll make David and me have sex so they could film it. If we don’t, they’ll shoot us. When we say we’re virgins, they’ll say, all the better. If we tell our parents, they’ll release the shots that show our faces. It will be so terrible, but what can we do?

“You asleep?” I whispered.

“Not yet.”

“Hear anything?”

“Traffic.”

“David, if a bad guy was going to shoot us, would you do what he wanted you to do to save us?”

“I guess,” not the answer I was fishing for.

“Even if we had to get naked?”

“Why’d we have to do that?” not catching my scenario.

If we could keep talking, our voices might scare away anybody trying to break in. Plus if somebody were in the hall, I’d want to know exactly where my brother was so I could get behind him.

Maybe he was likewise concerned, as he pulled himself beside mine. Or maybe he wasn’t concerned at all, but just wanted to act protective. Brothers can be that on occasion. If they make David and me have sex, he’ll try to make it OK for me.

“You cold?” he asked. I could tell he was looking at me, but couldn’t really see his face.

“Sort of,” not expecting him to sit up, lift away the bedcover between us, and lie back down, but it was warmer than being by myself.

“That’s better,” I said. “Just don’t kype my pillow.”

Did I doze? I’m not sure, but I was awake when his arm fell on my side and moved onto my stomach. I rolled away, but when I did, he pulled me back.

Is he asleep? Didn’t think so. Two or three more times, I tried to scoot apart, but every time he drew me back, every time higher on my stomach.

“Quit,” I ordered.

“Quit what?”

“Trying to feel me up.”

“Hunh? Why would I do that? Nothing worth feeling.”

“Says Mr. Sneaky,” as I let him do it.

It was so easy to lie there, pretending this was pretend. I’d never been felt up where the boy knew that I knew, but then again, the boy had never been my brother.

Making out with your brother is weird, but being in a blackout is weird, too.

When David hooked his leg between mine, the lump under his PJs felt like a bratwurst.

“Sex fiend,” I let him know.

“Sorry,” backing off, but not that far.

I gave our situation some thought. “Know what?”

“What?”

“We could schlick.” I couldn’t believe I’d said it, but at the same time, it was really dark.

“Are you serious?”

“All those Tzahal males and females together in their Defense Forces tents when they’re not pounding the crap out of the Arabs. The rabbis make them till after sunset so they won’t sin.”

“Really?”

It’s one thing to make up something; it’s entirely different to have it believed.

From eavesdropping in on Mom’s mahjong games, I’d figured out that her therapist helped her find her inner self by getting naked, not something she’d do with, say, her hairdresser, which would be maybe OK, since he’s gay.

Were I out on the street right now, a pervert might pull me into one of those job-site trailers. He’d rip off my clothes, but I’d overcome him and tie him up with the yellow tape that says “Danger Peligro,” but we’d get the Stockholm Syndrome. Definitely an idea for a story.

With David, things were safer.

“We don’t have to get naked, or anything,” I decided, before guiding his hand into my bottoms. “Here,” I told him, though he should have known.

He was still going in when it happened, some in me, but most on the sheet. Sort of a mess, actually.

Cassie showed up in the morning before we got the bedding back, but Negresses understand about such things and put everything in the washing machine. She asked how I was and I said, fine. “How about David?” but I didn’t have to answer.