Brood

You know what I always say?” Arthur Glassman announces to Cynthia as he elbow-guides her through the echoing halls of the Surrogate Court in downtown Manhattan. “If life gives you lemons, what you have to say is ‘Hey, life! Enough with the fucking lemons already.’ ” He is a stout man with an expansive smile and an expensive smell—the smile cost him about $100K and the smell was $315 an ounce. He can be a fool for a beautiful woman—and Cynthia is quite his type. She has shiny dark hair parted in the middle, a generous mouth, a long neck, broad shoulders, long legs. When he attends parties with his wife, and a woman of Cynthia’s type walks in, Mrs. Glassman pokes Arthur in the ribs and says, “Hey, there’s one for you.” Once upon a time, Arthur had been Alex and Leslie Twisden’s attorney, and now he has become Cynthia’s, without exactly being asked to. He has worked without compensation helping Cynthia to get the poor twins out of the foster-care system and into her custody once and for all, and now they are at the finish line and he is happy—if happy can be used to describe anything that arose from his relationship with the twins’ late parents.

“Will I be able to take them home with me?” Cynthia asks.

“I believe that today’s your day, Cynthia. My hope is that with all the time that’s passed, this town’s morbid curiosity about the children will have faded and they can lead a normal life—if teenagers can ever be called normal.” He winks to show he is more or less joking.

“They’ve been through a lot,” Arthur says. “Psychologically, of course. The loss of their parents. And both of them, as you know, have severe eating disorders. They’ve been hospitalized many times.”

“I’m an excellent cook, Mr. Glassman,” Cynthia says. “I have to believe that with some stability in their lives, they’ll eat normally.”

“My theory too,” Arthur says, patting her arm. “I think refusing to eat has been the only control they’ve been able to exert, since everything else in their lives was out of their hands.”

“Well, I’ve cooked for all kinds of people. I know kids can be picky eaters, but I’m pretty comfortable in the kitchen. I actually love to cook.”

Arthur glances over his shoulder and suddenly steers her into an empty courtroom, which seems to be all but waiting for them. The door closes behind them with a breathy ooomph.

“It’s a very complicated situation, Cynthia. I want you to be fully cognizant of that. These terrible treatments Alex and your sister went through—they weren’t the only couple to do it, you understand? Many people of means availed themselves of those treatments. Sometimes it worked out well, and sometimes…” He spreads his soft hands, as if to make room for the unspeakable. “Funny, isn’t it? How money can put wings on your feet, but you can end up flying to places you never should have gone.”

“So other children had to live with the terrors that Adam and Alice lived with, is that what you’re saying?”

“And some of them are still out there. That’s what I’m saying. Not many, but some. Not just here—a lot of places. But with a concentration here in New York because…” He smiled his pricey smile. “We have more than our share of one-percenters. Frankly, I wish you’d take Adam and Alice away from here. But at least you plan to drop the Twisden name—wise decision, and one that the court intends to uphold.”

“You speak as if everything’s already been decided.”

“Oh, it has, it has. Your sister’s will stated quite explicitly that the children were to go to you, and there was nothing in Alex’s will one way or the other regarding permanent custody of Adam and Alice. No one has stepped forward to contest the will and the City of New York is more than happy to be released from its financial obligations to these little orphans. As far as the court is concerned, there could be no better resolution of this matter. The twins will be with their aunt, and the foster-care system can cease paying for their upkeep, beginning today. And, just between you and me and the lamppost, there are people in city government—shall we say, at the highest reaches?—who have a special interest in seeing that justice is done for those children.”

“And what about the house?” Cynthia asks. “Has that been decided too?” She clears her throat, glances away. She does not want to appear overly interested in the Twisden town house on East Sixty-Ninth Street. She was not sure what the appraised value of the place was, but it had to be a fortune, even with its recently acquired reputation as a site where monstrous acts were committed.

“Ah, yes. The house. Of course. The social workers have given it the A-OK,” Arthur says. “You did an admirable job putting that place back together again.”

“Have you been there? Have you seen it?”

Arthur shakes his head no. He cannot imagine ever stepping foot in that house again.

“It must have cost a lot,” he says.

“Yes. There are services that specialize in that sort of thing. Just the cleaning was nearly a hundred thousand dollars. I had to sell some of their things to cover the costs.”

Arthur looks shocked, as if she has just confessed to something that strains the boundaries of attorney-client privilege.

“I don’t want to hear anything about that, Cynthia.”

“What choice did I have? The place was uninhabitable.” She shudders, shakes her head, remembering how she used to lust after that classic Manhattan town house, with its graceful staircases, the sconces, the tables, the paintings, the rugs. Much of it had disappeared as Leslie and Alex’s life spiraled out of control; they had sold off a lot of it (often at shockingly low prices), and most of what was left had not survived daily life in the house.

“I worry about the kids going back to that place,” says Arthur. “But on the other hand, it’s the only home they’ve ever known.”

“They won’t be living there as Twisdens,” Cynthia reminds him. “They’ll be Kramers. And they won’t be attending their old school.”

“Well, we’ll wait and see,” says Arthur.

As they make their way through the courthouse corridors, it seems there’s no one Arthur does not know, or at least no one whom he does not feel obligated to acknowledge, either with a nod or with his standby verbal greeting: Well, look at you!

Cynthia is overdressed; she looks as if she should be strolling through the lobby of some chic hotel rather than down the scuffed, chaotic corridors of municipal justice. She is wearing four-inch heels, a pencil skirt, her most expensive satin blouse. Yesterday, on the phone, she’d asked Arthur how she should dress for her court date, but he’d made light of her concerns.

“Just don’t wear a cape,” he’d said. “Or one of those bracelets shaped like snakes, with little ruby chips that look like shining red snake eyes. But honestly? I wouldn’t worry too much. You should see some of the people the court sees fit to send children home with. Mothers with tattoos! Whoever thought we’d come to a time when Mommy’s got a tarantula tattooed on the small of her back and Daddy’s wearing eyeliner? It’s a whole new ball game out there, Cynthia.”

Arthur pushes open the swinging door of courtroom 4 with all the swagger of a sheriff walking into a saloon.

“You’re late, Mr. Glassman,” the presiding judge calls out as soon as she sees him. She is a tall, weathered woman with a voice that sounds like a chain-smoking Canada goose. “My docket is full full full, and I can’t be wasting time, not today.”

As the two approach the bench, Cynthia glances at the people in the gallery. Many of them—actually most—appear to be staring at their shoes; it takes Cynthia a moment to realize they are all surreptitiously staring at the screens of their hopefully named smartphones, despite the widespread notices throughout the courtroom prohibiting the use of cell phones. Here, the supplicants before the law come in all the shades and sizes of a great city, seated on pews in a church whose bible is the Constitution, waiting to contest a will or further an adoption. Somehow, Arthur used the influence he gathered in the course of his long career and jumped Cynthia’s petition for custody to the top of the docket. It makes her feel a bit queasy. Where she comes from, this kind of line-jumping is considered bad manners. She decides to make it easier on herself by avoiding all eye contact. She fixes her stare straight ahead as she and Glassman approach the judge, who is swiveling back and forth on her high-backed leather chair while satisfying an itch on her scalp with a long bright yellow pencil.

And that is when Cynthia lays eyes on her niece and nephew for the first time in years. They are seated front left, their knees touching, holding hands. Even though she knows they have been resisting food, refusing it, possibly even throwing it up, their thinness stops her in her tracks for a moment. They have nothing extra. Each one’s skin fits like a wet suit, like paint on a wall. And yet, there is a beauty, the beauty of youth, unvanquished even by the madness of self-starvation. They are both gracefully tall, with quiet, shy demeanors. Ethereal. They have their mother’s reddish-blond hair, their father’s stubborn chin and slight underbite. The sight of them breaks something that has been frozen inside of Cynthia. She lets out a gasp, holds on to Arthur’s arm for balance, and begins to weep.

Arthur has considerately arranged for a car to take Cynthia and the twins home, and as soon as the three emerge from the courthouse, they see a dark blue Lincoln Town Car at the curb with a liveried driver holding a hand-lettered sign bearing Cynthia’s surname—Kramer. She glances over her shoulder, looking for Arthur, but he is nowhere in sight. Probably one of the innumerable people he knows has detained him in the corridor. I’ll call him later, she thinks as she shepherds the twins into the backseat of the car and then gets in herself.

They are off without delay, pulling quickly away from the curb. A moment before they blend with the northbound traffic, a hand pounds angrily on the passenger-side window. The sound of it fills the car like gunshots. Startled, Cynthia grasps the children’s hands. She sees a tall, long-faced man in a chauffeur’s uniform shaking his fist at their car as it begins its journey to the Upper East Side. As the car moves, she twists around for another look at him—his sneering mouth, his furious eyes. He pulls a phone out of his jacket quickly, as if he were drawing a gun.

Dennis Keswick, in a chauffeur’s uniform, watches the Town Car with Cynthia and the twins pull away. Those kids have no idea how close they came to getting themselves snatched. Not only today—today, Dennis must admit, was a long shot, a sudden inspiration on his part when he learned that they were going to be in Surrogate Court—but over the past year, while they were both in foster care. If there was someone who cared to listen, Dennis could fill his ears with the ins and outs of drugging and capturing a child; it is simply not as easy, not as straightforward nor as foolproof, as the average person assumes. It is a very difficult job. And very underappreciated. Oh, well…they were not the only fish in the sea. Dennis’s superiors (whom he hated, as a matter of fact) had a special interest in Adam and Alice, but meanwhile, there were other similar little beasts for Dennis to deliver.

“You folks comfortable back there?” the driver asks. His face is difficult to make out. He has a full beard, though there is something oddly childlike about him too. The visor of his chauffeur’s cap is yanked low; he wears a scarf—in summer!

“We’re okay,” Cynthia answers. “Right, kids? Are you cool enough?” She worries they might be cold, without any fat on their bodies to insulate them. She feels enormous next to them, filled with hundreds of rich meals, oceans of tortellini and crème brûlée.

A thought presents itself: What if she were still drinking? Her breath catches for a moment. She closes her eyes and thanks the Higher Power for her sobriety.

“Hey,” she says to the twins. “I have a little present for you, no big deal.” She’d been counseled by friends and books that kids recoil if they think you’re making a big deal out of something. She opens her purse and takes out two wristwatches. As soon as she touches them, however, she thinks she has made a mistake. They are ridiculously gender-specific: an American Girl watch for Alice, a Swiss Army watch for Adam.

She decides to let them choose which watch they want—both will fit their slender wrists.

“Funny,” Adam says, choosing the American Girl.

“Alpine,” says Alice, choosing the Swiss Army.

“I know kids don’t really use watches anymore,” Cynthia says. “What with phones and all.”

“No, this is amazing,” Adam says, strapping on the green-and-yellow watch with its face splashed with stars and daisies.

Cynthia also read that amazing is what kids say now instead of cool. Things are clicking into place; this might not be as difficult as she was afraid it would be. Afraid? Forget it. Try petrified. Try sick with dread and uncertainty. Try hourly confrontations with her own inexperience. Becoming a parent at her age is like suddenly moving lock, stock, and barrel to a new country, knowing only a few rudimentary phrases of the language.

“More AC?” the driver asks. His voice is foggy, strange, off. It occurs to Cynthia that he might be transgendered. What a brave new world!

“We’re fine back here,” she says.

She glances down at her hands and notices they are shaking. As much as she has looked forward to having custody of her sister’s children, she feels right now that the whole thing has been sprung on her as a huge surprise. No amount of thinking and wishing and planning has prepared her for this sudden and overwhelming sense she has that two helpless children have been entrusted to her. They have been through hell, and now Cynthia must remind herself that she has within her the power to restore them to some semblance of the carefree happiness and safety that she believes to be the birthright of every child.

After accepting her gifts, they are paying no attention to her whatsoever. They are holding hands and gazing at each other. Their silent, cellular communication has not lessened in the many months they have been apart. Cynthia feels a small pang of exclusion, but mainly she is happy they have reconnected. Overjoyed, really. Overjoyed. No one will ever understand Alice the way Adam does, and no one will understand Adam like Alice, and thank God they are back together. May they never be separated again!

“Did you have sisters where you were?” Alice asks Adam.

“I guess. They had two girls, two boys, and me.”

“Were they nice?”

“The last ones? Which ones do you mean? I had four different families.”

“Yeah. The last ones.”

“They were pretty old. They worried a lot about money. You had to choose if you wanted one of the heated rooms or a real lunch.”

“I bet you took the heated room,” Alice says.

“Definitely!”

“Eating’s weird.”

“My Staten Island family served goose on Christmas Day,” Adam says.

“Ick. Let’s be vegetarian.”

“Okay,” Adam says. “How many calories do you do?”

Alice frowns, looks away. “So I guess you’re all mature and everything now, right?” she murmurs.

“No way!” Adam says, as if it were a matter of honor.

And then, after a few moments of silence, Alice says, “Did you do okay in school?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

The ringtone on Cynthia’s phone is chapel bells, and they are chiming now in her purse. She glances at the screen: Arthur Glassman.

“Hello, Arthur,” she says.

“Where are you?” he asks. He sounds furious.

“In the car. Thank you for arranging it for us.” She sees the driver’s eyes glancing back at her in the rearview mirror.

“Your car is here, Cynthia. Waiting for you.”

Chug-chug. The driver uses his controls to lock the doors.

In a long, narrow apartment overlooking Gramercy Park, Ezra Blackstone and his sixth wife, Annabelle Davies, are fighting over air-conditioning. Ezra is seventy-one years old and has circulation problems and feels clammy and cold even on a hot day like this. Annabelle is twenty-eight; she spent the first twenty-seven years of her life in Monroe, Louisiana, and then, as she frequently says, she “came north to get out of the fucking heat.” They’d had a rather nice courtship, particularly refreshing to Annabelle, who’d come to believe that gallantry, seduction, roses, and romance were a thing of the past. The touch of her young flesh, the lemon-and-spearmint tang of her kisses, were like a time machine to Ezra, restoring him to a youthful vigor. But the rituals of courtship soon gave way to dailiness, and the excitement of her young flesh soon stopped working its decade-dissolving magic on Ezra. Since marrying five months ago, they have fallen into squabbling about any number of things, including where to eat, which candleholders to use, how to get to Amagansett, how much to pay their housekeeper, and whose turn it was to feed the piranha. But today’s confrontation over whether or not to air-condition their apartment is one of the most bitter fights they’ve had in weeks—well, if not weeks, then at least days. Or, at the very least, the worst fight they’ve had today. So far.

For now, peace has been restored. The air-conditioning remains off, but the windows overlooking the park are wide open, letting in a soft summer breeze, barely strong enough to stir the gauzy white curtains.

Their nerves are unusually taut because they are expecting the doorman to ring them any minute to announce a visitor, a young boy named Boy-Boy. Boy-Boy did not give—and perhaps does not even have!—a last name. He was that kind of visitor. Ezra’s connection to Boy-Boy is through Bill Parkhurst, who worked for Ezra back in the day, when Ezra was producing three daytime game shows, one on each of the major networks. Bill had been a loyal lieutenant but was, in Ezra’s view, weak of character, always chasing after the newest revolutionary therapy, the most enlightened guru, the next can’t-miss self-help regimen and, even as a young man, consuming a fistful of vitamins and supplements with every meal. And drugs too, of course, he had a contemptible weakness for drugs and the attendant softheaded beliefs—peace through pot, enlightenment through LSD, ecstasy through Ecstasy. Bill’s latest enthusiasm is something called Zoom, a drug so new to the New York underground that it is not even illegal.

“A few years ago,” Bill had explained to Ezra during lunch at the Carnegie Deli, peering over a pastrami sandwich that was nearly as tall as he was, “a few very desperate people went over to some cockamamie place in Europe for fertility treatments.”

“I remember,” Ezra said. “I remember the story well. Don’t tell me you’re taking that.”