Brood (23 page)

“Oh, Rodolfo,” she says.

“Me's okay.”

“What happened?”

He doesn't answer right away. He looks deeply into her eyes. She is still holding his arm with one hand, and the towel—now bloody—with the other.

“You left without saying good-bye,” he whispers.

He hears them. Adam turns over in his bed, checks the clock. It's 2:14 a.m. He hears his sister's sweet alto, as familiar to Adam as his own breath. He hears another voice. It's Rodolfo.

He hears the occasional car going down Sixty-Ninth Street, the sibilance of deep treads over wet pavement.

He hears the hot water thudding in the pipes.

He hears the rats in the walls.

From one floor below, he hears his mother getting out of bed, opening the door to her room, stepping out into the hallway.

He wraps his pillow so that it covers his ears. His squeezes his eyes shut. The world recedes but now he hears his own blood going around and around on its innocent errands. Nervously, he puts his hand down his pajamas, feels himself. Oh God: a hair. He yanks it out.

Slowly, reluctantly, Cynthia makes her way up the stairs to the third floor of the house. She knows she is embarking on a lose-lose proposition. Either nothing is going on, in which case she will be trumpeting her mistrust, or something is going on, in which case she will have to face it and do something about it. She pauses, listens.

The gnawing of rodents in the walls. Ceaseless.

Fucking exterminators,
she thinks.
What do you have to do in this town to get someone to come over and kill a rat?

She gathers her resolve. She is the parent. She needs to do her job. If she suspects something is wrong upstairs, she needs to go and investigate it. End of story.

She corrects her posture. She straightens her robe. Rubs and gently slaps her face so she won't look like death warmed over.

She hears Alice. A high-pitched, wordless…what? Is she crying? Laughing?

It occurs to Cynthia that she has heard neither laughing nor crying from the tightly wound little girl.

She raps on the door, rather vigorously. She doesn't want to make a tentative little knock, a little timid
tap-tap
that basically says
It's up to you whether or not you open the door.
Those days are gone, maybe forever.

The knock stops the laughter, or the crying, cold. A brief silence. Then Alice says, “What?”

Cynthia chooses to take this as an invitation to enter, and she quickly opens the door.

Alice is there with…a boy. A boy half a head taller. With long wild hair, the eyes of a panther…and he is naked.

No. He's not. Her optic nerves jumped to conclusions. He is almost naked. His chest is bare, his legs and feet. However, he has had the decency to wrap a bath towel around his middle.

He turns slowly to look at Cynthia. In her day, if a mother caught a boy in a girl's room, the boy would be all over himself trying to escape, he'd be frantic. He'd be hopping up and down, or the blood would be draining from his face. But this boy looks relaxed, amused.

“You can't come in here!” Alice shouts. Her pajamas are wet. The bone of her sternum is visible through the fabric. There is blood on the cuffs of her shirt.

“I'm already in, Alley-Oop,” Cynthia says.

“Stop calling me that! You have no right!”

“Of course I do. I'm your mother and you're still a little girl.”

“Best if you's taking another looks, Moms,” the boy intruder says.

“Who is this?” Cynthia asks, directing her question to Alice.

“He's my
friend.
”

“He's your friend. And what is your ‘friend' doing in your room at two in the morning?”

Alice is silent. Her face hardens, and she folds her arms across her chest. “You never trust me, do you?”

“That's not an answer, Alice. I was about to call the police.”

“I'm like a prisoner here.”

“A prisoner? A prisoner? I don't even know where you
are
half the time.”

“He's my friend. He came to visit. What is the big deal?”

Rodolfo, perhaps wanting to drive home the point, pats Alice's arm. But she shakes him off.

Encouraged by this, Cynthia calms herself. “All right, let's just be reasonable here. Shall we? Let's start with you,” she says, pointing to Rodolfo. “What's your name?”

“His name is Rodolfo,” Alice says in a crudely sarcastic voice, as if reminding someone that two plus two is four. She even rolls her eyes after saying his name.

“Why don't you let your friend answer for himself, Allie. Okay? Okay, Rodolfo. And where do you live?”

But rather than answer her questions, he leaps upon her. He springs eight feet through the air. His towel unknots itself and he is naked. Cynthia, taken by surprise, cast into terror, falls backward, and Rodolfo is on top of her. His body odor is very, very strong. His penis is long and tawny, his testicles small and black. She is quite sure he is going to kill her—the only question is
how.
He places his hand on her neck and squeezes. It doesn't hurt. She feels something between a kind of inner thud and a dull electric shock. And a moment later, she is plunged into darkness, a deep unanimous blackness without a dissenting quiver of light.

When she awakens, she is alone. She is woozy, but basically all right. She gets up, looks at the clock. Only seven minutes have passed. Adam!

She races to his room. Adam is gone too. They're both out there—somewhere. She has no idea where, and cannot bring herself to fully and explicitly ask herself this, but in some wordless, inchoate way she wonders if this is it, the final disappearance, and now they are gone forever.

W
ell, to be honest with you, Dennis, you couldn't have chosen a worse day to come asking for a raise.” Cal Rogers folds his large, meaty hands and thuds them onto the desk. His steely hair has just had a fresh crew cut, but that's the only thing that looks fresh about him. He looks, in fact, haggard. Back in the day, when he was a grad student at UC Berkeley, Cal could work seventy-two hours straight and hardly be fazed by it. But now, just one all-nighter leaves him feeling like his eyelids are made of Velcro, his tongue is a scarf, and inside his small intestine lives a swarm of hornets. Things are not going well at the lab. Another subject has perished, and, even more distressing, the results of all the tests have been rubbish. The Borman and Davis researchers are no closer today than they were two months ago to isolating just what it is that makes the wild children so supernaturally vigorous and their blood able to restore potency, desire, and, to an extent, even youth itself. Taken in small doses, of course.

“Well, Cal, I must say that is not good news, not good news at all.” Keswick looks around Rogers's office—the framed picture of his family (standard-issue wife, overachieving son, grumpy daughter), the good-natured trophy engraved
Cal Rogers, Thirty-Ninth Place, New Hampshire Goofy Golf Tournament,
the framed degrees—and he thinks that this could have been
his
life,
his
office,
his, his,
if only a few things had gone differently. If someone had believed in him, set a fire under him, so to speak, made sure he worked hard and didn't give up, kicked his heinie a bit, if that's what was necessary, which it was…now look at him! A glorified dogcatcher.

Rogers looks Dennis over and thinks with some small satisfaction,
This guy looks in worse shape than me.
Might be time to flush him.

“I'm a scientist, Dennis. I don't make salary decisions.”

“I'm in trouble, Cal.”

You can say that again, you lunatic.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Dennis.”

“I've had to move out of Brooklyn. I'm living in a hotel and I'm having a heck of a hard time finding a new place. I'm priced out of the market.”

“New York can be very expensive, Dennis.”

“I need money, Cal. A substantial amount. Not this bullcrap I get at the end of the week. Money. Real money. We're friends, you and I. Aren't we? We understand each other. Am I right?”

“Dennis, this really isn't a good time for a heart-to-heart. Corporate's down my throat like a tongue depressor. If we don't start getting results, my bosses are going to shut us down.”

“People are looking for me,” Keswick says in an unstable whisper.

“What people, Dennis?”

“Never mind. Private business.”

Cal thinks for a moment, and suddenly he sees a path that might be beneficial—it might be a perfect solution: The experiments can go forward with an increased chance of success, and Dennis can have his stupid money. (And Dennis, Cal is quite certain,
is
a child when it comes to finance; Borman and Davis has a net worth nearing a trillion, and this idiot thinks five thousand dollars is a fortune.)

“How'd you like to make five thousand dollars all in one shot, Dennis? Would that be helpful to you?”

“Every little bit helps, Cal.” Dennis feels a stirring within, unpleasant. Complaining and feeling poorly treated are common for him, and they are oddly relaxing in their familiarity. Being offered something, however, destabilizes him. Being drawn into a confidence. Being offered a deal. He worries about being tricked and worries he will agree on a price that he will look back on with regret. “What do you have in mind?”

“Do you have your guidebook with you, Dennis?”

“Aye, laddie, you mean me Bible, then, don'tcha now?” He says this with his cartoonish approximation of an old Irish priest—it was a routine he used to do to amuse his mother when she went into one of her moods. The book of photographs is on his lap and he gives it a thump.

“Okay, good. Here's who we need. I'm sure they are in there.”

Dennis opens his book and looks at Rogers expectantly.

“We'd like to take a look at those twins. Sired by Alex Twisden, yes? And the dam was Leslie Kramer, who made our life quite difficult by her insane attacks on our Slovenian friend. You have them in there, I assume.”

Dennis places the open book in front of Rogers. There are two pages of their photos: Alice and Adam in their school uniforms taken five years ago; a grainy shot of Alice getting off a school bus, taken two years ago, while she was in foster care in Cold Spring, New York; Adam in a Cub Scout uniform, his hair wet-combed, a frightened, beseeching smile on his face; and three pictures of the house on Sixty-Ninth Street, of the surveillance variety, showing the front, back, and cellar doors.

“Well, that's your five thousand dollars, Dennis.”

“So you really think these two might have the right balance? Is that the plan? Get in there, have a chance to test them on an ongoing basis so we can replicate the exact mixture of dominant human strain and the recessive tincture of the nonhuman?”

“Dennis. Take it easy. Even a lot of the experienced chemists are struggling to keep up with this. Just do your job, okay? This isn't an audition. We need you to get those two and bring them in. Do you think you can handle this?”

“Handle it? Why wouldn't I be able to handle it? I've handled everything else, haven't I?”

“You've been terrific, Dennis. No complaints here.”

“You said I have a much higher capture rate than anyone else working here.”

“Did I? I actually don't remember saying that.”

“Oh, you said it. You definitely said that.”

“Well,” Rogers says. “It doesn't matter. You're a valued member of the team, that's what counts.”

“So, five thousand dollars,” Dennis says.

“That's right. I've got the authorization.”

Dennis sits back in his chair, crosses his legs. In his view, this is going exactly as he wants it to.

“And that's ten for them both,” he says.

Rogers is silent. In truth, he has been authorized to pay twice this, but he feels it will be safer if this idiot believes he has won some great battle for his measly 10K.

“I don't know, Dennis…” Rogers says, as if worried, nervous.

“It's what you said.”

“You keep on telling me I said things I know I did not say.”

“Well, you said. And even if you didn't—it's what I want. It's what I deserve. And I'll tell you another thing. We're going to go back, you and me, and see the lab. All I see of this place is the loading dock, shipping and receiving, one hallway, and your office. I'm tired of being treated as less-than.”

“Less-than? Are you in psychotherapy?”

“No way.”

“So, Dennis. You want to see the lab.”

“Yes. I bring those little beasts to you. I want to see what you do with them. I'm not a glorified dogcatcher, you know. I want to understand what you're doing with all this flesh I'm throwing at you.”

“You want a lot of things, don't you, Dennis. You want money, you want access. My grandmother used to say this thing: You've got a handful of
gimme
and a mouthful of
much obliged.
”

“A man does what a man must do, Cal.”

“All right. I'll tell you what. I'm going to okay a double payment on those twins. Bring them in, unbruised, preferably not flailing around and half crazed—the real emotional ones have been hell to work with. Bring them in, and you'll have your fucking ten K. How's that? Make you happy? But as to the other thing—bringing you back so you can get a look at our facilities, see those little fuckers being put through their trials? That's not going to happen.”

“Why not? Why can't I see?”

“Dennis, my friend. You don't want to see. If you had a look, you might not be able to do your job. Trust me on this. You do not want to see.”

“How bad can it be?”

Rogers's answer is a long, silent stare.

“Are you killing them?”

Silence.

“What do you do with them when the trials are over?”

“Dennis…”

“All right. That's it. Right now, you need to tell me. What are you guys doing to them?” Dennis asks. A wave of queasiness breaks within him, a weak, dirty tide of misgivings.

“What did you do that you need money so badly all of a sudden?” Rogers counters. “You're getting ready to leave town too. Aren't you? What did you do? I need to know if it will affect our company, if we have anything to worry about.”

“If I tell you, will you tell me what you're doing to those kids?”

Rogers answers with an after-you gesture.

“I accidentally hurt a woman.”

Rogers's blood quickens. This will have to be dealt with. “What woman?”

“A woman. A prostitute.”

“Hurt her how?”

“Badly.”

“How badly?”

“Very badly.”

“Is she dead?”

“Now that you mention it.”

“Oh…”

“Now take me to see.”

“I can't do that, Dennis. I'm not authorized.”

“But we made a deal.”

“You made a deal. I didn't say anything.” He sees that Dennis is about to object and he raises a hand, a cop stopping traffic while a wreck is cleared off the road. “My advice—and I do think you should take it—is to do your job, bring us those twins, take your money, and get as far away from here as possible. There's a lot at stake here, Dennis. Trillions of dollars. You and I are old friends, of course, but believe me, the people who run this thing—they don't screw around. If they think you've done anything to bring undue attention to our operations, they will…” He rubs his hands together and opens them up, like a birthday-party magician who has just made a dime disappear.

Cynthia knows this much. Wherever those kids have taken off to—with that awful Rodolfo, to be sure—they are going to be in danger. Whatever aspect of their nature prevails, they are kids, and kids court danger. They are magnets for oddballs, marginal types, creeps. Kids need to be watched. Protected. They could end up smoking pot. Shoplifting. And this is the best-case scenario. The very best case. Alice is just restless and angry enough to be lured into having sex—which (and this is another certainty of Cynthia's) she is in no way ready for. And then it occurs to her: Underage sex is also a best-case scenario. In fact, anything short of replicating the vicious, uncontrollable behavior of their biological parents would have to constitute a best-case scenario.

She waits on the ground floor. As soon as the door opens—when and if—she will see them, and she will grab them. They will be punished. There is no way around that. But how do you punish children who ran for their lives because they believed the people who gave birth to them and were pledged by all the laws of nature to nurture and protect them were, instead, planning to eat them? How do you punish children whose father's body burst like a balloon full of blood when he was plowed into by a bus? How do you say to children, “Okay, you're grounded,” when their own mother was ground to a spray of blood and bone by the implacable, insatiable whirling turbine of a jet engine?

Okay, no punishment, then. So? What are the magic words to ensure that they will come home and stay home? Is she somehow, Cynthia wonders, not communicating to them how loved they are? What are the magic words that will make them trust her? What are the magic words that will keep them off the streets, out of the park, not on the run, not sprinting into God knows what kind of danger? Will someone please tell her: What are the magic words?

The sun has come up. It is already hot in the city and it is only eight o'clock. She turns on the central air-conditioning; its frigid whisper is no match for the gnawing of the rats. She fishes for the TV's remote, finds it in its familiar resting spot between the middle cushions of the sofa, and turns on the too-big Toshiba. She doesn't care what channel comes up; she only wants something to compete with and, if possible, mask the infernal
nyyahh-nyyahh
of the rodents' auto-dentistry. She'd gotten the big TV for the kids, thinking, what child doesn't love a large television? But they are indifferent to it.

Those exterminators! What kind of city is this? As the TV comes on, Cynthia grabs for the phone. By now, she knows by heart the numbers of three separate exterminators. She calls the one that has been the most apologetic. Better to have a bit of blue sky blown up her behind than be overtly insulted.

As she waits for her call to be answered, she sees a familiar face on the TV. It's that glowing little boy the twins had with them. Dylan! He is standing in front of a beautiful old mansion, flanked by Mayor Morris and his wife. The words
Happy Ending, Mayor's Son Found, Little Dylan Safe and Sound
march across the bottom of the screen.

Cynthia aims the remote at the set, turns up the volume.

“We are a family reunited,” Mayor Morris is saying. He looks stern, sleepless. It's odd to see him without his signature outfit: the blue blazer, white shirt, shiny necktie. Here he is without a jacket, and the top button of his shirt has not been fastened. At first, Cynthia thinks he has taken foppishness to a whole new level and is wearing an ascot. But she realizes a moment later that it is not an ascot but body hair, rising like thick smoke.

At the same time, the exterminator's voice mail has been activated and she is instructed to leave a message and assured that someone will call her back “just as soon as possible.”

“As soon as possible isn't going to do it, guys,” Cynthia says. “I am living with a fuck-ton of rats!” She leaves her numbers once again and emphatically breaks the connection, though pressing an Off button makes her long for the days when you could slam a receiver down into its cradle and really let your feelings be known.