Brood Read Free

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.
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    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.
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    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.
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    â€œYou 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!
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œHey,” 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.
    â€œFunny,” Adam says, choosing the American