Brood Read Free Page B

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.
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œI remember,” Ezra said. “I remember the story well. Don’t tell me you’re taking that.”
    â€œNo, no. Some of those people went crazy, and I think a few of them died. I like shtupping, but I’m not meshuga.” Bill had been raised in a bleak wintry village in New Hampshire by a Congregationalist minister and a descendant of Betsy Ross, but someone had told him when he was starting off in the entertainment business that it would be helpful to his career if he sprinkled a few Yiddish words into his conversation, and though there was no reason to believe the advice had any value, he had taken it to heart anyhow, and now it was an integral part of who he was.
    Bill took a modest bite out of his sandwich and chewed in silence twenty-six times before swallowing.
    â€œIt’s their kids, they carry just enough of whatever that doctor gave those poor schmucks. It’s in their blood, you know? Just a bissel. But the kids are supercharged. And a few drops of their blood? Whew. It’s like havah nagilah, and then have another nagilah. ”
    â€œWhat the fuck are you talking about, Bill? Children’s blood?”
    â€œHey, they’re not such children. They’re a lot bigger than me. Some of them have beards. I mean, come on. And believe me, they’re doing very well for themselves. They may be a bunch of shmendriks living who knows where, but they are