Brood Page 24

  “We can’t all go at once. Okay? So three at a time. Starting at…” She glances at the American Girl wristwatch Cynthia gave them. Way back when, in the car. After court. When was that? It feels like years ago…

  She furrows her brow. It’s 9:17. But that’s not the source of her consternation. The wispy silver down that used to lie flat against her skin near the face of the watch has darkened, and even slightly coarsened. That’s the source of her consternation. That is what freaks her out.

  Cynthia has decided: When—if?—the twins return, they cannot live in this house one day longer than absolutely necessary. Whatever legal hoops need to be leaped through, she will deal with them—even if the hoops are on fire! When she thinks of how she had once (let’s face it!) lusted after these rooms, how weak in the knees she had been at the pedigree in every sconce and every floorboard, how lovely the world had looked through the slightly purple waviness of the old windows, how ridiculously impressed she had been by the sheer craftsmanship of the house, she wants to somehow reach back in time and take that deluded self by the shoulders and shake and shake and shake until it comes to its senses. The fact is now painfully apparent: For years, this house has been bad news. No. Worse. Hideous news. No, worse than that too. What comes after hideous? Oh, it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: She has to dump this place and take whatever money she can pull out of it and buy another house. Or an apartment. Out of the city. A suburb, perhaps. A lovely little town by the sea. Cape Cod! She has never been to Cape Cod, but she knows it’s lovely. Who doesn’t like foggy beaches? Who doesn’t like cod? Who doesn’t like pumpkin-scented candles and clothes bought from Talbots? Anyhow, anything would be better than this.

  She needs to take them from whatever is luring them away. That boy—Rodolfo! Surely, he is part of it.

  Away. A condo maybe. A place where, if you stand in the middle of it, you can see every room.

  A doorman.

  A superintendent.

  A neighbor whose music you can hear through the walls. And who can hear you should you scream…

  She realizes that selling a town house is not an easy proposition. It will take time. What is it worth now? Thirty million? Screw it. She’ll take twenty-five.

  She paces the house, holding her cordless phone in one hand, her cell phone in the other, every few steps shaking them both as if they can be rattled into ringing.

  Back in San Francisco—just the merest beckoning of memory, the slightest recollection of her past makes her dizzy with wonder and grief—back then, in California, in the chill and the fog and the scent of eucalyptus as ubiquitous as the smell of gasoline is in New York—back then… She has lost her train of thought. Oh, yes—now she recalls. In San Francisco, when she had her shop (oh! her shop, her shop, how she misses Gilty Pleasures), sometimes a very special piece, expensive, unusual, might sit around for months, even a couple of years, before the exact right person appeared, the person who was meant to buy it. Conceivably, selling this house will take a year—though you never knew; it could go in a heartbeat.

  She does a bit of research on the Internet and decides that the most high-end real estate company right now in New York is an outfit calling itself Oberman and Lewis. Of the past twenty-five big sales Cynthia could track, Oberman and Lewis agents were involved in nine of them. She calls them on the cordless, with the cell on her lap lest the kids call in. She is put through the tumbler of their phone system, pressing numbers to answer the various inane recorded questions until, at last, she is connected to a real estate agent.

  Cynthia gets it: She’s probably been connected to someone not so very high on the Oberman and Lewis food chain, someone who is available to take random calls. But the voice on the other end of the phone is elegant, melodious, and confident. Her name is Katie Henderson. She sounds young—she has that pajama-party voice, what linguists have called a vocal fry, a languid way of talking meant to impress upon the person to whom you are speaking that you are extremely relaxed and will not put out an extra ounce of effort.

  But Katie Henderson is willing to put out effort. In fact, upon hearing what property Cynthia wants to place on the market, she sounds like she wants to fax herself to East Sixty-Ninth Street. She doesn’t even bother to be coy. “Well, this is very, very exciting, I must tell you,” she says, several times over, in fact.

  “It’s not without its complexities,” Cynthia feels obliged to say.

  “Properties this important never are,” Katie Henderson says, her voice a reassuring croon, as if she were settling an agitated child down for the night with a bedtime song.

  And her enthusiasm is not just a phone manner. Less than thirty minutes later, Katie Henderson is seated in the front parlor, looking eagerly and appraisingly at everything in sight. She is not as young as her voice; she is probably forty, maybe even a little older—there are streaks of gray in her abundant black hair, lines around her piercing blue eyes, and her skin looks a bit raw, as if she has recently undergone some fierce dermabrasion.

  She is dressed as if for a brisk autumn evening. The heat is already pressing against the windows, and Katie sits there, visibly warm in her black pantsuit and copper-colored ruffled blouse, buttoned to the neck and accessorized by a black silk scarf. Cynthia watches, fascinated, mesmerized, really, as beads of perspiration emerge from Katie’s hairline and roll down her forehead, where Katie blots them with the back of her hand, right before they can trickle saltily into her eyes.

  “Feel free to take off your jacket,” Cynthia says.

  “Oh, that’s all right, thank you,” Katie says. Sensing that that is not quite enough, she adds, “I guess I’m just a slave to fashion.” She sits up straighter, brushes her hand against her jacket’s fabric.

  “I could turn the air-conditioning up, if you’d like,” Cynthia offers.

  “Oh. Would you mind?” Katie smiles enormously.

  “Of course not,” Cynthia says. The thermostat is on the other side of the room. It’s complicatedly digital, and she has yet to fully get the hang of it. As she fusses with the controls, she glances in the mirror hanging over the black marble fireplace. She sees that Katie has opened her briefcase and taken out a notebook and a sleek little digital camera.

  “It’ll take a few minutes for the place to cool down,” Cynthia says, sitting again. She looks closely at her visitor. Cynthia can’t say exactly what it is, but something seems odd about this woman. And though there is no particular physical similarity, something about her puts Cynthia in mind of Leslie. Starting with her refusal to take off her jacket.

  “So…how many bedrooms are there altogether?” Katie asks.

  “I’ve got it all right here,” says Cynthia. She hands the real estate woman a sheet with all the basic information about the house: year built, square footage, number of bedrooms, number of baths, fireplaces.

  “Oh, this is great,” Katie says, giving the spec sheet a cursory glance. She tugs at the sleeve of her jacket so that the hem is touching the heel of her hand. Leaning back, she adjusts her pants, pulling at the fabric.

  “It’s a great house,” Cynthia says, narrowing her eyes.

  “Oh my God, it’s spectacular,” Katie says. “Shall we do a walk-through?”

  “But I’m curious,” Cynthia says. “Are things like this selling these days?”

  “A house like this? It’s like it’s never quite the right time, and it’s always the right time. Obviously, it awaits a very special buyer. Luckily, I am working right now with a number of international clients who would be thrilled to death to have a chance at a house like this, with this location and history. And most important, they have the means to move quickly, without winga…” She clears her throat. “Without…witta…”

  Cynthia looks away, embarrassed by the real estate broker’s momentary difficulties. She knows how these things can happen; sometimes when she is exhausted, her tongue feels as stiff and cumbersome as a Ping-Pong paddle. And God knows that on boozy afternoons she had to scale each
sentence as if it were a glass mountain. And yet…this little verbal breakdown Katie is undergoing reminds Cynthia of something, something else, something she has pushed deep into her unconscious, filed away in a drawer she had hoped she would never have occasion to open.

  But sometimes these drawers where we stuff our memories move of their own accord. And this one slowly creaks open, revealing a memory that has been not only stored but kept crisper-fresh: Cynthia’s sister, Leslie, as the balance slowly but inexorably shifted within her, away from the strictly human and toward the creaturely, started having more and more trouble remembering words. Sometimes her sentences had blanks within them, and sometimes wholly inappropriate or even nonexistent words would crop up. It was like Tourette’s syndrome in its explosive unexpectedness, and like early-onset Alzheimer’s in its pitifulness.

  Katie, however, finds her way through the verbal thicket and emerges relatively unscathed on the other side of her sentence.

  “Without waiting for a mortgage or anything.” She laughs her bright, professional laugh. “My, oh my, this is what happens when I leave home without my third cup of coffee. Anyhow, many of my clients are capable of doing an all-cash deal.”

  “But what kind of money are we talking about?” Cynthia asks.

  “Did you have a figure in mind?” Katie asks.

  “I was thinking of something in the neighborhood of thirty-five million,” Cynthia says. She feels her pulse quicken—she actually loves doing business.

  “That’s an excellent neighborhood,” Katie says.

  “I should tell you,” Cynthia says. “Or perhaps you know. This house. It has a history.”

  “What piece of really important real estate in this town doesn’t have a history?” Katie says. “ ‘Behind every great fortune lies a…’ ” Her face goes blank. “ ‘Lies a’…something.”

  “ ‘A great crime,’ ” Cynthia says.

  “A French guy,” Katie says. “I used to know this stuff.”

  “Balzac,” Cynthia says. Her heart is pounding. With every moment, she is more certain that this woman has undergone the same treatment that destroyed everything mild and sweet in Leslie, and she is also afraid that at any second this pantsuited stranger will come hurtling across the room and start ripping at her flesh.

  “So,” Katie says, standing up. “Let me look around, take some…” She moves her finger up and down, as if pressing the button on a camera.

  Did she forget the word camera? “Well, we can start here,” Cynthia says, her voice breaking. “Do you want me to show you around?”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I actually like to go on my self thing and you know. You know?”

  “Uh…I guess.”

  “I’ll start in the cellar and work my way up.”

  “Um…the cellar is the one problem in this house.” Cynthia tries to say this nonchalantly. “We have a bit of a mouse problem down there. I have a call in to a couple of exterminators, and I do believe the whole thing will be cleared up in a few days.”

  “Mice?”

  “I think so,” Cynthia says.

  “Have you tried those whatchamacallits?”

  Cynthia shakes her head.

  “You know,” Katie says with good-natured insistence. “Those…” She wiggles her fingers in the air. “Glue traps! The mousie steps on the sticky part, and then his feet get stuck in the glue. And then all you have to do is…well, you can do whatever you want.”

  “Why don’t you check on the cellar at some other time? After I get a good exterminator in here.”

  “Oh, that could take a week or two. Anyhow, not to worry. Nothing bothers me.”

  “Well, I’ll take you to it.”

  With some reluctance, Cynthia escorts Katie to the cellar door. Just looking at it brings back the horrible experiences Cynthia had down those steep wooden steps. And she knows that if the floor below is covered with what is in effect a turbulent lake of rodents, Oberman and Lewis will definitely not be representing this house on the market. Oh, well, she’s not certain she’d like to do business with Katie Henderson anyhow…

  “I’ll get you a flashlight,” Cynthia says. She herself will not venture down even one step.

  “You know what?” Katie says. “I think I’ll leave the cellar for… you know…for last!”

  “Okay.” Cynthia stretches out the word.

  “I’ll be fast,” Katie says. “I may not look it, but I am known for my foot speed!”

  I’ll bet you are, thinks Cynthia.

  As Katie scampers up the stairs, Cynthia goes back to the sofa and makes calls. First, she calls Arthur, wanting to let him know that she has decided to put the house on the market. But he doesn’t pick up, and she leaves a peevish message on his voice mail. After that, she re-calls the exterminators; she is so infuriated with them that she hints darkly—to an answering service, and to someone who sounds as if she has just been awakened by the call—that if someone doesn’t come to the house right away, she may have to begin a lawsuit. It doesn’t make much sense, but someone once told her—she can’t remember who it was—that threatening to sue is the one surefire way to get the attention of your average New Yorker. While she is ranting away, she sees out of the corner of her eye that Katie has opened the cellar door and is on her way to inspect downstairs. She leaves the door open behind her. Cynthia doesn’t dare close it, but the sight of it wide open paralyzes her with fear.

  She turns off the phone, lets it fall from her hand.

  A few minutes later, Katie emerges from the cellar, and she considerately closes the door behind her. She drops her little silver camera into her impressive Louis Vuitton bag.

  “I love your house,” she declares. “It’s going to sell in two seconds.”

  “There are some legal issues, unfortunately,” Cynthia says.

  “I just love it.” Katie is weaving; her head lolls lazily, and she is running her tongue along her bottom lip. She is, in fact, acting as if she’d just pounded down a pint of vodka.

  Suddenly, her eyes open wide. Her hand goes up and her fingers tap nervously on the side of her throat. She coughs, while pursing her lips.

  “Are…are you okay?” Cynthia asks.

  Katie nervously nods yes.

  “Can I get you something? Maybe a glass of water?”

  “I’m all right. I’m diabetic. I have to watch my blood-sugar levels.”

  Cynthia nods. “So…do you have children?” she asks.

  “Do I have children?” Katie says this as if the question were fantastically inappropriate.

  “Yes, I’m wondering.”

  “I have a daughter,” the real estate agent says with sudden primness.

  “A daughter. Oh. How old is she?”

  “She’s almost twelve. She’s my precious angel. I just love her to death.”

  I’m sure you do, thinks Cynthia.

  “She’s such a good kid. Really, it took me forever to get preggers, maybe that’s why I’m so crazy about her. I could just…I don’t know.” Katie smiles, shows her exceedingly prominent teeth. “I could just eat her up.”

  “Well, I’m glad you like the house,” Cynthia says. “I have a few…other appointments.”

  “With other real estate firms?” Katie inquires. “I’m sure you’ll find our commission rates very competitive. And in terms of access to qualified buyers, no one can compare with us.”

  “Yes. Of course,” Cynthia says. She can feel the drip of her own perspiration trickling down her spine. Her armpits are humid; her mouth completely dry.

  “I’m going to need you to sign a couple of agreements. You’ll be giving us an exclusive on this property.”

  “You can just leave the papers here. I’ll look them over.”

  “There’s nothing to look over. It’s standard stuff, okay?”

  “I need to look them over, Katie. Okay?”

  “I see,” Katie says.

  Cynthia can feel the rage in the real estate agent’s body, and sh
e wonders, Will she strike now? She looks around the room for something with which to defend herself. All that seems feasible is a heavy, clear glass vase filled with pale yellow irises. She picks the vase up by the rim.

  “I think you’d better leave. Now.”

  “Excuse me?” The real estate agent’s eyes register profound shock—or is it fury?

  “I know what you are,” Cynthia says. “My sister was just like you. You went to the doctor, didn’t you? That’s where your ‘precious angel’ comes from.”

  “My daughter?” Katie asks. “What doctor? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Thinking Cynthia is making a move toward her, Katie flinches, brings her hand up as if to protect her face.

  A moment later, the real estate agent darts around Cynthia, grabs her things from the sofa, and heads out the front door—though not before leaving an agreement giving Oberman and Lewis a six-month exclusive on the house on Sixty-Ninth Street.

  Chapter 20

  Cal Rogers strolls through the corridor at Borman and Davis, slapping a clipboard against the side of his leg and whistling what he believes to be “Anchors Aweigh,” though others might not be so sure. He is approaching the double doors separating the executive portion of the facility from the labs. The doors are locked and usually manned on either side by a uniformed guard. Cal does not quite register the fact that on his side of the doors, the chair where the guard normally sits is empty.

  As he nears the doors, they swing open. It’s one of the ferals, the least altered of the crop—the one named Polly. She is wearing the clothes she was in when Keswick snatched her, but they have been laundered, and she looks freshly showered—she looks like a fifteen-year-old girl on her way to a music lesson.

  When she sees Rogers, she smiles. “Hi there,” she calls.