Bertrand Court by Michelle Brafman Page B

He’d tried to convince himself that his unkempt lawn hadn’t embarrassed him when his dad pulled up to the house the day before. He wouldn’t have felt as ashamed had he been able to cover the entire down payment. God, this was the first time he’d taken money from his father since high school. He’d sworn that he’d make a decent living without a college degree (dyslexia made school excruciatingly frustrating). He wasn’t going to be an “Uncle Irving,” the guy who leeches off of everyone in the family. Until he’d met Maggie, he was content to live on what he earned as an audio technician. He could wire a dozen mics in half an hour and deliver audio so clean it whistled. Phil Scott, one of the best videographers in town, had anointed him his soundman. He would never make as much money as his dad or the lobbyists, lawyers, and businesspeople who peopled Bertrand Court, but he took pride in his work.
    He bought Maggie warm chocolate chip cookies from Mrs. Fields, then meandered down to Sears and picked out a modest rear-bagging job for $279.98.
    When Eric returned home, Maggie was covered in spit-up. “He hasn’t stopped fussing since you left.”
    Alec was arching his back and flailing his arms. Eric held the baby’s little chest in his hand and patted him on the back, the way he’d seen his sister do once with his niece Goldie. The baby let out three enormous burps.
    Maggie looked at him wide-eyed. “How did you know how to do that?”
    â€œHannah showed me.”
    Her eyes started to well up. “Christ, Eric, you’ve got to take your cell phone with you. You have a kid,” she reprimanded him, but in a grateful, almost loving voice.
    Eric handed her the nursing pads. “These are the most absorbent brand on the market.”
    Maggie laughed.
    â€œI brought you cookies.”
    â€œSo much for getting my figure back.”
    She rested her head on Eric’s shoulder. He felt better now, like they’d recovered a semblance of their old selves, the unlikely match whose love would conquer all. He turned on the TV and rubbed Maggie’s neck while she fed the baby and they watched reruns of I Love Lucy , disregarding Hannah’s advice to take turns sleeping.
    Maggie sat in the backseat of the car with Alec during the three-mile drive to Hannah and Danny’s enormous house with a wraparound porch that had been featured in Washingtonian Magazine . Realtor Danny had a gift for scouting out houses, or “killer screaming investment deals,” as he would say through his hundred-watt smile.
    Hazy sunlight streamed through the trees that fortressed the living room windows, and Brenda had filled the house with bouquets of light-blue balloons inscribed with “Welcome to the world, Alec!” She’d covered rented tables with “It’s a Boy!” cloths and garnished bakery platters with fake chocolate cigars with Alec’s name penned in pale blue icing. (This was tame compared to Eric’s Beatles-themed bar mitzvah, complete with Ringo, John, Paul, and George centerpieces.)
    Hannah had purchased the items on the mohel’s list: a tube of Neosporin, Vaseline, and gauze pads. Eric tried to listen as Rabbi Katzen explained how to care for Alec’s penis, but a familiar electricity filled the air, the kind that would invade his gut if he showed up at a shoot that had imploded or a gig where his band sounded like ass.
    After Rabbi Katzen finished, Eric stood still and listened to the din of voices in his sister’s living room: his mom asking Maggie’s parents how they’d enjoyed their night in Amy’s apartment; Maggie cheerfully explaining the significance of the bris to her running partner; Phil predictably hitting on Amy, who leaned into him while opening the ceremonial bottle of Manischewitz. Amy’s laugh, hyenaesque and normally infectious, was like an ice pick in his eardrum.