too lazy to use a push one, and her yard was barely half an acre. She had disgusting
eating habits. She smoked. Brazil turned over again, hanging his arms off either side of
the mattress, miserable.
At five, he gave up and went back to the track to run again. He clipped off eight more
miles and could have gone farther, but he got bored and wanted to get downtown. It was
strange. He’d gone from exhaustion to hyperactivity in a matter of days. Brazil could
remember no other time in his life when his chemistry had swung him around like this.
One minute he was dragging, the next he was high and excited with no explanation. He
contemplated the possibility that his hormones were going through a phase, which he
expected would be normal for one his age. It was true that if the male did not give in to
his drives between the ages of sixteen and twenty, biology would punish him.
His primary care physician had told him exactly that. Dr. Rush, whose family practice
was in Cornelius, had warned Brazil about this very phenomenon when Brazil had a team
check-up his freshman year at Davidson. Dr. Rush, recognizing that Brazil had no father
and needed guidance, said many young men made tragic mistakes because their bodies
were in a procreation mode. This, said Dr. Rush, was nothing more than a throwback to
colonial times when sixteen was more than half of the male’s life expectancy, assuming
Indians or neighbors didn’t get him first. When viewed in this fashion, sexual urges,
albeit primitive, made perfect sense, and Brazil was to do his best not to act on them.
Brazil would be twenty-three next May, and the urges had not lessened with time. He
had been faithful to Dr. Rush, who, according to local gossip, was not faithful to his wife
and never had been. Brazil thought about his sexuality as he ran a few sprints before
trotting home. It seemed to him that love and sex were connected but maybe shouldn’t
be. Love made him sweet and thoughtful. Love prompted him to notice flowers and
want to pick them. Love crafted his finest poetry, while sex throbbed in powerful, earthy
pentameters he would never show to anyone or submit for publication.
He hurried home and took a longer than usual shower. At five past eight, he was moving
through the cafeteria line in the Knight-Ridder building. He was in jeans, pager on his
belt, people staring curiously at the boy wonder reporter who played police and always
seemed alone.
Brazil selected Raisin Bran and blueberries as the intercom piped in WBT’s wildly
popular and irreverent Don’t Go Into Morning show, with Dave and Dave.
“In a fast-breaking story last night,” Dave was saying in his deep radio voice, ‘it was revealed that even our city’s mayor won’t go downtown at night right now. ”
“Question is, why would he anyway?” quipped Dave.
“Same thing Senator Butler should have asked.”
“Just checking on his constituents, Dave.
Trying to be of service. ”
“And the eensy weensy spider crawled up his water spout…”
“Whoa, Dave. This is getting out of control.”
“Hey, we’re supposed to be able to say anything on this show. That’s in the contract.”
Dave was his usual witty self, better than Howard Stern, really.
“Seriously. Mayor Search is asking everybody to help catch the Black Widow Killer,”
Dave said.
“And next up is Madonna, Amy Grant, and Rod Stewart …”
Brazil had stopped in the middle of the line, frozen as the radio played on and people
made their way around him. Packer was walking in, heading straight towards him.
Brazil’s world was Humpty Dumpty off the wall, cracks happening everywhere at once.
He paid for his breakfast, and turned around to face his ruination.
“What’s going on?” he said before his grim editor could tell him.
“Upstairs now,” Packer said.
“We got a problem.”
Brazil did not run up the escalator. He did not speak to Packer, who had nothing more to
say. Packer wanted no part of this. He wasn’t going to insert his foot in his mouth. The
great Richard Panesa could fix this one. That’s why Knight-Ridder paid Panesa those big