“He’s a fine baby,” Kyle said. He smiled at Jonathan as best he could, his broad jaw yielding reluctantly. “You have a fine grandson.”
“Say, Peter,” Jonathan called to him as if he were across the room.
“Yes, Dad?” He knew from the smirk on Jonathan’s face a witticism was coming.
“Do you know why grandfathers and grandsons get along so well?”
“No, Dad.”
“They’re united against a common enemy.”
Peter lowered his head, looked down, down, down. He felt smaller, battered by the hubbub of sounds in the room, wanting to be alone, afraid to move. Jonathan laughed at his own joke.
“Don’t get it,” Kyle said. “Who’s the common enemy?”
“Me,” Peter said. He looked up from his shy, oppressed childhood—looked up through the sullen fog of adolescence, up to the equality of armored adulthood. He met their eyes bravely, a grown-up again, and they were old. “Me,” Peter repeated with the knowing smile of a teacher’s brightest student. “Both son and father. I’m the common enemy.”
THE LIGHTS of the car shone against the lead-glass windows and glared into white circles on their distorting surface. The chug of the engine sounded loud against the country silence. Eric worried that Nina and Luke would be wakened by it. He turned on the driveway floods and went out the door.
“Hey!” called Brandon, Nina’s older brother. “How ya doing!” Beside Brandon, in the passenger seat, was his second wife, Wendy. She sat staring ahead in a daze.
“Shhh,” Eric said.
“Ah, il bambino.” Brandon remembered. He shut off the engine. “Asleep?”
Eric nodded. “Probably not for long. Where are your parents?”
“They stayed over in Ogunquit. Be here tomorrow.”
From the house they heard Luke’s unhappy squawks. “Excuse me,” Eric said, and dashed for the door.
“My nephew! That’s my nephew!” Brandon called out.
While he rocked Luke, Eric heard Brandon and Wendy enter, find their room, talk in whispers so dramatic they were somehow louder than low voices, until finally Nina’s sleepy talk joined them.
Go to sleep, Eric said to Nina in his head. Luke was restless in his arms, the eyes closing with each rock back and opening with each rock forward, a doll perversely designed for suspense, never completely awake or asleep. In Maine, Eric and Nina alternated night duty, to allow the swing shifter to make up the rest in the morning. If Nina stayed up to chat with Brandon and Wendy, she wouldn’t be able to handle her morning child care. When, because of exhaustion, she lost control, Eric couldn’t sleep. He’d hear her yell or allow Luke to cry, and Eric would get up, take Luke, and order her back to bed. He’d learned that much: Nina was a fine mother as long as she had energy. They would need a housekeeper. How much would that cost? Two hundred? Two fifty?
The whispers got closer. “Eric?” Nina called from outside the door. “Is Luke asleep?”
Luke peeped and arched his back, a hand clawing the air.
“No,” Eric admitted.
They came into the cramped nursery, an invasion of giants. Brandon insisted on taking Luke.
“Hey, fella, how ya doing!” Uncle Brandon shouted into the miniature eleven-week-old face.
Luke’s eyes shut in horror, his mouth gaped, and then he wailed.
“Great lungs!” Brandon said to Wendy. She stood beside him, her shoulders slumped, her eyes blank.
She’s stoned, Eric decided. “Oh, baby,” Nina said, and took Luke from his uncle.
“God, look at those feet! He’s got your dogs, Eric. They’re huge.”
“Aren’t they!” Nina said, excited. She had been alone with Eric and Luke in Maine for a month. Before that Nina had been dead to happy sensation. This was her first exhibition of maternal pride. Dammed up for so long, a flood of anatomical praise burst from her while she showed Luke off: his long fingers, his straight black hair, his almond-shaped eyes, his strong chin, his soft white skin. Nina looked beautiful as well, her thick brown hair flowing wildly down to her broad shoulders, her pale blue eyes soft from sleep, her skin as white as Luke’s. She carried her baby into the living room—he squinted and mewed at the light—and raved about him to an enthusiastic Brandon and an impassive Wendy.
“And he’s smart,” she said while Eric tried to make a fire, worried that Luke was cold. “I talk to him and he listens.”
“We should have a baby,” Brandon said to Wendy.
“Yeah,” she said to the floor. She looked over at Eric. “Do you have any cigarettes?”
“I don’t think you should smoke around the baby,” Brandon commented.
“It’s okay, Brandy,” Nina said. “I smoke around him all the time. I’m terrible.”
“Hey, let me,” Brandon said to Eric, going over to the fireplace. He removed an unsplit pine log from the top of the smoking pile. “This is choking it.”
“It’s almost going,” Eric protested.
“Let Brandy,” Nina said. “He’s the champ firemaker.”
“Family arsonist,” Brandon said. “You know how to make money, I know how to make things burn.” Brandon pushed the remaining split birchwood apart and blew gently on the smoldering mass of newspaper and kindling beneath. They burst into flame. “Gotta breathe to burn,” Brandon commented. He took more newspaper from a pile and started to roll it into a tight twist. “Lasts longer this way.” He nodded at the sooty pine log. “We’ll dump her on when she’s going good.”
“Cigarettes?” Wendy said to Eric.
Eric rushed to get them, even though he felt Wendy’s tone was arrogant, an order to a waiter. She didn’t thank him. “You want something to drink?” Eric offered.
“I know where it is,” Brandon said. “You want any?”
“No,” Eric said. He felt reproved, convinced Brandon had meant to remind Eric that he, not Brandon, was the guest. The slight hadn’t been in his brother-in-law’s tone, however. Eric sat down on the couch beside Nina and Luke. He told himself to relax. He felt like a big awkward Jew with Nina’s family—ungainly, at war with himself, his emotions either hostilely squelched or naïvely blared, never expressed with their even, self-confident voices. For them, life was an easy chair; for Eric, a hard bench.
Brandon poured two big glasses of Rémy Martin, giving one to Wendy. Although she hadn’t asked for it, she took it greedily. “You breast-feeding?” Wendy asked, and swigged the Rémy like soda.
“Of course,” Nina said. “I think they passed a law that you have to.”
Brandon laughed. “Everything in nature is good.”
Luke squirmed in Nina’s arms, hiding his face in her bosom, his hands reaching blindly into the air. “Maybe he’s hungry,” Nina said.
“He’s sleepy,” Eric snapped.
Nina seemed to miss the point. “I’ll feed him. That’ll put him to sleep.”
“It’s not the schedule!” Eric protested.
“Give my nephew a break,” Brandon said casually. “He’s not an airline.”
“Eric’s right,” Nina said quickly. She must have guessed how provoked Eric would be by Brandon’s comment. “Just to relax him.” She excused herself to Eric. “He won’t really eat.” She unbuttoned her nightshirt.
Brandon and Wendy both stared at her blimp of a breast, the spreading purple of her areola, the chubby projection of her nipple. Nina revealed it unselfconsciously; they watched without shame. Eric was appalled by both attitudes.
Luke latched on eagerly. “What a deal, kid,” Brandon said.
There was a silence while they intently watched Luke’s absorption and satisfaction. The little hand reached up to Nina, yearning for something to hold. She lowered her chin and the fingers caressed it.
Brandon took another long drink from his glass and belched. “Sorry, Mom,” he said to the beams.
Nina laughed with girlish pleasure. It annoyed Eric that he hadn’t gotten that good a laugh out of her since Luke’s birth.
&n
bsp; “Did you hear about Earner’s windfall?” Brandon asked.
Nina shook her head no. Eric was alert. The family money had never been discussed in his presence.
“Grandpa’s land in California. Someone bought the whole six hundred acres to develop. Father made a killing.”
“Grandpa’s land?” Nina wondered. “I thought he sold that years ago.”
“You mean the Virginia stuff. That was peanuts. This is six hundred acres. Sold for ten thousand an acre.”
“You’re kidding!” Eric said in an explosive challenge, sitting forward, apparently ready to pounce on Brandon if he confessed it was a joke.
“Thought that’d get your attention.”
“How much is that?” Nina asked, very calmly, just curious.
“Six million,” Eric spat out, staccato. “Six million dollars.”
Brandon let his head back and laughed to the ceiling. “You love money, Eric. ‘Six million, six million dollars,’ ” Brandon imitated Eric, exaggerating the rapid delivery into a breathless, lustful pant.
Eric cringed. Brandon had a knack for seeing through people’s little social hypocrisies and enjoyed rudely announcing his insights. The more Eric tried to camouflage his true nature, the more naked he was to Brandon’s eyes. Eric understood this, but the instinct to attempt concealment was too powerful to fight.
“Money’s his business,” Nina said, not ashamed. “Eric hears six million dollars and he starts thinking of investments.” Somehow she made it sound natural and harmless.
“That’s why I brought it up,” Brandon said. “I told Father to get Eric’s advice.”
“Isn’t he handled by someone at First Boston?” Eric said, in a rapid, almost hostile tone, as if he were conducting a verbal ambush.
Brandon answered, but he spoke to Nina. “Old Puffer died last year—”
“He did?” Nina sounded puzzled.
“Cancer. Father doesn’t like the man they turned him over to. Anyway, Puffer was awful. Obvious stuff. ‘Good solid returns,’ ” Brandon imitated, his chin thrust forward, his teeth clenched. “In fact, old conservative Puffer lost tons of Father’s dough. This six million is the lion’s share of what’s left of our inheritance. I’d like to make sure Father doesn’t blow it. That’s why I told him to talk to Eric. If he doesn’t, you should bring it up.” Brandon finished this by leaning forward and tapping Eric’s knee, the first time he had looked at Eric during the speech.
“He can’t,” Nina answered, pushing Luke off her breast. His little face was slack, the mouth open, his limbs collapsed. “Daddy has to bring it up.”
“I’ll remind him,” Brandon said.
Luke startled awake and immediately wailed. He was angry, inconsolable, his stomach tight, his legs pulled up to his belly, his mouth screeching with complaint.
“I’ll take him.” Eric was furious. Everything had been messed up. “You should go to sleep,” he said to Nina while gathering Luke.
“All right!” she snapped.
Eric carried his unhappy son back to the small dark nursery, chilled by the damp Maine night. The treads of the rocker squealed at Eric’s weight and the floor groaned when he began the motion. Luke sighed and nestled into Eric’s chest. He sucked on the pacifier with desperate insistence.
Eric watched him. This nervous, fragile baby—could Luke stand the fight to make money? With that six million, Eric knew he could make a fortune for his son. He felt the stock market growling, ready to awaken. It had been monotonously ticking up and down, a timid metronome, without a decisive move either way for almost a decade, but interest rates were falling, foreign money was pouring in, average volume on the exchange had doubled in the last two years. Even with fairly conservative buys, if the trend kept on (and he knew it would, knew it as if he were in spiritual contact with the gods of money), Eric could double the six million. Then play with the winnings, play looser, and maybe triple that.
He rocked his baby in the night and watched his numbers, incandescent, glow about his head. Bright, bright numbers—fireflies enchanting the gloom with magic. He kissed Luke’s sweet, soft forehead.
The staring eyes closed.
He kissed their lids.
Eric Gold, the Wizard of Wall Street, rich beyond fear, held his heir with hope, eager for his in-laws’ arrival.
TWO THINGS belonged to Nina: Eric and Luke. They were all she possessed of her own making. All her other attempts, her painting, her photography, all her aborted careers, had ended in her boredom or worldly failure. She felt this keenly on her parents’ arrival. Her pride pushed her forward, holding Luke in her arms, serving a spectacular platter, and heard in her head, thumping in rhythm, See what I’ve made, Mom and Dad. She looked at her husband’s tall, powerful body, striding ahead of Brandon, shrinking him by contrast, and felt her accomplishment. See my husband, see my baby, see what I’ve made. She knew her mom had never expected this success. At their wedding, Nina had felt her mother’s unexpressed skepticism of her marriage, her mother’s doubt that it would last and produce. Nina’s older sister had disappointed thoroughly, living with a series of radicals, never marrying, and had aborted three “accidents,” not only without guilt but with political pride. Her younger sister had satisfied, for a time, wedding a Harvard classmate, moving to Ohio, joining the country club, but that had ended in divorce, and hints of drink and beatings. Quiet Nina, never first at anything, married to a Jew (not even a particularly successful Jew at that), had managed to find happiness and provide the first heir.
Nina felt all this, but didn’t think it. She would have been embarrassed to discover competition in her love. She had been dazzled by her sisters, had felt puny beside them, an indecisive flickering yellow in between the elder’s fierce red and the younger’s warm green. As her mother and father and Brandon and Wendy gathered around the mute, watchful Luke, Nina, for the very first time, was at the center of her family. That was all she knew of her pleasure.
“Hello, beautiful,” her father, a man who usually didn’t bestow adjectives on his children, said to Nina.
Her mother took Luke. Joan didn’t even ask for her grandchild. She opened her arms and Luke seemed to float into them. Luke’s brilliant blue eyes beamed light, cracking the frozen surface of his grandmother’s thin face and rejuvenating her pale eyes. Joan closed her hands on the little body and brought her face close to the new skin, to the puffed and open red lips.
Luke screamed. He shut his eyes, opened his mouth, and complained from his soul with all his might. His disorganized arms reached out for rescue, his legs went stiff with resistance, and his mouth blared protest.
Nina took Luke from Joan quickly, too quickly, she realized when she glanced at her mother. Joan seemed disappointed and offended. “You frightened him,” Joan said.
“Other way around, I think,” Brandon said with a laugh.
“He had a bad night,” Eric mumbled. Nina noticed he looked mortified.
“Is he colicky?” Joan asked.
“No!” Nina said. Eric had begun to nod yes and got stuck in mid-motion by Nina’s vehement denial. Meanwhile, at the energy of Nina’s answer, Luke cried louder, his legs kicking, his beautiful features demolished by the elastic expansion of his toothless well of sorrow.
“Let’s get the bags,” her father said, and walked away. Eric hustled after him (like a bellboy, Nina couldn’t help thinking), Brandon grinned as if it were all a practical joke, Wendy stared at Luke, and her mother frowned at her.
“Maybe he’s hungry,” Joan said, with no love in the word “he.” The pronoun was said coolly; she might have used “it” for all the warmth in her tone. Luke had failed to please her, so Joan’s love had retracted behind her country-club leathery face, lost to view.
Nina cringed for a moment, ready to apologize or resist sullenly. The instincts were familiar, although Nina couldn’t place them. But she resisted the reactions they urged. “How was your trip?”
“After forty years, it’s pretty boring,” J
oan said. She was again drawn to the beautiful form of her grandson. Luke sat stolidly in Nina’s arms, his great blue eyes evaluating Joan, the trees, Wendy, the men unloading the luggage, each scanned with a deliberate scrutiny that seemed masterful and dispassionate.
“Unnn,” Luke commented, and made a gesture with his hand at Joan.
“That’s Grandmother Joan,” Nina said.
“Hello, Luke,” Joan said cheerfully. He had gotten a reprieve. “Hello, baby.” She put her hand on his curled foot and squeezed gently. He watched her closely, his body still, like a cat studying prey.
Joan, encouraged nevertheless, moved closer. Again Luke seemed to gesture at her, his hand reaching out in a spasm. Joan opened her hands to him. He arched in her direction. Nina offered and Joan took him.
Eric came toward them, carrying two suitcases. Her father had only a small overnight bag. “Hey, hey,” Eric said to Joan. “He looks good on you, Grandma.”
“Grandma!” Brandon said to the trees, with a sarcastic tone.
Joan nodded self-consciously at Eric. Luke glanced at his father. Nina moved away from Joan and Luke to open the door. At this, Luke wailed, his arms out to Nina.
Joan stiffened, held him away from her, and said, “He wants you,” to Nina.
“He doesn’t like you, Joan,” Nina’s father, Tom, said casually as he passed on his way to the house. Brandon laughed, with energetic malice, and followed Tom.
“No, no,” Eric argued even though Tom and Brandon went on inside without listening. “He just doesn’t know her.”
Nina felt stuck at the door as she watched Luke’s distress become hysterical. Joan didn’t hug him, or rock him, or distract him. She held Luke in the air like a squealing pig, her mouth closed, her eyes startled and wary.
“Get him!” Eric said in a whisper, but with urgent emphasis.
“She’s here.” Joan finally spoke. She took a few steps toward Nina and held Luke out, his legs kicking, his face red. “He needs to be fed,” she repeated as Nina at last broke her paralysis and accepted Luke.
“No, he doesn’t,” Nina heard herself say in a wondering tone. “He doesn’t know you.”
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