Only Children

by Rafael Yglesias

  Byron looked at her, his head upturned. The curls of his sandy hair were innocent and beautiful. His lean torso—she could picture the washing board of his ribs ripple as he stretched—sat uncertainly on his bowed legs.

  “He’s so adorable,” Diane could hear her mother, Lily, say.

  “Come on!” she shouted, her hot core steaming through.

  Byron sat down on the sidewalk. He crossed his legs underneath him, closed his eyes, and put his hands over his ears.

  “What’s the story?” the cabdriver said.

  “Start your meter,” Diane said. “I’ll get him.” As she moved toward her little Buddha, the crust cracked, nothing could stop the rage flowing up through the faults in her hardened pride. “Byron! Get up! Get up right now!”

  He shook his head and made the curls dance. Everything was black for a moment, her head filled with the smoke. She found herself carrying Byron, a dangerous thrashing fish, in her arms. His feet, his hands, kicked and slapped her. There were blows to her face and stomach, and her ears were scraped by the coarse edge of his screams. They were right in front of the testing facility, around them people were watching, but she felt great relief at dropping the pretense of calm about her disappointment.

  She hurled him into the taxi’s back seat, a final statement of her power, her strength. He landed awkwardly and bounced off the upholstery, falling to the car floor. She got in, told the driver the address, and left Byron hunched down there, holding the side of his face that had hit the floor. She ignored the cries, no longer willful yells, but pathetic and tearful. She left him alone, sitting rigidly. She left him to cry without her comforting arms—without her love.

  ONCE ERIC was in his chair, sipping his hot coffee, surrounded by the sounds of Joe’s rustling newspaper, Sammy’s nervous leg flexing the leather of his seat, the secretaries sorting and carrying account statements and confirmation orders, once Eric could feel he had safely arrived at work, had made it through another weekend of being Daddy, he felt whole. His puffy eyes were mesmerized by the frozen numbers of Friday’s closing prices. He listened to the faint pillowed whoosh of distant cars. He sipped more of the coffee and nestled his tired back (he had carried Luke on his shoulders for hours over the weekend) into the crannies of the chair’s cushions, and felt at home.

  For the first time in his life, he was at ease at work.

  Two years ago, when Eric returned from those months of combat with Luke’s colic in Maine, he had found a rival in his chair. Joe, in his unsubtle way, had hired another broker, named Carlton, during Eric’s paternity leave.

  “If you were going to be gone for a long time, I needed someone,” Joe explained. “Carlton was available, our business has been growing, I thought: why not? Be less pressure on you.” Joe went on to say that he thought there was room for Carlton to remain, and then hit Eric with news that Joe must have expected would be killing—namely, that almost half of Eric’s clients wanted Carlton to continue to handle their accounts even after Eric’s return.

  Eric doubted that his clients had come to this decision without prodding. Joe’s message was clear: you are on probation. I’ve cut your salary in half, and if you pull anything else on me, you’re gone. Probably Joe expected Eric to react with terror, contrition, and a plea for restitution.

  Instead, Eric told Joe that he would be handling two million dollars of Nina’s father’s money and that although he would pay the floor commission rate, Eric didn’t feel obliged to pay Joe a premium rate since Eric wouldn’t be using Joe’s investment advice. Up until Nina’s father, almost all the clients Eric worked with had been given to him by Joe. The few whom Eric had brought in were lured by Joe’s past performance record. Eric’s job, in essence, was to be there to answer the customers’ questions, keep them happy, and occasionally make a choice among several possibilities selected by Joe. Eric had, and could, submit stock selections of his own to Joe. He was permitted to pretend to the clients, and he had often enough, that many of the stock picks were his own. But Joe was in charge, he owned the firm, he could take the clients away, he could reduce Eric’s cut of the profits, he could fire Eric.

  Tom’s two million gave Eric a weapon. Eric might be able to afford to quit. He didn’t want to. To continue with Joe, even if it meant staying on the phone all day with Joe’s clients, would save Eric thousands in commission costs. Besides, he needed the base income, since Eric couldn’t be sure he would succeed with Nina’s family money. Also, Eric knew that if he stayed, he wouldn’t be cut off from Joe’s ideas. Joe was too vain and pompous to stop himself from allowing Eric to pick his brain. Besides, if Eric continued to handle half the clients, he would know Joe’s movements anyway.

  After a good half hour of amazed questions, about Nina’s father, the amount of money, and so on, that problem was what Joe addressed. “Eric, if you put any of that money into my portfolio, it’s unfair for me not to benefit from the gains.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe, if you buy IBM for your clients, that can’t stop me from doing it.”

  “You’re being unfair. I’ve trained you, you participated in my clients’ money. I deserve at least, at the very least, to get the retail commission profits. You’re collecting an incentive fee from your father-in-law and a percentage of my profits. You’re being very greedy.”

  “You did not train me in any of the important things, Joe. Sammy’s been taught how to analyze a company, how to arbitrage. I’ve been taught how to schmooze.”

  “That’s not true! You didn’t want to learn. You’re not interested in the tedious work of discovering value. You want the action.”

  “I’ll settle for the action if that’s all there is. If you’d made it easy for me, if you’d opened the door at all, I—”

  “Nonsense. I’m here. I’m available. You didn’t ask.”

  “What’s the point of arguing?” Eric said. “We’re both so full of shit we couldn’t tell the truth if someone paid us to.”

  This put a stop to the sputtering, outraged Joe. His thin eyebrows disappeared into his forehead; his dull brown eyes seemed to shrink and gleam. Then he burst out laughing, and pulled on his thick red wool tie, as if grasping a leash to keep his head from bolting off his torso. When Joe was through laughing, he cleared his throat, looked at the ceiling, and said, “I’ll work more closely with you. I’ll get rid of Carlton. But I must participate in the profits.”

  They worked it out. Eric told Joe to keep Carlton. He calculated (correctly, as it turned out) that Carlton would become Joe’s whipping boy, relegated to handle the most wearying and least ambitious of Joe’s investors. Eric gave Joe half of his incentive fee in return for no reduction in his base salary, and kept for himself the significant premium between the wholesale cost of the floor broker and the retail commission charge that would be levied against Tom’s account. But it was understood that no actions could be taken in the account without Eric’s approval and that Eric was not obliged to suffer ridicule if he made losing picks. For the first time, in the true sense, he and Joe were partners.

  The year and three-quarters since this arrangement had been Eric’s happiest time at work. Joe began to invite Eric along on lunches with his bigger investors and with some of his old cronies from the large brokerage houses. And once a week Joe would have a strategy session with Eric, from which even Sammy was excluded. It was a deep, warming broth to the lifelong chill in the belly of Eric’s self-esteem.

  All these changes didn’t happen at once. When between them, Eric and Joe increased the value of Tom’s portfolio to a little over three million dollars in the first nine months, Tom gave Eric another two million to handle. Now Eric was managing a five-million-dollar portfolio, small potatoes to the big boys down the street, but a thick, aromatic steak to Eric. It was then that Eric became Joe’s favorite son, power-lunch companion, and tactical confidant.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Sammy said, and turned on the electronic ticker. Sammy looked thinner. He had taken up jogging, or so he claimed, and his
starved face now had the look of a greyhound’s. Since the change in Eric’s fortunes, Sammy was cool to Eric, although more respectful.

  “Where’s Carlton?” Joe said.

  “How the fuck should I know?” Sammy mumbled, and threw himself into his chair. “Convincing some widow to buy Telephone.”

  “Fred Tatter for you,” Irene said to Eric. In the days before Tom’s money, she answered only Joe’s phone. Now she doubled as Eric’s secretary.

  Eric put his finger under the receiver and pushed down, flipping it like a pancake in the air. He caught the floating phone in his left hand and brought it to his ear. “Hello, Fred. You’re my first call.”

  “I should be working,” Fred said.

  Fred was a best-selling novelist. After the second of his successes, Fred had opened a quarter-of-a-million-dollar account with Joe, who had been recommended to Fred by his father. There would be long stretches when Fred wouldn’t call, presumably while he was at work on a new book, and then months of frantic activity (happy months in a way, since Fred was easy to churn, and even if he lost money, they made a lot on the commissions), orchestrated by many infuriating calls. Fred had been inactive for a while. Recently, with his newfound confidence, Eric had initiated a trade for Fred. When Eric persuaded Fred to buy an over-the-counter computer stock, New Systems, that was a first for Eric—because he had discovered the stock himself. Fred was reluctant, but had finally agreed to let Eric buy five hundred shares at nine. Now, three months later, the stock was up ten points to nineteen.“Well,” Eric said. “If you’d bought more of New Systems—”

  “I know, I know. Don’t tell me. I’ve been kicking myself.”

  “You’re making money. You bought five hundred—that’s five grand.”

  “Yeah, but if only I’d really trusted your judgment. I’m not trusting enough! You get so fucked around in my business, everything’s so—uh, uh, compromised.”

  “Well, you know the old saying about Wall Street. All we’ve got is our word. If there’s no trust, there’s no trading.”

  Sammy swung his chair to face Eric and began to masturbate an invisible penis in the air. His hand moved in long strokes and he made a mocking face of an ecstatic expression. Eric smiled at Sammy, but Joe, his face reddening, whispered furiously: “How dare you! Do your work, instead of making fun.”

  Meanwhile, Fred was almost shouting in Eric’s ear. “I know, I know, that’s the way it is in the real world. Just my crazy business. Anyway, why don’t we buy some more? Say five thousand shares.”

  “Whoa! That’s almost a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Fred sounded firm, manly. “Well, no risk, no gain.”

  “That’s no pain, no gain. And this could be painful. Stock drops five points and you’re out twenty-five grand.”

  “I thought you liked this stock.”

  “I liked the stock at nine. It’s more than doubled.”

  Joe looked, somewhat fiercely, at Eric. Joe waved off Irene, who was indicating she had a call for him. “Don’t you think it’s going up more?” Fred said, innocent confusion in his voice.

  Eric said, “Could you hang on for a second?”

  “For my favorite broker, you bet.”

  Eric covered the receiver and said to Joe. “What?”

  “He wants to buy, let him buy,” Joe said.

  “We’re looking to get out,” Eric said. “I’m ready to close out half the Winningham account if it gets to twenty.”

  “That’s five thousand shares,” Joe said. “This is a thin stock. His order could get it up to twenty. Then you get the Winningham account out.”

  “What’s the point? If Fred ends up losing.”

  “We don’t get an incentive fee with Mr. Tatter. We get commissions. He trades on and off. He’s small fish. You protect your own. Winningham is family.” Joe, evidently convinced he had closed the subject, took his phone call.

  “He’s big family!” Sammy said, rubbing his fingers together to indicate money.

  Eric returned to the phone. “Fred, can I call you right back?”

  “Uh, well, I want to make the trade at the opening.”

  “I’ll get back to you in five minutes.” Once off, Eric sat and waited for Joe to finish his call.

  Sammy watched Eric waiting. After a minute of this silence, he said, “You’re too nice.”

  “What’s nice? It’s not good business. I’m making money for Fred—”

  “We’re making money for Fred,” Sammy lectured.

  “No!” Eric shouted.

  Joe frowned at him and said to the phone, “I have to call you back.”

  Eric continued at Sammy: “I’m making money. New Systems was the first decent gainer he’s had. I gave it to Fred because I thought he was getting fed up with us. He needed a big winner. To turn it into a loss is stupid.”

  “I see,” Sammy said. “You make the bold move of getting your father-in-law to invest and now you’re an expert on keeping clients.”

  “I can’t have this kind of disruption in the office!” Joe shouted. “What did you tell Mr. Tatter?”

  “I said I’d call him back,” Eric answered. “I’m satisfied with the gains in New Systems. I bought it on the basis of their accounting software for IBM. They’ve won that market. We’ve had a hundred percent gain. I don’t want to go in deeper.”

  “You’re not trading for Mr. Tatter. He’s making the decision. You don’t have to work that hard for him. You warned him it’s risky. That fulfills your obligation.”

  “I don’t know,” Eric said, doubt creeping in. Joe understood these matters. He had built up a remarkably loyal list of investors, most of whom had given him discretion, didn’t complain when they were churned, hung on during lean or flat times, and were grateful when there were gains.

  “That’s right!” Sammy shouted. “You don’t know! Do what you’re told!”

  “Samuel!” Joe pressed so hard on the desk that he partially lifted himself up. “Apologize immediately! What is this? We’re partners,” Joe said, gesturing to Eric. “Eric is free to tell his client what he wants. I was merely advising him.”

  “Oh, please, Papa!” Sammy swung his head from side to side, almost moaning. “Please stop the bullshit. You don’t have to put on this act. Eric doesn’t have the guts to leave.”

  Eric felt a shock, his fingers electric, the comfortable chair vibrating him out of his comfort, back to the hard and lumpy world of dissatisfaction.

  Irene and the other secretary, Carol, both looked away. Sammy sat panting, his thin body pointed forward. Joe’s owlish square body and big head became still. Only Joe’s eyes blinked, flashers on a stalled car.

  Eric tried to speak, but he croaked instead. He cleared his throat.

  “Don’t even bother to answer him,” Joe said softly.

  But Eric managed to find his voice. “I’ll walk out right now,” he said to Sammy. “If that’s what you really believe.”

  “Yeah,” Sammy said, shaking his head. He glanced at the ticker. “Market’s open.”

  “Either apologize to Eric,” Joe said, “or get out.”

  “No, no,” Eric said, and tried to wave Joe off, but he could barely lift his arm. His muscles were unstrung, limp in the chair. “If you believe it, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. Do you believe it?”

  “I know it’s nonsense,” Joe said.

  Sammy had kept his eye on the ticker. “You were right, Papa. The oils are getting a play.”

  “I want an apology,” Joe said. “I’m not as nice as Eric. You accused me of being a hypocrite.”

  Sammy kept his eyes on the restless stream of numbers. “I’m not afraid. I will leave.”

  “Sammy,” Irene said, low, an oboe playing beneath the melody.

  “Then please do so,” Joe said. He glanced at Irene. “Who’s on hold?”

  “Mr. French,” she said. “Sammy,” she repeated.

  Joe picked up the phone. “How are you today, Mr. French?”

&n
bsp; “Are you serious!” Sammy screamed without warning, twisting his body away from the stock quotes, leaning forward across the table, his face thrust at Joe.

  Joe swiveled, giving his back to Sammy, and continued to the phone, “I can’t recommend it on the basis of what I know. What did your friend say was going on?”

  “I’m only going to ask you once!” Sammy screamed. His volume tore up the words’ coherence, ripping them to pieces. “Are you serious!”

  “Pardon me,” Joe said, and put his hand over the phone. He turned to face Sammy. “Yes.” Then he swiveled back. “I’m sorry, go on.”

  Sammy slammed his hand on the table. Irene jumped back. Eric, horrified, got up and pleaded, “Sammy, forget it.”

  “Get out of my face!” Sammy said, slapping at Eric’s outstretched hand. “You stupid fool! Errand boy! I could stand you when you were just a nice schmuck, but Eric the Great Stock Adviser is just too much bullshit.”

  He walked out. Eric looked stupidly at the door and, after a few moments, turned back to check on Joe’s reaction. Joe pretended nothing had happened. The owl was still on his perch, talking in a pompous mumble, apparently unmoved.

  Sammy and Joe had had many terrible fights. Eric and Sammy had often screamed at each other. But no one ever walked out, or was asked to, for that matter. Sammy spoke his contempt for Eric with thorough conviction. He hadn’t meant his words simply to hurt; he believed them.

  “It’s Fred Tatter again,” Irene said.

  So I was just a nice schmuck, an errand boy. And now I’m a fool.

  Eric took the call.

  “Well?” said Fred. “The market’s open. You said you’d call back.”

  “I can’t recommend it, Fred.”

  “What about two thousand shares?”

  “Okay, if you want.” Eric hated him, this fool whom he had tried to protect. What did it get him? Nothing but the misery of truth. “I’ll call you back with the price.”

  Eric placed the order, then sat back in his chair, his eyes closed, and waited for a confirmation. Errand boy. Eric the great stock picker. He tried to tune the words out. Errand boy. But they had music in them—Schmuck! Errand boy!—a persistent, irritating jingle that couldn’t be forgotten.