The teacher came in and began to talk. It was interesting, but Nina couldn’t stay with it; her mind went back to Sal’s reaction when Nina announced Luke’s age. Sal didn’t understand the compliment Nina had given out. In fact, it was such great praise Nina had regretted its escape. Luke’s eyes were probably the most beautiful in the world.
Later, Nina caught Sal looking at her. Nina had lost the logic of the teacher’s remarks and her eyes lit on Sal. Sal’s eyes were judging her, studying her hips and middle. Looking for the sloppy fat of pregnancy, she thought, and sucked in. But she was in good shape. Sure, the hard board for a belly had warped, but she wasn’t fat. It was obvious that Sal worked out. His shoulders almost had wings; his ass was tight and hard. When he moved his arms, the muscles sighed and rose under the skin, undulating gently but suggesting force. He had a pretty face, his beard was very light, and his chin came to a delicate point. He was a half man, a young buck. He had no stomach. Not even a suggestion of roundness. Flat. His neck was thick, though, and a little short. If he lost his hair, let his belly go, he’d become a slovenly middle-aged man. This was his prime, his youth. Luke would grow into that. And she would get old.
Did she mind? No, she wanted to see Luke become that beautiful mix of man and boy, arrogant and shy, a brand-new machine, its clean engine full of power, its driver both reckless and scared.
Sal lifted his eyes from his inspection of her figure and met her eyes. He almost fell over, he was so quick to break the eye contact. He even turned his body away, desperate to erase any evidence that he had been curious. At his age, Nina would have been the one to pretend she hadn’t noticed. In fact, she would never have returned the glance at all, watching him watch her out of the corner of her eye, hoping, wondering, resenting, and longing. Not now. There was nothing to fear from men. They always stayed boys, no matter what. They were gentle; even the brutal ones were frightened, she knew that from Luke. Women bend, men break, her mother once told her. It was true. They thought it was all up to them; they had no humility in the face of nature; they actually believed some sort of triumph or defeat was possible.
She looked at Sal’s lap, at his tight jeans. There was a large oval formation at his groin, as if he were wearing sports equipment. Is he stuffing it? she wondered. There was a kid in high school who did that. He had had some calamity—it shifted at a dance? She didn’t remember. It was hilarious and quite a shock. Only the girls were supposed to be faking size. Another myth: men were not only frailer than women but vainer too.
She imagined a long white penis, hairless, a giant version of Luke’s.
The image embarrassed her. She shook it off and concentrated on the lecture.
She was able to pay attention toward the end; she even got an idea for the line she would have to draw for her leisure-wear class. She stayed back and quickly made notes of the color combinations the teacher’s principles inspired. She noticed Sal dawdle a moment too, and she felt his breath on her neck, and his voice whispered into her ear, “Do you really have a two-year-old kid?”
“Yes,” she answered, puzzled.
Sal also seemed baffled. “I thought it might just be a put-down.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Everybody puts me down.”
Nina assured him she hadn’t and then left. Not quickly or coolly, she certainly didn’t want Sal to think she didn’t like him—obviously anything less than admiration would kill the fellow—but she didn’t want to have to flatter him for ten minutes so his confidence could be completely restored.
After all, she had to get home. There she had two boys who would need all the praise she could spare.
HE HAD the feeling. Go away, Go away. He ran into the living room, head down, butting the air like Ram Man, past Pearl, past Skeletor. “He-Man! Help me!”
“I help you,” Pearl said.
“No! You’re not He-Man.”
“I’m sorry. It’s so nice out today, isn’t it, Luke?”
Want to stay. “I don’t know. I haven’t been out.”
“Well, why don’t I help you get your clothes on?”
The Feeling. Twist and squeeze and go away. Push it out, Luke. You’ll feel better.
“You have to go?” Pearl said, very soft.
“No!” Luke jumped at the sound of his voice.
Run! Head down, butt them down, smash! “I’m coming, He-Man!”
“Byron’s gonna be at the park today.” Pearl’s voice followed him. “I talked to Francine. She said they’d be there at eleven. It’s half past now. Byron be so sad if you don’t come.”
Luke saw his new figure—Sy-Klone—twisting arms, tornado man. He could show Byron. Byron said he’s gonna get it, but I already have it now. But Byron would play with it.
“Look.” Pearl’s voice was with him in his room. “I ironed your favorite overalls.”
“I want to go to the park,” Luke said.
“You do!” Pearl acted so surprised. “That’s a good idea, Luke.”
The Feeling was gone anyway.
“FRANCINE!” Byron yelled. “Francine!”
“Go,” said the stupid boy behind.
Byron felt the metal. He could bend metal. He was big. “Francine, watch me!”
She didn’t look. “Go!” said the stupid boy.
“No!” Byron pushed his face at the boy. Stupid. My eyes can deeestroy! Where’s Luke? “Go away!”
“It’s my turn, poop head!” Stupid said.
“Poop head!” Byron laughed in Stupid’s face. “Poop not on head.”
“You’re a poop head!” Stupid said.
Byron’s legs felt small. Stupid laughed. Laughed at Byron. “I am not,” Byron said.
“Poop head, poop face, poop eyes, poop nose, poop head!”
Byron wanted Francine! “Francine! Francine!”
“What?” Francine called up, her funny hair orange in the sun.
“Watch me slide!”
“Go, poop head!” Stupid said.
Byron’s face hurt. “Don’t say that!” he yelled.
“Go!” Stupid pushed. Byron felt the metal melt. His legs flew. The slide slapped his cheek. He held on and cried and cried and cried.
“What’s the matter with you!” Francine yelled at Stupid. “You don’t push people down the slide. Byron, honey, let me look, come on—oh, it’s okay, Byron. Don’t hurt that much.”
“He pushed!” There, Stupid, you are bad. You hurt me.
“He’s a baby!” Stupid said.
“Am not!” Byron yelled, and cried again.
“That’s right,” Francine told Stupid. “And you’re too old to be pushing little babies on the slide. You’re big enough to know better.”
“What’s wrong?” said a grown-up.
“Your boy pushed my baby.” Francine was not scared of grownups.
“He wouldn’t go!” Stupid said.
Byron cried hard. “He hurt me!” There, Stupid. You bad. “He said I was poop,” Byron yelled.
“Did not,” Stupid said. “I said he was a poop head. And he is. I’m going.” Stupid ran down the steps and out to the sandbox. His grown-up left too.
Byron put his warm face into Francine’s pillows.
“Okay.” She put him down. “You’re okay. Don’t be crying so much about it. You’re not hurt. Big boys don’t cry. You see he called you a baby ’cause you were crying.”
“He pushed me.”
“Next time he push you, you push him right back.”
Byron is big. Grab Francine leg, tree leg, and pull. Swing on the tree, Big Cat Byron!
“Go on, now. You’re all right. Go on and play.”
“I’m hungry”
“Hungry? You had a snack just ten minutes ago! You’re not hungry.”
“Yes, I am!” Hold on to the dinosaur leg. Big Cat Byron, claw!
“No!” Francine push. Push away. “Go and play now. We’ll have lunch later.”
“I want—”
THERE’S LUKE!
<
br /> “Luke! Luke! Luke! Luke!” Hop, hop, hop. He doesn’t see. “Luke, here! Come here! Luke! Luke! Luke!”
There. He comes, he comes with the grown-up Pearl. He has Sy-Klone!
Twist and twist and twist, arms flying.
“Hi,” Luke said. “See? I have Sy-Klone.”
“Let me see.” Byron big and bigger takes the toy and makes it go, arms flying, smacking bad guys. “Let’s play He-Man, Luke.”
“Okay.”
Byron takes Luke’s hand. “You know, Luke, you’re my best friend. I love you.”
“I know,” said Luke.
BYRON DIDN’T know how to work Sy-Klone. “Byron—” TOOK so long to say. Byron was gone already. In the sandbox, burying Sy-Klone. “That’s not—” Luke tried to hurry there.
Byron was talking. “I can tunnel. Find Skeletor and beat him.”
No, no. He doesn’t tunnel. Sy-Klone flies. He makes a tornado and flies. “Byron—”
Byron grabbed Luke. Luke tried to get his hand away. Byron squeezed too hard. “Let—”
“There’s Stupid!” Byron put his face right up to Luke’s, blowing at him. “He called me poop head.”
The Feeling. No. “What?”
Byron pulled Luke down. His knee hit Sy-Klone. It hurt. Byron pointed to a bigger boy. “That’s Stupid. He pushed me.”
“What did you say about poop?”
Byron whispered. “He called me poop head.”
“Poop head?” Luke thought of a head covered with—He laughed. “That’s crazy.”
“You’re a poop head!” Byron called out to the bigger boy.
“Shut up,” the bigger boy answered.
Byron twisted and twirled. He was being Sy-Klone!
Luke reached to stop Byron. “Don’t—”
“Whee.” Byron whirled across the sandbox. His shoes dug holes; his arms flashed around and around. “I am Sy-Klone!” Byron said to the bigger boy.
“Shut up!” The bigger boy picked up sand and pulled his hand back.
“Watch—” Luke jumped, Ram Man, ready to butt away the sand.
The wind hit. Rough rain splattered on Luke’s face.
Eyes! It’s in eyes!
Luke fell, he wasn’t Ram Man, he yelled for Pearl, put his hands on his eyes and tried to get the rough lumps out.
He couldn’t open his eyes, he rubbed—something stuck his eye. He yelled and let go, pushed his head down, to hide, to go to sleep, to be away from this.
“He did it! He did it! He did it!” Byron yelled.
Pearl was there. “No, I didn’t,” Luke said to her.
“Did it get in your eyes?” Pearl’s voice came in between the hurt.
He tried to open them—the roughness tore at his head—he screamed again and kept them shut.
“I want to go home!” Luke yelled. “I want to go home!”
“I’m sorry,” a child’s voice said.
“He’s a big boy, he should know better.” Pearl sounded deep and heavy. Luke smelled Pearl, he was in her arms.
“I want to go home!” Luke yelled to her. “I want Mommy!”
His eyes were wet, smooth and silk now, covering the roughness. He tried to open them.
No! No! It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
“You just rest, don’t rub. We going right home.”
Home. Home. He cried, he cried, he cried. It felt so good to cry.
“Luke, Luke, Luke.” Byron jumped at him. “Don’t go, Luke!”
Press against Pearl. Take me home.
“Byron, leave him alone.”
“Luke, Luke, Luke.” Byron jumped at him. “Don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry.”
No, no, no, no.
11
FRIDAY AFTERNOONS were the hardest for Eric. The weekend was ahead. The restless, worrisome weekend, with the market closed and the TV and newspapers full of conflicting opinions on the economic future. Three nights and two days to remember the week’s mistakes and missed opportunities, three nights and two days of relentless child care, his body always all on the move, his mind wandering again and again through the bearish article in Barron’s on the oil group, recalling Rukeyser’s guests’ comments on Wall Street Week, relighting arguments with Joe and Sammy, winning them this time, booting up his home computer and studying Tom’s portfolio, dreaming of the numbers going up and up—
Was it time to raise the stops?
Should he double that position?
Should he leverage more? Trade the futures? Or hedge with the options?
He asked and reasked, with no market open to engage his attention, to contradict, to confirm, to react to, nothing but hour after hour of ghostly combat with greed and fear.
You’ve done so well so far. Relax.
But had he done it? Or was it Joe? Was the success merely due to Eric’s being leashed to Joe’s firm hand, Joe’s guidance in control: 10 percent down and out, trailing stops, minimize losses, maximize profits, keep it simple, don’t diversify so broadly so that you’re always losing somewhere, pick the hot areas and stay with them. The trend is your friend.
But were Joe’s tactics so great anyway? These days they weren’t making money fast enough. They had stayed only a few percentage points ahead of the averages, and they were riding one of the great bull markets. Yet every day picking winners got tougher.
Joe had talked Eric out of two gambles, on bankruptcy turnarounds, that would have worked. Four hundred percent returns, maybe enough to get Tom bragging in Boston, pull in some of his country-club buddies’ money.
Why couldn’t Eric become another Gabelli, another Peter Lynch? Why couldn’t Eric manage a billion dollars? It wasn’t that hard, it was just knowing the right people, getting the dough and doing what he had been doing—
But again, ask yourself: do you deserve the credit for the success of Tom’s portfolio?
Sammy had returned to the office a week after the fight with Joe in which Sammy had implied that Joe kept Eric employed only because of Tom’s money. Hoping for a retraction, Eric pressed Sammy about the argument, although Sammy seemed not to want to discuss it. Eric prevailed and got an apology. Sammy explained that he had been upset for weeks, convinced his father had little faith in him, and so he’d taken that out on Eric. Eric believed that was the truth.
But Eric didn’t think Sammy believed his own apology. It was the obvious excuse and so Sammy said it. The retraction, once extracted, made Eric feel worse.
So what do I care what Sammy thinks?
What do I care what I think if I’m making money?
But it wasn’t enough. This market might be a unique opportunity. Wall Street was awash with geniuses, dozens of people in their twenties and thirties casting huge nets into a harbor fluttering and shimmering with millions in salaries and bonuses. By comparison, Eric wasn’t doing that well. Eric was still on the street corner, the hustling end of the business, leafleting the suckers to get them inside the casino. The Harvard M.B.A.’s and lawyers, with their merger and acquisition magic, their junk bunk financing, their respectable pimping—they were making the real money. Wall Street was on a bender, and it would come to an end, it always had before, and Eric might come away with little more than a hangover. He had to steal some of the valuables, stuff his pockets, make enough of an impression on the host to be invited back for the quiet gatherings that hard times would bring.
Eric became obsessed with catching the wave just before all those flopping, gleaming fish were sucked back to the ocean depths. Eric went to the Strand, a secondhand bookstore, and bought a load of books on the 1929 crash. What everyone forgets, Eric told an attentive but bewildered Nina, is that you can make even bigger money when everything falls apart. Actually, the biggest fortunes were made in the year following the ’29 crash.
Eric tried to talk to Joe about his desire to be prepared to short the market, to ride the wave out to sea, and smile gaily back at those fishermen, their nets suddenly empty.
“Are you crazy?” Joe answered. “This bul
l market is a runaway train. I can understand considering getting off. But stepping in front of it?”
“If you think it’s a runaway train, then why are we still in the first car?”
“We have our stops to protect us.”
“That’s just avoiding losing money, Joe. We make money when the market goes up, we’re aggressive, why can’t we be aggressive when it goes down?”
“We will be! I made plenty of money in ’seventy-four. I did all right in ’eighty-one. But you have to wait until the trend develops. We’re not in the business of picking tops and bottoms.”
Joe was content with the money they made. To Joe, his income of half a million a year was extraordinary, way beyond the expectations of his youth. Joe, naturally, thought a young man Eric’s age should be happy with two hundred thousand per annum. Certainly, if a seer had come to Eric five years before and shown him his present circumstances, Eric would have assumed his future self would be happy.
But he felt diminished by his surroundings, a town house shadowed by skyscrapers, a doorman hustling tips while inside the luxury apartments twenty-nine-year-old Ivy Leaguers made millions.
So quit. Contact the brokerage houses and try to land a job as an equity fund manager. Call Tom and ask him to arrange a luncheon of his rich friends for me to pitch to.
Or—more to the point—take off the leash. Buy the S&P futures, take a big position in the biotechnology stocks, double up sometimes instead of getting stopped out, be bolder, be bolder, be bolder!
But this was Nina’s family’s money. Her future presumably. Eventually, his son’s. He had to take care, go slow, listen to Joe—
Fridays faced Eric with an uninterrupted weekend of these arguments. And then, after only a month at FIT, Nina’s work impressed one of her teachers, one of the many on the faculty who also ran businesses, and he asked Nina to apprentice three afternoons and occasional evenings a week, in order to work on the spring line. That meant Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Friday nights Eric had almost all of Luke’s care to himself. Nina urged Eric to ask Pearl to stay late, but Eric felt it was wrong to sit in the house and let some black woman be with his son while he was right there, perfectly able. Besides, wasn’t that one of the benefits of his work? The market closed at four. He could be home by five, five-thirty at the latest; he could read his material after Luke was in bed. On the nights Nina had to stay late, Eric could be alone to dream, to yell at himself, to question his ideas, to get tough, to get ready for the day that was coming soon when he would catch the wave and ride away laughing on a sea of money.
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