Only Children

by Rafael Yglesias

  Money. Nina went to Europe when she was eight. When she was ten. When she was thirteen. Their family went on a trip every summer. They went skiing in Switzerland during Christmas vacations. Yeah, sure, money doesn’t matter.

  “My husband is rich,” Diane said.

  Of course, Eric had known the moment he met Peter at brunch. The guy was snobbish about everything, even the kid’s toys. Peter groaned, not about their cost, but about their warlike bias. Well, what the fuck are little boys going to pretend? Eric wanted to ask him. That they’re wearing camel-hair coats and telling their secretaries to put somebody on hold?

  Byron was more of a man than his father.

  “Stockbroker,” Peter had said with a neutral look on his face that day at brunch. “That must be nerve-racking.”

  And dirty. Not like helping to put plays on, or whatever it was Peter did. Dirty, dirty, dirty.

  Peter was an anti-Semite. Probably Nina would be if she hadn’t fallen in love with Eric.

  Dad would always say, “Remember, they’re all anti-Semites. Some of ’em are just polite about it.”

  Diane wants to fuck me. She has a good body. And she’s easy to talk to.

  Eric looked away from Diane’s inviting glance and felt her shoulder on his. He saw the jammed park, the sloppy, tired faces of the parents, Luke squeezing his groin, the stock quotes in Barron’s, the Quotron ticking down, Nina turning off, shutting him out, Mom and Dad, worried when he told them Tom had given him money to invest—

  “Don’t lose it,” Mom had said. She thought he would fail. Just like Barry.

  Forget all that. Eric looked into Diane’s welcoming eyes.

  “You’re a stockbroker?” Diane’s husband had asked, his eyes cool with disdain.

  It would be a pleasure to cuckold that guy.

  THE MUSIC school was a happy place. Peter liked the sounds—rhythm, pianos, violins, cellos, horns—echoing through the wide institutional halls. Parents were everywhere, lurking outside, carrying cases, or coats, or schoolbooks, or their own briefcases. Bright, earnest children, armed with their instruments instead of plastic guns, walked confidently to and fro—an army of culture to fight the world of junk.

  On their way up to the third floor, where Byron took his private lesson, they passed a large room in which a quartet of nine-year-olds were struggling with a charming piece—and doing well to Peter’s ear. Byron pulled Peter to the doorway and they paused to listen.

  “They’re playing together,” Byron called out.

  “Shhhh. That’s called a quartet,” Peter whispered. “If you learn the violin, you can play in one. Or you can play in an orchestra. That’s when all the instruments play together.”

  “I want to!” Byron said as if Peter could snap his fingers and make it so.

  If only I could. “Well, you practice hard and you will.” Byron’s natural competitiveness will serve him well, Peter thought.

  Peter fancied Byron went into his lesson with an eager step this time. At the start, Byron listened carefully, not fussing, trying to put his feet where they should be. But when he had to shift his attention to a proper grip on the violin, he lost track of his feet. And when his teacher diverted his attention to that, his grip on the violin went awry. Back and forth the corrections came. Like displacement of water, when Byron did one right, the other went wrong. His teacher didn’t give up today; she continued to insist he correct the mistake.

  Byron’s open face got tighter and tighter, his bright eyes darkening. His body stiffened. He pulled away from his teacher’s touch. “I am!” he shouted at last.

  “No,” she insisted, pushing the violin more under his chin, “it’s—”

  “Leave me alone!” Byron pulled away and plucked the notes wildly, digging his finger under the strings, and yanking them up.

  “Don’t do that!” His teacher, an overweight, unattractive young woman hardly out of her teens, said this with real anger in her voice, not simply the dispassionate cool of a stern educator.

  Byron dropped the violin like a stone and walked to the door. “I wanna go home,” he said boldly.

  He was so little. He looked absurd standing at the door, the top of his head beneath the handle, too small to be in this situation.

  And yet would Mozart have become Mozart without his famer’s relentless demands?

  Peter said nothing. The teacher looked to him to intervene.

  I won’t provoke him, that’s what he wants.

  “I think you should consider stopping the lessons,” the young woman whispered to Peter.

  “He’s frustrated,” Peter said softly. He was outraged that she was willing to quit so easily. I’ll go to the administrator, he decided.

  “He hasn’t learned anything. I wanted to go easy and so I haven’t, you know, made him do it right. But now he’s gotten into bad habits and he obviously doesn’t want to do it right. Maybe he should switch to another instrument, or take the music appreciation classes, and then pick this up again in a year. He’s been to twelve lessons and he hasn’t learnt anything.”

  “That’s not true,” Peter protested. Byron had made some progress. At least he practiced.

  “Well.” She lowered her head. “It looks bad for me if I lose a student—so I don’t mind continuing.” She regarded Peter. “I just don’t want him to be turned off forever. He’s bright and outgoing. He’ll come back to it. Right now, this might be a waste of his time.”

  Peter turned away from Byron, who still stood at the door with a grave look. Peter whispered, “I thought he was getting better at it.”

  “Well, he hasn’t been practicing, right?”

  “Every day! We do it every day.”

  “Oh.” She smiled regretfully. “He might as well be at the beginning. I’m happy to keep trying. Byron?” she called to him. “How about we just play through the notes once?”

  “No,” he said with remarkable clarity and conviction and confidence.

  “Okay,” she said cheerfully. “I want you to practice differently. Just getting your feet right and holding the violin in play position. That’s all. No notes.”

  “Okay,” Byron said. The gleam of triumph in Byron’s eye gave him away. To Byron this was a battle of wills, not learning a musical instrument. He wanted to beat the adults.

  And I’ve been a perfect sucker, letting him do what he wants.

  “Let’s go, Daddy,” Byron said cheerfully.

  Byron chattered on their way home, growing happier with each step, his energy up and surging with his victory.

  “I’m getting good,” Byron said. Peter grunted.

  “I’ll be able to play with the big kids,” Byron went on, happy and happier.

  At home, Diane was arranged cozily on the couch, a cup of tea beside her, a mystery clutched to her bosom. Byron ran to her, ran into her arms. “Mommy,” he blessed her.

  “Mmmmm,” she said. “What a nice hug. Did you have a good lesson?”

  “I’m really good,” Byron said.

  Diane smiled. Byron’s head was facing away from Peter. Over the bowl of sandy hair, Diane looked at Peter for confirmation. Peter shook his head back and forth, contradicting Byron.

  She saw. But she kissed Byron and said, “I’m glad, honey.”

  14

  “IT’S NIGHTTIME!” Byron showed Luke. He pulled the string down. The shades went crazy with a loud shaking. Half the window was uncovered.

  “It’s nighttime, Daddy!” Luke called out.

  “No,” Byron said. He grabbed Luke’s hand. “Don’t tell them. They’ll make us go to bed.”

  “But, Byron.” Luke sighed. The effort of arguing with Byron was so great, sharp and hurting, like when the poop was stuck. “They know it’s nighttime.”

  “No!” Byron shook his head back and forth. Then back and forth harder. “Oh, no! My head is loose! Ram Man, help me, my head is loose.”

  Luke liked that joke. “Okay.” Luke put his hands out and stopped the crazy head. “Don’t move!” he
ordered the evil head.

  “Oh, no, it’s coming off, it’s coming off!” Byron danced on his tiptoes, his hands pressing down on his head.

  Byron always goes on and on. “No, it isn’t,” Luke informed him. “I saved you. I stopped it.”

  “You didn’t, you didn’t.” Byron’s arms spun out, out and out, like Sy-Klone.

  “Byron?” His mommy was at the door. Daddy was behind her. “What’s going on?”

  “My head is coming off!”

  “I saved him!” Luke said to Daddy.

  “No! No!” Byron spun himself to the ground, holding on to his head.

  “Shhhh!” Byron’s Mommy said to Byron. “It’s late. You have to play quietly.”

  Luke held his body still. Please, Byron, don’t fight. We can go on playing if you don’t argue.

  “I am being quiet!” Byron shouted.

  “Why don’t you play with your new Play-Doh?” Byron’s mommy asked.

  “Yea!” Byron was up on his feet. He jumped up and down at his mommy. “Yea!”

  Luke also tried to act excited. He wanted them to know he liked the idea. “Yes, Daddy,” Luke said, and hopped up and down, but less than Byron. He didn’t want Byron’s mommy to end the play date because he was acting too happy.

  “Okay, okay, quiet down. We’ll set you up at the kitchen table.”

  Byron had a lot of Play-Doh. Every color. He had yellow, blue, red, green. Byron took all those to his side. He gave Luke the white Play-Doh. “I’m going to make something terrific,” Byron said.

  “Me too,” Luke said. He stared at his one can. White was boring.

  “Mine’s going to be lots of colors,” Byron said.

  “I’m going to use the blue,” Luke said. He took hold of the blue Play-Doh.

  “No,” Byron said. He pulled the blue can out of Luke’s soft fingers. “You use the white.” Byron pointed to the white PlayDoh. Byron opened the blue can and shook it hard to get the PlayDoh out.

  Where was Daddy? He was talking to Byron’s mommy in the living room.

  Tell me if there’s anything wrong, Luke, Daddy had said. Tell me how you want it to be and I’ll fix it.

  “Daddy!” Luke called.

  “Don’t!” Byron said.

  “What is it, Luke?” Daddy answered, but didn’t come in.

  “Here.” Byron pulled a chunk of blue PlayDoh off and put it in front of Luke.

  I have it. Luke touched the small chunk of blue Play-Doh. Byron had all the cans open. He was rolling colors, making shapes. Already doing everything. Luke thought about what to make.

  “I’m making He-Man,” Byron said. “You make Ram Man.”

  “I don’t want to,” Luke said softly. He hoped Byron wouldn’t hear.

  “You have to!”

  Daddy’s head appeared at the edge of the wall. “What is it, Luke?”

  “Nothing!” Byron shouted.

  I wanted the blue Play-Don. But I have it. What can I say?

  “I asked Luke, Byron, let him answer me.” Daddy sounded angry. He doesn’t want me to need help. “What is it, Luke?” Daddy asked.

  “Are you cooperating, Byron?” Byron’s mommy called out.

  “Yes! I’m making He-Man, Luke is making Ram Man. We’ll show you when we finish!”

  “What was it, Luke?” Daddy’s voice got close, right in Luke’s ear.

  “Nothing,” Luke mumbled. Daddy left. Luke held the PlayDoh in his hand. He wanted to make a sailboat, like the sailboat in Maine, just right outside his window, quiet and tall, slicing the sky. He pushed the cool, soft PlayDoh, watched his fingers disappear. Shape round and smooth here and long there. He pulled a piece up—

  “This is good, you know why?” Luke explained to Byron. “I’m making a sailboat, like the sailboat in Maine. And it’s blue and white. And those are the colors I have!” This was great.

  “No,” Byron scolded. “No, you’re not. You’re making Ram Man.”

  The sail rose up thin and blue from the chunk of PlayDoh. Luke let it go—his boat was ready!

  “You’re doing it wrong!” Byron’s hand crushed the sail, smashed the boat. “You have to make Ram Man.”

  It was gone. He had made it so great. And now it was gone. He hated Byron. He wanted to throw him in the garbage and put his many colors in there too. “I—don’t—I—don’t—” but Luke couldn’t move the words through his feelings, couldn’t push them out.

  The tears were here, hurting and pushing his eyes, poking and hurting, everything wanting out—

  “Byron! What have you done?”

  “I was just playing and Luke smashed his thing and cried!”

  “Luke.” Daddy in his ear, pushing to get in, but everything wants to come out. “Luke, what is it?”

  “Byron!” His mommy was going to yell and yell and break everything. “Are you—”

  “Really, Mommy, he cries. He cries a lot. Like a baby.”

  “Oh, and you never cry,” Byron’s mommy said.

  “Luke, what happened? You couldn’t make what you wanted?” Daddy in his ear, buzzing like a loud television.

  “I wanna go home,” Luke said to push them away. “I wanna go home!”

  “Don’t go home, Luke,” Byron said, and he began to yell and cry. “I want to keep playing.”

  “It’s past your bedtimes,” his mommy said.

  “No!” Byron cried now.

  Good. Make him cry.

  “I wanna go home,” Luke said, now clear, able to push them away.

  “Okay,” Daddy said. “We’ll go home right now.”

  “No!” Byron smashed his stupid He-Man and pushed all the PlayDoh off the table.

  “Byron!” His mommy grabbed him and pulled him away.

  Good. Good.

  “Let’s get your jacket, Luke.”

  Good. Daddy and me. We’ll go home. Mommy will come late, and even if I’m sleeping, she’ll give me a kiss, and tomorrow I can make my sailboat alone.

  “YOU GET skinnier every day,” Sal said with a sneer on his lips. He must think it makes him look sexy, Nina thought. Where did he get that idea? Elvis was before his time.

  “Thank you,” Nina answered. Where to go to eat? She had exhausted everything nearby—she’d end up at that coffee shop Luke had thought so magical. The food was terrible, but being there brought the memory of Luke along for company.

  “But enough is enough,” Sal said. “I’m going to lunch with you to make sure you get some fat on you.”

  “So I can look like your mother?” Nina asked.

  Sal seemed bewildered by her joke. Nina could throw him so easily. He was funny, with his tough manner and skin so thin he might be a two-year-old. “What does that mean?” Sal complained.

  “You said your mother was a fat slob.”

  “I did?” Sal blanched as if she had reminded him of the commission of a sin.

  “I guess you were kidding,” Nina said.

  “I don’t want you to look like my mother,” Sal said, his swagger back. He had a gleam in his eye. He means that to be a come-on. But he means everything to be a come-on. She knew, just knew, that if she ever took him at his word, he’d panic. She was a safe dangerous game.

  They were outside. Sal moved in front of her. “Where do you want to go?” he bluffed, pretending confidence she would go to lunch with him.

  “I didn’t say—” She stopped herself. She didn’t want to play teenage games. “I’m going to the coffee shop.”

  “Ugh. How about Japanese? It’s good for you. This is New York! You have to be adventurous.”

  “I’ve had Japanese food before, Sal.” She laughed at him. He worked so hard at this male mastery. “You can join me at the coffee shop.” She walked off. He didn’t come along.

  At the corner, she looked back for Sal. Sal was still where she had left him, caught between his pride and his desire to come. When Luke balked at where Nina wanted to go next, Luke would do the same: bluff and stay back until she moved decisively away,
and then he’d come running.

  The light changed. Nina almost didn’t cross, forgetting that she could abandon Sal, he wasn’t a three-year-old. So she moved on and, once in the coffee shop, felt some regret after all.

  The coffee shop was jammed and noisy. She got herself a tiny table, and as she opened the menu, Sal appeared.

  “Jesus, you’re stubborn,” he said. “What are you gonna have? Burger, right?”

  Then he was off and chatting, talking about his fat pregnant sisters (that’s what he called them) and about Tad. Tad seemed to be his main concern. Sal was obviously envious of Nina’s job. He repeatedly asked what she had done to get it and flatly didn’t accept her answer that Tad had simply offered it to her, presumably on the basis of her work in class.

  “Come on, you must have asked him if he had any jobs?”

  “No, I didn’t. Never occurred to me.”

  “Come on!”

  “Okay, I paid him to give it to me.”

  “That’s what Rosalie thinks. That you offered to work for free.”

  Rosalie was one of the pair of girls who hung on Sal’s every word, trailing him through the hallways, giggling from the thrill by his presence. Nina smiled at the thought of Rosalie’s envy. She enjoyed its novelty. When was the last time someone was jealous of what she had?

  “Don’t tell her I told you,” Sal said.

  “Oh, she must have wanted you to tell me.”

  “No! She likes you.”

  Nina laughed. Sal seemed so familiar to her. He shouldn’t—was he like Luke? Like her brother?

  “Really, she does! She just said that ’cause she’s jealous.”

  “It’s okay,” Nina reassured him. He was fascinated by competition, but didn’t want to admit it caused bad feelings. Who was that like? Eric?

  “Is it true?” Sal asked.

  “Is what true?”

  “That Tad doesn’t pay you?”

  Nina again laughed at him. He waited for her to stop, as if it were a commercial message interrupting his favorite show’s denouement. “He pays me. Minimum wage. He doesn’t have to pay me. Some of them aren’t paid, they’re interning. But they get school credit for that.”