Only Children

by Rafael Yglesias

  “That must be what Rosalie meant.” Sal ate his hamburger in four bites, his jaw dropping like a crocodile’s and swallowing chunks. Ketchup appeared at the corner of his mouth. “What a ripoff.”

  “Sal, if you want to, you can look at everything as a rip-off.”

  “’Cause everything is a rip-off.”

  “Then nothing is a rip-off.”

  “Huh?”

  “Something has to not be a rip-off for everything else to be. If everything is a rip-off, then everything is equally fair.”

  “Oh, that’s bullshit. That’s something rich people think to make them feel better ’cause they’re doing the ripping off.”

  He was like Eric, just like Eric when Nina first met him: hungry, eager to make an impression, intrigued by her, disgusted by the rules of the game he so desperately wanted to win. Only then, Nina was young, and Eric’s view of life was new, and seemed refreshing: a forest cleared of the dead brush of her family’s hypocritical values. Her family pretended winning didn’t matter to them; but they talked of nothing but who was best skier, best squash player, best sailor, and they believed winners always deserved their victories.

  “Never thought of that, right?” Sal said, pleased with himself, convinced he was teaching poor naïve Nina the way of the world.

  “Are you going to hate your life if you don’t make money?” Nina asked.

  “You mean, if I starve?”

  “No. If you don’t become rich.”

  “You mean, if I have to live in the Bronx like my parents and have fat babies who grow up to have fat babies?”

  Nina laughed while she nodded.

  “I’ll kill myself.”

  Nina shook her head. “Give me a serious answer.”

  “That is a serious answer, beautiful. You know, you are beautiful.”

  “You don’t have to flirt with me, Sal.”

  “Hey—I mean it. I’m not playing. You are beautiful.”

  Sal was thrilled to be saying this. He sat straight up, at attention, his eyes glistening, his nostrils open, his mouth grave. She watched him, fascinated. He was a visitation from her past—Eric wooing her. Nina had utterly believed in Eric’s passion, had believed his romance was inspired by pure love for her. She thought she had won an old-fashioned chivalrous adoration.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you,” Sal said, high on his feelings, skimming on pure sentiment. “I think about you all the time. I don’t want other women; they’re impure compared to you. I wish I could touch your hair, lie next to you in bed, and hold your hand. I close my eyes and see you.” He closed his eyes and kept them shut while he talked. “It’s like you’re not even human. I’ve never seen skin like yours—and your eyes! They glow like a cat’s and see right through me.” He opened and gazed at her. “Your eyes catch me and I have to follow them. I’m yours. I love you. I used to dream about making love to you. But I think I’d be too scared. I’m not good enough. But I can’t lie. Not telling you what I feel, just pretending everything’s normal. I love you. It’s so great to say it. I love you.”

  Sal sat there, erect, awaiting her judgment.

  But all she could think of was Eric. Young, bedding her. Young, marrying her. Young, impregnating her. And now, in only a few years, old and harassing her. Sal just wants to fuck me, Nina thought. Confirm his escape from his neighborhood, get a visa to somewhere else. She hadn’t thought that for a second when Eric courted her. Was the difference Sal? No, Nina was older, and knew better.

  I wish I didn’t, she thought. I wish I could fall in love with this boy and be fooled all over again.

  WHEN DIANE called to invite Eric and Luke over for a late-afternoon play date, and suggested they stay and order pizza, so the boys could have their first dinner together, for a moment, Eric thought, she wants to see me alone. En route, he dismissed that idea. Sure, Diane knew Nina would be working, Eric had told her about Nina’s schedule the other day in the park, but probably her husband would also be there.

  He wasn’t. Although Diane was dressed casually, she was made up and looked alluring. She immediately offered Eric wine. There was a spread of cheese and crackers out on the coffee table. There were fresh-cut flowers in several vases, there was music playing, there were no toys strewn anywhere, and she told Byron to take Luke into his room and show Luke his new toy, Snake Mountain.

  “Peter working late?” Eric asked as coolly as he could.

  “Yes, there’s a big opening tonight. I guess I should have gone, but I didn’t feel like it.” She had a keen edge to her voice when, as Eric knew well, by the end of the day most mothers would have given up on cheerfulness. What was so exciting about having the father of your three-year-old’s best friend over for pizza?

  But it made no sense. What were they going to do—plunk the boys in front of the television, turn on a tape of He-Man, and screw in the bedroom?

  Eric was grateful that Luke had managed to take a crap a few hours ago. God, what a mess. First, huge, impossibly long turds oozed out, in a slow agony, accompanied by screaming and tears, and then diarrhea followed. Luke had been stopped up for a week this time. Something had to be done. After it was over, Eric turned on the television to distract Luke and sneaked off to the bedroom to call Nina at work. Nina was irritated by the interruption. “I’ll take him to another doctor. I have to go.” And she hung up without a good-bye.

  Yeah, I’d be happy to sleep with Diane. Why not? I’m just a servant for Nina, taking care of her kid, her money, her family’s affection, you name it. I make sure he gets enough sleep, I make sure Luke knows he’s loved—what if I behaved like Diane’s husband? Then we’d have an aggressive brat like Byron.

  Nevertheless, Eric wished Luke had some of Byron’s public self-assurance. He didn’t think Byron was really more self-confident— he knew what Byron was, remembered Byron’s type from his own childhood. Byron was a shrimp who needed to be in charge or his ego would crumble. Yeah, but those shrimps always ended up dominating everyone—like Joe. They were completely concentrated on besting everyone—so they did.

  No more. Eric wouldn’t allow it this time. Joe was pushing Eric at work, taking back control of the accounts merely because, for the past quarter, Eric’s stocks were down and Joe’s were up. He thinks he can just grab it back, take it out of my hands, and I won’t say anything. Well, he’s wrong. I’ll walk. I’ll walk with the fifteen million I control.

  But you’re losing it, you can’t keep your grip, you may need Joe.

  The whispers of doubt were terrible, sickening.

  I’ll go mad if I don’t shake it. Make a decision! Leave, that’s what I have to do. Go out on my own. Otherwise Joe will always eat away at my confidence. I would have sold earlier if it weren’t for Joe—not Joe, Sammy, standing there beneath me, as I’m scared shitless on the ledge, saying, Jump! Jump!

  “Do you mind Nina leaving you alone with Luke so much?” Diane asked.

  “No. Most of the time, the only person I really have fun with is Luke.” Except for the constipation. If only that would go away— maybe I should ask her advice.

  “Really?” She smiled with approval. “I wish Peter felt like that. I think he would if he spent more time with Byron.”

  “You must enjoy it.”

  “Yeah?” She laughed sarcastically.

  “Well, you gave up your job to be with him.”

  “No. I gave up my work to have fun. To slow down. I just blame it on Byron.”

  “Smell the roses?”

  “That’s right.” Diane lowered her head. “Only I don’t have anyone to smell with me.” She looked up, right into Eric’s eyes, asking the question.

  He held her look.

  She moved to the couch, sitting next to him, always keeping her eyes on his, bold, like Byron, demanding: I’m here, I’m here. Eric’s thoughts sped by, the ticker going wild, overloaded by volume: what do I owe Nina, do I love her, the boys are in the next room, when could I see Diane anyway, every second of my life is accou
nted for, I’d figure out something, but it’s crazy, right, and her tits are great, we could live together, the boys would always have playmates, but it would be bad for Luke, why am I worrying about that, this is just a lay, maybe she’s kidding—

  Diane’s eyes went down, purposefully, to Eric’s lips, kissing them with her glance.

  Oh, for Christ’s sakes, for once in your life, make a decision without tiptoeing through fields of bullshit—

  He kissed her. Her mouth was soft. He hadn’t expected that. With her black hair and sharp chin, her dark, bold eyes and lean, angled body, he had anticipated meeting something hard and solid, charged with energy. But she was soft, melting at his contact, absorbing him. He could taste her lipstick, smell her perfume. She was fresh-baked, not yesterday’s roll; he wanted more.

  “No!” Byron shouted.

  Eric pushed Diane away, his body shocked, jumping back. He lost his balance, his ass sliding off the edge of the couch, and fell like a bulky package, thudding onto the rug. He looked to see—

  But there was nothing in the doorway.

  “No!” Byron shouted. The voice came from the other room. The boys were still safely ignorant. Eric looked up at Diane, who seemed dazed. “They’re playing,” she said.

  She should be laughing. She must be pretty far gone if she’s not laughing. “This is crazy,” Eric said.

  “They’re allowed to be crazy,” she answered “Why can’t we?”

  “ ’Cause we’re the parents,” Eric said, and he laughed.

  But the laugh didn’t escape his throat, and he saw himself, big and clumsy and old, bussing a married woman on her couch, and he coughed, needing to laugh, and then he did laugh, again and again, until there were tears in his eyes while he laughed, and he didn’t stop laughing until the boys ran in to ask what was so funny.

  FOR WEEKS diane had used eric to stimulate her bath orgies. Night after night Eric lifted her to the ceiling and consumed her from the bottom up, swallowing her below and raising her above, until she flew up to the yellow globe, the bowl of popcorn quavering big, then little, the orange bowl squeezed to red, then white. Eric took her in the hallway with Peter just in the other room, and she had to press her lips tight to hold the freedom inside, gulping back her pleasure, Eric moving over her, restless, loving, frantic, ravenous—

  Diane hadn’t expected her fantasy to become real.

  Night after night she loved Eric’s image, until she found herself inviting him over on impulse, as if reality had become soft and she could, at will, puncture it with her dreams. She used the boys as a beard, picked a night when she knew Nina and Peter would be elsewhere, dressed up for Eric, bought wine and cheese and flowers, picked out music, restraightened the living room, as if it were a date, a special night, assuming all the while: of course, I won’t do anything.

  And then she made him kiss her. She couldn’t stop herself, didn’t even think about the risk that he might not, and thus expose her desire to ridicule.

  Only when Eric fell off the couch, frightened by the mere sound of children—she hadn’t heard the noise that startled him, at least not consciously, although she knew why he broke off contact—only when Eric fell off the couch and was so scared that he became hysterical, only then did Diane pause and think.

  When the boys discovered Eric on the rug, they were delighted by his collapsed position. Luke jumped all over Eric with a familiar joy, shouting references to games they must play every night, Byron stood and watched for a moment, amazed by the giant daddy toddler. Peter never lowered himself. Eric played like a kid, diminished in both size and dignity, a huge child shouting back phrases from He-Man, pretending right along with his son, falling over when a little fist bounced harmlessly off his massive chest—she had one fantasy with Eric’s chest hairless, another in which she pressed her lips against a soft mossy bed—and he growled fiercely when he counterattacked. Byron hung back, not shy, but baffled, until Eric suddenly grabbed him also—

  Byron’s face spread open into a wide smile and he tried to play along. However, Byron’s punches were in earnest. Diane knew she should scold Byron, but she was fascinated into silence. She watched Eric take the blows politely at first, his face showing confusion, and waited to see how he would deal with it.

  “Hey.” Eric grabbed Byron’s hand, after he had taken two socks on the chin. “We’re just pretending to hit. You don’t actually do it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Byron. You don’t actually—” Luke showed him, swinging hard and then stopping his little fist just an inch before meeting Eric’s body. “You know what I mean. You just pretend.”

  “This is what you do,” Eric said. “You let Luke distract me and then you jump on me from behind.”

  “Okay,” Byron said agreeably, and that worked. Byron followed orders and the three of them ended up in a heap, the boys triumphant, Lilliputians climbing atop the giant prone body, cheering themselves and proclaiming victory over evil.

  Only the arrival of the pizza saved Eric from endless defeats.

  This is the kind of man I want, Diane realized. I’m not horny. I’m married to the wrong person.

  In all the confusion, Byron’s birth, Peter’s emotional withdrawal from the marriage, her resignation from the job, her rages, that simple answer had never occurred to her. That she had a bad marriage, yes. That Peter probably didn’t love her, yes. That she might not love him anymore, yes. But all those thoughts, and the thousands of others they spawned, were part of a jungle—wet vines and laden ferns obscuring her view of the horizon: I married the wrong man. I wanted someone to be with, someone simple and ordinary like Eric, someone to handle at least half of life. Then I could work. I need a man. A partner. A husband.

  I don’t want to sleep with him, I want to substitute him for Peter.

  Then they were alone again, Eric spoke quickly, guilty and embarrassed. “I’m sorry about—you know—”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I guess I’m a little nuts these days.”

  He’s going to back down. That bothered her. Even though she no longer wanted to go on, his doing it first was irritating. “I wanted you to,” Diane said.

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” He knows that. Why is he pretending he doesn’t?

  “But we couldn’t. How? And—” He looked the point, his eyes going toward the sounds of their sons playing in the other room.

  “We can do anything we want,” Diane answered, unwilling to let him get away that easily, with the excuse of practicality. Why didn’t he admit he was a coward? Or at least claim decency.

  Eric sighed. “I just can’t handle it. That’s all. I’m barely hanging on right now. Anything else and I’d sink.” He pointed straight down. “Boom!” He looked at where he had crashed his imagined self, shaking his head over the phantom corpse. “I want to,” he said softly. A little bit like Luke, head down, desire spoken to the floor.

  “Anytime, I’m here all day, every week. I can always get away.” Why not? At least I’ll make love. Anyway, he won’t do it.

  Eric raised his head and stared. “Okay,” he said.

  “PETER! PETER!” his mother called him. Gail’s angled head popped up between the hairdos, her face briefly covered by passing gowns and elegant suits, then exposed just as briefly. She sought Peter in the confusion, pressing flat her already ironed hair with nervous exasperation.

  Opening night at the ballet. Peter had forgotten how archaic it seemed, an evening of privilege, of meaningless beauty, attended by a weird marriage of the wealthy and the artistically obsessed. A charming or pathetic scene, depending on one’s mood. Some were openly watching the celebrities, leaning over the balcony above, or standing on their level, but away, at the perimeter, all eyes on the center vortex, rich patrons waltzing about the stars.

  “Here you are,” Gail said when Peter reached her. “This is my great friend Ann. And her daughter Juliet—”

  “The cellist,” Peter acknowledged, and shook hands with
a tall, very shy girl of eighteen. She was a prodigy, an actual success, a proof of early music education.

  “Peter’s boy, he’s only three, is studying the violin.”

  “Suzuki?” Juliet said. To Peter’s surprise, she seemed to blossom at the introduction of this subject. She straightened her shoulders, held her head up. She had a pasty face and thin lips, but her big, solemn eyes, beneath a high brow that wrinkled and smoothed itself expressively as she talked made her interesting, if not beautiful. “How does he like it?”

  Peter thought: being a parent means condensing the truth into a lie. “He doesn’t like the work of it. But he loves it when he can do it.”

  She nodded and smiled to herself. “Yeah, I know how he feels.”

  “Now, now, no complaints,” her mother said. “It was worth it.”

  Gail rattled off Juliet’s accomplishments, although she had told Peter about them before. Juliet listened to herself being discussed without self-consciousness or vanity. She was used to it. More people joined them, more arts funders, people whom Peter felt he had known from the moment of his birth, people who nodded at him as if he were a boring landmark. I could be stark naked and they wouldn’t notice, he thought. The crowd began to move back in, and in the flow, Peter found himself standing next to Juliet. She smiled up at him, a slow, wise, mournful smile.

  “Can I ask you a dumb question?” Peter said on an impulse.

  She smiled at that too, as if all she had ever been asked were dumb questions. “Sure.”

  “I know your mother started you early—”

  “Five. Your son’s got me beat.”

  “—but when did you decide you wanted to be a musician?”

  “This way, dear!” her mother called, and tugged her into a different tributary from Peter’s.

  Juliet looked back at him, very serious, wanting to tell him: “I never did.” And she was carried off, like a piece of paper riding a current, looking back at him, her eyes still answering.