Only Children

by Rafael Yglesias

  Lily had come up with these inappropriate statements every few minutes since Diane had arrived in Philadelphia. She was obviously terrified, but she kept up a pretense, not a convincing one, that she was only bothered by the inconvenience and fuss.

  Lily maintained this fiction, except for the night Diane arrived.

  “They told me everything would be fine with your daddy,” Lily had said that night, her hands nervously rubbing the knot in her robe’s belt. The translucent skin, stretched across her bony knuckles, looked tired, as if it might peel off. When did that happen to her hands? “They said your daddy would recover from the heart attack if he watched his diet—and then the next morning he’s dead. So I don’t believe them. Not that they’re lying. They don’t know what they’re doing. And the worst thing is they think they know.”

  Diane explained to Lily that fifteen years had gone by since then, that medicine had learned and developed a great deal in heart treatment. “It’s the most successful area of medicine there is,” Diane said.

  “You’re smart,” Lily said. Her chin buckled under her upper lip. “You’re my smart girl,” she repeated.

  Diane felt her heart expand, warm against all the years of silence, hot and red, glowing against the ice age that had formed between them. Diane took the bony fingers, cold with fright, in her palm. “Don’t worry, Ma. They do know what they’re doing.”

  “If they make me into a horror,” Lily said, “just shoot me. I don’t want to lie someplace, drooling all over myself.” Lily laughed, a ghastly hysterical laugh, at this thought. “That’s all I need—to end up wearing diapers with some schwartzer to change them.”

  “Will you please not call them that, Ma?”

  Lily took offense. Loudly proclaimed she wasn’t a racist. Her proof: she paid her girl (a black woman of sixty) a dollar more an hour than the going rate for housecleaning.

  My mother is dumb. How is that possible? Was Daddy so brilliant? He owned and managed three record stores and made a good living, but he was hardly Einstein. Where did I get my SAT scores from? There must be some intelligence in this woman; there had to be gold buried beneath the layers of conventional attitudes and dull gossip.

  Maybe not. I was probably kidnapped from a roving band of intellectuals, hijacked away from a life of the mind and forced to live in the suburbs of Philadelphia.

  Diane called home while waiting for Lily to emerge from the catheterization. She had read in the release disclaimer there was a 1 percent chance that insertion of the catheter would provoke a heart attack. The document was pretty good legally, but nothing could protect the hospital from a clever lawyer.

  “I’m a lawyer,” Diane had heard herself saying to Dr. Klein, just as stupidly as Lily had. Even dumber, Diane had lied, saying, “I’m an associate at Wilson, Pickering.” She had been so intent on scaring the doctor with this fact that she had forgotten to say her tentative farewell to Lily, her just-in-case good-bye. “Don’t worry, Ma,” she had planned to say. “I love you.”

  After the doctor left, Diane had another opportunity, but Lily distracted her, throwing a temper tantrum about her legs being uncovered because her gown was too short. “I’m a small woman!” she began to shout. “This must be for a child!”

  “It doesn’t make any difference, Ma,” were the last words Diane had spoken to her mother before she went in. “You’re not going to a bar mitzvah. Don’t worry about your outfit.”

  That farewell was a far cry from “I love you, Ma!” She’s going to be all right, so it doesn’t matter. Diane reached Francine at home. Byron was out again with Peter. Diane’s absence seemed to be a blessing. Peter had taken off three days in a row, treating Byron to a movie, the circus, and now, although it sounded unlikely, according to Francine, to a play.

  Diane sighed and stared out the waiting-room window at the hospital’s half-empty parking lot. A drizzle had begun. There was nothing to see but the cars, put in slots like empty shoes in a closet, longing for use. Diane had enjoyed that nighttime drive down from New York. Alone, urgent, scared, music playing out of the darkened hollow beneath her, the dashboard lights glowing like cat’s eyes.

  If she dies, I’ll get in the car and disappear. Drive and drive and drive. If she dies, I’m an orphan. And orphans wander. Alone.

  NINA WANDERED the aisles of the drugstore until she found the laxatives. She hadn’t needed them in years; the worst of her constipation had ended in college when she began to drink coffee.

  Maybe I should start Luke’s day with three cups of espresso, she thought.

  Tad had asked her to work for him on next year’s line. He suggested she drop her courses at FIT and work full-time.

  “You’re not one of these children,” Tad had said. “You don’t need this. Work for me for a few years and they’ll all be going to you behind my back and offering you the world.”

  She almost believed him. She said yes, she would drop her courses and become his assistant, my number two, as Tad called it. But she hadn’t told Eric the news. That was wrong. But she needed at least a few days to think up her explanation of why taking the job was so important. She knew it was, but she couldn’t explain why.

  There were lots of new twists to the laxatives, so-called natural laxatives, but when Nina studied their labels, they all had chemicals of one sort or another and cautioned that regular use might lead to dependence. Eric wouldn’t accept that for his son. Although Luke was getting the shit out, his body wasn’t making it easy. She called the behavioral psychologist and he said, “Well, as long as he’s trying and doing it, you can continue the mineral oil to make it easier.”

  But Eric had said no to that. “He’ll be on it for the rest of his life,” Eric said.

  The Perfectibility of Man. But Eric was right. Luke was happier, freer, his spirit blossoming. He played for hours now, no longer comatose on the couch, staring at television. He concentrated on his pretend games, learned the alphabet merely by osmosis, used the slide fearlessly, let go of her and Eric in the mornings with assurance—Luke was tougher, more decisive, surer of himself.

  She found something new. Fiber biscuits. She read the package carefully. All natural ingredients. Can be used as a daily supplement without a risk of dependence.

  Don’t be dependent. Don’t need anyone. Dress yourself, fight your own battles, carry your sword into the world and conquer it. There’s love at home, but there’s happiness outside.

  She showed the biscuits to Eric. He read the box three times. “It doesn’t seem to have chemicals or anything bad,” he admitted, but with suspicion. “What do we do? Have him eat one a night?”

  “Why not? It’s just bran, that’s all. He can have it before he goes to bed, right after pooping.” Luke now made a regular trip to the toilet with Eric right before his bedtime stories.

  It was all so absurd, so laughable. But it wasn’t, not really, she knew it wasn’t.

  Over dinner, she tried to tell Eric about Tad’s offer, but she couldn’t let go, sever herself from being Eric’s wife, always convenient, always willing to make things easy.

  What do I say if Eric says, no, I need you to be here, I’m under a lot of pressure?

  Eric is under a lot of pressure. His face seemed to be pulled so tight that he couldn’t loosen enough to smile. He sat at dinner, staring into space, not hearing Luke’s happy monologues: “You know something? It’s not so good to build something very tall, because they fall down. Unless you make a bottom—”

  “Foundation,” Nina said. “A foundation is what goes on the bottom and holds up the building.”

  “Yeah! A foundation. You have to make a big foundation or something tall will fall down.”

  Eric stared off. His eyes were big and absent. Their brown color usually had depth, allowing light to penetrate into his soul; these days they were clouded, a muddy pond, no reflection, no transparency, just swirling, stormy dark.

  “Are you with us?” Nina asked softly, touching Eric’s hand.

  �
�Has your mother called you lately?” he asked, quickly, as if an answer were urgent.

  “No. I have to call her. I haven’t—why?”

  “Nothing.”

  He was like a baby. Eric said, “Nothing,” just the way a petulant child does, a concealment so inept it might as well be a confession.

  “Sounds like it’s something,” Luke said, his broad mouth smiling, his blue eyes shining love at his father.

  Eric answered Luke with a confused look, as if he didn’t recognize him. “It does?”

  “Yeah,” Luke said. “Are you winning these days, Daddy?”

  When Luke was two, he had asked Eric what he did at work. He had been told that buying and selling stock was like a game, that you won points or lost points each day. For a while, Luke would ask, “Did you win today, Daddy?” Lately, he hadn’t.

  “No,” Eric said, but he looked at Nina. “I’m not winning.”

  “Well”—Luke put out his hand, palm up, and shrugged his shoulders, an imitation of Eric’s cool manner about the pooping—“you’ll have to try harder.”

  “I’m trying as hard as I can,” Eric said. Nina couldn’t tell if he understood the irony of this conversation.

  “You can do it, Daddy. Maybe you need to do more of your reading things. After dinner, I could watch some cartoons and you could do your reading.”

  Eric smiled a heartbroken smile. Something is terribly wrong, Nina admitted to herself. He must be losing a lot. He’s scared. “Okay,” he croaked in answer to Luke.

  “That’ll help you, won’t it, Daddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “See?” Luke said with another broad smile to Nina. “I can help Daddy do his work.”

  “That’s good,” she answered Luke, and leaned across the table to kiss his sweet skin. Her beautiful boy was good, so good and so beautiful that he could get his father to talk. So good and so beautiful that it hurt to think of it.

  “WHO’S HE, DADDY?” Byron’s voice trumpeted out of the enforced silence of the audience toward the legal noise of the stage.

  “Shhh,” Peter whispered. “Remember, it’s not television. Everyone can hear you.”

  “Okay, okay,” Byron answered in his whisper, dramatic and high-pitched. Byron dug his nails into Peter’s arm. “But who is he?”

  Peter explained that the man was the hero, but he looked different because time had passed and he was grown up.

  “Oh,” Byron said, and his mouth stayed open, slack, astounded by the lights, the sounds, the restless movement of the actors. Peter watched their actions play on his son’s face, their sounds animate his short legs, dangling over the cliff of his center aisle seat. When they’d gone to their seats, Peter and his three-year-old son had gotten incredulous, scandalized looks at their appearance on the fifth-row center of a Friday-night performance on Broadway.

  “You’re bringing a child to this?” one rude woman had the temerity to say to Peter.

  Peter stared at her. He’ll probably get more out of it than you will, he wanted to answer. He promised himself he would—the next time. Of course, he never expected Byron to last even for the first act, but what did that matter? He could get house seats and charge them to the foundation anytime—this was his one accomplishment on earth. Why shouldn’t he lavish it on Byron? So what if it was Nicholas Nickleby? So what? This was a once-in-a-lifetime feast and Byron would have had at least a bite of the hors d’oeuvres.

  Peter had to talk constantly, explicating everything. Byron held on to him, as if he were blind and needed Peter to keep him from stumbling. Byron was thrilled. Peter couldn’t believe it. He had expected impatient Byron, self-indulgent Byron, center-of-attention Byron to demand they leave after ten minutes. Peter would have thought that a success. But they were more than an hour in, and yet Byron, his eyes tired, fighting to stay awake, was still taking it in, his little body reverberating with every sound, thrilled—

  Just like me, Peter thought.

  Finally the little head, stuffed with sensation, nodded from the weight. Byron nestled into the cushioned chair like a cat and fell asleep. Peter waited for a well-lit scene to gather Byron in his arms and walk up the aisle. The spectacle—Byron snuggled against his chest—managed to distract the audience, draw smiles, silent exclamations, and pointed fingers.

  For one brief moment, Peter had upstaged Broadway.

  The car he had hired was ready for them. Byron’s eyes opened when Peter had to adjust his grip to get Byron in the car.

  “Daddy?” he called.

  “Yes, darling,” Peter heard himself say in a soft, loving voice.

  Is that me?

  “Home, Daddy?”

  “Yes, honey, we’re going home. Close your eyes.”

  It was quiet and dark in the car, making the city’s animation and brilliance into a silent film. Byron was warm and trusting in Peter’s lap. Peter could feel Byron’s contentment, tangible, aglow in the dark.

  He would rather be out with me, uncomfortable, his mind called upon to absorb the difficult, than be at home without me, patronized by some sitter—it’s being with me that makes him happy.

  Peter was crying. He noticed that with surprise. A tear hung at the bone of his jaw and then fell, splashed onto Byron’s sandy hair.

  “I’m sleeping, Daddy,” Byron said, his eyes closed, but with a smile. He pressed his face into the crook of Peter’s arm.

  “Good,” Peter said. He had considered arranging for a sitter to come and pick up Byron at the theater and then stay himself to see Nickleby again, but he had changed his mind at the last minute, and now he was glad.

  Peter carried Byron into the lobby. Two old women, irritable, gossipy crones, peered at his package. One said, “Oh, he’s sleeping.”

  “Happy in Daddy’s arms,” said the other.

  They weren’t so bad. At least they understood the magic of children. Upstairs, he tried to pull Byron’s clothes off, but the attempt provoked groans and Peter finally put him in the bed still dressed.

  Remember to have him pee before he goes to bed, Diane had told Peter, or they’ll be soaked in the morning.

  Let him pee, Peter decided, and draped the covers over Byron. Let him ruin all the sheets in Christendom.

  Peter felt solid back in his study, sipping a cognac. He tried to think of other shows, other plans. Maybe they could walk in on a couple of matinees, sneak Byron into a rehearsal or run-through here and there. In a few years there were theatrical camps. His mother had once mentioned something about public library events, readings or something.

  Larry. He tried to summon Larry’s face. What did Larry look like? Kotkin had asked at their last session when Peter mentioned that he had become curious about Larry now. He felt an urge to see him, confront him.

  Peter took out the telephone book and looked for a residential number for Larry. He didn’t find one.

  What does he do? After all these years? Cruise the docks? Or is that scene dead now? Does he stop at touching? If I’d let him go on, would Larry have stopped at that?

  He should have had the sitter come. He felt restless. It was still early, only ten, and he was stuck at home with Byron. What was the point of that? Byron was asleep, for God’s sakes. I could have stayed at Nickleby, could have called Rachel. Haven’t seen her in a long time.

  He dialed Rachel’s number and got her machine. “Just Peter,” he said after the beep, and hung up.

  “Daddy!” Byron called at midnight. “Daddy, I peed in my bed!” he shouted, panic in his voice.

  What a disgusting mess. Byron’s underpants were glued by urine to his skin, the pants probably ruined from the extent of the saturation. And Byron wailed throughout as if he were the victim. No wonder it makes Diane crazy, Peter thought. But Diane had wanted him. She has no right to complain. Peter didn’t bother to change the sheets. He covered them with towels and put Byron back in.

  The phone rang. Rachel? At this hour?

  “Peter?” It was Diane. Cold Diane. “I guess you
never planned to call to find out whether my mother was alive or dead.”

  “What? I thought she was just having a test. I was waiting for you to call.” A lie. He simply didn’t think of her mother.

  “A dangerous test. She’s okay.” Diane’s voice relaxed a little bit. “She’s very sick. She needs open-heart surgery. She has to have an aortic heart valve replacement.”

  Peter urged himself to say something appropriate. “Oh, God,” came out. “Are you at the hospital?”

  “No. We’re back home. I’m hanging up—”

  “Wait—” Peter called. I can be better at this. Give me a chance.

  “I don’t want to talk right now. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  He sat at his desk for a long time. He tried to drink more cognac, but his glass was empty and he had no energy to get more. He grabbed the glass several times and drank air, tried to sip that last little drop, stuck at a small hollow in the bottom. He turned the snifter upside down, but the liquid didn’t surrender to gravity. It smeared everywhere, clinging to its container, and never got past the rim. He tried to arch his tongue inside, but it wasn’t long enough to reach that last precious bit of flavor. At last he put his finger in, punctured the dollop, and sucked off what he could. A brief pleasure—but tart and good.

  He called Larry’s office. It was two in the morning. No one answered.

  MOMMY SAID, “We’ll go to this place, where they teach children, and a woman will play with you for a while. I’ll be there the whole time.” Mister Rogers, Sesame Street, He-Man, they all talked about it—school. Sounds like a wind. Like running in the wind: school!

  Daddy was excited. “Have fun today,” he said.

  “I don’t understand,” he said to Mommy while they walked there. There was no sun today. The sky was like the cardboard in Daddy’s shirts. Gray. Flat and long and all gray. A sunny sky is different. There’s white in places, the clouds. And sometimes the blue is flat and it looks short, but sometimes the blue is deep and curved. Sometimes the sky is gray and blue and yellow and shiny and dull all at once. Not today. A flat gray cardboard sky. Is it going to rain?