If there’s something wrong with my genes, then Byron will get it too.
The internist arrived. He was genial but brief. They had put in a porcine valve; the operation was a success. Lily would be in the hospital for two to three weeks, probably the latter because she wasn’t in good condition.
Diane walked to her car and thought: I can’t stay here for three weeks. But who could take her place? Where was Daddy? Where were her sisters? Her brothers? The whole world had a family. Peter had two sets of parents, stepbrothers, stepsisters, aunts, uncles.
She thought she was okay.
But behind the wheel she couldn’t find the ignition. She pushed the key at the black plastic, but there were no holes, no entries.
I have no family. No one to help me. No one to drive me home.
Her eyes filled with tears. Painful tears. And no one could hug them away.
“I don’t have anyone to help me,” she said to the windshield. “Mommy, please help me,” she said, blubbering to the hot silent car.
I AM so fast! Watch me run!
The street shone up at him. Bounced.
“Whoa!” said someone’s body. Byron twisted sideways and squeezed through the slow grown-ups.
Boring grown-ups. I am so fast! Watch me run!
There were people everywhere. There were books and magazines on the sidewalk, lying flat, watching the sky. There was an ice-cream truck.
“Francy! Francy! Can I have ice cream?”
“You ain’t had any lunch. Later.”
I am so fast! Watch me run!
In the park, there were dogs. Big black dogs. Little silly dogs. There were skateboards. Where’s Luke?
“You looking for Luke?” It was Pearl. She doesn’t like me anymore.
“Yeah! Yeah!”
“He’s playing with David in the sandbox.”
David. He’s that big boy.
I am so fast. Whoosh! “Hey, Luke! Wanna race?”
Luke’s face was round; his eyes glowed. He looked at Byron as if he didn’t know him. He’s so slow. Not like me. I am so fast!
“Luke! Luke! Wanna race!” I’ll win.
“Ugh!” Luke acted funny. “I’m building!” he said.
“Yeah,” that big boy David said. “We’re making a space station.”
Luke and David stood over a tall sand building. They had a pail of water. Luke poured a little over the sand. It changed colors! Got dark and solid. Luke made it into a long shape and put it on their sand building. It stayed up!
“I wanna do that!” Byron moved in front of Luke and reached for the pail.
“Byron!”
David pulled the pail away. Some of it spilled.
“You spilled!” Byron told him. He was bad. Obviously, he was bad.
“You can’t play. We don’t have enough for you.”
“I don’t want to.” Byron took Luke’s arm. “Come on, Luke. Let’s race.”
Luke sat down! His legs disappeared. He fell onto his tushy. “No,” he said. He stared up at Byron. His eyes glowed.
“He’s making the space station with me,” David said. “You can watch.”
“Luke, you have to race with me.” Byron had to make sure Luke understood. He was bad sometimes, didn’t do what he was supposed to.
“I don’t want to race!” Luke shouted. “You hear me! I don’t want to race!”
“I’ll go slow, so you can catch up.” I am so fast!
“No,” Luke said.
“Here.” David gave Luke the pail. “We need more antennas.”
“Oh, right.” Luke poured a little of the water.
“You’re not doing it right,” Byron said. Luke poured too slowly.
But Luke didn’t stop. He made his little towers. Dark and solid they were, but Luke could shape them anyway and they stayed on the sand building.
“Here,” Byron said, and reached for one of them. “This will make it better.”
“No!” Luke grabbed Byron’s hand. “This is mine, Byron! Go make your own.”
I’m too strong. He can’t hold me.
Byron, the fast, fast strong man, pulled to get his hand free. Luke didn’t let go. “Let go!”
“Don’t touch my antennas!” Luke said, and squeezed Byron’s arm. “Okay? I’ll let you go now, Byron, but don’t touch my antennas.”
Pull. Pull.
He couldn’t get free. He didn’t understand. He was so much stronger than Luke. Why couldn’t he get free?
“Byron,” Luke said. “Are you going to leave my antennas alone?”
“They’re stupid. I don’t want to touch them!”
Luke let go. Byron could still feel Luke’s fingers, although they were gone. They still squeezed.
I’m not strong today. Didn’t have my lunch. Have to eat to be a big, strong boy.
“Come on, Luke. Let’s race now.”
Luke didn’t hear.
“Luke! Pay attention! Let’s race now!”
Luke heard. Finally. He moved close to Byron. He put his face right up against his. He could feel the warm tip of Luke’s nose. Byron was so glad. Luke’s mouth opened.
“NO!”
It hurt so much. The hot, ugly air of Luke. Byron fell down, blasted down. Luke loomed over him, dark against the bright sun. Luke’s blue eyes glowed—angry cat, ugly cat.
“I said no, Byron! How many times do I have to tell you? No! No! No!”
17
BESIDE ERIC’S Quotron, lying atop his in box, was the sheet of all positions in Tom’s account. In three weeks, the next quarterly report would be sent to Boston. If Eric couldn’t make a dramatic improvement by then, the quarterly statement would show a 12 percent decline in the value of Tom’s portfolio. Should Tom buy a Wall Street Journal, or a Barron’s, or any other financial publication, he could easily see that the Dow Jones industrial average was up more man 8 percent during this same period. The S&P 500 had done even better, up 11 percent. And if Joe decided to complete his betrayal, he might send Tom a statement of Joe’s performance: up 20 percent. Joe might not even need to inform Tom himself: the Boston Beans, having switched management, might insinuate the facts of Joe’s success casually into a country-club conversation with Tom.
Of course, Eric was behind Joe’s and the major average’ gains for only the past nine months. A sensible man, with a normal amount of courage, would give Eric more time. After all, Eric had been successful for three years; the money he had lost for Tom over the past nine months was money Tom didn’t have three years ago. But Eric knew Tom wasn’t a sensible man. Tom had allowed an old Wasp investment firm to mismanage him for twenty-five years without a complaint, and yet Tom had complained to Eric after only nine losing months.
“Shouldn’t we get out of some of these small companies?” Tom asked when he and Joan had visited New York two months ago. He said “small companies” with his head tilted, mouth in a sneer, as if small companies were ugly, distasteful things, grubby little delis run by fat, greasy Jews.
Tom’s last words were: “I might have to withdraw some money by the end of the year. I’m considering a real-estate deal out West. I’ll let you know ahead of time, of course. I may not. I have to study the situation.” A warning? A politely worded introduction to the final bad news? A last chance?
Ask yourself, Eric said in the shower, ask yourself: What is the difference between me and Tom’s former incompetent money managers? They were old boys, good goyim; I’m a high-school-graduate Jew.
Ask yourself, Eric said to the black gutters, as he rode his bike between the glacial walls of the tall trucks: would Tom question me over a bad nine months if I knew how to wear peacock-colored clothes and could sail a boat?
Ask yourself, Eric said to his morning coffee, staring at the sheet: would Tom keep one of his own on such a short leash?
Then why pick Joe for a replacement? Eric didn’t believe the real estate story. Tom would give his money to Joe.
There he sat, that old owl, each day looking more an
d more like a rabbi. Joe and Sammy whispered to each other all the time now. There were no more dinners with Joe’s contacts; there was no more talk of tapping Eric as Joe’s successor. Joe smelled blood; he thought he could wrest Tom away and leave the whole operation to Sammy. Of course, they’d keep Eric on, the house whipping boy, the dutiful number two.
Leave, Nina advised. Tom will stick with you, clients will go with you, you’ll make money for them, you’ll be on your own, you’ll be happy.
She didn’t understand the danger.
Neither did Joe. Tom would eventually leave Joe also. The old fool doesn’t realize that.
Maybe Tom wouldn’t, maybe he’d stay with Joe. Maybe it’s something about me.
Eric wasn’t a good salesman. That’s what his mother said of his father’s failure: your daddy wasn’t a good salesman. When Eric explicated his investment philosophy for clients, he was nervous: he spoke rapidly; he admitted he might be wrong; he didn’t possess Joe’s pompous air of wisdom and sagacity. Joe’s manners were bullshit, of course. But it was bullshit that reassured the customers.
Maybe anti-Semitism is an excuse.
Maybe I’m just a loser.
Eric tasted metal in the hollow of his tongue, tasted the sour fear of a lifetime in a single swallow.
He couldn’t stand this indecision, this waiting.
“Market’s open,” Sammy said. The red numbers began their undulation across the ticker.
Eric picked up the phone, their direct line to Joe’s two-dollar floor broker.
“What are you doing?” Sammy asked.
Fuck you. Eric stared ahead. “Billy?”
“Hey, Eric. Got something for me?”
For months now, Eric had absorbed the white noise of market opinion, thousands of pages of it, hours and hours of statistics and interpretation. The market was at an all-time high. He was going to sell it. The overwhelming majority of traders were bullish. In history, great fortunes on the Street were made by going against the crowd, exiting against the mob rushing in, or entering while they ran out, shouldering through the babbling herd with no apologies to ease the way.
“I’m gonna sell the market, Billy. In the Winningham account, I want to clear out all positions. I’ll give them to you—”
“Eric!” Sammy tapped him on the shoulder. “Eric!”
Eric went ahead with the recital of Tom’s positions, ignoring Sammy.
Sammy rolled his chair over, bumping Eric’s. “Eric, have you lost your fucking mind? You can’t go to cash in this market. Tom can invest in cash by walking to the fucking bank. He doesn’t need us to earn six percent.”
There was heat in Eric’s body, terrible heat. It flashed through him; he put his face at Sammy’s pale ferret face. “You shut your fucking mouth! I don’t want to hear a goddamned word out of you! Shut your fucking mouth!”
“Eric?” Billy called out plaintively through the phone. “Eric? Is that you?”
The room clicked and whirred into action. Sammy moved; the secretaries looked over; Joe pushed his chair away from his monitor. Eric shielded his eyes, stared down at the list he had made weeks ago, and talked to the phone, only to the phone. He finished reading off Tom’s stocks. “Okay? That’s the exchange. I’ll handle OTC. Now, when you’re done getting out, I want you to go short these Dow stocks in thousand lots: IBM, GM, International Paper—”
“Eric!” This was Joe now. “Eric, I’m long those stocks. They’re very strong.”
Eric continued the recital of his list—
“Use the options! Or the futures! If you want to hedge, that’s the right vehicle!” Joe’s voice sounded nearby.
Eric glanced up. Joe had left his chair.
I got the old bastard off his perch.
Joe’s hand landed on Eric’s shoulder. “Listen to me. This is not the way to be short.”
Eric stared ahead, down at the sheet with the short list, scrawled in his hand one late night months ago when he had dreamed of this, of a decisive triumph—
“Good evening, our guest tonight on Wall Street Week is Eric Gold, chief investment officer of Washington Heights Management, his own firm. Mr. Gold went short the stock market at its all-time high two years ago. We’ll find out tonight—”
“Eric,” Joe whispered in his ear. “I’m asking you to delay for an hour. Let’s have a talk in my office first. I’m sure we can work out a mutual strategy—”
“Hold it, Eric,” Billy said on the phone in Eric’s other ear. “Let me close out the long positions first, then I’ll get the shorts.”
“Okay. Get back to me.” Eric pushed away from his desk, bumped into Sammy’s chair, and got free of Joe’s hand. “It’s done,” he lied. It wouldn’t be done until Billy called back. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“It’s inappropriate for you to be short stocks that I’m long.”
“Then get out of your stocks.”
“Eric,” Joe said, and put his hand out again, gesturing to his private office. His voice was low, seductive. “We need to talk.”
If I go in there, he’ll manipulate me out of it. I don’t have the strength to fight him.
“Forget it. What’s done is done. I’m going for a walk.” He rushed out, ran from Joe’s plea—“Eric!”—and from Sammy’s insult—“You’re an asshole!”
“Tell us, Mr. Gold,” they will ask me. “Tell us, Mr. Gold,” they will honor me. “What was it like to go against the crowd? When everyone was sure, when no one had the courage, how did you feel?”
I am strong. I stand alone. I am strong. Nothing was given to me in this world; my father let me go into the world without weapons, with nothing to make me equal to the rest. I stand alone now—Eric Gold, the Wizard of Wall Street, brave and lonely and brilliant.
DIANE DECIDED to stay in Philadelphia with her mother throughout the recuperation. She believed that Lily’s health and her own life were inextricable. She offered to take Byron down to Philadelphia during the nursing of Lily, but to her surprise, Peter said no.
“He’s started at nursery school, we have the IQ test next week. He can’t miss them. We’ll visit on the weekends.”
Peter’s self-assurance amazed her. And she felt relieved not to have to put on a show for Byron. Whenever Diane was away from Lily’s sight, she had a tendency to burst into tears. It infuriated her because she didn’t feel like crying. There was no gentle lull of self-pity beneath the weeping. It happened at the images: Lily broken on the wheel of modern medicine; the angry stitching down her chest, a zipper branded on her skin; Lily’s pale, dead face; her eyes, weak and scared, pleading for everything to be all right. Diane hated the reversal of nature: her mother, the great force she had resisted, surrendered to, run from, railed against, prayed to, was a scared kid now, utterly at Diane’s mercy. There were no more criticisms of Diane’s dress, or Diane’s values, or Diane’s eating habits, or Diane’s marriage, or anything else—just gratitude, and a pathetic conviction that Diane’s reassurances were guarantees.
Lily’s doctors told Diane they didn’t want to discuss Lily’s condition unless Diane was present. Without Diane, there were hysterics, accusations, and misunderstandings. The doctors talked to Diane while Lily listened. She lay smashed on the bed, an oxygen mask over her month, her eyes on Diane, trusting when Diane approved, nervous when Diane, by asking further questions, seemed not to be satisfied.
“She’s doing well,” the internist would say.
“You’re doing well,” Diane would say to Lily as if the doctor had spoken in a language unknown to Lily.
Lily would nod at Diane with a ridiculous and sad faith.
Back at her mother’s kitchen table, Diane cried every time she thought of Lily.
And Diane hated herself for her tears, hated the discovery that she needed her mother’s madness, her mother’s irritations, her mother’s crummy values. They were gravity; without them, Diane clutched at the spinning earth, holding on by her fingernails. She had to save this woman, she cou
ldn’t let her go. It meant nothing to Diane, made no sense, that of course, someday Lily must die. It was gibberish. Lily was the world, the never-satisfied world, and she could not die.
Every day Diane woke up with iron in her belly—long, hot rods stuck through her stomach. She had to press in with her fingers to break them; they cracked and she’d belch their metal out.
But new rods were stuck through Diane the minute she relented; they reappeared instantly, burning and sizzling inside her. Only when Diane got into her mother’s car, a decrepit and wheezing vehicle, to drive to the hospital did the metal in her stomach dissolve and leave her free to feel happiness. She loved driving. It reminded her of the last two years of high school and her college days. She bought a dozen tape cassettes of sixties music and played them loud. They filled the vacuum of the car with memories and exploded her present, sent her back to the happy past: young and intense, full of energy and hope. No death, no failure, no compromise.
But the drive was short. In the parking lot, Diane was overwhelmed with guilt that she had had such a good time in the car. She sang back to the music, laughed at the snapshots of her past—lovers, arguments, ancient happiness.
Your mother is very ill, she scolded. Today the drive seemed to end even more quickly, the joy of it over so fast. Diane darkened her face as she stepped into the hospital, ready to heap mounds of phony confidence over her terror and hopelessness about Lily’s condition. She had hours of vigil ahead, sitting beside her split-open mother. Lily, exhausted and on painkillers, would sleep on and off, always clutching Diane’s hand, as if it had life to spare. The linen, the hospital noises, Lily’s fear never changed. It was boring. Very scary and very boring.
Diane tried to remember New York. Her real life, she would have said a few weeks ago. But Peter and Byron, their apartment, her old job, her friends—they had no tidal force to draw her to them. It seemed life had always been this way: Lily and Diane, fighting nature.
Peter and Byron didn’t need Diane, anyway. According to Peter, this time Byron had taken the IQ test without any problem. He had gone to the prenursery school with typical enthusiasm and come home babbling about the activities.
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