Only Children

by Rafael Yglesias

  “Do you want me to tell Byron?” he asked later.

  “We have to tell him!” Diane had shouted.

  “I know. But do you want to—or me?”

  She cried at that. She saw Byron, sandy hair askew, run in the door—right now; there he was, arms out, belly forward, face stretched: “Grandma! Grandma!”

  Lily’s fat arms opened for him, hands greedy for him, at last a male she had made, on whom Lily could lavish all her vanity and indulgence. “I have a present for you,” Lily always said.

  “Where?” Byron cried out, squirming in her arms, in ecstasy.

  It was as though they had both died, not just Lily, but also the Byron that existed because of Lily.

  And Lily’s Diane—she too was dead. Diane was pretend, a gift for Lily: a strong young woman, independent, determined, and efficient. That Diane lived in Lily’s mind and, with its death, must also die.

  Later she walked into her mother’s room to look for clothes to bury Lily in and got stuck there weeping in front of the closet.

  Do it right, Diane. You weren’t there to help her die; at least bury her right.

  But she couldn’t stay in that house.

  Finally, she gave up the vigil, walked out of the house of her childhood, out to her dead mother’s car, put on the sixties music—music of love and betrayal, of idiotic hope, music without any notes for death—and drove away.

  Orphans wander. In Philadelphia she was an orphan.

  Diane decided to drive to New York.

  Mom died alone, she kept thinking.

  Diane looked through the skimming cars and could see Lily, desperate, writhing in the pool of light from her hospital reading lamp, could see Lily now, on the highway, reach for Diane as her heart contracted, wringing life out of her. “Diane! Help me!”

  Over and over, on the turnpike, car lights floating ahead— behind—hovering over the gray river, Diane could feel Lily’s horror: Where are you, Diane?

  Why wasn’t I there? To hold her through it, to say good-bye, to kiss her away …

  She pushed the car, pushed it up, faster and faster, away from the mistakes, from the pictures:

  Lily, hand frozen in terror, reaching for Diane:

  Lily, seated beside Byron, watching her grandson eat with the miracle of it reflected in her face; Lily in bloom, amazement at the presence of Byron’s life smoothing her jowls, easing her mouth into a smile: “Do you like it?”

  “Un-huh!” Byron nodded at his grandma. “I love it!”

  “He’s so delicious,” Lily had said that just yesterday when Diane told her Peter’s report of Byron’s happiness at the prenursery school.

  Diane and Lily smiled at each other, at their mutual triumph. They had made Byron together, a relay race across the years, two husbandless women; Byron was there in their hands to show the world that they had survived.

  Who’s going to listen to me brag now? Who’ll listen to the worst of me? Who’ll make me go on?

  How much longer to New York? Diane checked the clock, her mileage, tried to identify where she was on the turnpike. She had to get back to Peter and Byron.

  The Beatles sang it now on the stereo: “Get back. Get back to where you once belonged.”

  But I don’t want to be Peter’s wife; I don’t want his invention. I want my mother’s: the brilliant student, the tough lawyer, the Supermom. “You were the smartest girl in your class. The other mothers died with envy.”

  In Lily’s lonely triumphs, Diane was created. Diane had fought Lily hard as a teenager—and lost. Ended up just the way Lily had wanted: married to a rich man, worked at the right law firm, made the male Lily had craved.

  The car began to vibrate. Diane felt the rumble run from the front to the back, across the roof, and start again.

  I’m going too fast. Mom’s old car can’t take it

  But in the cave of night, on the gray river, she had to hurry back. Only another half hour at this speed and she would be back, back to Lily’s creation. She could go into Byron’s room and hold him. She could put her ear on his smooth back and listen.

  Listen to a young heartbeat.

  Fast. Strong. Brave.

  She forgot for a moment. She could feel Byron’s skin against her cheek and hear the thuds of his life. She forgot for a moment.

  The sound pulled back—a shot, air exploding. The gray river twisted away.…

  Don’t hit the brakes hard, you’ll skid. Turn into it, the tire’s blown—

  There was Byron—get home to him.

  I can handle this, the road is empty, this skid will—

  The gray river disappeared. Her head hit the ceiling. She knew she was off the road, bucking on the black grass. She knew the shadows ahead were trees—

  The seat belt. She had forgotten.

  There’s Byron—get home to him. How fast am I going? Why doesn’t it end? What a stupid way to die.

  The shadows came fast now. Dark and huge.

  Do something! There has to be something you can do.

  At the last second of this eternity, cursing herself, Diane twisted out of the seat and tried to leap back, back to the way she had come, back against the rush to nothing.

  ERIC GOLD, the Wizard of Wall Street, returned to his desk, ignored the sounds of the pygmies, and made his bold move. “Billy? Here’s the short list—”

  “Uh, Eric,” Billy stammered. “We’ve got a problem.”

  What problem? Weeks ago Eric had cleared the borrowing. He had been ready all his life for this triumph.

  Sammy’s hand came down on his phone. Eric stared at the fingers slashed across his phone, cutting him off. He thought: okay, Sammy, I’ll slam the phone on you and break your fingers.

  “Eric.” It was the owl. “I’ve told Billy not to accept any orders from you. I spoke to Tom Winningham half an hour ago. He’s removed your discretion and turned it over to me. I couldn’t do anything about your closing out the positions, I’ve explained that. Mr. Winningham was appalled that you sold him out of the market. I told him it would be a good opportunity to get him into some quality issues.”

  “It’s Billy,” said one of the secretaries.

  So this is why no one looked at me when I came in.

  “Tell Billy we’ll get back to him,” Joe said.

  Eric couldn’t look up. His eyes stayed on Sammy’s white fingers—cutting Eric off from the money.

  Joe said, “I begged you to discuss this in the office with me. I repeat my request. We’ve worked together for many years—let’s not end our association too hastily.”

  Joe was sure of his position. Eric couldn’t help himself from guessing what Joe might offer. Half the management fee? Nothing? Raise Eric’s salary while lowering his cut of the profits?

  Come on, Eric. You can’t go back. You can’t be the pleasant servant anymore. Joe is relying on your cowardice.

  “Sammy,” Eric said. “Move your fucking fingers or I’ll break them.”

  “Either come into the office now,” Joe said, “or get out.”

  Eric looked at Sammy. Sammy’s thin face, usually nervous, worried, harassed, seemed to be at peace. Sammy’s won, Eric realized. Sammy had recovered his father’s respect. For a weird moment, Eric was glad for Sammy.

  If only I had the courage to go, this would be a happy ending for everyone.

  “Sammy,” Eric repeated. “I’ll break your fingers.”

  “Who are you gonna call?” Sammy said softly. “Your father-in-law? He’s already made his decision. You can’t talk him out of it.”

  Leave, Nina had said. Leave and we’ll make it. Maybe she could call Tom, get him to change—but she won’t.

  He got up slowly. He felt himself grow. He was tall. Much taller than anyone in the room.

  I’m so big. I should be strong.

  His life was in this room. His dreams, no matter how comatose, still beeped a stubborn rhythm, still danced on the crazy red letters and numbers.

  Go.

  “Come int
o the office,” Joe said in a sweet, low chant. Joe got up from his chair and gestured inside.

  Sammy nodded at Eric. Go in, make a deal.

  Him too? He also wants me to stay. Why? Guilt? Or fear?

  Leave. You don’t need them, Nina had said.

  But she knew nothing about it. She didn’t know Eric’s weakness, she didn’t know his fear.

  I am so big. So much bigger than them. Why can’t I be strong?

  A THOUSAND-PIECE setting of China shattered. A hundred drawers of silverware crashed.

  Cover yourself. Close up.

  Diane was in the womb again. Legs tight, arms folded, eyes shut. She spun in the dark sea and prayed to be born.

  Let me live through this mistake. I’ll be good. I won’t make any more errors.

  The angry noise, with a final crash, stopped.

  She stayed covered, closed, and awaited judgment.

  There was no light. Her eyes saw nothing. The world was soft.

  Get out quickly. Death waits here for you.

  Out!

  The floor cut and crunched. There was a little opening, just a small way out. Squeeze through. I won’t fit. I’m too big. I can’t get out!

  Go quickly—death wants you. Get out!

  I’m alive. This is a car. I’m alive. This is the window. Get out! Mom’s car will explode.

  And she was out—rolling on the earth’s mattress, rolling on the unmade bed. But there was no light anywhere.

  You idiot—you’re blind now. You killed your eyesight. You stupid, stupid, careless girl. You killed—

  Open your eyes. You’ll see. Everything you want will be there; open your eyes and you will see the world you want.

  This is grass. That’s the sound of the car engine. Just open your eyes and you will live.

  She let go of fear. She opened her heart, stretched her legs, released the grip on her soul. The stars floated up to the ceiling, the blue-black dome of the world, white lights everywhere, jammed with life, crowded with cold confidence, millions of lights, endlessly signaling: we are here for you. We are with you.

  The goddamned car, that wreck, may blow up.

  She forced herself to her feet. Her legs didn’t have enough string in them. She fell forward, like a stupid infant.

  Obviously they’re broken. Probably you’re dead. You’re dying and you don’t know it. Your arrogance is a joke. To think you could survive that crash. Well, if you get yourself to a hospital, maybe there’s a chance. Better get your purse from the car to pay the bill.

  She walked again without remembering how.

  But where’s the car door? The wheels were in the way. Why did they put the wheels like that? In the way of the doors? What a stupid car.

  It’s upside down. My God, it’s upside down. Get away from it, it’ll blow up. Survive the crash and die for your purse.

  But they won’t take me without my Blue Cross card. They’ll let me die. Concussion probably. Maybe shock. Aren’t you supposed to sit down now? You’ll probably die because you’re walking.

  You’re very tired. Go back to bed. Have a different dream.

  I’m sorry, Ma. I thought I should be home with Peter and Byron. I’m sorry I love them. I could be happy. I could go to the stars and float, but I love them—I have to have a Blue Cross card so they’ll love me.

  Okay?

  “Are you all right?” a face said.

  I’ve never been right in my life. Maybe my purse was thrown from the car. See, if I didn’t need Peter and Byron, I wouldn’t have a purse.

  “Is there anyone else in the car?”

  “Purse.”

  “Sit down here. You don’t look God.”

  Of course not. No one is God. People make the world what it is: bright stars or unmade beds. People decide that even without their purse. Because they love. That’s why. They love and so they die.

  I’ve got to stop crying. This policeman won’t take me to the hospital if I’m crying.

  Big girls don’t cry because they lose their purse; they go to Saks and buy a new one.

  “No one’s in there. Here, just sit. What happened?”

  Don’t tell him. If you don’t tell him you made a mistake, he’ll never know. But please, please stop crying!

  “An ambulance is on the way. I’ll get a blanket from the car. Don’t move, okay? You got that? Don’t move.”

  I hear Byron. He’s coming. He peed in the bed again. Well, I’m staying asleep. Peter can deal with it.

  I’m not needed.

  Just go to sleep. In the morning, I’ll be different. I’ll go to Saks and get a new mother.

  “MAMA!” LUKE said. He jumped in front of her, arms out, grappling for her love, “Mama!”

  She took his long body—the feet banged against her hips—and hugged him. Luke still fit onto her body, a perfectly designed accessory. His head rested on her shoulder, his face into her neck.

  “Eric?” she called. She had worried; she had felt wrong all day.

  “I’m here,” he said from the living room. An admission, and not a happy one.

  She carried Luke with her. Eric sat on the couch, staring at a tape of He-Man playing on the television.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “It’s over,” he said. “They’re all against me. There’s nothing I can do.” He gestured at the television and laughed. “Market was down today, down fifty-three points. Tom would have made money. Fuck him.”

  “Eric!” She glanced at Luke to warn Eric about his language.

  “Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

  “What happened?”

  “Your father—Joe called your father while I was out. Your father fired me. Joe is generously offering to keep me on under the old terms.”

  “He what?” Luke said. He smiled as if Daddy must be making a joke. “Grandpa did what?”

  “It’s an expression,” Nina began.

  “Nothing, Luke,” Eric said harshly. “It’s nothing.”

  “Sounds like something,” Luke said. He kicked his legs. “Let me down.”

  “Okay,” Nina said. Luke’s body slid down her, fireman on a pole to the rescue.

  “How could Grandpa fire you?” Luke asked Eric. “What does that mean? You’re not on fire.”

  “We shouldn’t be talking about this,” Eric said to Nina.

  Not talking about it is how you get to be like Father, Nina thought. She was angry. She stood on a hill and saw the hurt and the rage from a distance, in the past and in the future—the dark, swirling cloud of her family rushing to blot out her patch of sunlight, to rain on her happy meadow. “To fire,” she said to Luke, “means to stop someone from doing a job you’ve asked them to do. Like, if you pay somebody to do something, and you don’t want them to go on doing it, and you tell them to stop—that’s firing them. It has nothing to do with putting them on fire.”

  Eric laughed. Not happily: he groaned. “Grandpa didn’t think I was making good bets with his money.”

  “Well …” Luke put his hand out, palm up. “Well … it’s his money, right?”

  “Actually, it was given to him by his grandfather,” Nina said. “But it’s Grandfather Tom’s now.”

  “I see!” Luke hopped on one foot. “It was given to him and now he’s supposed to give it to Daddy.”

  “We really shouldn’t be talking about this,” Eric said, but he smiled at Luke.

  “Why not?” Nina asked Eric. “Why not? You didn’t do anything wrong. So Joe called up and Tom just let him do—”

  “Yep,” Eric said.

  “Did you call Tom?”

  “No. I left the office without saying anything. Joe gave me a choice of staying on the old terms or leaving immediately. I didn’t answer him. I just left. I was a fool! I should have told your father first. I should have left a year ago when I was hot!” Eric lifted the cushions of the couch in his big hands. They came up as if they were small pillows and he flopped them down like an excited infant unable to control his motion
s.

  “I know!” Luke called out. He glanced from the tape of He-Man and to Nina, his attention divided. “If Grandpa Tom’s grandpa gave him the money, then Grandpa Tom should give me the money, right? I’m his grandson. Then Daddy can make the bets.”

  Made sense to Nina. Luke smiled at them, pleased with himself, convinced he had found the answer.

  “You left the office,” Nina said to Eric. “Where have you been all day?”

  “Daddy picked me up from school!” Luke said in a shout of joy.

  “We went to the park, we went to Forbidden Planet and got a toy. We had fun, right, Luke?”

  “Yep,” Luke said. “I got a new space toy.” Luke hooked her hand and gently tugged. “I’ll show you.”

  “Why don’t you bring it out here and we can keep talking to Daddy?”

  “Okay,” Luke said in his high trill of good cheer. He skipped out of the room.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Eric said. He didn’t look at her. He was ashamed.

  “I love you,” she said. But that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t enough for him.

  “I guess I have to stay. Can’t pay the bills otherwise. I’ll go in tomorrow and eat whatever I have to eat from Joe.”

  Maybe it’s for the best, Nina thought. She went over to Eric and kissed his hot and worried brow. Eric leaned his cheek on her hand and closed his eyes.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  He has us; he doesn’t need anything else.

  PETER’S FORTRESS of truth was under siege. They kept trying to break in, and tell him lies. But Peter was busy. He had to take Byron to Philadelphia for Lily’s funeral; he had to explain Lily’s death in advance.

  “You’d better tell him,” Diane had said. God, she sounded awful. Enervated, frantic, desperate, hopelessly lost, intensely focused on errands—as if her emotional keyboard had no chords, just atonal keys played by a chimp.

  Peter’s mother called. Peter hung up at her hello.

  Peter’s stepfather called. Peter hung up at his hello.

  Then Peter turned on the phone machine. He ignored Byron’s insistent interrogation: “Why didn’t you talk? We’re here. Why don’t you answer?”

  Peter shut off the phone machine speaker so he and Byron wouldn’t hear the pleas for him to pick up.