Only Children (26 page)

She rushed to get him, to capture his happiness in her. Byron grappled onto Diane, nuzzled his head in her neck, his little but insistent fingers touching, poking, patting, stroking. His delight in her presence was electric in his body.

She changed his soaked diaper, again accompanied by babbling, laughing excitement. Byron tried to roll this way to get the fresh diaper, then that way to grab the tube of ointment. He rolled his bottom up and made his legs accessible to his hands. He grabbed his toe and pulled it to his mouth. He burst into resonant giggles at the cool feel of the wet wipes. His brown eyes glistened at Diane’s, as though only they shared this profound joke: the hilarity of his body functions, the absurdity of cold and cloth, the silliness of feet and diapers.

Diane had her coffee after she put Byron down on the kitchen floor with his bottle. He finished it quickly, and with gusto. He smacked his lips at the last drop, and hurled the vessel contemptuously to the floor. While she mixed formula into the powdered oatmeal, Byron immediately swiveled on his bottom to face the kitchen cabinets. “O!” he shouted to the stainless-steel handles. He flopped forward, palms out. Diane smiled at his adept movements, a baby tank on the move, knees and hands mastering terrain. In a flash he scurried to the cabinets and began his assault. Byron braced himself with one hand and reached for the handle with the other.

Byron took hold of the handle with his right hand. His weight pulled the door open. It swung out, and took him along, tipping him over backwards. … Diane dropped the box of oatmeal. With a hiss, its contents spilled over the counter and stove. She caught Byron’s head only inches from the hard tile floor. For a moment, Byron looked worried by his sudden upside-down placement. Then his cheeks puffed out, and he laughed.

“You’re gonna kill yourself,” she said, smiling at his amusement.

Byron groaned in an attempt to get up.

Diane righted him. She took out a pot from the cabinet for Byron to play with. She looked at the scattered flakes of cereal. “Shit,” she said. Byron had grabbed hold of the pot handle and now banged it on the floor. Steel on tile: a terrible clatter.

Diane’s timing in the morning was precise. Cleaning the cereal would stretch its limits. She hurried: pulled the metal tops off the stove, dumped them in the sink, grabbed a sponge, and went to work on the counter.

She heard a thud beneath her. Then a piercing, although muffled, scream from Byron.

Diane looked at her feet. Byron had fallen forward, right into the pot, his head submerged, his ass up in the air.

Diane shrieked and picked up Byron by his waist, half expecting the pot to be permanently wedged on his head. It did stay on briefly, carried up a foot or so before it fell to the floor with a ringing bang. Byron’s face emerged crimson, his neck retracted, his mouth gaping while he wailed, terrified.

“Okay, okay,” she said. Diane tried to lean her head back to get a view of Byron’s face. But he clung to her shoulder and pressed his nose into her neck. “Let me see,” she said, prying him off. “Let me see.” Byron’s head jerked at hers and he cried right into her eyes. There weren’t any cuts.

“Diane!” Peter’s voice came from behind her. “What happened?”

“He fell into a pot,” she said, turning to face Peter. Byron’s wails were cut off by the sight of his father. He lurched forward, arms out, to Peter.

“Da! Da!” he announced.

Peter’s hair was askew from sleep. He was in his underpants. He blinked at Diane and Byron. “Try and keep things quiet. I didn’t get to bed till four.” With that, Peter returned to bed.

Byron’s arms stretched for the departing Peter, a plea for Daddy to stay. “Oooh!” he called.

“Forget it,” Diane said to Byron.

Byron’s brown eyes queried her, his thin eyebrows bunched together above the bridge of his nose: “Da, Da?”

“Da, Da would rather sleep,” she answered.

Byron leaned back and clapped. He patted his pudgy hands together and watched her curiously. “Mama! Mama!” he said, explaining his applause.

She laughed. Although each night left her tired and disgusted by the workload of job and baby, these mornings were delights, full of hugs and cuddles, the warm comfort of Byron’s soft cheeks, and the flattery of his adoring eyes.

And his growth! His amazing acquisition of skills, subtle at first, but now explosive, were put on display by his morning energy. Byron greeted life with joy, so different from the adult attitude to a new day. Only half a minute after Byron’s disaster with the pot, he was back on the floor, crawling to the scene of the calamity, and rerisking its dangers.

While Diane quickly finished cleaning the stove and mixed a new bowl of cereal, she noticed Byron lowering his head down toward the pot, reenacting the crime. He let his forehead touch the rim, and then jerked back at the contact, as if the pot might grab him. At his escape, he would hoot, clap, grab the handle, and thump the pot on the floor, announcing his triumphant mastery.

She put Byron into his high chair, and reflected on his calling for Peter first, then saying her name. “Ah! Ah!” Byron spoke, while she strapped him in, his eyes going from the bowl of oatmeal to her, his hand pounding the table impatiently. “Ah! Ah!”

“You’re ready to talk,” Diane informed him. She picked up the bowl and used the silver baby spoon given to them by Peter’s mother, Gail, to sculpt out a small wave of cereal. Diane offered the stuff to Byron’s already open mouth—his narrow tongue out in the air, curled in anticipation. “Food,” she told him. “Food.”

Byron’s eyebrows went up, inquisitive, while he closed his soft red lips over the spoon and suctioned the mush inside. “Mmmm, rowrr, mmm, O!” he commented on the texture and taste.

“Food,” she said, and spooned more from the bowl. She held it up for him to see.

Byron banged his hand on the table, startling Diane. “Owff!” Byron exclaimed, and lunged forward to capture the spoon with his mouth. She gave him another portion.

Was he saying “food”?

“More?” she asked, gesturing with the spoon at the bowl of oatmeal.

Byron was grinding the mush, his fluted elastic lips pursed, his eyes almost crossed from concentration on the taste. “Mrrr, awrr, grrr, oof! Mrr, awrr. O!” Byron said to her.

“You’re saying something complicated. Compliments to the chef?”

“Diane!” Peter was at the door again. He had put on yesterday’s shirt—wrinkled from a night on the floor. Peter looked absurd, his hair shocked upwards, his thin legs shadowed by the billowing curtains that his belly made of the shirttail.

“What is it, Peter?” she snapped, ready to yell at him if he repeated his complaint.

“Did you say he fell into a pot?” Peter rubbed his eyes and peered at Byron.

“Da! Da!” Byron hooted.

“Yes,” she answered coolly. “He’s all right.”

“He fell into a pot on the stove and he’s all right!”

“No, no, no.” She laughed and lost track of the spoonful of oatmeal, dangling it within reach of Byron’s hand. He knocked the dollop of beige matter onto the table. “Byron,” she chided. She scooped more cereal and gave it to Byron while describing the accident to Peter. Her husband listened soberly at first, and then scratched his head sleepily.

“I think he’s psychotic,” Peter judged.

“That’s nice,” Diane said. “Nice way to talk.”

Peter shrugged. He opened the cabinet full of cereals and squinted inside. Peter switched on the overhead lights to see better but was startled by a hoot from Byron.

“Oooh!” Byron lurched forward, his fat arm hailing the light. His eyes narrowed, his mouth scrunched with effort. “Da! Da!” he shouted at the light.

“Daddy turned on the light,” Diane said.

“Da! Da! Oooh! Oooh!”

“No, Da, Da. Light,” she said.

“He thinks everything is called Da, Da,” Peter said.

This galvanized Diane. She unbuckled Byron from the high chair seat belt and put him on her hip. She turned on the globe over the table. “Light,” she said.

“Oooh.” Byron squinted from the glare.

“Light,” she repeated.

Byron queried her with his eyes.

She carried him into the living room. She turned on the standing lamp next to the couch. “Light!” she said. She walked to the end table on the other side and turned on that lamp. “Light!”

Byron put his fingers on her lips, a gentle, curious touch. “Laaa,” he said awkwardly from his throat.

“Light,” she repeated. She moved to the hallway and flipped the switch. “Light.” She pointed to the ceiling fixture.

“Laa! Laa!” he screamed, arching out of her arms, reaching to embrace the bulbs.

“Light, light.” She had to pull to carry Byron off (although he was in her arms, his attraction to the fixture seemed to have the force of planetary gravity) and went to the bedroom, flipping the wall switch. “Light, light.”

“Diane!” Peter called.

“Laaa … t!” Byron broke through the weak muscles of infancy, pushing the sound out. “Laa … it!”

She felt a rush of joy, a terrible chill of happiness. “That’s right! Light!”

“Laaait!” Byron stretched the sounds in his throat, grappling with them, muscling them to the right shape.

“Light, light!”

“Laait! Laait!”

“That’s right, baby!” She kissed his cheek, his puffy pillow.

Byron ignored the affection. He pointed to the illumination and masticated the sounds, his voice piercing: “Lahi-t! Lahi-t!”

“Diane!” Peter appeared at her side, exasperated. “Have you gone mad? The poor kid just woke up.”

“He knows!” Diane felt the energy of her pleasure surge to her face, her eyes tearing. “He knows, Peter. He can talk.”

“Da, Da!” Byron said, and reached for his father.

Peter took him. Byron’s little body was hot, his eyelids were creased. Byron leaned his head against Peter’s shoulder. “He’s tired,” Peter said.

“Watch,” Diane said. She turned the light off and then on. “What is it?” she said to Byron.

Byron lifted his head, his back tight with attention. “Laa-hit! La-iht!”

“That’s right,” escaped from Peter’s lips, his face beaming.

Diane went to Byron and held his cheeks with her hands, looking into his eyes. “You’re so smart. My beautiful baby boy. You’re so smart.”

O
N
B
YRON’S
first birthday, Diane celebrated with a big party, inviting everyone she knew who had children under five, the grand- and stepgrandparents, Peter’s half sister and half brother, as well as his stepsister and stepbrother. They all came, even the merely legal relations, despite the fact that many had to journey from afar.

Peter was disturbed by their presence. He hid behind his Nikon camera, escaping from conversations that were dull, demanding, or dumb, by claiming a need to photograph the instigator with Byron. Peter ran out of film before Diane had even brought out the cake, and that provided him with an excuse to run outside to buy more.

“I can’t believe you didn’t buy enough film” were Diane’s parting words.

The awful thing, Peter realized, once out on the street, was that none of those people fought to get him to pay attention, to belong, to engage in the party. They were happy to let him be obscured by Byron, by the event, by the camera. Diane? They surrounded her, questioned her, praised her. Because of the existence of Byron, his relations seemed to retract their skepticism of Diane.

“You married well,” his stepsister had commented out of the blue to Peter when they passed in the hallway. “Diane’s a terrific mother.”

“Are you surprised?” he asked pointedly.

His stepsister had two kids and had never had a job. She looked defensive, but answered truthfully. “Yes. I thought Diane was too wrapped up in her career to have a baby. I don’t know how she does it.”

Peter felt flustered, almost accused, by that answer. For a reply, he took her picture with Diane and Byron.

While he walked to the film store, Peter had a strong desire to hail a cab, take it somewhere, midtown perhaps, and shop in the Fifth Avenue stores. He passed a pair of phone booths. A young man of college age occupied one, talking animatedly. Peter entered the free booth and called Rachel. He dialed without considering the why or the consequences. He needed her sensibilities, her oxygen.

“Hello!” Rachel answered with the enthusiasm of a teenager.

“Hi. It’s Peter.”

Despite the year that had passed, Rachel didn’t hesitate, or seem surprised. She didn’t even bother to conceal her delight. “Peter! It’s so great to hear your voice. How are you? I’ve been wondering.”

“I can’t talk long. I want to see you. Is that possible?”

“I’m always here! What have I got to do? You want to have breakfast tomorrow?”

“How about theater tomorrow? I’ve got tickets to
Sincerely Yours
.”

“Oh, it’s supposed to be good!”

“I’ll meet you at the box office. We’ll have dinner afterwards. All right?”

“Lovely, darling,” Rachel said grandly.

Peter returned home with a loaded camera, more at ease and ready to join in the applause for Byron. Diane had Byron on display, set down in the middle of a circle of admiring adults. Peter’s son stood among the tall trees, hooting to their tops. He stood boldly, planted on the rug, his fat little legs stiff, his eyes open wide, his mouth pursed with excitement. He shouted to them. He lifted his arms and hailed them. He clapped at their sounds of pleasure.

And then, just as Diane hoped, Byron showed his new trick. Out went his right foot—out forward into space—and then down, firmly, on the rug.

“Oh … ” mumbled his relatives.

Byron wobbled for a moment.

“Uh-oh.” The relatives worried with him.

With a shout of effort, Byron jerked his left foot to join the right, his toes pointed out, a penguin on the ice.

“He’s walking!” Lily, his grandmother, shouted.

Byron met Lily’s eyes and laughed to her. He put his hands up to her.

“Come to Grandma, baby,” Lily called.

Byron, his head bobbing, stepped out into dangerous air, his right foot forward, knee locked, arms out for balance. He wobbled as his foot landed, and then snapped his left leg forward to even things up.