Only Children (41 page)

“Probably,” Sal said, “just thinking I’m a jerk, right?”

“I was thinking you’re like my son,” Nina answered, again saying something she hadn’t meant to.

It got quite a response. The girls roared, as though Nina had put Sal down, really embarrassed him. He seemed to think so too. He got red in the face.

“I mean, your eyes,” Nina apologized. “The shape of your eyes is like my son’s.”

“Yeah?” Sal wasn’t convinced. He wanted to know, but he asked in a sarcastic tone so he wouldn’t be risking his dignity again.

“Really,” she said in her hopelessly thin, earnest voice. All those Jews, blacks, Italians, Greeks, their voices boomed or sang or moaned—even the rest of her family had music in their throats— but she had this dumb unmodulated monotone, like a public-address announcement.

“Well, that’s nice.” Sal relaxed.

“How old’s your son?” the stupid girl asked angrily, presumably irritated by Nina’s success in complimenting Sal.

“Two and a half,” Nina answered.

The girls broke up again. “Yeah, a two-year-old! That’s you, Sal,” the stupid one said. Sal looked confused and then hurt.

The teacher came in and began to talk. It was interesting, but Nina couldn’t stay with it; her mind went back to Sal’s reaction when Nina announced Luke’s age. Sal didn’t understand the compliment Nina had given out. In fact, it was such great praise Nina had regretted its escape. Luke’s eyes were probably the most beautiful in the world.

Later, Nina caught Sal looking at her. Nina had lost the logic of the teacher’s remarks and her eyes lit on Sal. Sal’s eyes were judging her, studying her hips and middle. Looking for the sloppy fat of pregnancy, she thought, and sucked in. But she was in good shape. Sure, the hard board for a belly had warped, but she wasn’t fat. It was obvious that Sal worked out. His shoulders almost had wings; his ass was tight and hard. When he moved his arms, the muscles sighed and rose under the skin, undulating gently but suggesting force. He had a pretty face, his beard was very light, and his chin came to a delicate point. He was a half man, a young buck. He had no stomach. Not even a suggestion of roundness. Flat. His neck was thick, though, and a little short. If he lost his hair, let his belly go, he’d become a slovenly middle-aged man. This was his prime, his youth. Luke would grow into that. And she would get old.

Did she mind? No, she wanted to see Luke become that beautiful mix of man and boy, arrogant and shy, a brand-new machine, its clean engine full of power, its driver both reckless and scared.

Sal lifted his eyes from his inspection of her figure and met her eyes. He almost fell over, he was so quick to break the eye contact. He even turned his body away, desperate to erase any evidence that he had been curious. At his age, Nina would have been the one to pretend she hadn’t noticed. In fact, she would never have returned the glance at all, watching him watch her out of the corner of her eye, hoping, wondering, resenting, and longing. Not now. There was nothing to fear from men. They always stayed boys, no matter what. They were gentle; even the brutal ones were frightened, she knew that from Luke. Women bend, men break, her mother once told her. It was true. They thought it was all up to them; they had no humility in the face of nature; they actually believed some sort of triumph or defeat was possible.

She looked at Sal’s lap, at his tight jeans. There was a large oval formation at his groin, as if he were wearing sports equipment. Is he stuffing it? she wondered. There was a kid in high school who did that. He had had some calamity—it shifted at a dance? She didn’t remember. It was hilarious and quite a shock. Only the girls were supposed to be faking size. Another myth: men were not only frailer than women but vainer too.

She imagined a long white penis, hairless, a giant version of Luke’s.

The image embarrassed her. She shook it off and concentrated on the lecture.

She was able to pay attention toward the end; she even got an idea for the line she would have to draw for her leisure-wear class. She stayed back and quickly made notes of the color combinations the teacher’s principles inspired. She noticed Sal dawdle a moment too, and she felt his breath on her neck, and his voice whispered into her ear, “Do you really have a two-year-old kid?”

“Yes,” she answered, puzzled.

Sal also seemed baffled. “I thought it might just be a put-down.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Everybody puts me down.”

Nina assured him she hadn’t and then left. Not quickly or coolly, she certainly didn’t want Sal to think she didn’t like him—obviously anything less than admiration would kill the fellow—but she didn’t want to have to flatter him for ten minutes so his confidence could be completely restored.

After all, she had to get home. There she had two boys who would need all the praise she could spare.

H
E HAD
the feeling. Go away, Go away. He ran into the living room, head down, butting the air like Ram Man, past Pearl, past Skeletor. “He-Man! Help me!”

“I help you,” Pearl said.

“No! You’re not He-Man.”

“I’m sorry. It’s so nice out today, isn’t it, Luke?”

Want to stay. “I don’t know. I haven’t been out.”

“Well, why don’t I help you get your clothes on?”

The Feeling. Twist and squeeze and go away. Push it out, Luke. You’ll feel better.

“You have to go?” Pearl said, very soft.

“No!” Luke jumped at the sound of his voice.

Run! Head down, butt them down, smash! “I’m coming, He-Man!”

“Byron’s gonna be at the park today.” Pearl’s voice followed him. “I talked to Francine. She said they’d be there at eleven. It’s half past now. Byron be so sad if you don’t come.”

Luke saw his new figure—Sy-Klone—twisting arms, tornado man. He could show Byron. Byron said he’s gonna get it, but I already have it now. But Byron would play with it.

“Look.” Pearl’s voice was with him in his room. “I ironed your favorite overalls.”

“I want to go to the park,” Luke said.

“You do!” Pearl acted so surprised. “That’s a good idea, Luke.”

The Feeling was gone anyway.

“F
RANCINE
!” Byron yelled. “Francine!”

“Go,” said the stupid boy behind.

Byron felt the metal. He could bend metal. He was big. “Francine, watch me!”

She didn’t look. “Go!” said the stupid boy.

“No!” Byron pushed his face at the boy. Stupid. My eyes can deeestroy! Where’s Luke? “Go away!”

“It’s my turn, poop head!” Stupid said.

“Poop head!” Byron laughed in Stupid’s face. “Poop not on head.”

“You’re a poop head!” Stupid said.

Byron’s legs felt small. Stupid laughed. Laughed at Byron. “I am not,” Byron said.

“Poop head, poop face, poop eyes, poop nose, poop head!”

Byron wanted Francine! “Francine! Francine!”

“What?” Francine called up, her funny hair orange in the sun.

“Watch me slide!”

“Go, poop head!” Stupid said.

Byron’s face hurt. “Don’t say that!” he yelled.

“Go!” Stupid pushed. Byron felt the metal melt. His legs flew. The slide slapped his cheek. He held on and cried and cried and cried.

“What’s the matter with you!” Francine yelled at Stupid. “You don’t push people down the slide. Byron, honey, let me look, come on—oh, it’s okay, Byron. Don’t hurt that much.”

“He pushed!” There, Stupid, you are bad. You hurt me.

“He’s a baby!” Stupid said.

“Am not!” Byron yelled, and cried again.

“That’s right,” Francine told Stupid. “And you’re too old to be pushing little babies on the slide. You’re big enough to know better.”

“What’s wrong?” said a grown-up.

“Your boy pushed my baby.” Francine was not scared of grownups.

“He wouldn’t go!” Stupid said.

Byron cried hard. “He hurt me!” There, Stupid. You bad. “He said I was poop,” Byron yelled.

“Did not,” Stupid said. “I said he was a poop head. And he is. I’m going.” Stupid ran down the steps and out to the sandbox. His grown-up left too.

Byron put his warm face into Francine’s pillows.

“Okay.” She put him down. “You’re okay. Don’t be crying so much about it. You’re not hurt. Big boys don’t cry. You see he called you a baby ’cause you were crying.”

“He pushed me.”

“Next time he push you, you push him right back.”

Byron is big. Grab Francine leg, tree leg, and pull. Swing on the tree, Big Cat Byron!

“Go on, now. You’re all right. Go on and play.”

“I’m hungry”

“Hungry? You had a snack just ten minutes ago! You’re not hungry.”

“Yes, I am!” Hold on to the dinosaur leg. Big Cat Byron, claw!

“No!” Francine push. Push away. “Go and play now. We’ll have lunch later.”

“I want—”

THERE’S LUKE!

“Luke! Luke! Luke! Luke!” Hop, hop, hop. He doesn’t see. “Luke, here! Come here! Luke! Luke! Luke!”

There. He comes, he comes with the grown-up Pearl. He has Sy-Klone!

Twist and twist and twist, arms flying.

“Hi,” Luke said. “See? I have Sy-Klone.”

“Let me see.” Byron big and bigger takes the toy and makes it go, arms flying, smacking bad guys. “Let’s play He-Man, Luke.”

“Okay.”

Byron takes Luke’s hand. “You know, Luke, you’re my best friend. I love you.”

“I know,” said Luke.

B
YRON DIDN’T
know how to work Sy-Klone. “Byron—” TOOK so long to say. Byron was gone already. In the sandbox, burying Sy-Klone. “That’s not—” Luke tried to hurry there.

Byron was talking. “I can tunnel. Find Skeletor and beat him.”

No, no. He doesn’t tunnel. Sy-Klone flies. He makes a tornado and flies. “Byron—”

Byron grabbed Luke. Luke tried to get his hand away. Byron squeezed too hard. “Let—”

“There’s Stupid!” Byron put his face right up to Luke’s, blowing at him. “He called me poop head.”

The Feeling. No. “What?”

Byron pulled Luke down. His knee hit Sy-Klone. It hurt. Byron pointed to a bigger boy. “That’s Stupid. He pushed me.”

“What did you say about poop?”

Byron whispered. “He called me poop head.”

“Poop head?” Luke thought of a head covered with—He laughed. “That’s crazy.”

“You’re a poop head!” Byron called out to the bigger boy.

“Shut up,” the bigger boy answered.

Byron twisted and twirled. He was being Sy-Klone!

Luke reached to stop Byron. “Don’t—”

“Whee.” Byron whirled across the sandbox. His shoes dug holes; his arms flashed around and around. “I am Sy-Klone!” Byron said to the bigger boy.

“Shut up!” The bigger boy picked up sand and pulled his hand back.

“Watch—” Luke jumped, Ram Man, ready to butt away the sand.

The wind hit. Rough rain splattered on Luke’s face.

Eyes! It’s in eyes!

Luke fell, he wasn’t Ram Man, he yelled for Pearl, put his hands on his eyes and tried to get the rough lumps out.

He couldn’t open his eyes, he rubbed—something stuck his eye. He yelled and let go, pushed his head down, to hide, to go to sleep, to be away from this.

“He did it! He did it! He did it!” Byron yelled.

Pearl was there. “No, I didn’t,” Luke said to her.

“Did it get in your eyes?” Pearl’s voice came in between the hurt.

He tried to open them—the roughness tore at his head—he screamed again and kept them shut.

“I want to go home!” Luke yelled. “I want to go home!”

“I’m sorry,” a child’s voice said.

“He’s a big boy, he should know better.” Pearl sounded deep and heavy. Luke smelled Pearl, he was in her arms.

“I want to go home!” Luke yelled to her. “I want Mommy!”

His eyes were wet, smooth and silk now, covering the roughness. He tried to open them.

No! No! It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

“You just rest, don’t rub. We going right home.”

Home. Home. He cried, he cried, he cried. It felt so good to cry.

“Luke, Luke, Luke.” Byron jumped at him. “Don’t go, Luke!”

Press against Pearl. Take me home.

“Byron, leave him alone.”

“Luke, Luke, Luke.” Byron jumped at him. “Don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry.”

No, no, no, no.

11

F
RIDAY AFTERNOONS
were the hardest for Eric. The weekend was ahead. The restless, worrisome weekend, with the market closed and the TV and newspapers full of conflicting opinions on the economic future. Three nights and two days to remember the week’s mistakes and missed opportunities, three nights and two days of relentless child care, his body always all on the move, his mind wandering again and again through the bearish article in
Barron’s
on the oil group, recalling Rukeyser’s guests’ comments on
Wall Street Week
, relighting arguments with Joe and Sammy, winning them this time, booting up his home computer and studying Tom’s portfolio, dreaming of the numbers going up and up—

Was it time to raise the stops?

Should he double that position?

Should he leverage more? Trade the futures? Or hedge with the options?

He asked and reasked, with no market open to engage his attention, to contradict, to confirm, to react to, nothing but hour after hour of ghostly combat with greed and fear.

You’ve done so well so far. Relax.

But had
he
done it? Or was it Joe? Was the success merely due to Eric’s being leashed to Joe’s firm hand, Joe’s guidance in control: 10 percent down and out, trailing stops, minimize losses, maximize profits, keep it simple, don’t diversify so broadly so that you’re always losing somewhere, pick the hot areas and stay with them. The trend is your friend.

But were Joe’s tactics so great anyway? These days they weren’t making money fast enough. They had stayed only a few percentage points ahead of the averages, and they were riding one of the great bull markets. Yet every day picking winners got tougher.

Joe had talked Eric out of two gambles, on bankruptcy turnarounds, that would have worked. Four hundred percent returns, maybe enough to get Tom bragging in Boston, pull in some of his country-club buddies’ money.

Why couldn’t Eric become another Gabelli, another Peter Lynch? Why couldn’t Eric manage a billion dollars? It wasn’t that hard, it was just knowing the right people, getting the dough and doing what he had been doing—