Only Children (57 page)

Even facing death, Lily wanted to be impossible. She knew Eileen would call me. She knew—oh, what’s the point? Mom must be terrified.

Diane got out of the tub, meaning to get dressed before she phoned Lily, but her hand trembled when she reached for the towel. She sat on the toilet seat, pulled a towel down to cover herself, and dialed.

“Hello,” Lily answered, a hello of such despair and terror and weakness that Diane would have known something was wrong even if ignorant.

“Eileen called me, Ma,” Diane said.

“I’m so angry at her! I told her—”

“She had to, Ma. Listen, what did the doctor say?”

“I have a heart murmur!” Lily said as if the diagnosis were a personal affront. “They have to give me a catheterization. My friend Judy had one. You know they’re dangerous? He won’t tell me, of course, what it might be. But this is what they do before you go in for open-heart.”

“But the doctor didn’t say you needed surgery?” Maybe Eileen was exaggerating. Please.

“No, of course, he didn’t say. You know doctors. All he’s thinking about is not getting sued. I told him you’re a lawyer. I didn’t tell him you quit.” She laughed at herself. “I don’t know. I thought maybe he’d take better care of me. He scared me,” Lily said in a funny voice, not one Diane recognized from her mother’s repertoire. No bark, no whine, no sarcasm, no bitterness, no anger. She sounded like a friend. “I didn’t like him,” she added, an afterthought, not important.

“Dr. Shwartz?”

“No! This is a cardiologist that Shwartz sent me to. He’s not qualified for something like this.”

“When’s the—”

“This Friday. That’s what scared me. He’s in a big rush. They don’t rush unless—” She laughed again, only it was mixed with tearfulness.

“I’m coming to Philly, Ma. I’ll leave in—”

“No, no. Eileen’ll go with me. Wait until it’s something—”

“I see, I’m only supposed to come when you’re dying.”

“I hope you
will
come when I’m dying!” Lily answered, outraged, missing the point as usual. “I expect you to—”

“Ma!” My God, I’m yelling at her. “Ma, I’m coming, okay? There’s nothing for me to—”

“Oh, and I suppose Byron is nothing. You can’t leave him for—”

“I can leave him for two days. In fact, I can leave tonight.”

“At this hour!”

“I’ll take the car. There’ll be no traffic—”

“No, no. There’s no point. You’ll be exhausted when you get here and me—well, I won’t get any sleep tonight. I’ll be up making noise, probably disturb you.”

Diane had to hang up on Lily in order to get going. She had to be rude to get Lily to allow her to be considerate.

Diane explained the situation to Peter in a breathless rush while packing. Diane was glad to go, to do something; idle, she would be tortured by worry.

“What do I tell Byron?” Peter said. What a response. Not, I’m sorry. Can I help? Should I come? Well, Peter hates my mother. She’s just a stupid cartoon to him, a Neil Simon character, something you sneer at from your seat in the theater, someone whom you cry for at the curtain, if the actress is good enough and the playwright sophisticated enough to know the New York audience is full of people with mothers like that, and they don’t want to think thoughts that are too terrible. Shut up, Diane! She’s sick. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“Tell him Grandma is sick,” she told Peter, “and I’m going to take care of her for a few days. I’ll call him in the morning. If everything goes well Friday, you can both come down for the weekend. She’d love to see Byron.”

The look on Peter’s face! Why, if he were on trial, a jury would hang him for that look. “Um, this weekend is bad—” he started to complain.

“Let’s not worry about it now. Okay? I’m going.”

Once at the door, after kissing a sleeping Byron good-bye, she added something to Peter: “If she’s in real trouble, you’re bringing Byron this weekend.”

“Okay,” he said, chastened. “Give her my love.”

Diane softened, kissed him good-bye. In the parking garage, when she started the car, she thought: I don’t want his help anyway.

N
INA FELT
something crawl on her. she sat up from her bed of grass and looked away from the trees, the long-haired trees that swayed above her, waving hello—

Who was it? Luke? No sound from his room. She turned on her side and gasped with horror.

Eric was upright in the bed, wide-awake, staring out as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Eric!” she cried out. “What’s wrong?”

Eric’s head moved slowly, a robot activated by her voice. His big face looked at her. “They’re too hard. Luke’s shit is too hard. It’s not just that he’s holding it in. He’s really pushing now, really trying. I mean, after the first couple times, he gets serious and really tries. I’ve looked at them. They’re hard.”

Her heart was still pounding. She coughed, in order to clear out the choking scare, so she could breathe. “Eric, you’re gonna kill yourself. Relax. He’s doing great. You’re doing a great job.”

“No, I know, honey. That’s okay. But I think there was something physical in it. He did start holding it in because of—well, it’s your theory. I’m sure it’s right. Did the pediatrician say anything about what he should eat?”

She sighed. She wanted to laugh at him. Or maybe scream at him. Or maybe hose him down. She looked across at the angry red eyes of their digital clock: 2:35. Blink: 2:36.

“Are you worried about something at work?” she decided to ask. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe this was a conversation she wanted to have, but couldn’t. Probably this was a dream.

“How did you know?” he said, and his robot head looked back at whatever vision he thought was there, just out there in the dark, ahead of him.

“You always worry about Luke when there’s something wrong at work.”

“You’re right,” he said. And then Eric lay down, collapsed onto the bed. He nestled his head into his pillow, like Luke into his blanket, and closed his eyes.

The angry red eyes: 2:36. Nina got herself settled back under the covers. Should I ask him what’s wrong at work? Eric’s eyes were shut. He breathed heavily. Was he asleep? Maybe I’m dreaming.

The trees waved hello. There was nothing but sky above them. Nothing but blue, happy blue.

I love my husband, she told the trees, the long-haired trees. They nodded and waved hello.

B
YRON SHOOK
him. “Where’s Mommy?”

Peter’s head felt big and heavy. Too much Rémy last night. I’m in bed, it’s morning, and I’m alone with Byron. “Mommy had to go visit Grandma.”

“Why?” Byron demanded.

“Grandma’s sick. Mommy went to take care of her for a couple days. What time is it?”

“I don’t know!” Byron said, and laughed. “I’m a child!”

Peter looked at his son. Byron’s skin was smooth from sleep, his sandy hair wild, up in places, smashed in others. He was at attention, his body alert, ready for the day. “Are you hungry?” Peter asked.

“Yeah!” Byron said with lust.

That got Peter awake. He struggled out of bed. Byron took him by the hand and gently tugged, towing Peter as if he were an ocean liner, into the kitchen.

“Rice Krispies, please.”

Peter had never gotten up with Byron before. Never been alone with him in the apartment, except for brief times, such as Diane going out to shop. Thank God he’s toilet trained, Peter thought while having coffee and watching Byron maneuver his mouth around bulky spoonfuls of cereal. Then Peter remembered—he glanced at Byron’s bottoms. There was a dark patch around the groin. “Did you pee in your bed?” he asked.

Byron cringed. “Yes!” he shouted, as if furious. But his body cringed and seemed afraid.

“Okay,” Peter said.

“The sheets’ll have to be changed,” Byron said.

“Nah,” Peter answered. “Let’s mail them to somebody.”

“What?” Byron smiled.

“Let’s mail them to somebody for a Christmas present.”

Byron laughed. “Terrible present.”

“Okay. Then we’ll have Francine put them in the laundry.”

“Mommy says I have to put them in. I did it, so I have to clean them.”

Right. That was the advice of their pediatrician. Make him take responsibility.

Responsibility. There wasn’t an adult who really took responsibility for anything. Not if he had enough power or money to pass it on.

“You want me to do it now?” Byron asked quietly.

“No,” Peter said. He liked having Byron there for company. A hungry little man, absorbed by the kitchen television, dangling his feet, his mouth stretched wide to capture food. “Francine’ll take care of it.”

“No! Mommy said—”

“Hey, Byron,” Peter heard himself answer with impatient anger. “I’m your father. If I say Francine does it, then Francine does it.”

Byron shrugged his shoulders, lifting them so high they touched his ears. “Okay with me,” he said.

Peter opened the newspaper. He glanced at the reviews. His eye was caught by an ad for a children’s movie. He could take off this afternoon. Byron had never been to the movies. He proposed the notion and got a bigger reaction than he had expected.

“Oh, yeah! Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Byron kissed him and then danced across the kitchen floor. “We’re going to the movies!” he proclaimed.

This is my chance, Peter told himself. Let’s see if I like being a father.

“I
T HURTS
, Daddy!”

Eric pressed his fingers into his palm, pushing the nails in to silence himself with pain.

“It hurts, Daddy!”

I know it does. He’s not lying. He’s gone four times in six days and the stools were still hard. It’s not his diet, Eric knew that much. Eric had been copying Luke’s breakfasts and dinners and now he found himself barely able to retain anything.

“Ugghhhh,” Luke groaned, his face red. There was a loud plop and Luke jerked his legs. “It splashed me!” he said with a smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” Eric mumbled.

“It feels cold,” Luke said. “Ughhhh,” he groaned, and his face went red again. Another plop. “I did it.”

“Good. You’re a big boy. I’ll get your M & M’s while you wipe yourself.”

“You know, now that I’m pooping more,” Luke said in a cocktail-party tone, as if he were discussing last summer’s trip to Venice, or an interesting exhibit at the museum, or the most recent movie, “I mean, after all,” Luke said. “I have gone a lot lately, right Daddy?”

“Wipe yourself. I’ll get the M & M’s.”

“But it still hurts,” Luke said. “You told me that when people go regularly, it hurts less and less.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Luke. Everybody has to go.”

“I know! I know that! But—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He walked out.

Luke’s bowel movements were all he thought about these days, except, of course, for the stocks. They had become part of his mind, a piece of his brain, flashing and beeping day and night, in the soapy rivulets while showering, hovering above his bed at night, glaring whenever he closed his eyes for a moment, dancing when Nina kissed him, branded across her breasts, big on the living-room walls, numbers everywhere, betraying him, killing him.

He got the M & M’s. He gave Luke the whole bag this time.

“
All
of them?” Luke said, appalled.

“You’ve been a big boy. You can have them all.”

Luke shook his head. “I don’t want all of them.”

“Okay, then have as many as you want.”

A few weeks before, Joe had taken away all accounts from Eric’s supervision except for Tom’s and Tom’s friends, a group they had nicknamed the Boston Beans. In the past quarter, Eric’s management was down 3 percent while the S&P average was up 12 and Joe’s management up 18. Two of the five Boston Beans had withdrawn their money yesterday. And Tom, who never initiated a call, had phoned that day.

“We’re not doing well, apparently,” Tom said in that goddamned voice, the tone as soft as a pretty melody, the meaning as cold and hard as a tile floor.

Eric babbled excuses. “Well, we’ve made our money in the growth issues, and they’re not participating at the moment, but they always lag the Dow, they’ll come back—”

When Eric finished the call, Sammy mumbled, “Trouble in paradise.” Eric wanted to punch him, but he couldn’t even manage a yell.

At the end of the day, Joe called Eric into his office for a private conference.

“I’m going to manage the rest of the Boston Beans. Maybe I should do Tom’s also? Give you a rest?”

Two of five Boston Beans had withdrawn their money. If Joe had been managing them, they not only would have stayed but might have increased their investment. What could Eric say?

I can say, I’m managing that money. I made it, I can lose it.

But Eric was mute, not argumentative at all. Instead, Eric was uncertain whether he should even continue to handle Tom’s money. If he gave up the Boston Beans, why should he continue to handle Tom? And if he continued to handle Tom, then why should he give up the Boston Beans?

He wished they had nicknamed the Boston money something else. With Luke’s diet in his belly, the word “beans” made his bowels churn.

“I think you could be a little burned out,” Joe said. “You’ve done remarkably—one of the hottest runs ever—for two years. Maybe you should back off. Give yourself a chance to grow some new ideas.”

“It doesn’t make sense for you to handle Boston and not Tom.”

“Then I’ll handle Tom also,” Joe said. “Maybe you want a week off?”

What is this shit? He’s going to manage them and I’ll continue to get my management fee?

“Let me think about it. For the moment, let’s keep things as they are.”

“I want to reposition the Boston money,” Joe said. “You handle Tom.”

“No,” Eric said. “Tom will be suspicious if that happens.”

“I’ll explain it—”

“No,” Eric repeated, volume climbing in his voice.

“You’ve lost two accounts!” Joe shouted. “I don’t want to lose the rest! At least get out of some of the hi-tech garbage. You told me we were taking profits in New Systems a year ago! You’re getting killed. This is a flight to quality. They want—”

“Joe, I read the papers. Everybody is saying the same thing!”

“And who are you suddenly! To disagree!”