Only Children (59 page)

“I’m trying as hard as I can,” Eric said. Nina couldn’t tell if he understood the irony of this conversation.

“You can do it, Daddy. Maybe you need to do more of your reading things. After dinner, I could watch some cartoons and you could do your reading.”

Eric smiled a heartbroken smile. Something is terribly wrong, Nina admitted to herself. He must be losing a lot. He’s scared. “Okay,” he croaked in answer to Luke.

“That’ll help you, won’t it, Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“See?” Luke said with another broad smile to Nina. “I can help Daddy do his work.”

“That’s good,” she answered Luke, and leaned across the table to kiss his sweet skin. Her beautiful boy was good, so good and so beautiful that he could get his father to talk. So good and so beautiful that it hurt to think of it.

“W
HO’S HE, DADDY
?” Byron’s voice trumpeted out of the enforced silence of the audience toward the legal noise of the stage.

“Shhh,” Peter whispered. “Remember, it’s not television. Everyone can hear you.”

“Okay, okay,” Byron answered in his whisper, dramatic and high-pitched. Byron dug his nails into Peter’s arm. “But who is he?”

Peter explained that the man was the hero, but he looked different because time had passed and he was grown up.

“Oh,” Byron said, and his mouth stayed open, slack, astounded by the lights, the sounds, the restless movement of the actors. Peter watched their actions play on his son’s face, their sounds animate his short legs, dangling over the cliff of his center aisle seat. When they’d gone to their seats, Peter and his three-year-old son had gotten incredulous, scandalized looks at their appearance on the fifth-row center of a Friday-night performance on Broadway.

“You’re bringing a child to this?” one rude woman had the temerity to say to Peter.

Peter stared at her. He’ll probably get more out of it than you will, he wanted to answer. He promised himself he would—the next time. Of course, he never expected Byron to last even for the first act, but what did that matter? He could get house seats and charge them to the foundation anytime—this was his one accomplishment on earth. Why shouldn’t he lavish it on Byron? So what if it was
Nicholas Nickleby
? So what? This was a once-in-a-lifetime feast and Byron would have had at least a bite of the hors d’oeuvres.

Peter had to talk constantly, explicating everything. Byron held on to him, as if he were blind and needed Peter to keep him from stumbling. Byron was thrilled. Peter couldn’t believe it. He had expected impatient Byron, self-indulgent Byron, center-of-attention Byron to demand they leave after ten minutes. Peter would have thought that a success. But they were more than an hour in, and yet Byron, his eyes tired, fighting to stay awake, was still taking it in, his little body reverberating with every sound, thrilled—

Just like me, Peter thought.

Finally the little head, stuffed with sensation, nodded from the weight. Byron nestled into the cushioned chair like a cat and fell asleep. Peter waited for a well-lit scene to gather Byron in his arms and walk up the aisle. The spectacle—Byron snuggled against his chest—managed to distract the audience, draw smiles, silent exclamations, and pointed fingers.

For one brief moment, Peter had upstaged Broadway.

The car he had hired was ready for them. Byron’s eyes opened when Peter had to adjust his grip to get Byron in the car.

“Daddy?” he called.

“Yes, darling,” Peter heard himself say in a soft, loving voice.

Is that me?

“Home, Daddy?”

“Yes, honey, we’re going home. Close your eyes.”

It was quiet and dark in the car, making the city’s animation and brilliance into a silent film. Byron was warm and trusting in Peter’s lap. Peter could feel Byron’s contentment, tangible, aglow in the dark.

He would rather be out with me, uncomfortable, his mind called upon to absorb the difficult, than be at home without me, patronized by some sitter—it’s being with me that makes him happy.

Peter was crying. He noticed that with surprise. A tear hung at the bone of his jaw and then fell, splashed onto Byron’s sandy hair.

“I’m sleeping, Daddy,” Byron said, his eyes closed, but with a smile. He pressed his face into the crook of Peter’s arm.

“Good,” Peter said. He had considered arranging for a sitter to come and pick up Byron at the theater and then stay himself to see
Nickleby
again, but he had changed his mind at the last minute, and now he was glad.

Peter carried Byron into the lobby. Two old women, irritable, gossipy crones, peered at his package. One said, “Oh, he’s sleeping.”

“Happy in Daddy’s arms,” said the other.

They weren’t so bad. At least they understood the magic of children. Upstairs, he tried to pull Byron’s clothes off, but the attempt provoked groans and Peter finally put him in the bed still dressed.

Remember to have him pee before he goes to bed, Diane had told Peter, or they’ll be soaked in the morning.

Let him pee, Peter decided, and draped the covers over Byron. Let him ruin all the sheets in Christendom.

Peter felt solid back in his study, sipping a cognac. He tried to think of other shows, other plans. Maybe they could walk in on a couple of matinees, sneak Byron into a rehearsal or run-through here and there. In a few years there were theatrical camps. His mother had once mentioned something about public library events, readings or something.

Larry. He tried to summon Larry’s face. What did Larry look like? Kotkin had asked at their last session when Peter mentioned that he had become curious about Larry now. He felt an urge to see him, confront him.

Peter took out the telephone book and looked for a residential number for Larry. He didn’t find one.

What does he do? After all these years? Cruise the docks? Or is that scene dead now? Does he stop at touching? If I’d let him go on, would Larry have stopped at that?

He should have had the sitter come. He felt restless. It was still early, only ten, and he was stuck at home with Byron. What was the point of that? Byron was asleep, for God’s sakes. I could have stayed at
Nickleby
, could have called Rachel. Haven’t seen her in a long time.

He dialed Rachel’s number and got her machine. “Just Peter,” he said after the beep, and hung up.

“Daddy!” Byron called at midnight. “Daddy, I peed in my bed!” he shouted, panic in his voice.

What a disgusting mess. Byron’s underpants were glued by urine to his skin, the pants probably ruined from the extent of the saturation. And Byron wailed throughout as if he were the victim. No wonder it makes Diane crazy, Peter thought. But Diane had wanted him. She has no right to complain. Peter didn’t bother to change the sheets. He covered them with towels and put Byron back in.

The phone rang. Rachel? At this hour?

“Peter?” It was Diane. Cold Diane. “I guess you never planned to call to find out whether my mother was alive or dead.”

“What? I thought she was just having a test. I was waiting for you to call.” A lie. He simply didn’t think of her mother.

“A dangerous test. She’s okay.” Diane’s voice relaxed a little bit. “She’s very sick. She needs open-heart surgery. She has to have an aortic heart valve replacement.”

Peter urged himself to say something appropriate. “Oh, God,” came out. “Are you at the hospital?”

“No. We’re back home. I’m hanging up—”

“Wait—” Peter called. I can be better at this. Give me a chance.

“I don’t want to talk right now. I’ll call you in the morning.”

He sat at his desk for a long time. He tried to drink more cognac, but his glass was empty and he had no energy to get more. He grabbed the glass several times and drank air, tried to sip that last little drop, stuck at a small hollow in the bottom. He turned the snifter upside down, but the liquid didn’t surrender to gravity. It smeared everywhere, clinging to its container, and never got past the rim. He tried to arch his tongue inside, but it wasn’t long enough to reach that last precious bit of flavor. At last he put his finger in, punctured the dollop, and sucked off what he could. A brief pleasure—but tart and good.

He called Larry’s office. It was two in the morning. No one answered.

M
OMMY SAID
, “We’ll go to this place, where they teach children, and a woman will play with you for a while. I’ll be there the whole time.”
Mister Rogers, Sesame Street, He-Man
, they all talked about it—school. Sounds like a wind. Like running in the wind: school!

Daddy was excited. “Have fun today,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” he said to Mommy while they walked there. There was no sun today. The sky was like the cardboard in Daddy’s shirts. Gray. Flat and long and all gray. A sunny sky is different. There’s white in places, the clouds. And sometimes the blue is flat and it looks short, but sometimes the blue is deep and curved. Sometimes the sky is gray and blue and yellow and shiny and dull all at once. Not today. A flat gray cardboard sky. Is it going to rain?

“What don’t you understand?”

“Don’t children go to school and stay?”

“Yes, when they go. This is just a visit.”

“Oh.” Why visit? Well, it’s good. I don’t want to stay. Not with the sky so flat and gray.

“Here we are,” Mommy said, and they climbed steps, went through tall doors, like the lobby doors, wood and glass. There’s a boy with a Transformer. They’re not so good. Oh, but look! It looks like a dinosaur!

It was hot in the room. He wished he had a toy. Not a Transformer. Well, maybe. The dinosaur— Mommy was talking to a woman.

“Hello, are you Luke?” She was smiling hard, kept her teeth turned on for so long without laughing.

Mommy will tell her I’m Luke.

“Yes,” Mommy said. “This is Luke.”

“We’re going to go in this room and play for a while.”

Luke moved toward the woman’s hand and let her take hold. But then she turned, moving at the door—but Mommy!

“Mommy!” Luke called. She wants to come too.

“Luke,” the woman said, turning her teeth on again with no laughter. “Your mommy knows she’s not allowed to be with us while we play. She’s going to wait here—”

“In this chair,” Mommy said, and sat down.

“And she’ll be right there when we’re through.”

Something I can’t stop. That hurt, the crying was going to start. I want to stop things sometimes. Well, no arguing. We’re just gonna play. Stop crying, Luke.

He pushed the tears back in his eyes. The room was pretty big and had lots of things.

“I have that,” he told the woman. She had turned off her teeth at last.

“Yes? I have some shapes we can play with. Would you like to do that?”

She’s got a triangle. I bet she asks—

“Do you know what shape this is?”

Oh, this is like
Mister Rogers
and
Sesame Street
. “It’s a triangle,” he said, and tried to laugh. “You can’t play with a triangle. They’re too pointy.”

The woman turned her teeth on again; only this time, she laughed too.

M
OMMY GRABBED
him. Her arms hugged him tight. He pressed his stomach into her breasts, felt them hug his tummy. He wrapped his legs around her and covered himself in her neck; her hair, smooth and long, touched his cheek. “Mommy,” he sang to her.

“My baby,” she said into his ear. “I missed you.”

“He was a very good boy,” Daddy said.

“Of course you were,” Mommy said, and bounced him on her hip. “Now let’s go in and say hi to Grandma. Give her a big kiss ’cause she’s not feeling so well.”

She let him down on Grandma’s furry rug and he ran, watching the edges of his shoes disappear. He ran down the hall and into Grandma’s pink room. She was in bed, way up, sitting up like a stuffed animal.

“Bubeleh! My grandson,” she called.

“Hi, Grandma.” She looks sad. Say something to make her smile. “I’m much bigger than the last time you saw me,” he said. Daddy had told him that.

“You are, darling. Come here and let me give you a hug and kiss.”

Byron climbed up the puffy mountainside. Her bony hands took hold of him. She brought him close and he kissed her cheek, her melted cheek. “Mmmm,” she said. “You taste so good.”

Her breath splashed his face. She smelled like garbage. “You smell, Grandma,” he said, and tried to squirm out of her arms.

“Oh, my God!” Grandma said. She let him go.

“Byron!” Mommy said.

“Don’t yell at him,” Grandma said. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom. I haven’t gargled today.”

“Hello,” Daddy said.

“Hello, Peter,” Grandma answered. “I need some privacy, I’m in my nightgown.”

Daddy took him out. “I’m hungry,” Byron told him.

“Let’s go in the kitchen.” The kitchen was yellow and its floor was black and white like checkers.

“Grandma has Oreos.” Byron pointed to the cabinet where they were kept.

“I think you should have—”

“I just want one cookie!”

“Okay.” Daddy found the box and began to crackle the paper inside.

I’ll open it up and lick the sweet white off first. “Why is Grandma still in bed?”

“She’s sick, Byron. Here you go.” Daddy came with the box. It was full of cookies.

“Is Grandma going to die?” Byron asked.

“No, what gives you that idea? Where do you get that idea?”

He had to pull the cookie pieces in different directions to get them unglued from the sweet white. “Mommy said when people get old, they die. What happens when they die?”

Daddy looked into the box of cookies. He stared at it.

“Mommy said nobody knows for sure,” Byron said. “But that’s crazy.”

Daddy took out a cookie and ate it himself. “When people die, they rest. They rest and they’re happy,” Peter said.

“Grandma’s resting. Is she going to die and rest more?”

“No,” Daddy said. “She’s going to have an operation to make her feel better. She has to rest for the operation.”

“I don’t want to die.” The white was gone. He put the cookie pieces back together.

A nice sandwich.

Mommy came in fast. She came right down to Byron. “Honey, please don’t say anything to Grandma about dying.”

“Is she—” Daddy nodded toward Grandma. There were funny noises from the hallway. Noises like Grandma, but not.