Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

ERIC SHUT his eyes against the sound. But he could still hear.

The wails soared in the apartment, flying wildly about the rooms, a frantic, terrified bird, beating its soft body against the hard prison.

Eric opened to look. Nina sat stone still, but her face cracked from unhappiness.

At least she had been honest: “I can’t do this, Eric. It’s up to you.”

I’ve already made two mistakes. “When you stop crying, we’ll try again.” What an asshole. The psychologist had said, specifically said, just wait until the crying is over and then when he holds it in — I’ve linked them now, that when he stops crying — what an asshole. I can’t handle this. I just can’t.

Luke found them. He came stumbling into the living room, drunk with tears. Luke had managed to get out of his pants, so he was bare from the waist down. “Mommy, Mommy” was all Eric could make out of his speech, but he was saying more, about what he couldn’t do, and the hurt, and about Daddy.

“Shhh,” Nina said to him, and picked him up, holding him in her lap. Eric had a headache. Not a real headache. It was just his brain exploding.

Luke tried to get them to talk. It was obvious now that he wanted to talk, to get them to talk. Nina caved in, she asked him why he cried so hard — Eric shot her a look. How am I going to do this if she doesn’t—

“Daddy left me alone. I was going to try, but he left me alone—”

It’s bullshit. Just like the doctor said. If I stand in the bathroom, he’ll talk to me about how much it hurts—

“Okay, Luke. As long as you don’t cry, I won’t leave you alone. Okay?”

“I cry because—”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Luke! There’ll be no more talking about it! That goes for you too, Nina!” Eric shouted. He swallowed. Luke ducked his head into Nina. The walls seemed to ring from the shout. They bounced about, thunder rumbling. Luke stayed still in Nina’s arms.

Luke thought it was over. In five minutes, he was calm again, happy. Eric waited. It didn’t take long. Luke had cheered up, was telling Nina something, and he flexed his buttocks, began to dance on his toes, holding—

Eric was up, his hand taking Luke’s, “It’s time to go to the bathroom—”

“Noooooo!”

“I won’t stay in the bathroom if you cry.” I’m stuck with this position now. He pulled Luke with him. He let himself go dead, absolutely dead. The colors had no vibrancy, the sounds no resonance. Eric looked past Luke’s pleas as if he were a bum on the street. Eric drained his heart of emotion, watched his humanity empty out, down the drain, until his soul was as cold and bare as a porcelain tub. I’m a guard at Auschwitz; this is how evil is carried out, numb, everything pale and flat.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Luke pleaded.

“I’ll leave if you don’t stop crying.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Luke gasped, tried to swallow his tears back. He did after a moment. He climbed up onto the toilet seat, his little legs not long enough to touch the floor. His face went red and jumped off. “I can’t.”

When Luke says he can’t do it — the doctor had said when Eric went over all the possible permutations, after Eric had quit arguing — when he says he can’t, say fine and go. Don’t make trying the issue, only getting it done.

Back out they went, Luke surprised that he had gotten away with so little torture. Back they went to the living room, and a second later Luke danced, buttocks tight, hopping.

“It’s time to go to the bathroom, Luke,” and now Eric’s voice did sound neutral, a dead voice of authority.

“No!” Luke’s protest was shorter this time.

Back they went. Up on the toilet, jumping off. Out to the living room. Another minute, then: “It’s time to go to the bathroom, Luke.”

“Again?” Luke said, like a grown-up, outraged by a mad bureaucracy. Nina actually smiled.

“It’s time,” dead Eric answered, beyond being charmed.

By bedtime, although they had gone a dozen times, there was still no yield. The next morning, after fifteen more journeys, after Luke tried running away, talking to Eric while he held his legs together on the toilet (I’m not talking, Luke, I’m just keeping you company), after Luke threw one wild crying jag (Eric walked into the living room and sat with the Wall Street Journal open in front of his face), after Luke tried to appeal to Nina, after dozens of little tricks, Luke finally made an effort, perhaps bored by the repetition. His face turned red, his stomach squeezed flat, and he pushed out four enormous turds. Where did he keep the stuff?

“You’re a big boy, Luke,” Eric said, well beyond feeling any triumph or relief. “You can have a few M & M’s as a reward for going.”

“Okay,” Luke said quietly.

Then, his body empty, Luke was happy. He asked Nina to take him to the park. Eric went along. Luke laughed and went down the slide without asking anyone to catch him. He built elaborate castles in the sandbox, he told Nina stories about his constructions, he asked her to push him in the swing, and to read him all the signs in the deli where they went to lunch, he took his afternoon nap peacefully with her, in her arms, he played in his room in the evening before dinner, he talked to Nina while they ate, he was very, very happy, and he ignored Eric completely.

He asked Nina to read his bedtime stories, instead of Eric, and told her Daddy didn’t have to come in to say good night. Eric went anyway, brushed the black hairs off Luke’s sweet brow, and kissed the soft chin. “I love you, Luke,” Eric said.

“Nighty-night,” Luke said in a phony voice. He usually said, “I love you too.”

Eric came out, beat. He thought: tomorrow Luke will start to hold it in again.

Eric fell onto the couch, facing a blank television screen, the remote control in his hand, too tired to press the power button. Nina’s hand brushed the top of his hair. He looked up and her face was on him. He saw a glimpse of her blue eyes, filled with water, and her lips kissed him. “You were very brave,” she said.

“Now I’m his stupid father,” Eric said, and he wanted to cry. His voice quavered; his eyes blurred.

“He loves you,” she said.

“Now I’m just another stupid father,” Eric said.

“NO!” BYRON shouted. “You can’t.” Luke dropped his mud cake.

“But, Byron, but—”

“No!” Luke does everything wrong. Doesn’t listen. “I told you. This is the tower. Nothing goes on the tower.”

“Oh, yeah.” Luke was being gooder now. “Right. You told me. What kind of thing would go on a tower! Right, Byron? Nothing should go on a tower.”

“Yeah, that would be crazy!” Luke’ll play right now. “Now, you be Skeletor. And I’ll put you in the prison.”

Luke pulled back. Byron grabbed him.

“Come on Skeletor. Go in the prison. You’re bad.” Luke is bad. He doesn’t listen.

“I don’t want to—”

“You have to! I have the power! You have to!”

“I don’t want to!” Luke ran away.

Good, I’ll catch him. Fast Byron — go! Got his arm and squeeze. “I got you, Skeletor!”

“Byron! What are you doing?” Oh, Pearl. Go away. “We’re playing.”

“I don’t wanna be Skeletor,” crybaby Luke was saying.

“Why do you cry all the time?” Bad Luke. Doesn’t listen.

“He don’t cry ’cept when you being so bossy,” Pearl said.

“What is it, Byron?” Francine’s big tushy was in his face. So big and blue, her pants stretched like a pillow when you sit on it. “You bossing Luke again? He plays so nice and you don’t let him be.”

“We were just playing He-Man. Luke was being Skeletor and I was chasing him. Right, Luke?” Byron nodded at Luke, making his eyes talk. He blinked the words at Luke: don’t tell them. They’re grown-ups and they’ll ruin our game. Blink, blink. Don’t tell them, Luke.