Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

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.

MOMMY 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!