Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

“No, thank you,” Diane said, and walked past her into the nursery. Behind her, she heard Mrs. Murphy make a noise. Diane ignored her, found the white cap in the carriage, and put it on Byron. Byron opened his large gray-blue eyes wide, staring fixedly at some point in between him and her, observing the approach of an astonishing spectacle. Diane put him on his back, tucking in the thin blanket on the sides of the mattress, and raised the hood. Byron started at that; his eyes blinked twice, and then he again fell into a profound stare. Diane covered his exposed lower half with a heavy plaid blanket, deferring whether to protect him totally until she got outdoors. It was mid-June, after all, and although not hot, already muggy; the slivers of sky she could see from Byron’s window were yellow with haze.

“Here we go,” she said to Byron — still, frozen Byron, gaping at the world. Maneuvering the bulky carriage out his door required care, so Diane’s vision was concentrated on clearing the sides. Diane didn’t see Mrs. Murphy standing in her way, a matronly blockade, arms folded, eyes narrowed in disapproval. She only felt the motion stop.

“You can’t take a newborn out like that, ma’am,” she heard Mrs. Murphy say, without her pleasant lilt, without the insinuation of command. Her authority rang clear, undiffused.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Murphy. I didn’t see you.”

“That’s all right. Let me dress him for you.”

Mrs. Murphy hadn’t moved from her position. “No!” Diane said, and gently butted her with the carriage.

“I’m here till the end of the week, my dear,” Mrs. Murphy said, her hand on the hood to prevent a repetition. “Then you can do things your way. I’ve taken care of hundreds of infants. I think I know what I’m doing.”

What is it about older women? Is crushing us their only chance at power? Mrs. Murphy had been insufferable during the past two weeks, silently correcting everything Diane did, by either changing her selection of outfit or taking Byron away, claiming Diane or he was tired. Mrs. Murphy gave Byron a bottle one night without discussing it in advance, and used the defense that Diane needed rest. Mrs. Murphy’s arrogance amazed Diane; after all, she was an employee, a servant. Peter didn’t seem surprised — and he was the one who had grown up with help, a string of nannies and mother’s helpers. Peter accepted Mrs. Murphy’s arrogation of authority over their son, taking Mrs. Murphy’s side whenever Diane had tried to argue.

“Mrs. Murphy, I’m taking my son outside.” Diane pulled the carriage back to free it of the woman’s grip and then began to move forward, determined, if necessary, to bowl her over.

Mrs. Murphy didn’t move. The carriage jerked to a halt on impact, the front end tipping up. Byron let out a protest.

“What are you doing?” Diane sounded like a teenager to herself, an angry, but ultimately helpless, adolescent.

“I cannot be responsible, I cannot work here if you don’t listen, if you don’t take my advice.”

Diane pulled the carriage back. Mrs. Murphy seemed to expand with pride at this apparent victory. Diane walked around the carriage and took hold of Mrs. Murphy’s fat arm, just under the elbow where the flesh was soft and loose. “Do you know who I am?” Diane said. “I’m a lawyer.” Mrs. Murphy blinked, puzzled. “At a top firm. I’m not some dumb rich housewife. I can sue your agency’s ass off. I can make life miserable for them at no cost to me except my time. I can make sure you never work again.”

“Take your hands off me!” Mrs. Murphy said, and yanked her arm free. “How dare you speak to me like that! What do you know about being a mother? Nothing. You don’t love that baby. You don’t know what loving is.”

Diane pushed Mrs. Murphy, her palms out flat, each one on a shoulder. “Get out!” Mrs. Murphy staggered back, blinking her narrow, wrinkled eyes. Diane slapped Mrs. Murphy’s shoulders again, her own legs trembling. “Get out of my house!” Mrs. Murphy grabbed at Diane’s hand, catching a pinkie. It twisted painfully. Diane pulled back. She was so angry she felt the narrow hall expand, Mrs. Murphy shrink, and lost any sense of her own body. “Get out of here, you ugly woman! You ugly, ugly, ugly thing! Get out!”

“Don’t you dare raise your hand to me.” Mrs. Murphy’s puffy cheeks wobbled with fury. “I could break you in two.”

“Oh, shut up!” Diane hated herself, felt ridiculous and incompetent. She should have been able to handle this woman without emotion, the way Brian Stoppard would, freeze her with a glance, a chilly word. Diane trembled while she walked back to the carriage and pushed it toward the door. Mrs. Murphy, this time, not only didn’t attempt to stop her, but held the front door open.

“I want you out—” Diane began.

“I’ll be gone! Don’t you worry.”

Diane’s legs were still uncertain, her knees liquid, when she reached the street.

Although Diane had ventured forth without Byron and had taken a brief stroll with a gang (Peter’s father, stepmother, Mrs. Murphy, Byron, and Peter), this was her first solo tour with Byron, her virgin appearance as mother and child. She was conscious that she looked right, a yuppie mother, walking down lower Fifth Avenue with the proper brand of baby carriage, her outfit durable but preppie-chic. She looked the part, but she was a fraud. Diane was a peasant: her skin dark, made for field labor, not office fluorescence; her features big, with the strong jaw and deep-set, mournful eyes of her dead father.

A pair of old women stopped Diane and Byron on Tenth Street. They placed their bodies in the way of the carriage and clucked like grandmothers even before they got a view of Byron. Byron looked at the old ladies with his staring, challenging eyes. Byron’s face was like Diane’s — humorless, strong, immobile. He wasn’t cute. Diane could hear in their exclamations a certain reserve. Byron wasn’t quite the pretty, fragile, soft thing they expected and wanted.

After the old women let her continue, Byron finally moved his head and made complaining sounds. Mrs. Murphy had been giving him a pacifier, he seemed dependent on it already, and Diane had forgotten to bring it. He groaned, moved his head from side to side. His arms reached out. I’d better go back, she thought, dreading an early return that would put her face-to-face with Mrs. Murphy.

And then, almost by accident, Byron found his hand and practically punched himself in the mouth with his little fist. He sucked on the closed thumb and two fingers. His eyes shut contentedly.

Soothe yourself, she thought with pride. You and I, we don’t need them. We can comfort ourselves with our strength.

PETER STUDIED his mother’s thin, elegant body. Gail was dressed in a tight black turtleneck; her breasts made small, almost circular lumps against the material, whitish lumps, the hue presumably caused by a bra.

“Did you breast-feed me?” he asked.

“Nobody did in those days. Are you hurt?” Gail teased Peter with the question, her thin, bloodless lips (pale even with red lipstick) pressed together, holding back a smile.

“Diane says, or, rather, the books say, that some chemical is transferred which helps brain development—”

Gail caught up to him quickly, as always. “So I’m at fault for your bad LSAT’s.”

“I guess you were breast-fed,” Peter parried. “You’re too clever.”

“I gave you good genes, Peter. It’s up to you to make something of them. And you have. I’m proud of you.” Gail turned her head, apparently to search for a waiter (she raised her unadorned hand in the air to attract attention), but Peter felt she meant to avoid intensifying her words by meeting his eyes. A waiter appeared. “I’d like some ice water please.” Gail loved cold water, was the first in the Hamptons to brave the spring ocean, kept a pitcher of fresh water, loaded with ice, to drink as a cocktail years before people gave up hard liquor, and liked, when sailing with her second husband, to stand with her face vulnerable to the spray, not wincing at its cool spit. The hand with which she had gotten the waiter’s attention went to her undyed hair, gray (although not stiff or yellowed) and brought back in a simple bun. Her hand smoothed hairs that were not out of place, arranging the arranged. “How’s Diane?”