Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

He blinked at her appearance with momentary confusion. Then he recognized Diane. He very clearly saw who she was.

At the realization that it was Diane, Byron stopped his animated delight. His legs stiffened, his open, welcoming, joyful mouth closed, his hands rested at his sides, his eyes were dulled by hostility, his melodic voice shut off, and he turned away.

Diane couldn’t believe it. She looked at Francine for confirmation, as though they had both witnessed a supernatural event. How could a four-month-old baby reject a mother? How could Byron even know enough (recognize Diane, be aware that her absence had been long, realize what a turned head meant) to hurt her?

Francine was embarrassed. “He’s getting tired,” she said, but that was an obvious lie.

Diane reached for Byron and lifted him. His face was solemn. Byron glanced at Diane when she put the tip of her nose against his and pursed her lips to kiss him. At the offer, Byron turned his head and gave her his cheek. Then he looked at Francine and once more the miracle happened.

His eyes glittered, his legs kicked, and his hands, the fingers spread wide, groped for Francine’s face; his mouth, gaped, the nude gums exposed, the soft pillows of his cheeks puffing out into an enormous smile: a welcome from his entire being, from the tips of his toes to the rippling veins of his almost bald head.

“Hi!” Francine couldn’t help responding.

Byron’s stomach trembled and the musical laughter echoed from the deepest part of his soul. Laughter of delight and love. All for Francine.

Diane turned him sideways so his beaming face would confront hers. Byron arched his back in protest. “Hi, Byron,” Diane said in a high, pleasant tone. “Mommy’s home!” Again Byron averted his head, his mouth closed tight, and a dull glaze, like translucent lids, covered his shining brown eyes. He was rejecting her.

She stood up. Byron tried to escape from her arms. He leaned his head back, arching away from her, his hands out to reach for Francine. “Where’s Peter?” Diane asked Francine.

“He called to say he would be late. Said he tried to reach you at the office.” Francine was sweating. She was dressed in a dingy white T-shirt and in washed-out blue jeans that were pulled tight across her big ass and bloated stomach. The middle of her body was much wider than her legs or upper torso. She looked as if she were walking around with a flotation doughnut. Nevertheless, Diane had been glad to get her instead of Pearl. Francine shared her friend Pearl’s cheerful voice; but Francine’s accent was New York, not southern, and her tone was casual, without a trace of Pearl’s deferential modesty. She made Diane feel less like a plantation owner and allowed her to be demanding, since she knew Francine would complain if the requests were unreasonable.

But Francine wasn’t pretty; she stood there like a badly made sausage, her kinky hair dyed a strange orange that was meant to be blond, her skin a filmy, uneven brown, her face dotted with pimples, and sweat oozed from her forehead, neck, and underarms. How could Byron prefer Francine? He doesn’t. He’s just punishing me.

Byron whined, his little hand out for Francine, the fingers calling for her. Diane kissed his stomach, rubbing her mouth into his navel, knowing that would tickle him into laughter and cover the embarrassment of this scene. His stretchy was soft and smelled of Byron’s life — formula, Francine, and baby powder.

Byron did laugh, but only reflexively. The moment Diane pulled back to look at his delighted toothless mouth, he stopped, his cherubic fluted lips closing tight. He pushed out with his legs and arms, trying to swim away from Diane. He groaned with the effort as if to say to Francine: take me back, take me away from this witch.

Francine smiled at him and shook her head. “Oh, you’re a bad boy. Now don’t tease your mommy like that. She has to work just like everybody. She’d stay home with you if she could.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Diane said.

“No?” Francine laughed, uneasy, but pleased by Diane’s honesty.

“I’d go crazy stuck home with a baby.”

“I don’t mind,” Francine said, patting the protrusion of her stomach, upholstered in denim. “Only problem is it keeps me too close to the refrigerator.” Throughout all this Byron continued to squirm recklessly, willing to hurl himself out of Diane’s arms to reach Francine.

The doorbell rang. Francine answered it and Peter entered, his voice loud with greeting, walking in wide paces, steadying himself on a rocky boat. He’s tipsy, Diane thought. “Hello, hello!” he called to them.

Byron jerked himself in Diane’s arms, attempting to sit up. His feet moved rapidly, walking in the air. His hands shot out in spasms of excitement.

“Hey, fella!” Peter said, and once again, the glorious sunrise of happiness dawned in Byron, his head rolling from side to side, his mouth open with ecstasy.

“O! O! O!” Byron hooted.

“He’s saying hello!” Peter bragged to Diane, obviously expecting this would delight her. “He’s saying hello to me!” he repeated with naïve pride. “Hey!” Peter said to Byron, rubbing the little ball of a stomach with his hand. Byron arched with pleasure, hunching his shoulders, his chin doubling, his mouth smacking open and closed as if Peter were a delicious food Byron hoped to eat.

“Well, since he’s saying hello to you, why don’t you change his diaper?” Diane snapped, and offered the squirming, chuckling Byron to Peter.

Peter stepped back, alarmed, shying away from Byron like a timid man confronted by a wild animal. “I just got in.”

“So did I,” Diane answered.

“I’ll change his diaper,” Francine said.

“No.” Diane sneered at both of them. “I was just kidding.” She marched out of the hallway to Byron’s room. The baby’s quarters were the smallest in the apartment, twelve feet by six feet, designed three generations ago to be used by a maid. Byron really ought to be in the second bedroom, she thought for the millionth time. Peter had insisted on keeping that space to himself for use as a study. Peter’s study, she repeated to herself contemptuously. I’m the one who has the real work and I get a small desk in our bedroom.

Byron had moaned while she carried him away from Francine and Peter and, as she laid him on the changing table, continued to grumble with complaints.

“Let’s find you something nice to sleep in,” she said.

Byron averted his face, turned to the wall, and groped it with his left hand, cooing at the shadows.

“Bye!” Francine called into the room. “Good-bye, Diane. Bye, bye, Byron!”

Byron swiveled his head and bounced his legs. “Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!” he went on and on, an owl high on speed.

“Good-bye, Francine,” Diane said, and lifted the excited Byron by his feet, sliding a fresh diaper under his pink bottom, leaving it open and unfastened for the moment to let him air — the best protection, she had read, against diaper rash. She bent down to open the drawer with his outfits and found herself at a level with his body, staring directly at Byron’s genitals.

His pencil stub of a penis was rigid, pointed at the ceiling, framed by his tightly packed testicles. The hairless arrangement was white and pure, unlike the muddy, overgrown garden of semen-bearing men. And yet this prepubescent creature was erect. Usually, his penis was soft, the head hiding like a turtle, melted into the pillows of his balls. Not now. It was straight up, divining to the heavens, while he thrust his legs out, his arms also rigid, the fat hands, with dimples for knuckles, grabbing for things out of reach — the edge of the diaper, the blue box of wipes, the pink bottle of powder. He seemed fierce with desire and strength, comical in such a small body, but impressive also for the same reason.