Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

Eric held his hand against the wound and studied the block while he waited for the sting to pass. Like the other streets between Eighth and Fourteenth, Eleventh was a row of red brick town houses, interrupted occasionally by a brownstone, a stunted white brick version of the typical postwar high rise, and, an exception to the other blocks, by the tacky glass and concrete structure of the New School.

Behind Eric was a curiosity, however: a small triangle of cleared land, protected by a concrete wall made forbidding by the addition of spiked iron bars. At the middle of the open space was a locked iron gate. Eric walked to it and glanced in; the triangle was a cemetery. There seemed to be about a dozen worn tombstones.

A cemetery in the middle of Manhattan? And so tiny!

The area inside the wall was no more than ten feet deep and thirty wide. Eric read the plaque on the wall next to the gate:

THE SECOND CEMETERY OF THE SPANISH

AND PORTUGUESE SYNAGOGUE

SHEARITH ISRAEL IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK

1805–1829

A stillness surrounded Eric. The line of cars honking at the corner, the noise of pedestrians seemed to diminish as he looked into this hallowed strip of land. Against the rear brick wall, covered by ivy, the letters of one of the washed-out and faded white tombstones could still be read: ISAAC HENRY. Beneath the name were Hebrew letters blurred by erosion, and below them, writ large in English:

SACRED.

This little plot of land had survived, had endured all this time, and even won out over the greed of New York land development.

Eric peered at the other stones. He could make out another name: PHILLIPS. He read the plaque again. A chill shivered down his spine. He didn’t know why.

A young woman’s voice startled him. “Look at this!”

“What is it?” a young man answered in a southern accent.

Eric looked at them. Probably NYU students. She was beautiful and tall. She pushed her long blond hair over her shoulder, it draped gracefully down her long, straight back, and she read the plaque out loud in a tone of wonder.

“My God,” the young man said when she finished. “There were Jews here even then.”

“Shhh,” she said, glancing at Eric. The young man followed her look.

“That’s what makes it a great city,” the southerner continued to her, although the apology was for Eric’s benefit.

“That’s right!” Eric said to him.

The couple smiled nervously and moved on. Eric watched them until they disappeared, turning the corner at Fifth Avenue. At one point the young southerner looked back, saw Eric, and turned away again. The couple quickened their pace after that. He thinks I’m gonna punch him out, Eric thought, amused. He thinks I’m a New York crazy.

When Eric got back on his bike, he was almost too tired to push the pedals. He prayed that Nina would be calmer than she had sounded on the phone, that the house would be clean, that there would be something home-cooked to eat.

But Eric wasn’t surprised when he found the opposite. Nina’s eyes were red, the beds were unmade, the sink filled with dishes, dirty ashtrays were everywhere, the apartment had a vague odor of baby shit, and Luke — Luke was crying.

“I can’t stand it anymore,” Nina said breathlessly. “I’m just letting him cry. The doctor said—”

Eric walked past her into Luke’s room. The cries were heartrending. Luke was arching his back, then falling forward, smashing his face into the mattress, trying to escape the weakness of his muscles and the torment of his loneliness. “How long has he been crying?” Eric yelled at Nina.

“Ten minutes,” she pleaded, tears filling her eyes. “He’s been like this all day—”

“Lie down!” Eric shouted. “Rest! I’ll take care of him.”

“Okay,” she said, leaving the room, hanging her head.

Eric picked up his son. Luke wheezed with gasping cries; his little body flailed in Eric’s arms, so frantic that it took awhile before Eric calmed enough to realize he had what he wanted — comforting warmth and steady motion.

Luke’s breathless panic slowed. His bobbing head stopped and he leaned back against Eric’s supporting hand to look at his savior. The curious blue circles stared into Eric’s eyes. Although the air conditioner was on, sweat poured off Eric’s brow; Eric’s body wept onto Luke’s clothes. Eric wanted to smile at Luke, but he couldn’t. He was worn out. His back ached sorely, as though he were a field laborer at the end of the season’s harvest. His leg stung from the scrape. His body felt hot and yet he shivered from the chills where the sweat had oozed.

Eric rocked Luke from side to side.

Calm down, my son. Feel my love. You are safe. You are safe. Rest with me. Rest with me.

Luke leaned his head against Eric’s shoulder and sighed. The plump baby legs stretched out; the small feet dangled.

You are with me. You are safe.

Eric reached into the crib and picked up Luke’s pacifier. He put it to Luke’s lips. They opened greedily. Luke chewed, rested his head against Eric, and sighed.

Eric sat in the rocker and began the movement that had become second nature, losing his self to the motion, his arms pressing Luke firmly, not tight, but close.

Eric’s body ached. It told him: you can’t keep this up.

I will.

You will lose your clients.

I won’t.

You will get killed on your bike.

I won’t.

This will make no difference. Your son will always be like this.

He won’t.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eric saw Luke’s eyes begin to close, the lids rocking open and shut with the motion, each time, shutting tighter, opening less.

No matter what it does to me, Eric said to the fate that tormented him, I will fight to make this work. I will give every drop of my soul to rescue my son from your evil.

Eric vowed to himself: he will never cry again. I will rock him even if I drop dead doing it. He will never cry again.

In the silence of the room, he rested his thoughts, his worries. He felt his son’s warmth and relaxation. From time to time Luke started in his sleep. Eric yearned to let go of him, to be free to sleep himself. Eric’s stomach cringed for food. The sun went down, darkness seeping into the apartment. There were no sounds from Nina’s room. Luke’s body finally went so limp that his head slid gradually down into the crook of Eric’s arm.

It was night. Hours had passed.

Eventually Nina began to make noises. He heard sheets rustling. Then footsteps. Dishes loaded into the machine. The garbage can being lifted, a bag tied, the front door opening. Finally she appeared at the doorway, peering cautiously into the dark room.

“Is he asleep?” she asked.

Eric couldn’t speak to her. He nodded.

“Why don’t you lay him down?”

“You know why,” he said.

“I can’t handle it,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m going to need some help.”

“Fine. Hire someone.”

“We have the money?”

“No. But I’ll get the money.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Maybe my parents—”

“I’ll get the money.”

“Do you want something to eat?”

“No.”

Nina stood there. Eric felt nothing but rage at her. “Are you angry?” she asked.

“Don’t ever let him cry like that again.”

“I just couldn’t—”

“Don’t!” he shouted. Luke started in his arms. Eric began to rock again. “Don’t!” he whispered from the darkness to his wife. “Call me if you have to. But don’t ever let him cry and be alone again. Don’t ever leave him alone and unhappy.”

Nina covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God,” she said.

“That’s all I ask. You can get help, you don’t have to cook. You don’t have to even think about me. But he must never be left to cry.”