Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

She could feel them in the room — the mothers of her family. Silent and benign, Nina felt them enter, dissolve together, and inhabit her.

The women before her were here, their ghosts rocking infants too, their ceaseless care now hers.

Her labor was over. She was born a mother.

BYRON’S MOUTH came at Peter. Byron was in his walker, a little seat with a tray in front and wheels on the bottom. He raced in his walker, powering himself with his feet. He raced madly along the length of the hall, eyes bright, charging his father with a joyous wide-open mouth.

Peter had come home in despair at the tedium of another evening with his wife and son. The nine months of Byron’s life, the nine months of diminished socializing, sleeping Diane, and early-morning rising, seemed to stretch back endlessly, covering all of Peter’s past. He could no longer remember the days of last-minute dinner dates and leisurely gossiping in bed with Diane. He had long since given up on making love with his wife; a five-minute conversation that wasn’t about Byron’s motor development was the closest they came to intimate contact. Besides, Peter didn’t want to sleep with Diane anymore. The few times they had, she seemed, even when physically pleased, put upon by the request, and dismissive afterward.

“Da, Da! Da, Da! Da, Da!” Byron telegraphed his only word with staccato insistence.

The walker smashed painfully into Peter’s shin. Byron was bounced back by the impact. Byron stood up on his legs, sat down in the seat, then got up again. Abruptly he went in reverse, backing away.

“Da, Da! Da, Da!” he claimed Peter.

“Yes, fella,” Peter said. He bent over to rub his leg.

Thus encouraged, Byron charged again. His mouth was open, revealing two tiny teeth on his bottom gum. Peter went to his knees and put out his hands to stop the walker.

Braked by Peter’s hands, Byron was jolted again. His head whipped back and forward. Alarmed, Peter said, “Are you okay?”

Byron laughed. His fat little round face beamed. “Da, Da! Da, Da!” he answered, his mouth open, his hands reaching for Peter’s nose.

Peter leaned forward and kissed Byron on the forehead. Byron grabbed for Peter’s mouth. His nails were sharp and Peter had to give Byron his hand to prevent himself from being scratched. Byron took Peter’s index finger greedily and slowly tried to pull it to his mouth.

“Hungry?” Peter said, indulgently.

Byron opened his brown eyes wide and pursed lips together quizzically. Byron maneuvered Peter’s finger toward his mouth slowly, testing whether he was allowed. Peter let him. Gently Byron put Peter’s finger between his lips, frowning as his tongue touched the adult skin.

Then Byron bit down as hard as he could.

The two little teeth were sharp as razors. Peter yelled and pulled his finger back. Byron looked baffled.

“Jesus! What the hell are you doing!” Peter yelled.

Insulted, Byron’s mouth opened to bawl, but no sound came out. Peter glanced at his finger. There were two little indentations in the skin.

Now the sound of Byron’s cry did come out. Peter was terrified by its volume and passion. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Diane appeared in the hallway. “What did you do to him?” she shouted over. She picked up Byron. He arched his back, his face turned red, and tear droplets appeared at the corners of his eyes.

“He bit me!” Peter complained.

“Did you?” Diane said to Byron, smiling, as if biting his father were a witty action.

“Don’t praise him for it!” Peter said.

“He’s a baby. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Diane kissed Byron’s stomach. His crying was instantly churned into gay chuckles. He bicycled his legs, his hands reached for her — a sensual creature, guiltless and rapacious, to Peter’s mind, plundering the household’s supply of love.

Every night was the same, only more so, Peter thought. As Byron got older, and was more able to stay awake, the disruption of their life got worse and worse. Once Byron learned to crawl, the apartment was under siege by his curiosity. He attacked televisions, video recorders, magazines, books, and records; the floor and all tables below four feet in height had to be constantly policed for dangerous or precious objects.

No one asked about Peter’s health anymore. “How’s Byron?” his mother and his friends always wondered first. “Is he crawling? Is he eating solid food?” Last week, Peter had felt flush. When Gail, his mother, called about the museum’s cocktail party, Peter told her he was ill. “Stay away from Byron” was her response.

Diane had stopped accompanying Peter to theater or other functions. Peter spent four nights a week out alone. Although Peter had avoided Rachel, he had had four dalliances — a result, he believed, of Diane’s desertion. But the phenomenon of Peter’s sexual abstraction remained even with other women: he was unable to enjoy the intercourse; numbed from the waist down by memory, Peter screwed without a climax, a drama full of tension, but no release. Kissing, cuddling, wooing the woman’s body, he was excited and alive — but once his penis was involved, his mind lifted off and looked down dispassionately on him, the woman, and the activity. He was unable to feel pleasure. Somehow he blamed Diane and Byron, believed they had stolen his passion.

Peter had made up his mind to talk to Diane. He needed her back, he needed his wife. So tonight he had come home early from an Uptown Theater fund raiser, canceled his tickets to the new Fosse show, and bought a bottle of champagne to make things festive. Peter lifted the Moët out of its brown wrapper. “Would you like some?”

Diane squinted. “Champagne? Byron’s hot,” she said, frowning. She kissed Byron’s forehead. “Could you get the thermometer?”

“He’s got a fever?”

“He’s hot,” she repeated. “Feel.” She offered Byron to Peter. Byron’s eyelids were half lowered and had an extra crease. Peter put his hand on Byron’s forehead. Byron tried to shake it off and kicked Peter’s chest hard enough to hurt.

“He feels warm,” Peter agreed, and backed away. This nine-month-old was dangerous.

“Get the thermometer,” Diane said.

Peter obeyed, putting the champagne in the refrigerator first. They could drink it later, after Byron was asleep. When Peter returned from the bathroom, Diane frowned at the plastic case and shrieked, “This is an oral thermometer! What’s the matter with you?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Peter said. Diane sounded shrewish, the same tone Lily used with Diane.

“What do you think! A nine-month-old is gonna hold a thermometer under his tongue?”

“We don’t have any other thermometer!” Peter shouted, and instantly was ashamed that he had lost his temper. Byron, who had been twisting and squawking in Diane’s arms, began to cry again.

“I bought a rectal thermometer. It’s in the cabinet.”

Peter was disgusted. He remembered back to when he was left by his mother, Gail, to stay with his friend Gary for a weekend. They were eight or nine. Both of them had come down with fevers; they weren’t particularly high, but Gary’s mother had insisted on …He shook his head at the memory. Peter had wanted to object, to balk at Gary’s mother’s request. She wouldn’t have forced him, but Gary had somehow intimidated Peter, made him feel he had to. The humiliation of lowering his pants and allowing a stranger (Gary’s mother was a stranger to Peter, no matter how well he knew her) to put … He felt sick to his stomach thinking about it. Gail always let Peter use an oral thermometer. When Peter made that point, Gary’s mother had said disdainfully, “It’s not accurate.” Peter remembered the pleasure Gary’s mother seemed to take in their discomfort: “Don’t move around! Lie still. You’re such babies! ” Gail would never have done that to Peter. She never offended his dignity. Why didn’t I object, why didn’t I—