Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

While Diane quickly finished cleaning the stove and mixed a new bowl of cereal, she noticed Byron lowering his head down toward the pot, reenacting the crime. He let his forehead touch the rim, and then jerked back at the contact, as if the pot might grab him. At his escape, he would hoot, clap, grab the handle, and thump the pot on the floor, announcing his triumphant mastery.

She put Byron into his high chair, and reflected on his calling for Peter first, then saying her name. “Ah! Ah!” Byron spoke, while she strapped him in, his eyes going from the bowl of oatmeal to her, his hand pounding the table impatiently. “Ah! Ah!”

“You’re ready to talk,” Diane informed him. She picked up the bowl and used the silver baby spoon given to them by Peter’s mother, Gail, to sculpt out a small wave of cereal. Diane offered the stuff to Byron’s already open mouth — his narrow tongue out in the air, curled in anticipation. “Food,” she told him. “Food.”

Byron’s eyebrows went up, inquisitive, while he closed his soft red lips over the spoon and suctioned the mush inside. “Mmmm, rowrr, mmm, O!” he commented on the texture and taste.

“Food,” she said, and spooned more from the bowl. She held it up for him to see.

Byron banged his hand on the table, startling Diane. “Owff!” Byron exclaimed, and lunged forward to capture the spoon with his mouth. She gave him another portion.

Was he saying “food”?

“More?” she asked, gesturing with the spoon at the bowl of oatmeal.

Byron was grinding the mush, his fluted elastic lips pursed, his eyes almost crossed from concentration on the taste. “Mrrr, awrr, grrr, oof! Mrr, awrr. O!” Byron said to her.

“You’re saying something complicated. Compliments to the chef?”

“Diane!” Peter was at the door again. He had put on yesterday’s shirt — wrinkled from a night on the floor. Peter looked absurd, his hair shocked upwards, his thin legs shadowed by the billowing curtains that his belly made of the shirttail.

“What is it, Peter?” she snapped, ready to yell at him if he repeated his complaint.

“Did you say he fell into a pot?” Peter rubbed his eyes and peered at Byron.

“Da! Da!” Byron hooted.

“Yes,” she answered coolly. “He’s all right.”

“He fell into a pot on the stove and he’s all right!”

“No, no, no.” She laughed and lost track of the spoonful of oatmeal, dangling it within reach of Byron’s hand. He knocked the dollop of beige matter onto the table. “Byron,” she chided. She scooped more cereal and gave it to Byron while describing the accident to Peter. Her husband listened soberly at first, and then scratched his head sleepily.

“I think he’s psychotic,” Peter judged.

“That’s nice,” Diane said. “Nice way to talk.”

Peter shrugged. He opened the cabinet full of cereals and squinted inside. Peter switched on the overhead lights to see better but was startled by a hoot from Byron.

“Oooh!” Byron lurched forward, his fat arm hailing the light. His eyes narrowed, his mouth scrunched with effort. “Da! Da!” he shouted at the light.

“Daddy turned on the light,” Diane said.

“Da! Da! Oooh! Oooh!”

“No, Da, Da. Light,” she said.

“He thinks everything is called Da, Da,” Peter said.

This galvanized Diane. She unbuckled Byron from the high chair seat belt and put him on her hip. She turned on the globe over the table. “Light,” she said.

“Oooh.” Byron squinted from the glare.

“Light,” she repeated.

Byron queried her with his eyes.

She carried him into the living room. She turned on the standing lamp next to the couch. “Light!” she said. She walked to the end table on the other side and turned on that lamp. “Light!”

Byron put his fingers on her lips, a gentle, curious touch. “Laaa,” he said awkwardly from his throat.

“Light,” she repeated. She moved to the hallway and flipped the switch. “Light.” She pointed to the ceiling fixture.

“Laa! Laa!” he screamed, arching out of her arms, reaching to embrace the bulbs.

“Light, light.” She had to pull to carry Byron off (although he was in her arms, his attraction to the fixture seemed to have the force of planetary gravity) and went to the bedroom, flipping the wall switch. “Light, light.”

“Diane!” Peter called.

“Laaa … t!” Byron broke through the weak muscles of infancy, pushing the sound out. “Laa … it!”

She felt a rush of joy, a terrible chill of happiness. “That’s right! Light!”

“Laaait!” Byron stretched the sounds in his throat, grappling with them, muscling them to the right shape.

“Light, light!”

“Laait! Laait!”

“That’s right, baby!” She kissed his cheek, his puffy pillow.

Byron ignored the affection. He pointed to the illumination and masticated the sounds, his voice piercing: “Lahi-t! Lahi-t!”

“Diane!” Peter appeared at her side, exasperated. “Have you gone mad? The poor kid just woke up.”

“He knows!” Diane felt the energy of her pleasure surge to her face, her eyes tearing. “He knows, Peter. He can talk.”

“Da, Da!” Byron said, and reached for his father.

Peter took him. Byron’s little body was hot, his eyelids were creased. Byron leaned his head against Peter’s shoulder. “He’s tired,” Peter said.

“Watch,” Diane said. She turned the light off and then on. “What is it?” she said to Byron.

Byron lifted his head, his back tight with attention. “Laa-hit! La-iht!”

“That’s right,” escaped from Peter’s lips, his face beaming.

Diane went to Byron and held his cheeks with her hands, looking into his eyes. “You’re so smart. My beautiful baby boy. You’re so smart.”

ON BYRON’S first birthday, Diane celebrated with a big party, inviting everyone she knew who had children under five, the grand- and stepgrandparents, Peter’s half sister and half brother, as well as his stepsister and stepbrother. They all came, even the merely legal relations, despite the fact that many had to journey from afar.

Peter was disturbed by their presence. He hid behind his Nikon camera, escaping from conversations that were dull, demanding, or dumb, by claiming a need to photograph the instigator with Byron. Peter ran out of film before Diane had even brought out the cake, and that provided him with an excuse to run outside to buy more.

“I can’t believe you didn’t buy enough film” were Diane’s parting words.

The awful thing, Peter realized, once out on the street, was that none of those people fought to get him to pay attention, to belong, to engage in the party. They were happy to let him be obscured by Byron, by the event, by the camera. Diane? They surrounded her, questioned her, praised her. Because of the existence of Byron, his relations seemed to retract their skepticism of Diane.

“You married well,” his stepsister had commented out of the blue to Peter when they passed in the hallway. “Diane’s a terrific mother.”

“Are you surprised?” he asked pointedly.

His stepsister had two kids and had never had a job. She looked defensive, but answered truthfully. “Yes. I thought Diane was too wrapped up in her career to have a baby. I don’t know how she does it.”

Peter felt flustered, almost accused, by that answer. For a reply, he took her picture with Diane and Byron.

While he walked to the film store, Peter had a strong desire to hail a cab, take it somewhere, midtown perhaps, and shop in the Fifth Avenue stores. He passed a pair of phone booths. A young man of college age occupied one, talking animatedly. Peter entered the free booth and called Rachel. He dialed without considering the why or the consequences. He needed her sensibilities, her oxygen.