Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

Had he gotten up with Luke and let her sleep all night?

No, he was still naked. If he’d gotten up—

Like a stab, the thought split her brain.

She pulled the covers off, her heart back in the real world, the world of anxiety. Crib death.

She pulled on jeans, rushing, reached for her bra. Then she slowed down. If Luke was dead, she was in no hurry to find out.

Eric sat up and peered around. He looked stunned. “Wha—”

“I’ll go,” she said, and finished dressing. Eric scanned the room. She knew he was figuring it out.

“He slept?”

“Shhh,” she said, and began the walk, every step heating her blood, widening her vision. She had images: holding a limp body; standing beside her mother in black. She stopped right outside Luke’s door.

She heard Eric dressing. The sounds were frantic. He had arrived at the same terminus of terror.

She didn’t put her body in the doorway, but let her head peer about the edge.

Luke’s little body was still. Deathly still. And in the same position she had put him the night before.

She stared so hard at his back, searching for movement, that her eyes watered.

And she saw it. A slight rise and fall. His eyes twitched. She waited for him to cry. But he slept on.

The joy of this discovery was almost as awful as the earlier tear.

Eric came thudding toward her. “He’s asleep,” she whispered, stopping him with her hand.

“He slept through the night!” Eric said, his mouth open stupidly.

“Three months,” she said. “He’s three months old today.”

“You think it’s over?” Eric said with such simple trust in her, so sure that she would know.

She felt a chill of pleasure.

She could move. She could dance! She was rested, her son was normal, life was going to be life again, not war, not misery, but life.

They heard Luke peep. Then a rustle. And another peep. Not a complaint, but a noise of curiosity.

They looked. Luke’s head, resting on its side, was turned in their direction. The blue jewels of his eyes peered at them. He fought to move, to rise up.

“Hey, fella,” Eric said, and entered. “You slept, baby.”

Nina followed. She got ahead of Eric and picked Luke up. His face glowed from warmth and newness. He stretched his arms and wiggled his body. The long black hair was askew. She put him down on the changing table and unsnapped his stretchy.

His mouth opened. The tiny fluted lips widened. And widened. The semicircles of his gum appeared.

“You’re smiling!” Eric said.

Nina couldn’t speak. She didn’t dare break the enchantment, but she found herself leaning down and kissing his white belly.

And she heard a laugh.

A laugh she had never heard before: the first laugh of Luke’s life.

Her core of joy exploded. Everything was beautiful. She and Eric began to babble at Luke. He smiled again. He winced at the cool wipes, but didn’t cry. Eric, almost hopping with pleasure, went to get coffee. She heard Eric brag shamelessly to whoever was in the kitchen: “He slept through the night! And he’s smiling his head off.”

She didn’t care that Eric showing off his happiness to her family would be an admission they had been right to be critical.

Luke was feeding heartily. His eyes stayed on her, and when she smiled at his glorious beauty, he paused and smiled back. When she grabbed his foot and squeezed, he giggled. Even his eyes glittered cheerfully.

The colic was gone. This was a beautiful, happy baby.

After Luke ate, he beamed at everything. She carried him into the kitchen and showed him to the family. Luke watched them all calmly. He laughed when Brandy made a silly face. He touched her mother’s hand and let her hold him without a whimper of protest.

“Let’s take him out,” Nina said to Eric.

She showed Luke the pretty, pretty morning, the new golden light of this glorious day. She put Luke’s face to feel the shore air. He closed his eyes and rolled his head in rapture. She felt so good, so proud that she began to twirl.

Luke chuckled; his feet kicked. Eric began to laugh, his eyes tearing with joy. And then Eric joined her dance.

They twirled in the growing sun of the morning, spinning beneath the trees, Luke exultant, laughing, happy, exquisite. They danced with the wind and the grass and the water and held their son between them, their perfect baby for the new day, their final bond of love.

Eric collapsed after a minute, but Nina persisted. She offered her beautiful son to the world, and the beautiful world to him, spinning her Luke, her new planet under the ancient sun.

“NO MO!” BYRON shouted. The big floor was cold. Ice floor. Byron slid his feet along until he saw his house. He loved his house. Your house is beautiful, Grandma said. Beautiful. He could make it more: he took a long block, a smooth block, ice block, and balanced it sideways on the roof. Another floor.

“Byron! Breakfast!”

“No!” He was a big boy. “No breakfast!” he said with the resonant voice of a hero.

Mommy’s feet thumped. He grabbed another block fast. Do it fast. Byron put the long, smooth, tall block straight up on the roof. “Look, Mommy! Look, Mommy!”

“Byron, what are you doing? I told you to come in for breakfast. I’ve made cereal for you.”

“No—” He couldn’t make the sound. What was the sound? “No sea! No sea!”

“You don’t want to eat? Fine. Then you’re getting dressed.”

“Look at house, Mommy. See the ant-enna?” Byron pulled on his penis, the pleasant rubbery attachment, stretched the hose at her, as if it could extend forever and entwine her. “Look at my ant-enna!”

Diane slid open a dresser drawer. It floated on air, mouth agape, tongue out, and displayed undigested clothes. “ Antenna! An tenna! ” Diane corrected, her back to Byron, selecting a white turtleneck, blue overalls, socks, and sneakers for him. “Put this on,” she said, holding the turtleneck out.

Byron moved at her with his quick feet, small hand out, his wide mouth parted, showing tiny, brilliant teeth. He had a look of pleasant obedience as he grasped the turtleneck. He lowered his head and bent his knees, bowing, and joyfully flung the turtleneck away.

It flew on the air, a ghost person, and died on the crib, crucified by the bars.

“Byron!”

“Look, Mommy. It’s dead.”

“It’s not dead. Stop saying that.”

Got Mommy angry. “It isn’t living.”

“It was never alive, that’s why it can’t be dead. Now put the shirt on. We have to go out and meet this nice woman who you’ll play with.”

“I wanna play with Francine.”

“Put on your clothes.”

“I don’t like them!” No winning with Mommy. She made everything always wrong.

“Byron, that’s ridiculous! Okay, fine. Then what do you want to wear?”

“My pj’s.”

“Oh!” Mommy’s body looked ready to jump, jump like Grandma’s cat.

“Pee, pee, pee,” Byron said. Pulling on himself had made him tingle. He danced from one foot to the other and his voice pierced his skull.

“Go ahead!” Diane motioned to the door to the bathroom.

The floor inside was colder. He bent his back and shot the juice out. “Apple juice!” he said. “I’m going to drink some,” he said, and waited.

“Don’t you dare!” Mommy called.

There wasn’t much in him. He skipped out on his toes. He didn’t want to touch the cold with all of his feet.

“What do you do after you pee?”

“Drink more,” Byron said. He laughed like Mommy, whooshing the air out between his teeth. His lips buzzed and felt fat.

“Go and flush the toilet and then put this on.” The turtleneck was in her hands again.