Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

“He’s just like me,” Eric would say about anything Luke did well.

“That’s the Wasp in him,” Eric would say about Luke’s shyness or his passivity in fighting off other children in the sandbox.

And Luke adored his daddy. Daddy came home with toys, freed Luke from gravity, carried him into the atmosphere, high above the world on his broad, thick shoulders. Daddy never yelled. Daddy never said no.

But Nina had to say no. Nina was always there. Nina yelled. She was vain enough to think that her parenting was better, her love more genuine. But did Luke know that? Did he seem happier with his father because he really was or because Luke knew that Daddy couldn’t take anything else? When Luke crashed into something and cried, the look on Eric’s face was more pathetic. When Luke lost a pail to a marauding toddler, he seemed even more humiliated than usual if Eric was around. Luke would burst into tears, not at the loss of the object but at Eric’s painfully slow method of recovery or, even worse, Eric’s monologues of advice to Luke about how to handle the next confrontation. Luke would listen, head bowed, his chin tight, hating himself, hating his father’s supposedly reassuring tone, eyes darkened in their pain. In dreadful pain, she knew. She knew. She knew how much the kindly advice of a disappointed father can bruise and bruise and then bleed later.

But how could she tell Eric? Eric would never believe her conviction that if he blew up at Luke and yelled with all his might, told Luke to bash the next grasping two-year-old in the face, that Eric’s rage, for all its apparent brutality, would be better for Luke than Eric’s labored critique, delivered in a compassionate tone.

Luke had taken to refusing to go to the park on weekends, something Eric encouraged, it seemed to Nina, and she believed their twisted relations with each other about the other kids was the cause. She wanted to correct Eric, to get him to behave like a father, to push Luke, out into the world, to open his big arms and let go.

But every attempt to introduce her observations provoked immediate defensiveness: “I said that to him! But he gets too upset. I can’t. I think — I mean, he’s two years old, he’s got plenty of time to learn how to defend his things. I mean, I think he’s kind of noble — not worrying about his possessions, but worrying over the other kid’s feelings.”

Eric’s attitude, his casual acceptance of Luke’s lack of aggression, seemed bizarre and self-contradictory. All Eric cared about, in his own life, was money. The gathering and growing of money. How could he accept Luke’s passivity?

And her own disgust with Luke’s meek, selfless manner, Luke’s horror of argument or disapproval, his total absence of competitiveness — wasn’t that like herself? Nina never cared when one of their friends bought a new car, got a house in the Hamptons; she was never provoked by others bragging or teasing, by their accomplishments, honors, possessions. Like Luke, she preferred to sit with nothing, to have herself and the universe, rather than squeeze into the squashed planet of things. Why shouldn’t her son, with her blood, her bones, her eyes, be the same?

She knew the answer. Because he was a man. She hated the answer. But the answer was in her heart, not her head. He was a man and they would take things from him if he didn’t fight. Maybe feminism had changed things for women (she doubted it, but she hoped so), but for the men? No. They still slaughtered their own.

Look at those boys in the park. Carrying swords or whirring, flashing guns. Planting their feet, little hands on little hips, chins out, fists in the air: “I have the power!” Humming cartoon sound tracks, smashing castles with their feet, chasing pigeons with murderous delight.

Soft, sweet Luke, with his milk skin and dark mop of hair, his big bay water blue eyes, resting his head against her breasts, just wasn’t mean enough for the big boys. He had a year or two before having to face them, before her protection would no longer be reasonable, before he would be considered weak.

Someone had to push him, push him out into the world. Luke couldn’t afford to be like her. He needed big Eric, angry, hungry, greedy Eric, to darken Luke’s skin and cover those vulnerable eyes with the opaque shine of ambition and callousness.

“NO!” BYRON shouted. The glass that wasn’t slid up and down easy. But it wouldn’t stay. How funny. Push it closed. Let go. It dropped!

“Byron. Stop it.”

“Taxi! Taxi! Taxi!” Byron said, and dove into his mother’s lap.

“Do you know what that’s for?”

“What’s for?”

“What you were playing with. You put the money in there.”

“There?”

“Yes. So the driver can take it and give you change.”

“Silly,” Byron said. He slid down, down, down into rubber depths where it smelled of the dark. Mommy pulled at him. He grabbed the rope of her arm and swung, monkey in a tree.

“Byron! Stop it. You have to sit up here.”

Her fingers dug into the pockets under his shoulders. Felt like they poked through. Hurt. “Owww!” She put him back onto the seat. He kicked at the glass that wasn’t. He kicked at the money drawer and banged it up. Bang! It fell back right away.

“Stop!” Mommy held his leg down. He pressed against her a bit to feel the strength, the firmness of her grasp.

“Is that glass?” he asked.

“What?”

“That!” He flung his arm in the direction of the partition.

“No, it’s plastic.”

“No, it isn’t!” he shouted. Plastic was a toy.

“Yes, it is. It’s plastic.”

“Plastic has colors!” Mommy never told the truth.

“This is clear plastic.”

She sounded fast. Running away. “What’s clear?” Byron shouted, and bounced against her, bounced against the mommy wall.

“No color.” She pushed him away. “We’re here. I have to pay.”

“I wanna pay!”

“No!” Mommy shouted.

MOMMY AND DADDY were going to leave him. Luke knew. He knew suddenly. Mommy and Daddy were going to go outside. But not with him. Outside into the dark. The glowing dark. He knew. Grandma and Grandpa were there because Mommy and Daddy were going.

“Hey, Luke. Can Grandpa hold you?”

No, Luke thought. He turned away. The sea rug floated between him and Daddy. Daddy wants to go. Luke ran to stop him.

“Luke,” Daddy said sadly.

Luke ran into the arm basket, jumped into the elevator, up in the air to Daddy’s big face and got a kiss. But that was bad. Daddy’s arms held him tight. Too tight. “Nina!” Daddy called, his voice crying.

Grandpa was next to him. Holding a stuffed bear. “What’s his name?”

Luke pressed against Daddy’s shirt. It smelled hot and flat and new. Daddy was going.

Mommy came. Her shoes crashed on the hallway floor. They weren’t her staying-home shoes. They sounded like spoons crashing. She was leaving.

“Mommy!” Luke put out his arms.

She took him, tossed him, rolled him in her arms. She wore smooth clothes, like his blanket, soft and slippery. She smelled like Grandma and stores and bathrooms — not home Mommy. She was going out. Out into the glowing night.

“Play with me,” he said.

She kissed his stomach, his neck, his cheek — warm, liquid, soft bites. Then she held him up to her face. Her lips were crayon red; her eyes glowed like the night. Outside.

“Play with me,” he said.

“Mommy and Daddy are going out. Grandma and Grandpa are going to stay—” Mommy sounded hard, like television.

“We’re gonna have lots of fun,” Grandpa said, close, very close, his big daddy face and white head a bright light, a scary bright white.

Luke ducked into Mommy, into her smelly blanket, her soft pillow chest. He wanted to be wrapped in her, and sleep warm in her bed.