Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

Maybe it was because of Luke’s gender, she thought one day as she eavesdropped on three students before the start of a color-design class. The trio was in their late teens, a boy and two girls. The young man was a handsome Italian. The girls called him Sal. Sal teased the girls. He complained that women were faithless. Sal’s long eyes were like Luke’s in their shape, and while he moaned that women always did him wrong, those eyes looked wise and clever and in control, the way Luke’s did now when he pulled on her ankles. Maybe it’s a genetic code in men, Nina thought. Shout your dependence on women, complain of separation, and have a ball while the women slink off miserable in their guilt.

Sal was so self-aware that he noticed Nina for the first time, because she was staring at him. “Look at her, she’s another one,” Sal said, his eyes making fun of himself. “She’s deciding right now if she’ll bother to break my heart.”

“No, I’m not,” Nina answered without thinking. She hadn’t spoken to any of the students yet, didn’t want to, wanted to stay outside, just learn, not become one of them.

“She was thinking you’re full of shit,” the stupider of the girls said, and then giggled hard, quickly ashamed of her blunt remark.

“Probably,” Sal said, “just thinking I’m a jerk, right?”

“I was thinking you’re like my son,” Nina answered, again saying something she hadn’t meant to.

It got quite a response. The girls roared, as though Nina had put Sal down, really embarrassed him. He seemed to think so too. He got red in the face.

“I mean, your eyes,” Nina apologized. “The shape of your eyes is like my son’s.”

“Yeah?” Sal wasn’t convinced. He wanted to know, but he asked in a sarcastic tone so he wouldn’t be risking his dignity again.

“Really,” she said in her hopelessly thin, earnest voice. All those Jews, blacks, Italians, Greeks, their voices boomed or sang or moaned — even the rest of her family had music in their throats— but she had this dumb unmodulated monotone, like a public-address announcement.

“Well, that’s nice.” Sal relaxed.

“How old’s your son?” the stupid girl asked angrily, presumably irritated by Nina’s success in complimenting Sal.

“Two and a half,” Nina answered.

The girls broke up again. “Yeah, a two-year-old! That’s you, Sal,” the stupid one said. Sal looked confused and then hurt.

The teacher came in and began to talk. It was interesting, but Nina couldn’t stay with it; her mind went back to Sal’s reaction when Nina announced Luke’s age. Sal didn’t understand the compliment Nina had given out. In fact, it was such great praise Nina had regretted its escape. Luke’s eyes were probably the most beautiful in the world.

Later, Nina caught Sal looking at her. Nina had lost the logic of the teacher’s remarks and her eyes lit on Sal. Sal’s eyes were judging her, studying her hips and middle. Looking for the sloppy fat of pregnancy, she thought, and sucked in. But she was in good shape. Sure, the hard board for a belly had warped, but she wasn’t fat. It was obvious that Sal worked out. His shoulders almost had wings; his ass was tight and hard. When he moved his arms, the muscles sighed and rose under the skin, undulating gently but suggesting force. He had a pretty face, his beard was very light, and his chin came to a delicate point. He was a half man, a young buck. He had no stomach. Not even a suggestion of roundness. Flat. His neck was thick, though, and a little short. If he lost his hair, let his belly go, he’d become a slovenly middle-aged man. This was his prime, his youth. Luke would grow into that. And she would get old.

Did she mind? No, she wanted to see Luke become that beautiful mix of man and boy, arrogant and shy, a brand-new machine, its clean engine full of power, its driver both reckless and scared.

Sal lifted his eyes from his inspection of her figure and met her eyes. He almost fell over, he was so quick to break the eye contact. He even turned his body away, desperate to erase any evidence that he had been curious. At his age, Nina would have been the one to pretend she hadn’t noticed. In fact, she would never have returned the glance at all, watching him watch her out of the corner of her eye, hoping, wondering, resenting, and longing. Not now. There was nothing to fear from men. They always stayed boys, no matter what. They were gentle; even the brutal ones were frightened, she knew that from Luke. Women bend, men break, her mother once told her. It was true. They thought it was all up to them; they had no humility in the face of nature; they actually believed some sort of triumph or defeat was possible.

She looked at Sal’s lap, at his tight jeans. There was a large oval formation at his groin, as if he were wearing sports equipment. Is he stuffing it? she wondered. There was a kid in high school who did that. He had had some calamity — it shifted at a dance? She didn’t remember. It was hilarious and quite a shock. Only the girls were supposed to be faking size. Another myth: men were not only frailer than women but vainer too.

She imagined a long white penis, hairless, a giant version of Luke’s.

The image embarrassed her. She shook it off and concentrated on the lecture.

She was able to pay attention toward the end; she even got an idea for the line she would have to draw for her leisure-wear class. She stayed back and quickly made notes of the color combinations the teacher’s principles inspired. She noticed Sal dawdle a moment too, and she felt his breath on her neck, and his voice whispered into her ear, “Do you really have a two-year-old kid?”

“Yes,” she answered, puzzled.

Sal also seemed baffled. “I thought it might just be a put-down.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Everybody puts me down.”

Nina assured him she hadn’t and then left. Not quickly or coolly, she certainly didn’t want Sal to think she didn’t like him — obviously anything less than admiration would kill the fellow — but she didn’t want to have to flatter him for ten minutes so his confidence could be completely restored.

After all, she had to get home. There she had two boys who would need all the praise she could spare.

HE HAD the feeling. Go away, Go away. He ran into the living room, head down, butting the air like Ram Man, past Pearl, past Skeletor. “He-Man! Help me!”

“I help you,” Pearl said.

“No! You’re not He-Man.”

“I’m sorry. It’s so nice out today, isn’t it, Luke?”

Want to stay. “I don’t know. I haven’t been out.”

“Well, why don’t I help you get your clothes on?”

The Feeling. Twist and squeeze and go away. Push it out, Luke. You’ll feel better.

“You have to go?” Pearl said, very soft.

“No!” Luke jumped at the sound of his voice.

Run! Head down, butt them down, smash! “I’m coming, He-Man!”

“Byron’s gonna be at the park today.” Pearl’s voice followed him. “I talked to Francine. She said they’d be there at eleven. It’s half past now. Byron be so sad if you don’t come.”

Luke saw his new figure — Sy-Klone — twisting arms, tornado man. He could show Byron. Byron said he’s gonna get it, but I already have it now. But Byron would play with it.

“Look.” Pearl’s voice was with him in his room. “I ironed your favorite overalls.”

“I want to go to the park,” Luke said.

“You do!” Pearl acted so surprised. “That’s a good idea, Luke.”

The Feeling was gone anyway.

“FRANCINE!” Byron yelled. “Francine!”

“Go,” said the stupid boy behind.

Byron felt the metal. He could bend metal. He was big. “Francine, watch me!”

She didn’t look. “Go!” said the stupid boy.