Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

Now he doesn’t even bother to lie, she thought coldly, and again shivered with dread.

IT WAS GONE! It was gone!

Luke’s belly was full of air again, his legs no longer heavy, and back there, though it stung and pinched, he was empty, he could breathe, he could move because it was all gone, pushed out—

But the eye. He couldn’t get rid of the eye. He tried not to move it. Look still, don’t go fast to see.

It hurt hot. It stabbed. Go away, please.

“Don’t you feel better now?” Daddy said, coming with a new diaper.

Don’t say no. They put things in it. “Yes.”

“Did it hurt a lot?”

“Yes,” he said softly. No! He moved it. The hot. The poke. Hurt! Hurt!

“Do you have to go again? Do you want to go on the potty?”

“No, no.” He pushed all the things away with the word, with his body. The potty, pooping, his eye, looking at it, the hurt, the hurt, the hurt. Go away, please. The soft, smooth water came in his eyes. Sting around the thing, burning, but making it soft, the hard spot in the eye, get soft, go away, go away.

“All right, all right.” Daddy hugged him. “Forget the potty. Let me get your diaper on in case you have to do more.”

I don’t, I don’t, but up he went, a pillow in the air, little in Daddy’s big hands.

“Whee,” Daddy said, and made him fly. “Luke the jet, coming in for a landing.” Daddy’s face worked hard putting on the diaper. Then Daddy looked at Luke’s eyes, and woke up to Luke, smiling. “I love you, Luke,” Daddy said, and it was like walking out into the sunlight, everything bright and warm.

“Whoosh!” He-Man raised his arm, his jets firing him up and down, big legs on the ground. “I have—” The thing was back in his eye. Stand still, don’t look at fast things.

“Luke …?” Daddy watched him.

No, no.

“You have to go again?”

“I want to watch television.”

Daddy sat quiet, a pigeon watching. His chest puffed and sank. His head lowered.

“I won’t,” Luke said, and the tears came again, soft on the burning hurt, melting it away, go away, go away.

“What’s bothering you?” Daddy said to the ground.

“My eye,” Luke said, and he covered it. Don’t touch, Daddy, don’t look.

“Okay, sit on the couch. I’ll put on the TV.” But Daddy carried him, gentle, and kissed him. Blankey covered the hurt eye. Dark and cool, he kept still. It’s okay. Don’t move.

Don’t look at the fast things. Go away. Go away.

“WE’RE GOING to go out,” Mommy said. Daddy too.

“To Grandma’s?”

“No, to a restaurant.”

“Yah! Yah! Yah!” Byron danced like they liked. Daddy smiled. Mommy rubbed his head.

“So you told Stoppard,” Daddy said; he kept talking all the time to Mommy. About the dumb work things. It was bright in the night. Only people’s faces were light. They flashed on and off. And greens and reds and yellows dripped and stretched on everything. Only big people were out, big boys like Byron, like Stupid poop head.

“Luke got hurt.”

“I’m amazed, Diane. I can’t believe you just went ahead.”

“Luke got hurt! Luke got hurt!” Bounce up, bounce ball up. Too see me! See me!

“What? Who got hurt? He-Man?”

Daddy don’t know. “No! Luke got hurt!”

“Shhh! Byron!” Mommy said hard. “We’re going into the restaurant now. Other people are eating. You have to be quiet. I want you to talk in a whisper.”

“Talk in a whisper?” Daddy said, and laughed.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Bounce up at Daddy. “Whisper! Whisper!”

“Shhh!” Mommy pulled him down. Like the elevator sinking, sinking. “Here we are. Now be quiet. Or we’ll go right home”

“I want go home!” Byron pushed, pushed at Mommy’s leg, fall on her, to give.

“Okay.” Mommy pulled away from the glass door, from the stretching lights.

“Diane—” Daddy called.

“No!” Byron pulled back to the door, to the fun. “No! No! I be quiet.”

“Byron’ll be a good boy and be quiet?”

“Yeeeesss.” The noise spun and tickled in his mouth. “Yeeeessss,” he sounded.

“Want to sit next to me, Byron?” Daddy had the glass door open. Balls of light bounced over the tables. There were men with doormen buttons.

“Who are you?” Byron asked a big one.

“Marry O — bats you name?”

The chairs had red behinds and black backs! There was a cake on the windowsill!

“What’s your name?” Mommy shouted in his ear.

“You know,” Byron said, and got his ear away from her hot noise.

Daddy laughed. He was happy. Daddy put him up, up over the black backs, and down on a red bottom. In a grown-up chair!

“Byron,” Mommy said to the big stomach man with buttons.

“Hat name?”

“Byron,” she said again.

“Surrey?” Stomach mumbled.

“Byron,” she kept saying.

“I’m Byron!” he shouted to stop them. “Me!”

“Like the great poet!” happy Daddy said. His cool fingers squeezed Byron’s neck.

Stomach had a little chair, a baby chair.

“Pick him up,” Mommy said to Daddy.

“No! Wanna sit here.”

“Shhh!” Mommy said hard. “It’s a booster seat. To make you taller.”

“No! Don’t want!”

“How are you going to reach the table?” Daddy asked.

Knees are feet. Byron showed them. He could get everything now. “See!” He picked up the salt. “What’s that!”

“Pepper,” Daddy said.

“Okay,” Mommy said to Stomach. “We don’t need it.” Baby chair go away.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” Byron laugh like Skeletor.

“Byron,” Mommy said, angry.

“Okay, okay.” Lean against Daddy. Daddy’s soft hand touched him, cool tips, like water, down the face. “What’s pepper for?”

“Food,” said happy Daddy. “To add flavor when the food is yucchy.”

“Yucchy food!” Byron choked loud. Grown-up laughed over there. “Yucchy food!”

“Peter, don’t encourage him.”

“Hey, Byron,” Daddy said, so happy. “I’m very good at going to restaurants. Did you know that?”

“Good?” Daddy must be good.

“Restaurants love me. Know why?”

“You quiet?”

“Yes, I’m very quiet while I put pepper on my yucchy food.”

Byron laughed. The lights squeezed, Mommy got bright, her mouth wide and white, Daddy’s arms shook with happy bounces, and Byron put his head, shaking and laughing, into Daddy’s chest and let himself be held.

“I love yucchy food,” Byron said.

Mommy looked so bright, her face white under the dancing lights. “You’re so cute, Byron,” she said, and kissed the air. Daddy caught her kiss and placed the cool love on Byron’s happy hot cheek.

HE’S FINE, Eric abused himself. Why did I call Nina and tell her to come home? She’s going to think I’m an idiot. Or worse, that I wanted to mess up her work.

He was desperate not to interfere. FIT and this part-time evening job had made Nina happier than Eric could remember. Her short temper with Luke — well, it wasn’t so short — but that buildup of resentment, culminating in a sudden switch from tolerance to shouting, no longer happened. Nina tired more easily, but she seemed to remember her gratitude at having Luke, not to feel as put-upon. Eric knew why. He shared that reaction, even though he was exhausted coming home from work, his body reluctant, his mind fainting at the prospect of an hour’s play the minute he was through the door. But after the roughhousing was over, even though his skin was boned and his muscles unstrung, the fatigue was housed in satisfaction. He knew why he was tired. The happy face he kissed good night told him why. Luke made the reason he worked clear, made everything in life immediate. Important. Aimed.