Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

I am a father, he would catch himself thinking at odd moments, an announcement of worth that nothing could diminish.

He could look at Joe and feel superior to him, despite the gap in their knowledge of the market. My son is loved, his is not.

He could look at Sammy and care less about his insults, because he knew what a terrible thing had been withheld from Sammy.

On every street, in the park, on the television, in the papers, everywhere there were fatherless men or, worse, failed fathers. Everywhere, everywhere, were abandoned sons, neglected sons, misunderstood sons; everywhere there were failures. Not Eric. He loved Luke. And Luke loved him. And they were going to endure.

That’s why the constipation bothered Eric so. He couldn’t handle it, couldn’t really help. What was Eric going to do when Luke was sixteen? Run Luke around the apartment so he could take a crap? And the eye. Eric should have called the doctor and gone. Instead, like a baby, he phoned Nina, interrupted her work, and begged her to come home.

And now Luke seemed fine. Sure, he was quiet, sitting in the corner of the couch, holding the blankey to his eye, but he talked and laughed. He even got up and ate his slice of pizza. Luke was very sensitive; that’s why he still worried over his eye. Eric was convinced that by morning it would be forgotten.

Nina came home, dashing in from the hallway. Eric expected resentment, but she stopped at the living room and looked at them with pleasure. “How are my boys?” she said.

“Mommy,” Luke said softly, but the relief was loud in his tone.

Nina kissed Eric quickly and, with her coat still on, went right to Luke. “Put your head back, I won’t touch your eye, I just want to look at it.”

Luke’s eyes watered immediately. “Okay,” he said, almost blubbering the words.

Nina did as she promised. She rolled her eye and told Luke to do the same. He yelped when he tried. “Do you still feel like something’s in there?”

“Nothing!”

“Probably nothing is. But does it feel like something is? Not telling me won’t make the hurt go away, Luke. I spoke to the doctor and he said sometimes sand can scratch an eye, and even though it’s not there, the scratch can hurt. It’ll heal itself. You’ll be fine. But I have to know. Does it feel like there’s still something in it?”

Luke covered his face with his blanket, like a criminal broken down, and he confessed, “Yes! It hurts a lot!” And he bawled with relief, collapsed by pain.

My God, Eric thought. I’ve been here for two hours. He’s been in terrible pain. And I thought it was the constipation. For two hours Luke’s suffered, and I thought he was fine. My God, I’m an idiot. I’m not even a good father.

DIANE was amazed by the response. All her enemies were confounded. Stoppard, who had become progressively cooler and irritating since the birth of Byron, increasingly picky and dissatisfied with her work, almost pleaded with her to reconsider.

“Diane, you’re a superb lawyer. Don’t do this. You’ll regret it later. Byron’s going to grow up and leave home to date girls with paisley hair. I can ease your caseload for a while.”

“I’m a superb lawyer?”

Stoppard frowned. “Of course you are.”

“I haven’t had a compliment out of you in a year.”

“Your work hasn’t been good.”

“Then you should be happy I’m leaving.”

She was delighted to see Stoppard squirm, compliments wrung from the sponge he had used to soak up her talent and energy. Give me more, she said, and he twisted and squeezed out praise. “I can guarantee you you’ll make partner this year,” he said with a final squirt, his hands out as if to say: there, I’m dry now.

“Thank you,” she said graciously. She meant it too; the acknowledgment of her abilities was what she had always wanted. She knew now that was the important value to her, not the money, or the public prestige. She didn’t like to fail. She liked to be the best. “Partnership would mean even more work. I have a family. I want to take care of them.”

Stoppard then appealed to Diane’s duty to her sex, asserting that her sudden departure because of children would only confirm the chauvinist partners’ worst fears about women. God, that was funny.

Of course, Diane’s mother was delighted. “Oh, that’s so much better for Byron. And for you, dear. I’m so happy!” Yeah, I won’t be topping you anymore, right, Mom? Now you don’t look like such an unaccomplished, spoiled woman. “I’m coming up this weekend to celebrate,” Lily insisted. Diane couldn’t talk her out of it. To celebrate. Diane’s quitting made Lily want to party.

Peter? That surprised her. He got loving. He got passionate. Ran his finger over her body, shaping, dancing, scratching, squeezing, molding. Put his mouth on her, swallowed her sex.

I cut off my balls, so now his are bigger.

But she didn’t feel the bitterness implied by her intellectual observations. She knew she hadn’t failed, even if those closest to her were relieved that she had given up. She could have kept going, made partner, raised Byron, blown them all out, Supermom caped and flying onto the pages of New York Magazine . She chose not to. She could have climbed the wall. She had decided to turn away.

There was something secretive in her pride that she had rejected her work, a closely held mirror in which she could peek without being observed and see herself superior, a nun renouncing the pleasures of the world, an artist spurning celebrity, a purist, choosing life over ego, choosing her family over vanity.

When Diane told Didi, at first she wasn’t believed. Then once Diane convinced her, amazingly enough, Didi began to cry. Diane held her. Didi sobbed like a girl. “What is this?” Diane said.

“I feel so alone,” Didi said.

The world is nuts, Diane thought. Nobody knows what they want. She invited Didi to dinner, something she had never done before. “I couldn’t,” Didi said. “I’d go home later and want to slash my wrists.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d go home and thank God.” I’ve guaranteed her partnership, Diane thought. I’ve changed four lives: mine, Byron’s, Peter’s, and Didi’s.

They had a great time that night, Peter and Byron and Diane. Something terrible had left the house, something that had had them by the throat. That was obvious. Peter was her lover again, Byron obeyed her, got sweet and loving, and she could breathe. All that, all that, all that — just for killing her career.

“WE’RE GOING to go see a doctor,” Mommy said.

He cried. His head, heavy and sad, fell forward. Couldn’t stop it. Mommy, her body swishing in her blanket coat, touched his face.

“He’s just going to see if there’s anything there and give you something to feel better. It won’t hurt so much. Now, we’re not seeing your regular doctor—”

Help. His nose ached from the tears. “Why? Why?” The water washed in his throat. Help me. “Daddy!” Help, Daddy. “I don’t want to!” He called to them, he screamed to them to be Mommy and Daddy again. “I’m okay!”

“Are you sure?” Daddy said.

“Eric!” Mommy yelled at Daddy.

Cover up. Hide in her. He pushed against the swish coat. The eye! Don’t yell. They take you if you yell.

“Okay. Where is it?” Daddy said, scared. Why is Daddy scared?

“Fourteenth Street and First.”

“And First!” Daddy worry, Daddy don’t want to go.

“The Eye and Ear Infirmary. At night you go to the Fourteenth Street entrance.”

“Jesus, we might have to walk back, I don’t think there’ll be cabs—”

“Then we’ll walk back, Eric. Get his jacket. Let’s go.”

Don’t look. Stay in, Mommy. Eyes closed, he was nowhere. No doctors, no poking. Nothing in the eye. Go to sleep.