Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

Too cool. Tickle, tickle. Don’t show it! Under the fingernail and pull.

Not right, not right.

Grandma clapped once. “Very—” Daddy shushed Grandma like she was a child. Ha-ha. Grandma old.

“There are two and then a rest,” Mommy said.

Two? Under the nail, don’t pull! No sound.

“Try again,” Mommy said.

Under the nail and pull medium.

“Good!” Mommy excited.

Again.

“Good!” Mommy happy.

Byron heard them. They were pleased. He turned to smile. “See!”

“Byron!” Mommy warned. “You have a lot more.”

Under the nail, pull. Under the nail, pull. Too hard. Try again. Tired. Under the nail — that hurt. The string stayed on his skin, even after going away. Still there. Look. The string is still on my skin!

“I’m tired,” Byron said.

“You only have another line,” Mommy said, her finger on the next hopping foot. Her face dark, her eyes burning.

“It’s wonderful, Byron,” Daddy said. “Keep going.”

“Can I hold the bow?” Byron asked.

“After you finish the line, you can hold the bow for a little bit. But it’s not to be played with.”

Under the nail — pull!

It’s inside my skin, still pushing in on it, pushing in.

Byron used the fatter part of his finger and didn’t pull so hard. The sound was wrong.

Look at Mommy. About to say—

No, her finger went to the next one.

Fatter part. Wrong sound. “I want to stop!” Byron said fast.

“Just one more.”

Brush it softly. Wrong, wrong, wrong sound.

“Very good,” Mommy said, but she wasn’t excited.

Grandma and Grandpa and Daddy clapped.

“Yah!” Byron hopped and laughed. “Yah!” He danced at its end, showing his prize. Mine!

“Byron!” Mommy grabbed the violin. “You can’t do that. If the violin breaks, you can’t learn it.”

“You said I could hold the bow.”

Mommy didn’t answer.

“Here,” Daddy said. He pulled the bow out from the belts.

Byron took it. Sword. He-Man sword. Don’t let Mommy know.

“Well, that was great,” Mommy said. “Aren’t you impressed?”

“Must take ten years before they can play a song,” Grandpa said.

“I played a song!” Byron said.

“Of course you did,” Grandma said.

“Yes, you were very good,” Grandpa said.

Mommy kissed his head. “Okay, let me put the bow back.”

“I want to!”

“Okay.”

Sword away. Through the belts, into the case. Close. Click, click.

Mommy kissed his head again. “You’re a good boy, Byron.”

I’m a good boy.

“When you give your first concert,” Grandma said, “will you invite me?”

“Are you old?” Byron asked her. Maybe she was a child.

Grandpa laughed. So did Daddy. “Yes, I am,” Grandma said with a broken mouth, her voice quiet.

“Then you’re going to die,” Byron told her.

NO MATTER how far they went, no matter which path they walked back into his memory, Peter and Kotkin ended up face-toface with Larry, stroking Peter’s flat stomach, digging under the belt, under the elastic of his briefs, reaching for the little penis to make it tickle and tingle, like peeing, but not peeing, like resting, but not resting—

The more Peter discussed the events and the harder Kotkin worked to get him to be clear about the details — how old were you? how long after the divorce? did you say no? what did Larry say? — the fuzzier they got. Peter had gone into therapy with clear images. Larry standing next to a little version of Peter, Peter’s head just clearing the sink in his friend Gary’s bathroom. Larry had, under the pretext of peeing, taken out his erect penis. Only it wasn’t an erection to Peter; it was a huge, angry, pulsing creature, a blind, breathing sausage, a blank-faced snake, a hairy worm—

“You want to touch it?” Larry said. “You can touch it.”

“No” from out of his little mouth, echoing out of the chasm of his past. “No,” he stammered.

Larry didn’t argue. He took Peter’s hand and pulled it toward the impossible gravityless thing. “It feels good when you touch. People want you to touch it. Hasn’t your father ever shown you his? He’d like you to touch it.”

“He said that!” Kotkin asked. She sounded outraged, amazed, disbelieving, disgusted.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he stammered. He had always been afraid to say. What was real, what was not? It seemed incredible even to him. People would be disgusted to know. He had never told details. Were they real?

“You don’t know?”

She wasn’t outraged, that’s in my head. “I can’t talk about it.” Sour and choking, bitter and lumpy, the memories churned in his chest, bubbled in his throat. Was it real? Why didn’t I say no the very first time he reached in my pants? Why didn’t I tell someone?

But I did. I told Gary. Larry said he had done it to Gary.

“Yeah, he plays around with it,” Gary had said. Or had he then? Was it years later? “Tell him you don’t like it. He’ll stop and give you a present.”

“I don’t like Gary as much as you; that’s why I don’t touch him anymore,” Larry had said.

He won’t stop with me.

Did I think that? I pulled my hand away — even if this memory is false, even in the lie, I didn’t touch him. It. Red and pulsing, a blind face. Or is that the block? Did I touch?

No.

“What were your parents doing?”

“They were divorced!”

“I know,” Kotkin said with a trace of impatience. Or did she? “Where were they? Were they around? Had you been dumped at Gary’s?”

Yes. No. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I should see Gary and find out.”

“You’ve never discussed this with your mother or father?”

“No.” Peter laughed.

“An absurd question?” Kotkin said warmly. Or was it? Was it sarcastic?

“No, I guess if I were healthy, that’s what I would do, I would ask the grown-ups what the hell was going on. I’d find how exactly old I was, where they were, and how much was done. The whole cast is still alive, just waiting for my questions.”

“But you don’t want to ask them?”

“No, yes, no, yes.”

Kotkin chuckled. “Are you scared?”

Flat on his back, peering into eternity. What was scared?

Who am I?

There was one time, the time when Larry invited Gary and Peter to a matinee of the road company of Hello, Dolly! Later, Larry took them to his office. Peter felt safe because Gary was with them and Larry had never touched Peter without sending Gary away and in the office that would be impossible—

But Larry’s secretary needed a hand with some packages, just to carry them downstairs. Larry insisted Gary, just Gary, go. “I’ll help,” Peter tried to say, knowing, knowing. …

Still stuck in his throat, hundreds of years later, lying on Kotkin’s couch, still forming in his mouth—“I’ll help too.” Peter’s eyes still pleaded with Gary: take me with you, take me with you.

“What are you thinking about?” Kotkin asked.

And during the fifteen minutes that the secretary and Gary were gone, Larry lowered my pants and put it in his mouth.

“Are you remembering something?” Kotkin asked.

“No. Yes.” The couch was heavy. Too heavy for the floorboards. Its dense weight cracked them, crashing down, down. I want to sleep. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Okay,” Kotkin said with the sweet, soft voice of forgiveness. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. But you can tell me anything you want to. That’s what I’m here for.”

“I know.” He wanted to cry. Somewhere, maybe below the couch, beneath the floorboards, were all his tears.