Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

“Don’t call for them,” Byron said.

“Where did they go?”

“In the kitchen! Come on, let’s go!” Byron dragged Grayskull. Everything kept falling out.

“I want to see Mommy and Daddy,” Luke said. Byron’s room was even farther away.

“No!” Byron yelled. That hurt Luke’s eyes, like the sand, scratching. “We don’t want to be with grown-ups! We don’t like grown-ups, right, Luke?”

“I want to,” Luke said, the soft water coming. He walked into the strange silent room, following the voices, deep and kind.

“No!” Byron pulled him. “The grown-ups don’t like us! Don’t go to them! They don’t like us! And we don’t like them!”

“Daddy,” Luke tried to call. I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry I made you sad.

“No.” Byron pulled him away from the warm, the soft voices.

“Let go,” Luke tried to tell Byron, but the water drowned him.

“No grown-ups!” Byron pulled hard.

Luke fell. His elbow hit something very cold and hard. He yelled and cried. I’ll never get to them, I’ll never get back to Mommy and Daddy.

“What is it?” Mommy’s voice.

“Luke?” Daddy’s voice.

“What did you do, Byron?” The scary sound of Byron’s mommy.

“I want to be with you,” Luke tried to say to Mommy’s ear.

“Of course you can.”

“Do you want me?” Luke asked.

“What do you mean?” Mommy said with a kiss. “We’ve already got you.”

“TIME TO practice,” Mommy said. Byron knew she would say that. Now that she was home mostly, every day just before lunch, she said, “Time to practice.” And then the talk:

“Your teacher says you must practice every day and that the best way is to pick a time—”

A clock from the shelf. Peel the green numbers from the video recorder.

“—and practice at that time every day. Then you can have a cookie.”

The cookie was good. But what if he never got a cookie except when doing things like practicing?

“Other children don’t know how to play the violin. They would like to know. You have a special chance to learn something they don’t know.”

And it was something Daddy liked. Daddy would always stop his reading to listen. “I want to practice with Daddy,” Byron said.

That worked. Nothing else had ever stopped Mommy. But this time she stopped.

“You do,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah, I wanna practice with Daddy.”

“Why don’t you want to practice with me?” She looked funny. She was stopped.

“Don’t like to practice with you.” Byron turned away and grabbed a block. Make noise, make noise. “Brrrrr!”

“Why not? What do I do wrong?”

“You yell,” Byron said.

“I do not!” Mommy yelled.

“Yes, you do!” Byron yelled back. Make noise, make noise. “Brrrrr! Brrrrr!”

Mommy took the block. “Stop that.”

“I’m playing!”

“Not while we’re talking. Okay, I won’t yell. But you’re supposed to practice with the person who takes you to the lessons—”

“I want Daddy to take me to the lessons!” That stopped her again. This was good. “You take me everywhere. Daddy doesn’t. Why can’t he take me?”

“Daddy has to work,” Mommy said, but she said it slow, like not really saying.

Work was hard. A wall. A big stop. “No, he doesn’t,” Byron said, but didn’t like it, like falling on a slide.

“What do you mean? Of course, he has to work.”

“You said!” Byron remembered. Mommy in the park. She told Luke. No, somebody. “You said Daddy doesn’t have to work.”

“No, I didn’t. Stop lying, Byron. Daddy has to work at the time you’re having your lessons. He can’t come to them.”

“I want Daddy!” Byron shrieked. He had to get through the wall. He couldn’t stop. “I’m not lying!” I remember. No mistake.

“I must have been saying something different and you misunderstood.”

“I don’t lie!”

Mommy laughed at him. Like blowing in his face. “Oh, not much. Anyway, it’s time to practice.”

“No!” Arms folded, melting into his skin. Without arms I can’t practice.

Mommy went and got the violin case. She put the sheet on the stand.

I can stay like this forever. That will stop her.

“Byron,” Mommy said.

Don’t move. No sound.

“Byron,” Mommy said. “No cookies, no park, no television, no more He-Man toys.”

“I don’t have arms!” Byron said.

“No M & M’s.”

“No arms!”

“That’s right. No M & M’s.”

“I don’t have!”

“That’s right. We can just stand here all day, doing nothing.”

There was Francine carrying his clothes. “What you doing?” Francine asked. Francine would play with him. “Being a statue?”

“Monster!” Byron growled. He opened wide to eat her.

“Byron!” Mommy angry. “Francine, Byron is not allowed to do any playing until he practices his violin.”

Byron was on Francine, hungry cat, mouth ready to drink her fat. She pushed him. Can’t fight the cat.

“Your mama say you can’t. Stop now, honey.”

“Byron!” Mommy thunder. Mommy pulled arms back. His feet went up. The floor hit his back. Mommy pushed him on the floor into his room. “You have to sit there and do nothing! Unless you practice, you’re going to sit and do nothing!”

I could cry. The body wanted to cry. Byron got up and charged at Mommy. “Give me! Give me!” He pulled at the violin case.

“You’re going to practice?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Like hitting. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Mommy gave him the case. She stood at the stand, her finger pointing to the first note. Click, click. Open. His hand went around the neck.

Put your hand under the belly and lift with both hands.

But he knew he was strong. Strong enough to pull the violin out by the neck. Strong enough to wave it in the air.

He looked at Mommy. She smiled, her finger pointing.

Pull—

“Byron, that’s not how—”

He put his hand under the belly. Smooth and hard. It was going to hurt the skin.

“You have to be careful or you’ll break it,” Mommy said. “It’s not a toy.”

That’s what’s wrong with it. Can’t break it, can’t play with it. It was scary, not giving, always hard. Not something that he would overgrow, make his, do what he wanted.

“Get your feet into play position,” Mommy said, nodding at the drawing of shoes on the floor.

Brown, hard, silver strings, little but always bigger, in his arms, but always far away.

“G,” Mommy said.

Pull — hurt! Cutting his nail!

Byron let his strength go, let it go, right into the air, flying, spinning, smashing.

When the violin struck his dresser, there was a crack. Not the bang Byron expected, but a crack, a quick break, like an egg.

He looked at Mommy. She stood still, her eyes on the broken violin.

“It hurt me,” Byron explained.

He didn’t see Mommy’s hand. It hit the side of his face like a moving wall.

BYRON JUMPED up and down. “Hello, Daddy!” the side of Byron’s face was swollen and blue. He bounced cheerfully, he smiled his impish grin, but he looked as if he had had a terrible accident.

“What happened to your face?”

“Mommy hit me,” Byron said, and Diane appeared in the hall from the kitchen entrance. She had no marks on her, but her eyes were dead, her chin slack, as if grieving.

“You did?” Peter asked, his throat drying up. He swallowed, hoping it wasn’t true. Byron had taken to telling lies, outrageous lies that were hardly real untruths, since they were too preposterous to be able to deceive.

“He threw his violin and smashed it. I lost my temper.” Diane’s tone was flat, a news report. She put a hand on the flowing sandy cap of Byron’s hair and brushed the flopping curls down. She watched them rise again, untamed, with a thoughtful, sad stare.