Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

“Used to get them in my old neighborhood,” Eric said. “I love them!” She asked him what his old neighborhood was. Washington Heights, he said gravely, and then went on and on about the place, interpolating apologies for its being (what did he call it?) lower middle class, whatever the hell that was. He talked about delis and bakeries and grandmothers who lived with their children and spent their days leaning on windowsills to supervise the grandchildren playing games below on the sidewalks — the memories brought a smile to his face. He talked about delivering papers, going to the movies on Saturday, being chased by gangs, and chasing others with his own gang, smoking his first cigarette under the lobby stairs because on the streets there were too many grandmothers, too many uncles, too many friends of his parents who might see.

“You sound like you wish you were a kid again,” she said. By then they were settled on the park bench, the torte gone, their coffees almost drained.

“I hated it,” he said with a big smile.

The surprise got her to laugh. She forgot her unwashed hair, her boring clothes, and leaned her shoulder against him. “Come on,” she said.

“I did!” Eric was so pleased by the admission. “The whole universe was seven people. They made up their mind about me before I was walking and that was it: I was strong Eric, not too bright, always to be relied on for doing errands or helping out — I don’t know. They loved me, my family, my friends, their parents— but they didn’t respect me.”

“There’s a difference,” Diane asked, thinking it over, “between love and respect?”

“Very feminine to think they’re the same. Girls looked at me and they saw a husband. When they respect a man, they look at a man and see a lover.”

“Really?” He was so open, so unafraid of saying something offensive or stupid, so uncalculated. What a relief to talk to him. “I think you’re wrong. It’s the other way around. Women respect the men they think make good husbands.”

“They don’t love them?” Eric’s big face, his wide-set eyes innocent as a deer’s, scanned her. Eric’s eyes weren’t blue, but they were the sweet, wondering eyes of his son.

“They love them too, but they respect them a lot, much more than the irresponsible bad boy.”

“Maybe Jewish women,” Eric said wistfully.

Is he having problems with his wife? She’s not Jewish. Diane had forgotten their shoulders were still touching until his comment made her self-conscious. I’d rather be in bed with him than watching Byron bully his son, Diane thought.

“Come on, Luke! You’re Ram Man—”

“I don’t want to be—”

“You have to be Ram Man! He helps He-Man.”

Eric saw. He didn’t like it. His lips were tight, holding his displeasure in.

Go ahead, tell my kid he’s a tyrant. Go ahead.

“How’s your work?” he asked instead.

“I quit my job.”

“You did!” She had gotten his mind off his son. He was openly astounded.

His amazement brought a smile to her face. “You don’t approve?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize. Tell me. You don’t approve?”

“Weren’t you at some fancy law firm?”

Fancy law firm. Eric was like an uncle at Passover, but made young, made her own age. So comfortable to be with. “Yeah, it was pretty damn fancy.”

“They were being too tough?”

She shook her head. She could say this to him. “I was good. That wasn’t the problem.” Eric nodded encouragement, so she went on, “I was going to make partner. I was a real prize.”

“I bet you were. So why did you quit? Not for Byron’s sake?” Eric wondered aloud. “He was already past two — you’re pregnant!” Eric was inspired. He snapped his fingers and pointed at her, happy at his guess.

“No.” She couldn’t help smiling. His lips were moist, his forearms thick and firm, smooth on the underside, furry and undulating on top.

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“I couldn’t handle the stress. Going to work, coming home, taking care of Byron, no stopping — ever. The schedule was too relentless. I had to give up something. Couldn’t give up Byron. I didn’t like corporate law anyway. It’s just junk in the end. Glorified clerking and for what? You don’t accomplish anything.”

“Except making money. A partner at a top New York law firm makes six, eight hundred thousand a year.”

She thought of what she told others — money isn’t that important, there are other ways, blah, blah — but this man, like an uncle at Passover, would accept only one answer: “My husband’s rich.”

Eric nodded. He understood. “That’s nice,” he said. She laughed. He looked baffled. She put a hand on his wonderful animal arm and squeezed to reassure him. His wide eyes took her in without judgment or expectation. They looked at her lips and then back to her eyes with a touch of shyness. So he’s thought it also. She smiled at him, a smile of years ago, a smile of acceptance and seduction.

“I didn’t mean to—” he started.

“You’re right,” she said. “It’s the only nice thing about my marriage.”

That got the message across. He looked solemn. A little afraid.

Well?

He was considering whether to back off. He glanced away, to get some privacy. But he returned fast.

“Sometimes,” he said with a heavy Passover sigh, “sometimes, I think money’s the only reason I’m married.”

ERIC SAW Luke’s hand wander again and again to his ass, touching the narrow valley to push something invisible back inside. Sometimes Luke squeezed his legs together and pushed back, sealing the pee that might crack the other dam. He managed to fight the urges off by concentrating on Byron’s orders; but every few minutes, there was another call from nature, and his hand and legs worked quickly, furiously, to disconnect the frightening summons. Eric saw it all. He had before, he had to admit, but he’d looked through it. Nina had forced Eric to see. Luke was holding it in. But how?

Why?

Wasn’t this a sign of some illness in Luke’s personality? What had they done wrong? Wasn’t there stuff about this in Freud? They hadn’t rushed toilet training; they hadn’t begun until Luke was two and three-quarters. Anyway, the constipation had started when Luke was still in diapers.

Pearl. It must be Pearl. She must have done it.

Or Nina. She said her constipation wasn’t as bad as Luke’s when she was a child, but that chocolate pudding softener had been given to her, she admitted that—

It was genetic! Goddammit, it had to be. There was nothing psychologically wrong with Luke.

While Eric made these observations, he kept talking to Byron’s mother about Washington Heights, hoping to get his mind off the subject. His babbling brought the old neighborhood back: Eric could see the bleached concrete sidewalks, the bright Saturday mornings with a long day of slug and running bases and war on the Danger Rocks in Fort Tryon Park; with Monopoly to play in the afternoon; with four quarters in his pocket to buy new pinkies if he hit home runs over the wall in stickball.

The stocks he had kept two weeks ago had continued their slow decline into soft mud. The Dow stocks, Joe’s chickenshit Dow stocks, they were out of the earth’s orbit, spinning silently up and away. …

I won’t make any more money if my son is fucked up, Eric thought, as he caught Luke doing it again, the hand quickly, guiltily, going back and pushing. If my son is screwed up, I won’t make any money.

What have I done wrong? Why isn’t he okay?

I think this woman likes me.

Her eyes were awake with intelligence, twinkling with mischievous sarcasm, a pleasant change from the bold and clear, yet wondering and shy light in Nina’s eyes.