Only Children

by Rafael Yglesias

  “Fourteenth and First,” he said, fully in command. “It’s the Eye and Ear Clinic. The entrance is on Fourteenth.”

  Eric reached for Luke’s hand. Luke’s fingers fell into his palm, drooped leaves soaked with fear. Nina kissed Luke on the forehead over and over, a steady patter of love.

  The stupid traffic made the ride endless. He could have walked it faster. If anything really serious ever happens, I could carry Luke to the emergency room. Remember that.

  This is what it means to be a man. Don’t hesitate, don’t doubt, get it done. You sat with him for three hours doing nothing. Luke’s doctor would have still been available. You’ve made enough mistakes for one night.

  “He’s asleep,” Nina said when the clinic was in sight.

  “Oh, no” escaped from Eric. Don’t whine, don’t worry. But Luke’s so cranky just after he wakes up. Is Nina angry at me? I should have handled this. Better for him. Better for her.

  I should have bought four times the amount of DNA Tech than I did. Either make a bold move or don’t make it at all. What’s the point of a little position?

  On Monday, I’ll quadruple Tom’s exposure.

  Luke looked so small, his head decapitated on Nina’s shoulder, the big eyelids closed, their tiny veins showing purple through his pale skin.

  Eric Gold, discoverer of undiscovered values in the OTC market, a frequent panelist on Wall Street Week, rated number two among money managers for the last year, moves past the lingering bums at the clinic’s entrance and holds the door wide for his beautiful wife and wounded son.

  Out of my way, out of my way. An Indian nurse stood beside a security guard at a reception desk. “Yes?”

  “My son has something in his eye.”

  Luke woke up crying. “Shhh, shhh,” Nina said.

  “Oh, the poor baby,” a gigantic black woman said. She was seated in a row of plastic chairs. Around her, sprawled in funny positions, like discarded clothes, were five children.

  “Geuss?” the nurse said to Eric.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It was geuss?”

  “No, not gas. Sand.”

  The nurse laughed at Eric as though he were a cute child. “Oh, sand. Not geuss. You have to wait. Fill this form out, please.”

  Luke wailed. His arms arched into the air, grabbing for what he already had—his mother. He grabbed for Nina as though she were incorporeal. “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” he screamed. “It hurts! It hurts!”

  “You take the baby first,” the black woman as big as the Stock Exchange said to the nurse.

  “I see if Doctor can see him now,” the nurse said to Nina.

  “Thank you,” Nina said. “Thank you very much,” she added to the black woman.

  Why are you thanking her? She’s not running this place, Eric thought. He answered the questions on the paper. Glass, the nurse meant glass, he realized and wondered if many people got examined for wrong things in their eye. Of course, a nurse who can’t speak English well is perfect for the job of emergency room triage. And she laughed at me for misunderstanding her. The world is mad.

  “Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, okay,” Nina kept on saying over Luke’s cries of pain. Eric wrote quickly. His answers on the form looked like the scrawls of a maniac.

  “Car? You have a car?” The nurse was back.

  “Yes, I have a car.”

  The nurse laughed at him again, as if he were just the cutest and silliest thing she’d ever seen. “Medical car-d!” she said, and smiled.

  “It hurts! It hurts!” Luke’s voice scratched the air. All the waiting people hunched their shoulders, fighting the cold wind of his cries.

  “Can he see us?” Nina said.

  “You’re necks.”

  Next, next. “I’ll pay cash,” Eric said. He was tearing his wallet apart; he couldn’t find the fucking Blue Cross card.

  “Oh. No car? Need a boucher. Wait.”

  The black mother tapped Eric. “Don’t give ’em no cash, mister.”

  “Here it is!” The Blue Cross card. It was old. From when he first married Nina.

  “There you go,” the black mother said. Her children looked as if they’d been there several weeks, their eyes crossed with boredom, their hair flattened in odd spots by their using the chairs’ plastic arms as pillows. The girls’ skirts were pushed up, the boys’ shirts pulled out. None of them seemed to have anything wrong with their eyes other than a dead hopelessness, a glaze of enraged resignation.

  Thank God I’m not her, Eric thought. Thank God those aren’t my kids.

  I’m going to buy the shit out of DNA Tech on Monday.

  “Eric!” Nina was following a pretty Asian woman wearing a doctor’s clothes.

  “Sweet baby,” the black woman said as Eric turned to go.

  I should give her some money, Eric thought, but that was ridiculous. “Thank you,” he said.

  He rushed after Nina and Luke. Luke’s eye looked bad now, swollen, red, and he was gasping from tears, choking, whimpering, blind, clutching Nina’s clothes with arched fingers, a cat climbing a tree.

  Nina was talking over him, reciting the chronology, the Asian doctor nodding as if the information were familiar.

  “Can you open your eye?” the doctor interrupted, speaking to Luke. She had no accent; she was like a TV anchorwoman, her pronunciation without geography.

  “He fell asleep in the cab. It seems to be—”

  “He’s probably scratched his cornea,” she said casually, and moved to a tray, getting implements. “There’s probably no sand still in there, but the pain of the scratch gets worse, especially if the lid is closed for a while. We’ll take a look. Could you turn the lights out?”

  “Is that permanent? A scratch?” Who asked that? Eric thought. Me. That’s who.

  “No, no. I’m guessing. I shouldn’t. You’d better hold him.”

  “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” Luke screamed to be saved, a condemned man pleading for mercy.

  We’re helping you, Luke. We really are.

  “The lights?” the doctor said to Eric.

  With the room dark, Luke’s desperate cries were horrible. Three giants eating him alive in the dark—

  “Let me look!” The doctor’s fingers tried to spread Luke’s eyelid, squeezed shut by terror. “Let me look!”

  Luke’s flailing arms whacked Nina in the face. “Ow!” she yelled.

  “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”

  The black woman looked in. “He all right?” she said to Eric.

  “Please leave!” the doctor said to her. The nurse appeared and led the black woman off. “You’d better hold him,” the doctor said to Eric.

  Eric Gold, the first to realize DNA Technology was the IBM of the future, profiled in Barron’s—

  He took Luke from Nina. Luke fought his grip, his arms up, his body wriggling like a slippery soap in his hand, the feet kicking at his stomach—“No! Daddy! No! Daddy! Hurt! Hurt!”

  Eric felt tears yawn in his eyes. It was so dark Nina and the doctor couldn’t see them. Nina got out of the examining chair. He tried to drown out Luke’s pleas.

  Eric Gold made a bold investment four years ago, buying nearly 2 percent of the outstanding shares in DNA Tech at an average price of nine. The stock has since split five times—

  Eric got into the chair and lifted his head back, away from Luke’s butting head and wild arms.

  “Hold his arms,” the doctor said. What was that in her hand? A swab, she’s going to swab his eyeball.

  Eric grabbed the little arms, put them against Luke’s chest, and folded his thick arms on top, pressing hard to keep Luke still.

  I’m holding my son to be at the torturer’s mercy.

  “Daaaa! Daddd! Daaayyy! Hurt! Hurt!”

  Eric Gold, Wizard of Wall—

  The doctor came right at the eye with that thing—

  I have to hold him still. She might pop his eye out if he moves.

  Luke’s muscles went stiff and he screamed out everything, even the
soothing fantasy in Eric’s head.

  “It’s okay! It’s okay! It’s okay!” someone shouted over and over. “It’s okay! It’s okay!”

  The doctor moved away, studying the swab. “There was sand still in there,” she commented.

  Luke screamed, “You’re hurting me, Daddy!”

  “I’m just holding you, Luke. The doctor’s done—”

  “You’re squeezing me!” Luke yelled.

  “You’re holding him too tight,” Nina said.

  I am, he realized. He let his muscles go. Eric had pressed Luke hard enough to push him inside his own heart.

  I’m out of control, Eric thought.

  “There was a lot of sand in there,” the doctor said. “It must’ve really hurt. How long ago did this happen?”

  “Five or six hours,” Nina said.

  “Brave baby,” the doctor mumbled.

  “It’s all out now, Luke,” Nina said.

  “Go home!” Luke said in a lonely whine, an abandoned pet.

  “I need to look—” the doctor began.

  Luke pushed at Eric’s looser net of arms. “No! No!”

  “Just to look! With this. See the light.” The doctor held out the tool. “I’m going to shine it on you. Not touch.”

  “It doesn’t hurt anymore!” Luke yelled.

  “What?” the doctor said.

  “He says it doesn’t hurt anymore,” Nina said, doubt in her voice.

  “I’m sure it doesn’t. I put an anesthetic on. Last him for, oh, a few hours. But I couldn’t see if he has a scratch. I need to look again. I won’t touch.”

  “No, no, no, no, no.”

  Eric thought: Tell Luke it’s okay. Take charge. But he had nothing left. Luke had been in terrible pain for hours while in Eric’s care. And then Eric had practically crushed Luke, held him helpless while he suffered. It was nothing, it would be forgotten, anyone might have made the same mistakes—but it wasn’t Eric’s idea of being Daddy. He felt the ache of tears in his eyes, stinging to be free. I can’t even do this right.

  If these two women find me in tears, I might as well spend the rest of my life in bed, under the covers.

  “Come on,” the doctor said, coming in again with the penlight. “Roll your eye up. I won’t touch you.”

  “Hold him, Eric,” Nina ordered. The bitch, she’ll be remembered as the angel of mercy. I, the monster.

  The screaming started again. Hopelessly, Eric tightened and shut out everything except modifying his grip to be firm but not painful.

  Eric Gold, the Wiz—

  “Daddy! You’re hurting me! You’re hurting me!”

  “Yeah. He’s scratched his cornea. If he was a grown-up, I’d put on a patch. You’ll have to put drops in every four hours.”

  “Oh, no” escaped from Nina. “For how long?”

  “Three days.”

  Eric loosened his grip. The weekend. The wonderful weekend. I get to spend my weekend crushing my son in my arms while Nina drops things on his naked eye.

  If I’d acted faster, maybe he wouldn’t have scratched it.

  “How’s the baby?” the black woman asked Eric as he carried Luke, calm now, already half asleep, out of the examining room.

  “He’s okay,” Eric said.

  She smiled. “But you ain’t, right?”

  12

  MINE. I get mine violin. My friends can’t play with it. Do not belong to anybody else. Mine.

  Byron felt the case, smooth and bumped, soft-shaped and hard. Daddy smiled. Mommy was at the metal stand, stick man, clean and new. Grandma and Grandpa were on the couch, still as chairs. Old. People get old and die, Mommy said. Hair get white, skin get mushy, bones get old, and people die.

  “Oh, it’s so cute,” Grandma said. “Like a real violin.”

  “It is real!” Byron told her with everything, all his body.

  Daddy laughed. Grandpa too.

  Don’t believe me. “It is real! It is real!”

  “Shhh,” Mommy said. “Now show them the right way to take it out of the case.”

  “There’s a right way?” Grandpa said.

  Byron knows. He flipped up the locks. They made a satisfying noise. Open. The violin shone in its green bed, shaped to hug itself. Nothing else could go in there.

  “Oh, it’s so cute,” Grandma said, and she laughed. “My friend Paula must see this!”

  Watch Mommy to see I’m okay. Hand under neck—so smooth and hard—other hand under its belly. Where do my feet go?

  “Byron,” Mommy warning. “Rest position.”

  Mistake. Put it at your side. Laser gun.

  “Is there a bow?” Grandma said.

  “Yes!” Byron let go with one hand and pushed the case so Grandma could see the bow—stuck onto the top, held by little belts. He pushed so she could see, but the case spun on its lumpy underbelly, spun and spun around on its funny stomach, spun right off the coffee table!

  “Whoa!” Grandpa caught it.

  “Byron!” Mommy hard. “You’re not holding—”

  Quick, quick, back to your side. “I wanted to show the bow!”

  “Mother, you’re messing him up,” Daddy said to Grandma. But he smiled.

  “Don’t confuse me,” Byron said to Grandma.

  They laugh again! Why? She made me do it.

  “Is it broke?” Byron asked.

  “No, no, no,” Daddy said. He showed the case. The bow was still there.

  “I want the bow,” Byron said. It was so special. Bent, but not broken, with its loose white hairs that weren’t loose and weren’t hairs.

  “You’re not up to the bow yet. That comes later,” Mommy said.

  “I know!” Not what I asked. Want the bow. “Just hold it!” he said.

  Mommy didn’t answer. Mommy pointed to the music book. Little feet with scarves hopping up and down the ladder. Notes. I can read music. Well, a few notes.

  “He can read music?” Grandma loved that.

  “A few notes,” Mommy said.

  “More!” Byron answered. “I know all these!” He showed with his finger.

  “Byron! You’re going to drop the violin!”

  Back at your side! Watch Mommy. “I know all these!”

  “They’re just two notes, Byron,” Mommy said. “You know a lot, but not all the notes.”

  Mommy pointed to the first note, G, first string. “Play position,” Mommy said, and gestured to the drawing of feet the teacher had made.

  “Look at that!” Grandma said, noticing the ghost feet. Byron stepped into the invisible shoes and brought the violin up. The black thing, the rest, dug into his skin.

  “More under,” Mommy said, and pushed.

  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—