Only Children

by Rafael Yglesias

  “Here, I’ll help you,” Daddy said to Byron.

  “I can do it!” Byron said.

  “Byron, that’s not polite,” his daddy said.

  “Come on, Luke, we can carry it.”

  But it was made of stone, Luke thought. He got himself strong, like He-Man. Put his hands on the wall. It was plastic! Like nothing. Like air to push.

  Byron pulled too hard. It came in half. He was holding half, only half, it was broken, no, no—

  “It’s okay! Don’t cry!” Byron’s mommy said.

  What? “It comes apart, Luke,” Daddy said, and took the two pieces of Grayskull. There were things that—Daddy pushed it together. It was fixed.

  Luke wiped his sore eyes. “I thought it was broken.”

  “No! No!” Byron said. “Comes apart. See?” Byron showed him, pulling.

  “Don’t!” Luke begged him. “Reattach it!”

  “What did you say?” Byron’s daddy said.

  Luke fought to say the long sound harder: “Reattach it!”

  “My goodness. That’s a good word, Luke,” Byron’s daddy said.

  “See?” Byron’s mommy said. “I told you.”

  “I’ll help you carry it, Byron,” Daddy said.

  “We can!” Byron yelled.

  “Byron!” his mommy yelled.

  Stop. Stop. He tried to stop them with his body, but they wouldn’t.

  “Why are you crying?” Daddy asked.

  “Leave it alone,” Luke told him.

  Daddy looked sad. “Okay.”

  “Let’s go,” Byron’s mommy said. “We’ll leave them to play.”

  The grown-ups walked off, down the hallway. Deep voices got small, talking about me and Byron. They’re so far away. “We’ll leave,” she said. There’s a door in the kitchen. They could go out that way.

  “Daddy,” Luke called. Daddy had looked so sad when Luke told him to leave Grayskull alone. Luke was sorry to make Daddy sad.

  “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. Hi
s 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.

  Peter’s legs were taut, so rigid that he felt the need to sag to his knees, as if the muscles would explode from the tension of keeping him up. That brought Peter face-to-face with Byron. The skin on the side of Byron’s face was a swirl of yellow and bluish colors. But Byron’s eyes twinkled as he said, “I threw it. It got all broke.” He lowered his head and shrugged his shoulders in a poor imitation of disappointment. “Can’t play anymore.”

  I’m supposed to mediate this, to find out what’s right and what’s wrong. I can’t leave Diane’s misbehavior to her own supervision.

  The responsibility was almost as frightening as the evidence that Diane had lost control. Byron could be maddening, was getting more and more infuriating, but—

  “Why did you smash the violin?” Peter asked Byron gently, hoping to get the truth by not implying in his tone that there was any threat of punishment in response to honesty.

  “It hurt me.” Byron put out his index finger. “See?”

  There was nothing wrong with Byron’s finger. Diane looked at it with a curious expression, as if she had never seen Byron’s finger before. Peter got her attention and raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry, hoping she would explain. But her body sagged in response, her eyes looked vacant—I’m not here, they said.

  “Your finger looks okay,” Peter said.

  “It hurts!” Byron yelled with a whoosh of air into Peter’s face. The speed and fury were startling. Peter rocked back on his heels.

  “I’m not arguing with you. I just don’t understand. How does it hurt your finger?”

  “He’s lying,” Diane said in a listless voice, gazing off at some view, something mysterious and beautiful that wasn’t there.

  “Am not!” Byron’s eyes got red and he was crying. His dissolution into tears happened so fast that logic told Peter the unhappiness must be fake. But Byron wept with conviction. Byron stood between them, making no move to be consoled, standing independent in his deserted sorrow.

  And then the truth came to Peter, clear as a message from God. The simple truth shone through the pleasant fog of Peter’s assumption that Byron was a privileged, even spoiled child, doted on by his mother, and loved by Peter, if somewhat casually. After all, Diane had given up her career only a few months ago for Byron; even Peter had taken to staying home three or four nights a week. There were layers and layers of evidence that Byron had an especially charmed life: Francine, his nanny, was there for him as well as Diane; Diane’s mother made regular visits and brought all the newest and most expensive toys, such as that disgusting castle; Diane had applied to put Byron into the best private schools; Byron had swimming classes, violin classes, tumbling classes, summers in the Hamptons, a trust fund set up by Peter’s father, even a friend, that little boy Luke, who lived a block away. Surely this was a childhood that would amaze Charles Dickens. Peter had often said to Kotkin, “I envy him. I resent him having a happy childhood.” But now, suddenly, watching this creature, this baby, stand alone in the well of his despair, his face mottled by Diane’s rage, Peter knew: this is not a happy child. We are raising him badly. He is suffering. And it’s up to you, his father, to make it right.

  “Come here,” Peter said, and opened his arms.

  “No,” Byron interpolated in his sobbing. Byron hugged his arms to his chest and swung gently from side to side, rocking himself.

  He only trusts his own love, Peter thought, and a nauseating wallop of fear and self-disgust hit Peter in his gut. “Come on,” he said, and reached for Byron, not only to comfort his son, but to find a bottom for his own sinking hopes. Byron fought the embrace. He pushed against Peter’s arms and averted his kiss.

  “Let go,” he moaned.

  “I love you,” Peter said. The words almost hurt his throat.

  Diane grunted. Peter looked up at her, but she had no expressiveness on her face. She leaned against the hallway walls, her head resting on a poster of The Titan.

  I didn’t make that show, Peter thought, I made this misery. Kotkin wouldn’t approve of that judgment, Peter scolded himself. Byron eased in Peter’s arms, accepting the hug. The sobs went from a gallop to a trot, slowing, quieting. Byron’s rigid resistance melted into a limbless bundle of warmth. If only Peter could hold Byron forever, in this simple unity of love and good intentions, then being his father would be easy.

  “Are you okay?” Peter said.

  “Yeeessss,” Byron moaned.

  “Does your face hurt?”

  “No,” Byron mumbled.

  That had to be a lie. Was he scared to complain of Diane’s … abuse?

  This can’t be happening to me, Peter thought. She just hit him once, for God’s sakes. Calm down. Again, he looked at her for something, an explanation, help, consciousness.

  “I told him I was sorry,” she said this time. There was no apology in the tone, however.

  “Mommy got angry,” Byron said. He looked at Peter hopefully, wanting his answer to satisfy.

  What do I do? If I don’t say she’s wrong, am I approving it for Byron? If I criticize her, am I wrongly faulting her for a minor incident?

  What about the violin playing? Is that lost forever? But Byron was so proud, so handsome when he practiced. Wasn’t Byron going to reject any attempts in the future to apply himself to the demands of art if this calamity is the only memory of an attempt?

  “Can I see the violin?” Peter asked. He wanted to inspect the one tangible thing in all this.

  “It’s broke,” Byron said, lowering his head.

  “Does that make you sad?”

  “Yeesss,” Byron sobbed. “Mommy says I can’t play anymore!” he wailed.

  He wants to play? Maybe it was just an accid
ent. No, she said he threw it. Or did she? “What happened?” Peter said bravely to Diane. “He dropped it?”

  “No! Don’t you listen! He refused to practice and he threw it—” Her exasperation was too great. She closed her mouth and stamped her foot. Byron startled in Peter’s arms. “I can’t talk about it,” she said, and leaned back against the poster, shutting her eyes and sighing. “I’m an asshole,” she mumbled. “Just forget it!” she shouted at the ceiling.

  “I don’t think anyone’s going to forget it.”

  “Fine. You deal with it.” Diane went into the kitchen. She banged something. Byron jerked again in Peter’s arms. He’s terrified of her. How could that be? He adores her. How could one slap destroy all that, all her sacrifice, almost three years, month after month, week after week, hour after hour, of love and care and pride—gone? From one slap?

  Maybe Byron and I want too much.

  “Daddy,” Byron said.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you play with me?”

  Peter felt trapped. He didn’t want to be with Byron. He wanted to pursue Diane, to correct her, reengage her attention on Byron. She seemed ready to resign from her role as a mother. That had to be prevented. Peter couldn’t substitute for her, that would be even worse for Byron. “Show me the violin,” Peter said.

  “No!”

  “Maybe it can be fixed.”

  Byron opened his eyes wide. He looked normal. Active, his body ready to perform, full of hope. “Okay.” He pulled Peter into his room. The violin must have been left where Byron had thrown it. Diane must have been too upset to do anything about it.

  It was finished, all right. The neck had been severed, its back thoroughly cracked, and a strip about an inch wide had caved in.

  “We could tape it,” Byron said, excited now. A project, a repair, an erasure of his wrong and Mommy’s anger: attention, correction, and forgiveness all in one package. Peter had given him hope. That was stupid of me, Peter realized, holding the dismembered instrument in his hands.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s too broken.”

  Byron stared at the corpse for a moment, then his cheeks puffed, his mouth got tight, and he cried. “I wanna play it,” he wailed in harmony with the sobs.

  “We’ll get you another one,” Peter said, hugging him, hugging him hard.