Only Children (67 page)

“I don’t know what to do,” Eric said. He didn’t look at her. He was ashamed.

“I love you,” she said. But that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t enough for him.

“I guess I have to stay. Can’t pay the bills otherwise. I’ll go in tomorrow and eat whatever I have to eat from Joe.”

Maybe it’s for the best, Nina thought. She went over to Eric and kissed his hot and worried brow. Eric leaned his cheek on her hand and closed his eyes.

“I love you,” she whispered.

He has us; he doesn’t need anything else.

P
ETER’S FORTRESS
of truth was under siege. They kept trying to break in, and tell him lies. But Peter was busy. He had to take Byron to Philadelphia for Lily’s funeral; he had to explain Lily’s death in advance.

“You’d better tell him,” Diane had said. God, she sounded awful. Enervated, frantic, desperate, hopelessly lost, intensely focused on errands—as if her emotional keyboard had no chords, just atonal keys played by a chimp.

Peter’s mother called. Peter hung up at her hello.

Peter’s stepfather called. Peter hung up at his hello.

Then Peter turned on the phone machine. He ignored Byron’s insistent interrogation: “Why didn’t you talk? We’re here. Why don’t you answer?”

Peter shut off the phone machine speaker so he and Byron wouldn’t hear the pleas for him to pick up.

He gave Byron a bath. Byron sat in the water on his knees. He poured, he danced toys on the surface, he splashed them under the faucet’s torrential waterfall. Byron sang to his pretend things: oh, no, look out! Duck! I’ve got you now, you evil one! The tips of Byron’s mop of sandy hair got wet. The water darkened their color; the curls were glued to his neck and ears.

Do I tell him now?

“We’re going to Philadelphia tomorrow to see Mommy,” Peter said.

“Yay!” Byron shot up with pleasure, his lean stomach, perfect penis, and strong legs silky from the water. “We’re gonna see Mommy!”

“Yes. Won’t that be great?”

“Yeah,” Byron said, and looked solemn. “She’s been away a long time.”

“Well, she’ll be coming home with us.”

“Yea! Yea!”

(How do I tell him, Kotkin?

(Explain it simply. Don’t hedge. Tell him what you know and what you believe, but keep it simple. If it makes him unhappy, comfort him, but let him be unhappy. Don’t make him pretend he isn’t.)

“Will Grandma be there?” Byron asked.

The phone rang again. The machine picked it up.

“Well, you know Grandma’s been very sick. And she got sicker. She’s—” Peter couldn’t say the word—such a naked, ugly word.

“She died!” Byron’s eyes became circles; his mouth and jaw squeezed. He looked furious.

“Yes.”

“Because she got too old,” Byron said, his face set, very angry.

“Well …and sick too. We’re going to miss her.” Peter felt his eyes water. He had hated Lily. Well, not hate, but she was a silly woman with stupid values, and her presence was sandpaper on Diane’s skin.

“Why are we going there?” Byron complained. “If Grandma’s dead, why are we going there?” His body was stiff. He had tucked his elbows in and closed his little fists. Like Diane, he wanted to fight unhappiness.

We made him together. He has my hair. He has her eyes. He loves to be in the audience and watch a spectacular, like me. He wants everyone to do things his way, like her. We made him together and so he’s both of us at once. He’s someone else, but he’s our soup, our brew.

“When people die, it makes everyone who knows them sad. So they get together and …” Do I have to say bury? Do I have to tell Byron Lily will be put in the earth, this woman who loved him more simply and absolutely than I did, who loved even the idea of him, do I have to tell him we will put her in the dead ground, alone?

“And cry?” Byron said. He collapsed, broken at the middle, brought his hands to his face, and wailed into them. “I don’t want to go!” he screamed. “I don’t want to miss Grandma!”

Peter snatched Byron from the water. The body folded in his arms, huddled in his lap. Peter’s clothes soaked the water from Byron. Byron cried and shivered. Peter pulled a towel off the rack and covered him, tented Byron within his heart. Peter stroked his back and sang: “It’s okay to miss Grandma. She loved you. It’s okay to miss her.”

The phone rang.

Peter closed his eyes and soaked up his son’s water, the tears of life’s final betrayal, and waited for happiness to return. He knew it would.

18

A
YEAR
after Lily’s death, Peter, Diane, and Byron went down to Philadelphia to unveil Lily’s tombstone. A similar ceremony had been held for Diane’s father a year after his death, and Diane felt she should repeat for Lily what Lily had done for her husband. A rabbi was there, but no one else was invited, just as only Lily and Diane had gone years ago.

Peter gave his arm to Diane for support as they walked on the manicured lawn up to the gravesite. He had gotten into the habit of helping her at Lily’s funeral and during the recovery period following her car accident. He continued to, even though she had healed months ago. Diane’s leap backwards had given her legs, rather than her head, to the impact. Her last act, at the final moment before contact with the trees, had saved her life. Whenever she wondered about her desire to live, given her suicidal decision to drive home the night her mother died, Diane recalled her dive to the back seat, her twist away from death; she never again doubted her desire to be alive, to be Byron’s mother, to be a woman, to feel whatever she must.

At odd moments, when she listened to Byron play the piano (at Byron’s own request he had begun lessons shortly after Lily’s death), when she watched Byron blow out the candles at his fifth birthday, when she held his hand crossing streets, when she missed him at her job (she had joined a public-interest law foundation to represent women’s causes), Diane felt, in a burst of heat in her breast, horror at how close she had come to losing all the happy things that surrounded her.

The accident must have also changed how she saw Peter, because he seemed so different. Peter claimed his therapy had helped. He told her what he had discovered about his parents’ divorce and said that knowledge had released him from a prison of conflicted emotions about marriage. He certainly treated his mother differently: he refused to have Gail over to the house, to see her in any way. She took Byron to Gail’s every few weeks, and they were received with almost excessive deference and consideration. But the most startling change in Peter was his desire to have another child. Diane, however, didn’t believe that Peter’s therapy or this reversal of information as to which of Peter’s parents had first cheated on the other could really be the reason Peter seemed so changed to her. She was convinced that during the first years of Byron’s life she had suffered from her own madness, her own distorted way of seeing things—that in those days, she hadn’t really known Peter.

Diane told Peter she didn’t want to have another child. She was tempted to repeat all the things she felt she had done so badly with Byron, to get them right, but for exactly that reason, Diane thought she owed Byron sole attention, bandages for whatever cuts she had made.

“He comes from a long line of only children,” she told Peter.

“Well,” he answered. “We have time.”

But she was forty-one years old now and she didn’t think she had time. She had boarded the train for good and would ride this trip out to its last stop without any more transfers. As a lawyer, she would fight on behalf of lost or losing causes; as a mother, she would raise her child patiently; and as a wife, she would be a companion to Peter. To have another child would mean a temptation to try to be perfect again. And she knew she wasn’t perfect. She was Lily’s daughter and Diane’s illusions: a combination that was flawed.

The rabbi read what he was supposed to; Diane spoke her lines. They uncovered Lily’s headstone.

In the car ride over, Byron had asked if he could make up a poem about Grandma and say it at the ceremony.

Byron stood in his dress clothes, a lean young boy of five, with perfect skin, bold eyes, limber legs and arms, standing at the edge of his grandmother’s grave. He looked up into the sun at Diane and Peter with no fear, no awe.

“Now?” he asked.

“Sure,” Peter said.

Diane watched the rows of graves and smelled the flowers; it was a beautiful sunny day.

“Good-bye, Grandma,” Byron said to the gray stone. “We miss you. We remember your cookies. We remember your hugs. We’ll try to be good and love everybody like you loved us.”

Diane rested her hand on Byron’s head and felt herself drain into him. She closed her eyes, tightened her grip on Peter’s arm, and she was strong between them, the three alone and together: a family.

A
MERICA HATES
children, Peter thought. It pretends to indulge them, thinks of itself as so generous and abused, but beneath it all is hate. Hate, neglect, and narcissistic rage.

Peter walked through the crowd of adults and toddlers, through the shuffling mass in the park and listened to the so-called grownups:

“No, you’ve had too much!”

“Why don’t you go play on your own?”

“That belongs to the little girl! Give it back!”

“Oh, so they both came down with the flu at the same time. Threw up on everything!”

“My housekeeper says he’s an angel. I come home and all I get is complaints and tears.”

These parents were spoiled children. Giant spoiled children. Some of them liked to hit. Or threaten to hit.

“I’ll give you a good smack if you don’t stop!”

“Do that one more time and we go right home and you get a spanking!”

Others suffocated their babies with psychobabble:

“Are you sharing? If you share nicely with your friend, then he’ll share with you.”

“Mommy and Daddy are tired. Like when you get tired and cranky and need a rest. So we’re just going to sit here. You can play next to us.”

Peter was sickened by them. Of course, it was the logic of their position: in authority, being imperfect, they made mistakes, and in authority, they couldn’t admit their wrongs, their inadequacy. The victims had to bear the blame. Otherwise, society would collapse, children would never sleep, never eat, never learn, never grow up to raise their children just as badly.

“Daddy,” Byron said. He spoke clearly and well. He was a solemn, hardworking child; the joy and energy of his babyhood had been replaced by seriousness and concentration. “I want you to understand something.”

“What’s that, Byron?”

“If Luke comes today, I want to play with him all day. I don’t want a short play date. I want a long one.”

A mother nearby snorted at this. Peter glanced at her. She smiled sarcastically. “Knows his own mind,” she said in a flip tone, suggesting Byron was wrong to be like that.

Peter turned away from her and answered Byron. “Well, that’s up to Luke and his parents.
If
he comes. His mother said she wasn’t sure if he wanted to.”

Byron nodded. He stared at the ground for a moment. “Could I go to the same summer camp Luke is going to?”

“Where’s he going?”

“I don’t remember the name. You could ask his mommy or daddy.”

“You like Luke a lot, don’t you?”

“Yeah, he plays the most interesting games. I wish he went to my school.”

They had had trouble getting Byron into Trinity. Peter, who knew several of the trustees, had asked them to intercede and they had. Peter didn’t want to explain to Byron that Luke hadn’t been able to get into as good a school. He feared Byron might blurt that out to Luke and hurt the boy’s feelings. Luke was a sweet child and, although they didn’t go to the same school, was still Byron’s most requested playmate. Peter didn’t know what to say. He nodded and stroked the sandy mass of Byron’s hair. “But you have friends in your class you like?”

“Yeah, they’re okay. I’m gonna go on the slide.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Byron moved off. He climbed alone, slid down alone, watched a group playing, said something to them. They didn’t answer. He returned to the slide and went down it again.

Is he lonely? Is he unpopular? He was very creative. He worked hard at the piano and was making good progress. His drawings were terrific: strong lines, good colors, his imagination disciplined and energetic.

He’s going to be an artist of some kind. Not like me. Not an audience, but a creator. There will be an easy way for Byron to get the unhappiness out, to shape its chaotic mass into beauty.

Diane appeared at the gate, looked for Byron, and, after spotting him, came over to sit down next to Peter. She offered her lips for a quick kiss. But Peter didn’t give her a peck. He put his hand lingeringly on the back of her head. After several seconds she broke off, her eyes shining, and laughed. “They’ll throw us out for necking.”

She took his hand, twining their fingers together, and looked out at the slide, watching Byron.

“No one here Byron knows?” she asked.

“I’m hoping Luke will come.”

She nodded. “Your mother called. She asked if I could bring Byron by today.”

(“I realize Mom is just a person, Kotkin. She is not a monster. She’s just an ordinary person, who made ordinary mistakes. She thought of herself first. Everybody thinks of themselves first.”

(“Does that mean you forgive her?”

(“It means it’s not my place to forgive her.”)

In front of Peter and Diane, a mother and father were trying to force their two-year-old into a stroller. He arched his back, stiffened his legs—an anti-leaving-the-park demonstrator. “We have to go now, sweetie,” the embarrassed, upset mother said over and over. She tried to force the hard body to bend, to break to her will.

(“Are you going to see your mother?” Kotkin asked.

(“Why do you ask that?”

(“Just wondering. Are you thinking about seeing her? How long has it been?”

(“A year.”)

The father took over, lifted the two-year-old in the air, and pushed him into the stroller fast and hard. The father held his son down with one hand while strapping him in with the other. “We have to go now!” he pleaded.