“No, I know, honey. That’s okay. But I think there was something physical in it. He did start holding it in because of — well, it’s your theory. I’m sure it’s right. Did the pediatrician say anything about what he should eat?”
She sighed. She wanted to laugh at him. Or maybe scream at him. Or maybe hose him down. She looked across at the angry red eyes of their digital clock: 2:35. Blink: 2:36.
“Are you worried about something at work?” she decided to ask. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe this was a conversation she wanted to have, but couldn’t. Probably this was a dream.
“How did you know?” he said, and his robot head looked back at whatever vision he thought was there, just out there in the dark, ahead of him.
“You always worry about Luke when there’s something wrong at work.”
“You’re right,” he said. And then Eric lay down, collapsed onto the bed. He nestled his head into his pillow, like Luke into his blanket, and closed his eyes.
The angry red eyes: 2:36. Nina got herself settled back under the covers. Should I ask him what’s wrong at work? Eric’s eyes were shut. He breathed heavily. Was he asleep? Maybe I’m dreaming.
The trees waved hello. There was nothing but sky above them. Nothing but blue, happy blue.
I love my husband, she told the trees, the long-haired trees. They nodded and waved hello.
BYRON SHOOK him. “Where’s Mommy?”
Peter’s head felt big and heavy. Too much Rémy last night. I’m in bed, it’s morning, and I’m alone with Byron. “Mommy had to go visit Grandma.”
“Why?” Byron demanded.
“Grandma’s sick. Mommy went to take care of her for a couple days. What time is it?”
“I don’t know!” Byron said, and laughed. “I’m a child!”
Peter looked at his son. Byron’s skin was smooth from sleep, his sandy hair wild, up in places, smashed in others. He was at attention, his body alert, ready for the day. “Are you hungry?” Peter asked.
“Yeah!” Byron said with lust.
That got Peter awake. He struggled out of bed. Byron took him by the hand and gently tugged, towing Peter as if he were an ocean liner, into the kitchen.
“Rice Krispies, please.”
Peter had never gotten up with Byron before. Never been alone with him in the apartment, except for brief times, such as Diane going out to shop. Thank God he’s toilet trained, Peter thought while having coffee and watching Byron maneuver his mouth around bulky spoonfuls of cereal. Then Peter remembered — he glanced at Byron’s bottoms. There was a dark patch around the groin. “Did you pee in your bed?” he asked.
Byron cringed. “Yes!” he shouted, as if furious. But his body cringed and seemed afraid.
“Okay,” Peter said.
“The sheets’ll have to be changed,” Byron said.
“Nah,” Peter answered. “Let’s mail them to somebody.”
“What?” Byron smiled.
“Let’s mail them to somebody for a Christmas present.”
Byron laughed. “Terrible present.”
“Okay. Then we’ll have Francine put them in the laundry.”
“Mommy says I have to put them in. I did it, so I have to clean them.”
Right. That was the advice of their pediatrician. Make him take responsibility.
Responsibility. There wasn’t an adult who really took responsibility for anything. Not if he had enough power or money to pass it on.
“You want me to do it now?” Byron asked quietly.
“No,” Peter said. He liked having Byron there for company. A hungry little man, absorbed by the kitchen television, dangling his feet, his mouth stretched wide to capture food. “Francine’ll take care of it.”
“No! Mommy said—”
“Hey, Byron,” Peter heard himself answer with impatient anger. “I’m your father. If I say Francine does it, then Francine does it.”
Byron shrugged his shoulders, lifting them so high they touched his ears. “Okay with me,” he said.
Peter opened the newspaper. He glanced at the reviews. His eye was caught by an ad for a children’s movie. He could take off this afternoon. Byron had never been to the movies. He proposed the notion and got a bigger reaction than he had expected.
“Oh, yeah! Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Byron kissed him and then danced across the kitchen floor. “We’re going to the movies!” he proclaimed.
This is my chance, Peter told himself. Let’s see if I like being a father.
“IT HURTS, Daddy!”
Eric pressed his fingers into his palm, pushing the nails in to silence himself with pain.
“It hurts, Daddy!”
I know it does. He’s not lying. He’s gone four times in six days and the stools were still hard. It’s not his diet, Eric knew that much. Eric had been copying Luke’s breakfasts and dinners and now he found himself barely able to retain anything.
“Ugghhhh,” Luke groaned, his face red. There was a loud plop and Luke jerked his legs. “It splashed me!” he said with a smile.
“Don’t worry about it,” Eric mumbled.
“It feels cold,” Luke said. “Ughhhh,” he groaned, and his face went red again. Another plop. “I did it.”
“Good. You’re a big boy. I’ll get your M & M’s while you wipe yourself.”
“You know, now that I’m pooping more,” Luke said in a cocktail-party tone, as if he were discussing last summer’s trip to Venice, or an interesting exhibit at the museum, or the most recent movie, “I mean, after all,” Luke said. “I have gone a lot lately, right Daddy?”
“Wipe yourself. I’ll get the M & M’s.”
“But it still hurts,” Luke said. “You told me that when people go regularly, it hurts less and less.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Luke. Everybody has to go.”
“I know! I know that! But—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He walked out.
Luke’s bowel movements were all he thought about these days, except, of course, for the stocks. They had become part of his mind, a piece of his brain, flashing and beeping day and night, in the soapy rivulets while showering, hovering above his bed at night, glaring whenever he closed his eyes for a moment, dancing when Nina kissed him, branded across her breasts, big on the living-room walls, numbers everywhere, betraying him, killing him.
He got the M & M’s. He gave Luke the whole bag this time.
“All of them?” Luke said, appalled.
“You’ve been a big boy. You can have them all.”
Luke shook his head. “I don’t want all of them.”
“Okay, then have as many as you want.”
A few weeks before, Joe had taken away all accounts from Eric’s supervision except for Tom’s and Tom’s friends, a group they had nicknamed the Boston Beans. In the past quarter, Eric’s management was down 3 percent while the S&P average was up 12 and Joe’s management up 18. Two of the five Boston Beans had withdrawn their money yesterday. And Tom, who never initiated a call, had phoned that day.
“We’re not doing well, apparently,” Tom said in that goddamned voice, the tone as soft as a pretty melody, the meaning as cold and hard as a tile floor.
Eric babbled excuses. “Well, we’ve made our money in the growth issues, and they’re not participating at the moment, but they always lag the Dow, they’ll come back—”
When Eric finished the call, Sammy mumbled, “Trouble in paradise.” Eric wanted to punch him, but he couldn’t even manage a yell.
At the end of the day, Joe called Eric into his office for a private conference.
“I’m going to manage the rest of the Boston Beans. Maybe I should do Tom’s also? Give you a rest?”
Two of five Boston Beans had withdrawn their money. If Joe had been managing them, they not only would have stayed but might have increased their investment. What could Eric say?