“Is she—” Daddy nodded toward Grandma. There were funny noises from the hallway. Noises like Grandma, but not.
“Yeah. She’s upset,” Mommy told Daddy. She hugged Byron and put her face to his. Her breath splashed him, but it was hot and didn’t smell. “Please, Byron. It makes Grandma cry if you talk about dying. Please don’t say anything about it.”
There’s something wrong about dying. Maybe you die if you’re bad.
“I won’t say anything!” he shouted. He grabbed Mommy. “I promise I won’t say anything! I’ll be good. I’m a good boy, Mommy.”
“I know you are, Byron. It’s okay, it’s okay.” Her neck covered him and he could put his face on her springy breast. “Would you like another cookie?”
Wow. Another cookie for being good. “Yes!” he shouted.
16
LUKE CAUGHT the words in his stomach, stuck there at the bottom, and blew them up, leaves swirling in the wind, magic appearing from his mouth. “Byron,” he said. The words were almost out, almost free from the secret Luke. The Luke with power. “You know, Byron, you’re not older than me. I mean, you’re a little bit older—”
“That’s right!” Byron hopped. Byron pulled at Luke’s arm. Come on.
Pull against him. I’m heavy. Too heavy to move. “But we’re really both the same age.”
“No,” Byron said, and pulled harder, now using both hands.
I’m a heavy weight. I’m a big heavy box no one can lift. Byron’s face got round. His eyes swelled. He can’t move me!
“Yes,” Luke the immovable said. “We’re both three. That’s the same.”
“That’s right,” Pearl said.
Francine slapped Byron’s tushy. “Let go of Luke! What you doing!”
I’m the World Trade Center and he can’t pull me down.
Byron teetered, a tall pile of blocks, leaning, going — Byron fell at Luke.
Hold him up — I can’t—
The cement was sharp and flat and hard. His brain bounced up to the blue sky and down again against the rough and the hard street. The hot sun hurt the ache, warmed the pain.
Pearl and Francine yelled at Byron. I’m not getting up. I can’t tell him any more things.
Francine slapped Byron across the face. He cried. Pearl picked up Luke. She put her hand on the softened part of his head. Her fingers melted inside and made the hurt more.
“Ow!” Luke told her. Saying that made him cry.
“You pulled me down!” Byron shouted. Francine’s hand was still on Byron’s face: red ghost fingers blinking white and red.
Luke fought to get out of Pearl’s fat black arms, heavy and wet, smothering him. “Let go!”
“He’s all right,” Francine said.
Everybody who’s hurt is all right to Francine.
“Now say you’re sorry, Byron,” Pearl said, and pushed Byron at Luke.
“I’m sorry,” Byron said. “Let’s play now.”
You’re not older than me. You’re not stronger than me.
“Come on, Luke!” Byron said, and grabbed Luke’s hand again.
“Byron!” Pearl yelled.
I’m not here. Someone else is being pulled. I’m not here.
“Let’s play now, Luke, okay? I don’t wanna argue anymore.”
Someone else is playing. Someone else is being pulled.
THE WORDS came out terrified, not as he had wanted to pronounce them. They trembled in the air, fluttering baby birds on their first flight: “I’m here to see Larry Barrow. My name is Peter Hummel.”
“Do you have an appointment?” The receptionist was neutral. She didn’t acknowledge his scared tone.
(“Do you want me to tell you not to see Larry?” Kotkin had asked at that morning’s session.
(“I don’t know.”
(“Then why are you telling me you plan to see him?”
(So you’ll tell me not to. So you’ll tell me to. “I don’t know,” he answered.)
“Does he know what this is in reference to?” the receptionist asked.
Does he ever. Imagine Larry at his desk — safe, smug about his dirty secrets, sure of his invulnerability, and now I’ve come. I’ve come grown. Powerful, able to destroy. At last, on equal terms.
What will he think? Do I have a gun? Do I have a lawyer? Be scared, Larry, be confused. Like me, feel the dread, the uncertain sickening doubt.
The receptionist accepted Peter’s stammered answer: “I’m an old, uh, acquaintance. Personal, not business.”
What did she mean by that look? That snicker? Does Larry often have boys visit him in the office?
I’m not a boy.
(“What will you say to him?” Kotkin asked.
(I’m floating on Kotkin’s couch, floating on the sea of my unconscious, buoyant, just above the great dark ocean, giving the back of my head to the depths. “I don’t know.”)
A secretary appeared. She seemed uncertain. “Hello. I’m Larry’s assistant, Maria. He’s in a meeting. I don’t want to interrupt him. Can you tell me what this is about? Maybe I can be of help?”
Peter felt his anger gather at his brow, a black cloud storming in front of his vision. You can’t escape me like this: with secretaries, with the platitudes of business. “No,” Peter said, and his true voice, his adult voice, was back. A trace of contempt played in the polite melody: “I’ve known Larry since I was a child. He might not remember my last name, although I’d be surprised. I was best friends with his cousin Gary. He’ll remember me if you mention Gary.”
“I see.” She was stuck for a second. “Well, I don’t know how long he’s going—”
“I’ll wait.” Peter sat down on the gray modular couch. I’m here to stay.
THIS TIME Diane was determined to say her conditional good-bye. Lily was scheduled for a 7:00 A.M. operation. Open-heart surgery for breakfast.
Diane stayed with Lily until 10:00 the night before, the end of visiting hours, sitting all day in an uncomfortable armchair beside Lily’s hospital bed.
Lily was terrified. Her head was propped up by a triple layer of pillows. They diminished her face, held it still, halfway in a cave. She peered out like a cornered animal. Lily’s bony hand gripped Diane with relentless pressure. Even when Lily reached for another sip of ginger ale, or for a tissue to wipe away the slow, steady stream of tears, her hand stayed flexed around Diane’s palm. Lily’s skin was pasty, her forehead as frail as a newborn’s, and her lips trembled continuously so that hard consonants were lost and speech became a plaintive whimper of vowels.
“They dope you up — so you don’t remember.” Lily said this every hour or so.
“That’s good,” Diane said.
“But it hurts just the same. You just don’t remember later.” Lily swallowed. “What about the blood? How do I know they won’t give me something in the blood.”
“They check the blood, Ma.”
“They check everything! But things still go wrong!”
“Ma,” Diane said softly, hopelessly. Don’t worry, Ma. Everything’s going to be all right. I love you. Say it. “Don’t worry, Ma—”
“I can’t help it,” Lily said, and she was crying again. “I just wanted to die in my sleep. That’s all I asked of God, that He kill me in my sleep.”
Lily had never spoken of God before. She was so self-centered that even the most powerful being Lily could imagine was cast as a breaker of promises. Not a savior to humble herself before, but just another disappointment. Shut up, Diane. Shut up.
“Everything’s going to be all right, Ma.”
Lily sighed to end her weeping, a heavy, almost sexual pause. “I know. I’m a very weak person. I’m scared of everything. I never wanted to be alone, to handle anything by myself. And your daddy left me alone — I should have killed myself when he went.”