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.
AMERICA 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.