Diane had stopped accompanying Peter to theater or other functions. Peter spent four nights a week out alone. Although Peter had avoided Rachel, he had had four dalliances — a result, he believed, of Diane’s desertion. But the phenomenon of Peter’s sexual abstraction remained even with other women: he was unable to enjoy the intercourse; numbed from the waist down by memory, Peter screwed without a climax, a drama full of tension, but no release. Kissing, cuddling, wooing the woman’s body, he was excited and alive — but once his penis was involved, his mind lifted off and looked down dispassionately on him, the woman, and the activity. He was unable to feel pleasure. Somehow he blamed Diane and Byron, believed they had stolen his passion.
Peter had made up his mind to talk to Diane. He needed her back, he needed his wife. So tonight he had come home early from an Uptown Theater fund raiser, canceled his tickets to the new Fosse show, and bought a bottle of champagne to make things festive. Peter lifted the Moët out of its brown wrapper. “Would you like some?”
Diane squinted. “Champagne? Byron’s hot,” she said, frowning. She kissed Byron’s forehead. “Could you get the thermometer?”
“He’s got a fever?”
“He’s hot,” she repeated. “Feel.” She offered Byron to Peter. Byron’s eyelids were half lowered and had an extra crease. Peter put his hand on Byron’s forehead. Byron tried to shake it off and kicked Peter’s chest hard enough to hurt.
“He feels warm,” Peter agreed, and backed away. This nine-month-old was dangerous.
“Get the thermometer,” Diane said.
Peter obeyed, putting the champagne in the refrigerator first. They could drink it later, after Byron was asleep. When Peter returned from the bathroom, Diane frowned at the plastic case and shrieked, “This is an oral thermometer! What’s the matter with you?”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Peter said. Diane sounded shrewish, the same tone Lily used with Diane.
“What do you think! A nine-month-old is gonna hold a thermometer under his tongue?”
“We don’t have any other thermometer!” Peter shouted, and instantly was ashamed that he had lost his temper. Byron, who had been twisting and squawking in Diane’s arms, began to cry again.
“I bought a rectal thermometer. It’s in the cabinet.”
Peter was disgusted. He remembered back to when he was left by his mother, Gail, to stay with his friend Gary for a weekend. They were eight or nine. Both of them had come down with fevers; they weren’t particularly high, but Gary’s mother had insisted on …He shook his head at the memory. Peter had wanted to object, to balk at Gary’s mother’s request. She wouldn’t have forced him, but Gary had somehow intimidated Peter, made him feel he had to. The humiliation of lowering his pants and allowing a stranger (Gary’s mother was a stranger to Peter, no matter how well he knew her) to put … He felt sick to his stomach thinking about it. Gail always let Peter use an oral thermometer. When Peter made that point, Gary’s mother had said disdainfully, “It’s not accurate.” Peter remembered the pleasure Gary’s mother seemed to take in their discomfort: “Don’t move around! Lie still. You’re such babies! ” Gail would never have done that to Peter. She never offended his dignity. Why didn’t I object, why didn’t I—
“Peter! Will you please get the thermometer?”
“No,” Peter said, backing away, her request a tangible menace stalking him.
Diane peered at Peter in amazement. Byron’s hand swiped across her mouth. Byron moaned and squawked. “Why not?”
“Okay,” he said, and walked to the bathroom quickly, found another plastic case (with that horrible word “rectal” written on it), and brought it to her, tossing the thing on the couch. He turned to leave.
“Where are you going? I need some Vaseline.”
He remembered that as well, the cold, slimy feel of it, the ooze afterward, and Gary’s continual talk about the residue of the sensation. In school, a few weeks later, Gary told their classmates. Why he exposed them both to ridicule Peter never understood. As he told the story to their classmates, Gary giggled with mean delight while he described the look on Peter’s face as the thermometer was inser — Peter closed his eyes, as again his mind was overcome by the clarity of the memory, Gary laughing, Gary’s mother saying, “You’re such babies,” the whole horrible—
“Peter, I’m going to need your help, all right? He’s getting hotter. Get some Vaseline and a towel.”
“I’m not having any part of this,” Peter said firmly, and left the living room. He went to his study and closed the door. He sat at his desk. He was trembling.
I’m an adult. He’s my son. I must defend him. Women like to destroy our pride, to make us into babies.
Peter shook his head, physically trying to free his mind from the strange mesh that had captured his reason. Byron is a baby. He tried to cut through to common sense. He’s not an eight-year-old. Diane’s perfectly correct. What other choice does she have?
But I don’t have to participate. I told her. I won’t help.
But the issue here wasn’t help; it was intercession.
I can’t allow Diane to do anything she wants. He’s my son. One day, he will turn to me, grown to equality, and ask me why.
Will I pretend I didn’t hear?
Through the closed door, Peter heard wailing, dreadful wailing.
“Goddammit!” A faint version of Diane’s voice carried in.
Byron’s outrage, Diane’s frustration — they stood beside Peter, mocking sentinels. Aren’t you going to do something? they asked.
“Peter! Peter!” Diane’s shouts for help were both desperate and furious.
Peter covered his ears for a moment, but the raging voices of his wife and son reached him anyway. He surrendered, rose, opened his study door, and marched back to the living room.
Peter glanced briefly at the spectacle on the rug. Apparently Diane had been unable to keep Byron still enough to put the thermometer in. “Hold him!” Diane said. Peter maneuvered himself so he was beside Byron. Peter put his hands on the little shoulders, flexing to gain mobility, and held his son down.
For a second, Byron stopped fussing. Peter looked into his son’s brown eyes, warm and curious at Peter’s appearance; light glinted through them and their color shimmered from hue to hue.
A big smile reversed the angry sorrow. “Da, Da! Da, Da!” Byron claimed triumphantly.
“That’s right,” Peter said.
“Okay,” Diane said. “Here we go.”
Byron was about to reach for his father’s mouth, to play with the spectacle of his Da, Da. But the thing went in — and Byron s eyes shut, his head bucked forward, his shoulders fought to get up. Peter held him down. Byron screeched his complaints. Peter laid his head next to Byron’s and kissed his cheek.
“Only take a second,” he apologized.
Byron tried to fight again, but as he lost, his complaints became cries, cries of frustration, cries of defeat.
Afterward, Peter held Byron while Diane cleaned up and went to the bedroom to call the doctor. “A hundred and three,” she told Peter. Byron still tried to move, to play, but sighed and relaxed in Peter’s arms after a minute of Peter’s resistance. Byron’s body was hot. The soft, plump thighs radiated his body’s distress. The white skin took on a pink hue. The usually restless Byron leaned his sweaty head against his father’s shoulder and looked into Peter’s eyes with mournful contemplation. There seemed to be no memory of Peter’s collaboration in the outrage, no grudge borne.