“Diane!” Peter called.
“Laaa … t!” Byron broke through the weak muscles of infancy, pushing the sound out. “Laa … it!”
She felt a rush of joy, a terrible chill of happiness. “That’s right! Light!”
“Laaait!” Byron stretched the sounds in his throat, grappling with them, muscling them to the right shape.
“Light, light!”
“Laait! Laait!”
“That’s right, baby!” She kissed his cheek, his puffy pillow.
Byron ignored the affection. He pointed to the illumination and masticated the sounds, his voice piercing: “Lahi-t! Lahi-t!”
“Diane!” Peter appeared at her side, exasperated. “Have you gone mad? The poor kid just woke up.”
“He knows!” Diane felt the energy of her pleasure surge to her face, her eyes tearing. “He knows, Peter. He can talk.”
“Da, Da!” Byron said, and reached for his father.
Peter took him. Byron’s little body was hot, his eyelids were creased. Byron leaned his head against Peter’s shoulder. “He’s tired,” Peter said.
“Watch,” Diane said. She turned the light off and then on. “What is it?” she said to Byron.
Byron lifted his head, his back tight with attention. “Laa-hit! La-iht!”
“That’s right,” escaped from Peter’s lips, his face beaming.
Diane went to Byron and held his cheeks with her hands, looking into his eyes. “You’re so smart. My beautiful baby boy. You’re so smart.”
ON BYRON’S first birthday, Diane celebrated with a big party, inviting everyone she knew who had children under five, the grand- and stepgrandparents, Peter’s half sister and half brother, as well as his stepsister and stepbrother. They all came, even the merely legal relations, despite the fact that many had to journey from afar.
Peter was disturbed by their presence. He hid behind his Nikon camera, escaping from conversations that were dull, demanding, or dumb, by claiming a need to photograph the instigator with Byron. Peter ran out of film before Diane had even brought out the cake, and that provided him with an excuse to run outside to buy more.
“I can’t believe you didn’t buy enough film” were Diane’s parting words.
The awful thing, Peter realized, once out on the street, was that none of those people fought to get him to pay attention, to belong, to engage in the party. They were happy to let him be obscured by Byron, by the event, by the camera. Diane? They surrounded her, questioned her, praised her. Because of the existence of Byron, his relations seemed to retract their skepticism of Diane.
“You married well,” his stepsister had commented out of the blue to Peter when they passed in the hallway. “Diane’s a terrific mother.”
“Are you surprised?” he asked pointedly.
His stepsister had two kids and had never had a job. She looked defensive, but answered truthfully. “Yes. I thought Diane was too wrapped up in her career to have a baby. I don’t know how she does it.”
Peter felt flustered, almost accused, by that answer. For a reply, he took her picture with Diane and Byron.
While he walked to the film store, Peter had a strong desire to hail a cab, take it somewhere, midtown perhaps, and shop in the Fifth Avenue stores. He passed a pair of phone booths. A young man of college age occupied one, talking animatedly. Peter entered the free booth and called Rachel. He dialed without considering the why or the consequences. He needed her sensibilities, her oxygen.
“Hello!” Rachel answered with the enthusiasm of a teenager.
“Hi. It’s Peter.”
Despite the year that had passed, Rachel didn’t hesitate, or seem surprised. She didn’t even bother to conceal her delight. “Peter! It’s so great to hear your voice. How are you? I’ve been wondering.”
“I can’t talk long. I want to see you. Is that possible?”
“I’m always here! What have I got to do? You want to have breakfast tomorrow?”
“How about theater tomorrow? I’ve got tickets to Sincerely Yours.”
“Oh, it’s supposed to be good!”
“I’ll meet you at the box office. We’ll have dinner afterwards. All right?”
“Lovely, darling,” Rachel said grandly.
Peter returned home with a loaded camera, more at ease and ready to join in the applause for Byron. Diane had Byron on display, set down in the middle of a circle of admiring adults. Peter’s son stood among the tall trees, hooting to their tops. He stood boldly, planted on the rug, his fat little legs stiff, his eyes open wide, his mouth pursed with excitement. He shouted to them. He lifted his arms and hailed them. He clapped at their sounds of pleasure.
And then, just as Diane hoped, Byron showed his new trick. Out went his right foot — out forward into space — and then down, firmly, on the rug.
“Oh … ” mumbled his relatives.
Byron wobbled for a moment.
“Uh-oh.” The relatives worried with him.
With a shout of effort, Byron jerked his left foot to join the right, his toes pointed out, a penguin on the ice.
“He’s walking!” Lily, his grandmother, shouted.
Byron met Lily’s eyes and laughed to her. He put his hands up to her.
“Come to Grandma, baby,” Lily called.
Byron, his head bobbing, stepped out into dangerous air, his right foot forward, knee locked, arms out for balance. He wobbled as his foot landed, and then snapped his left leg forward to even things up.
“Yes!” Lily shouted.
Again. Right, teeter, left.
“Wow,” said someone.
Right, rock, left. Now faster, ahead to the astonished grown-ups, sounds of triumph pouring from him.
“Homo erectus!” Peter called, and shot picture after picture.
Byron dove at his grandmother Lily when he got close enough, hurling himself recklessly to gain the last few inches in one movement. Lily rescued Byron from smashing onto the rug, took him in her arms, and whirled him around. She clasped him to her breast and began to dance with him, to the amazement of Peter’s relatives. That plump old Jewish woman made herself dainty. She twirled Byron, prancing on her tiptoes, covering his face with smacking kisses, taking possession. “My bubeleh, my beautiful baby doll,” she sang to him, unashamed of her passion.
Peter looked at his mother. Gail’s genuine smile at Byron’s steps was left over on her face, the warm sauce of her amazed pleasure jelled into cold glop.
Then, as if to torment Gail further, Lily danced Byron over to Gail and showed him off, a bride flashing her big diamond. “Isn’t he gorgeous!” she demanded of Gail. “Isn’t he a big gorgeous boy!”
Gail nodded cautiously at Lily, the way she might have responded if she were cornered by a raving bag lady. Gail put on a mollifying smile to veil her embarrassment and desire to escape.
“He can walk!” Lily pushed herself on Gail. Byron grabbed for Lily’s huge eyeglasses.
“Sort of,” Gail demurred.
“What do you mean?” Lily protested.
“He collapsed there at the end,” Gail said.
“What do you expect?” Lily demanded. “He’s one year old. That’s very early to walk.” Distracted by her outrage, Lily allowed her eyeglasses to get within reach of Byron’s grabs. The tiny fingers hooked the frames and sent them flying.
“I could see that was about to happen,” Gail commented.
Diane retrieved the glasses and offered them to her mother. Lily, however, ignored her daughter, attempting to focus on Gail. Lily’s nearsighted squint creased the wrinkled skin into hundreds of new breaks. “He can grab my glasses anytime,” Lily said.