And Eric liked the numbers on Morris’s wrist — an 8 on the end undulated as the skin flexed to lower the food.
Eric was seven when his father told him what the numbers meant. Their color was uneven, faded here, greenish there, their shapes twisted — a consequence of attempts to erase them. Before Eric knew better, he thought they were a spy’s secret code.
Once Eric knew the truth, the next time he got a frank, Eric’s hand trembled when he took it from Morris.
“Enjoy.”
“I’m sorry,” the little confused Eric answered.
What a schmuck, Eric thought, throwing out what was left of the Asian’s hot dog. Morris didn’t need my pity.
Were the Quotron’s numbers going to betray him also?
Why can’t Luke move his bowels?
Luke screamed and screamed while huge, impossible turds came out, usually only halfway. Pearl had told Eric and Nina that sometimes she had to pull them out—
Ugh. It was disgusting. Three o’clock. The last hour. Eric went back to the room with no privacy, to the endless scoreboard.
Joe was happy. His stupid, obvious Dow stocks were soaring— look at them go, the owl seemed to say, blinking at his Quotron. Big multiple point gains, setting new highs.
“Your positions are down,” Aram said dispassionately.
Eric stared at the sheet. How could they be down? The fucking Dow was up forty points! How could he have found withering trees in a forest of winners? Eric stared at the black numbers, tattooed on the page, and instead saw Luke scream at nature’s release. Eric didn’t look up, afraid lest the others see on his face the fear he felt.
Make a decision, for God’s sakes. Don’t be like your father. Dad stayed in that bad location with his little shoe store, sat there while his business dwindled. Move, Mother told him. He didn’t. And Dad went under, ended up as a clerk at a rival’s store, bankrupt in the midst of the go-go sixties.
“Sell,” Eric said.
“Sell what?” Sammy asked.
“Let’s start clearing out the lowest gainers. Bottom half of this.” Eric stabbed the page with a pen, drawing a line to show what should go. “I’ll take this group.” Another stab. “You do them.”
“Don’t panic,” Sammy said.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Eric said. He looked around. Everyone’s head was down except for Joe’s, the owl head still and huge on its shrinking torso.
“Those OTC stocks,” Joe said. “They lag the blue chips sometimes. Maybe you should hold a day or two. Get better prices.”
“I’m just clearing out half, taking some profits. We’ll reposition on the next sell-off.”
Joe nodded. “Don’t panic. That’s beneath you.”
Sammy looked at Eric, a hand ready to pick up the phone.
“We’ll wait,” Eric said.
PETER HELD Byron’s hand. byron repeatedly withdrew his fingers from Peter’s grip, corks popping free. Byron ran up to a store window; or to chase stray, magically fluttering garbage; or to pretend he was some horrible cartoon character who could fly or run very fast. But Peter always recaptured the little hand, smooth and warm, partly for the pleasure of holding Byron’s energy close, but mostly to hang on. Peter worried that on one of these trips to the violin lessons he would somehow, through an insane random event, lose Byron forever.
Peter had never expected Diane to agree when he offered to take Byron to the violin lessons. It was the first and only task of Byron’s rearing at which Diane admitted she was incompetent and Peter might not be. Diane had conceded defeat for the first time.
Since then, she seemed to do nothing else besides surrendering to every challenge, living a perpetual Appomattox. Peter understood that this meant Diane was very unhappy; sometimes he wondered if she was breaking down. But he didn’t press an investigation because Peter discovered that Diane’s collapse, although irritating and inconvenient in practical ways, was an emotional relief for Byron, as well as for him.
Peter’s first task, when he took over the music lessons, was to inform the school about the destroyed violin and replace it. That was easy. It cost a fortune, but it was only money.
Taking Byron to the lesson was another matter. Peter was nervous the first time. He would have been fearful anyway, left in charge of his son; the fact that it was an activity Diane hadn’t been able to handle scared Peter all the more. But the dreaded event had turned out to be almost boring. Byron’s teacher was a young thing, no more than twenty. And Byron wasn’t rebellious. Although Byron did everything incorrectly, he worked hard to impress Peter. “See, Daddy?” he kept saying.
What should Peter do? Criticize or encourage? He picked the latter. No matter how poorly Byron followed the instructions, Peter smiled, and said, “That’s great, Byron.” It seemed to work, not in the sense that Byron improved, but he continued to try. Later, Peter decided that must have been Diane’s mistake: she hadn’t encouraged Byron; she kept pushing relentlessly, like a mad Olympic coach. Poor Diane, she wanted perfection now. But even the teacher let Byron slide. She gave up correcting Byron’s improper positioning of his feet to concentrate on the violin grip. When Byron reacted testily to those instructions, his teacher gave up on that also and, as a last resort, merely insisted he play the correct two notes on the exercise.
“At home, I want you to practice your foot positioning and how you hold the violin.” The teacher spoke to Byron, but glanced at Peter, to signal it was really his duty.
Of course, Peter realized. They dump the mean part on the parents. That’s why poor Diane had worked so hard, responding to the violin lessons as if she were the student being tested. He felt sorry for her.
“They really expect the parents to do all the work,” Peter commented casually the evening after first taking Byron to a lesson. Peter introduced the topic, hoping to soothe Diane’s feelings, to let her forgive herself.
“Yep,” she said, and kept her eyes on yet another murder mystery. She read them constantly these days, a perpetual mask in front of her face, skulls and daggers, pistols and dark shadows.
“I didn’t do that when we practiced,” Peter said to Diane’s murder mystery. The teacher had suggested they practice right after the lesson when the instructions would still be fresh.
During the practice, Byron had again done everything improperly. But Peter didn’t harass Byron. Peter reminded Byron about his feet, about the proper hold of the violin, before Byron started to practice.
That was the first sign of revolt. “I know!” Byron shouted.
“Don’t shout at me,” Peter said gently. “I’m only going to tell you once. If you do it wrong, I won’t bother you about it. It’s up to you to remember.” For the first few notes, Byron was in order. Then he was chaos: changing positions, the violin sometimes under his chin, sometimes his cheek, sometimes almost floating in the air. When Byron asked to play with the bow — a no-no — Peter let him. Byron soon got bored and gave it back.
“I told him what he had to do at the start,” Peter reported to Diane, still trying to break through the spine of her paperback, to tell her it wasn’t her fault, “and then I let him make mistakes. When it was over, I told him what he had done incorrectly.”
“I’m sure that made it a lot easier.” Diane answered neutrally, and turned away, cuddling with her book.
Again, at being corrected, Byron had balked. “I know, I know,” he whined. “You don’t have to tell me.” He then asked for a cookie.