It was genetic! Goddammit, it had to be. There was nothing psychologically wrong with Luke.
While Eric made these observations, he kept talking to Byron’s mother about Washington Heights, hoping to get his mind off the subject. His babbling brought the old neighborhood back: Eric could see the bleached concrete sidewalks, the bright Saturday mornings with a long day of slug and running bases and war on the Danger Rocks in Fort Tryon Park; with Monopoly to play in the afternoon; with four quarters in his pocket to buy new pinkies if he hit home runs over the wall in stickball.
The stocks he had kept two weeks ago had continued their slow decline into soft mud. The Dow stocks, Joe’s chickenshit Dow stocks, they were out of the earth’s orbit, spinning silently up and away. …
I won’t make any more money if my son is fucked up, Eric thought, as he caught Luke doing it again, the hand quickly, guiltily, going back and pushing. If my son is screwed up, I won’t make any money.
What have I done wrong? Why isn’t he okay?
I think this woman likes me.
Her eyes were awake with intelligence, twinkling with mischievous sarcasm, a pleasant change from the bold and clear, yet wondering and shy light in Nina’s eyes.
Eric said whatever came into his head to Diane, confident she would accept him. This woman admitted money was important, instead of that Wasp horseshit of Nina’s. No matter that Tom was a cheapskate: Nina, her brothers, her sisters, they never lacked for anything. When they were kids, did they have to worry about getting into SP classes in public school, or whether they could get into Bronx Science? Going to an Ivy League college was the ultimate triumph in Eric’s neighborhood, the scholastic equivalent of making the major leagues. One kid, one kid in the whole fucking neighborhood, got into Harvard. One kid, one pale, friendless, unsmiling drone, got in.
Money. Nina went to Europe when she was eight. When she was ten. When she was thirteen. Their family went on a trip every summer. They went skiing in Switzerland during Christmas vacations. Yeah, sure, money doesn’t matter.
“My husband is rich,” Diane said.
Of course, Eric had known the moment he met Peter at brunch. The guy was snobbish about everything, even the kid’s toys. Peter groaned, not about their cost, but about their warlike bias. Well, what the fuck are little boys going to pretend? Eric wanted to ask him. That they’re wearing camel-hair coats and telling their secretaries to put somebody on hold?
Byron was more of a man than his father.
“Stockbroker,” Peter had said with a neutral look on his face that day at brunch. “That must be nerve-racking.”
And dirty. Not like helping to put plays on, or whatever it was Peter did. Dirty, dirty, dirty.
Peter was an anti-Semite. Probably Nina would be if she hadn’t fallen in love with Eric.
Dad would always say, “Remember, they’re all anti-Semites. Some of ’em are just polite about it.”
Diane wants to fuck me. She has a good body. And she’s easy to talk to.
Eric looked away from Diane’s inviting glance and felt her shoulder on his. He saw the jammed park, the sloppy, tired faces of the parents, Luke squeezing his groin, the stock quotes in Barron’s, the Quotron ticking down, Nina turning off, shutting him out, Mom and Dad, worried when he told them Tom had given him money to invest—
“Don’t lose it,” Mom had said. She thought he would fail. Just like Barry.
Forget all that. Eric looked into Diane’s welcoming eyes.
“You’re a stockbroker?” Diane’s husband had asked, his eyes cool with disdain.
It would be a pleasure to cuckold that guy.
THE MUSIC school was a happy place. Peter liked the sounds — rhythm, pianos, violins, cellos, horns — echoing through the wide institutional halls. Parents were everywhere, lurking outside, carrying cases, or coats, or schoolbooks, or their own briefcases. Bright, earnest children, armed with their instruments instead of plastic guns, walked confidently to and fro — an army of culture to fight the world of junk.
On their way up to the third floor, where Byron took his private lesson, they passed a large room in which a quartet of nine-year-olds were struggling with a charming piece — and doing well to Peter’s ear. Byron pulled Peter to the doorway and they paused to listen.
“They’re playing together,” Byron called out.
“Shhhh. That’s called a quartet,” Peter whispered. “If you learn the violin, you can play in one. Or you can play in an orchestra. That’s when all the instruments play together.”
“I want to!” Byron said as if Peter could snap his fingers and make it so.
If only I could. “Well, you practice hard and you will.” Byron’s natural competitiveness will serve him well, Peter thought.
Peter fancied Byron went into his lesson with an eager step this time. At the start, Byron listened carefully, not fussing, trying to put his feet where they should be. But when he had to shift his attention to a proper grip on the violin, he lost track of his feet. And when his teacher diverted his attention to that, his grip on the violin went awry. Back and forth the corrections came. Like displacement of water, when Byron did one right, the other went wrong. His teacher didn’t give up today; she continued to insist he correct the mistake.
Byron’s open face got tighter and tighter, his bright eyes darkening. His body stiffened. He pulled away from his teacher’s touch. “I am!” he shouted at last.
“No,” she insisted, pushing the violin more under his chin, “it’s—”
“Leave me alone!” Byron pulled away and plucked the notes wildly, digging his finger under the strings, and yanking them up.
“Don’t do that!” His teacher, an overweight, unattractive young woman hardly out of her teens, said this with real anger in her voice, not simply the dispassionate cool of a stern educator.
Byron dropped the violin like a stone and walked to the door. “I wanna go home,” he said boldly.
He was so little. He looked absurd standing at the door, the top of his head beneath the handle, too small to be in this situation.
And yet would Mozart have become Mozart without his famer’s relentless demands?
Peter said nothing. The teacher looked to him to intervene.
I won’t provoke him, that’s what he wants.
“I think you should consider stopping the lessons,” the young woman whispered to Peter.
“He’s frustrated,” Peter said softly. He was outraged that she was willing to quit so easily. I’ll go to the administrator, he decided.
“He hasn’t learned anything. I wanted to go easy and so I haven’t, you know, made him do it right. But now he’s gotten into bad habits and he obviously doesn’t want to do it right. Maybe he should switch to another instrument, or take the music appreciation classes, and then pick this up again in a year. He’s been to twelve lessons and he hasn’t learnt anything.”
“That’s not true,” Peter protested. Byron had made some progress. At least he practiced.
“Well.” She lowered her head. “It looks bad for me if I lose a student — so I don’t mind continuing.” She regarded Peter. “I just don’t want him to be turned off forever. He’s bright and outgoing. He’ll come back to it. Right now, this might be a waste of his time.”
Peter turned away from Byron, who still stood at the door with a grave look. Peter whispered, “I thought he was getting better at it.”
“Well, he hasn’t been practicing, right?”
“Every day! We do it every day.”
“Oh.” She smiled regretfully. “He might as well be at the beginning. I’m happy to keep trying. Byron?” she called to him. “How about we just play through the notes once?”