Only Children (22 page)

“Tell me he’s going to get better,” she’d say each night.

“It’s colic. It’ll go away.”

“My mother says we should let him cry,” Nina once said in a monotone.

“If we hold him, he’ll be all right,” Eric had answered. And then heard himself say, “If we let him suffer, he’ll expect nothing from the world.” The words floated up from Eric’s soul; they weren’t a creation of his brain.

“Why did this happen to us?” she sometimes asked.

“I don’t know,” he always answered.

By the sixth week, Eric feared even their stubborn will to continue to love Luke would collapse and they would crash, their marriage and their belief in life shattered.

They interviewed a few nannies, but knew, in their hearts, that no one would hold Luke for hours on end the way they did. But they did hire a cleaning woman to come twice a week and Eric knew (he had hoped otherwise) that eventually full-time child care would be necessary. Eric put all actual and potential expenses into his computer at work and looked at the last four-week take of commissions and trading in his own account. The gap between expense and income had widened. A year of this trend and they would be bankrupt.

One night, at the end of the sixth week, after Eric got the Snugli off (it had become Luke’s second skin) and succeeded in laying Luke down without startling him awake, Eric found Nina at the kitchen table, in the dark, weeping uncontrollably. It was three-forty in the morning. That day, Eric discovered he had neglected to take a four-thousand-dollar profit in options a week ago, because as the result of fatigue, he had forgotten he owned them. By the time he remembered, it was too late, the price had retreated. Eric watched Nina; she cried without pause. He was terrified by her emotional condition. Eric decided he couldn’t leave Luke alone with her. Anyway, he had become inept, even dangerous at trading.

The next morning, Eric went into Joe’s office before the market opened, and asked Joe for a leave until September and a loan to cover his expenses.

Joe had the
Journal
open on his desk, his bifocals at the end of his nose. Joe closed the paper when Eric finished his plea. He looked at Eric over the flat rims. “Have you considered that your son’s colic might be in your mind? Babies cry, you know. Maybe you’re being overprotective.”

“I don’t think so,” Eric said. He was used to fighting this point of view. His mother, Nina’s mother, the nannies Nina had talked to in the park, a couple of the child-care books, their pediatrician, all of them (when other suggestions had faded) had made the case that Luke’s fussing was made worse by their comforting. But Eric knew about experts—the stock market was littered with the torn scraps of their proud ideas. Consistency, riding out the run of luck against you, was the only thing that ever worked. Bulls get rich and Bears get rich and Pigs get nothing. “I’ve read that the only thing they know for sure is some babies are born with an incomplete formation of the digestive tract,” Eric told Joe, the speech tediously familiar. “In three months, they’re all right. If Luke isn’t better in another six weeks, we’ll act differently. But until then, he’s blameless. I mean, Joe, Luke can barely hold his head up. How the hell could he know to manipulate us?”

“They know!” Joe said, wagging a finger and smiling at his own wisdom. “They know how to get their hooks into their parents. They learn in the womb.”

Although Eric thought Joe’s brand of wit, with its pompous elaboration, unfunny, Eric nevertheless usually flattered Joe with a laugh. But this time, Eric stared at him. “I don’t think so, Joe. It’s just bad luck. Sure, I could blame it on Luke and run away from the responsibility. You wouldn’t do that. And you wouldn’t respect me if I did. Nina can’t handle this alone. I want to ride it out with her for the next six weeks. All these years I’ve never taken Fridays off to go to the Hamptons—I must have saved up six weeks’ worth.”

“That’s not our arrangement, Eric. You know that. I’m not your boss. This is a partnership—”

“Not exactly, Joe. Come on, be fair. You hold the seat on the exchange. I service your clients and your name is on the checks when I score for mine.”

“Neither are you a broker working for me. You get seventy-five percent commission on your clients. I give you ideas and clients and a steady income—a piece of my management free to boot. And as to not taking off Fridays, when have I taken them?”

“I know,” Eric said, bowing his head, dismayed. He had told himself not to make that point about Fridays. He rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. He was so tired he could pass out right there—let it all go, the work, the money, the years of staying on Joe’s good side, the marriage (his once smoothly functioning, content marriage), and even Luke. Eric could just let go—fall onto the carpet and be carried off.

“This is really Nina’s responsibility,” Joe said. “I know it’s none of my business, but despite women’s lib and all that, it’s unfair of her to expect you to earn money for the family and also take on caring for your son. What you do
here
”—
he
tapped the desk with his fingers—“
that
is caring for her and your baby.”

“It’s just six weeks,” Eric said in a tired, exasperated voice that amounted to a whine.
Please
, oh, please. Look Joe in the face, he told himself. “After that, I’m here. There’ll be no more of the new daddy stuff.”

“Why don’t you hire a woman to help her? What about your mother, or
her
mother, for God’s sakes?”

“Joe, cut the crap. How about it—yes or no? It’s your choice.”

“Eric, I’m hurt by that. I don’t ask you questions as a boss. I’m trying to help. Her mother could be a great consolation to Nina now. It’s a wonderful time for mother and daughter—the birth of a grandchild. It is, anyway, if they’re Jewish.”

Eric covered his face with his hands. “Oh, God,” he said, rubbing his fingers into his tired eyes. Eric hated asking for favors because of the intimacy they allowed; they opened up the account books of your life and gave everyone the right to audit your management ability. Now Luke’s colic was due to his mixed marriage. “That’s why I need the time off,” Eric said, lowering his hands. He had rubbed his eyes so hard that Joe looked blurry. “We’re going to her parents’ summer house in Maine. They’ll be coming up and can help us.”

“Ah,” Joe said, nodding. He had talked himself into a corner with his criticisms. “Then why don’t you stay here and let them handle it?” he argued.

“Joe—”

“Visit on the weekends. Take a week—”

“I’ve been useless anyway. I’m no good like this. You don’t need me.”

“If she and the boy are away, you’ll be getting rest. Then you
will
be of use. Don’t ever say I don’t need you.”

“My son needs me more.” Eric’s tone was final. He challenged Joe with a stare.

Joe took off his bifocals and cleared the
Journal
away. He lifted the newspaper gingerly, holding its creased middle with his fingers, giving it the respect of a holy text. “How much will you need?”

“A month’s income. Seven thousand.”

“Seven? And how are you going to repay it?”

“Take it out of my commissions when I return.”

“You’re going to generate fourteen thousand in commissions in September? I don’t want you churning accounts to pay me off. That’s how you lose clients.”

“Forget about the money,” Eric said, and turned to head for the door. “I’ll get it from a bank.”

“No, no!” Joe put his hand up, rising from his chair. “You’re being very insulting. Making me out to look like a miser. I’m concerned. I don’t want you under any pressures you can’t handle.”

He had been brusque in his manner, Eric had to admit. Joe’s dignity was important to him, even more important than his money. Eric slowed the pace of his emotions, sighing, and said evenly, “I’m grateful you’re giving me the time off. That’s the important part. I can borrow the money from Nina’s parents or mine.”

“What about your pension fund?” Joe said with abrupt happiness—delighted at his discovery of an out for both of them. “Why don’t you borrow from that?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. I’ll do that. Anyway, I’d like to clear out of here this morning.”

Before Eric could depart, Joe repeated his assertion that he valued Eric and would miss his help in the firm. Joe insisted on a solemn good-bye, clasping Eric’s hand in both of his own while he looked earnestly into Eric’s eyes: “You’re more than a partner to me, you know that, Eric. Take care of yourself.”

“Thanks, Joe. I’ll be back in six weeks and everything will be kosher.”

Eric went out to the trading room and told Sammy. “What!” Sammy said with disgust. He listened to Eric’s explanation with a stare, his thin lips disappearing altogether into a tight pout. When Eric finished, Sammy nodded, said, “Bye,” and turned his back, hitting keys on his terminal.

“Come on, Sammy. Don’t be like that.”

“You’re going away for six weeks—it’s no big deal. Good-bye.”

Eric packed up various investment surveys and annual reports to read in Maine and said his farewells to Irene and the other secretaries. Sammy continued to ignore him. Irene walked Eric to the door, hugged him, and said, her voice trembling, “You’re a sweet man.”

Her emotion gave Eric the creeps, made him feel he would never see any of them again, or, worse, that Irene believed Luke really was a burden that would cripple Eric. Eric opened the door and looked back. “Bye, Sammy!”

For a moment there was no response. Then Sammy, without turning around, called out, “Call in every week. I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

“Okay.” That made Eric feel better about leaving. It was hot outside, but not humid. New York glowed from the light: peopled by bright-colored clothes; street corners flagged by the umbrellas of vendors; brokers carrying jackets in their wake, dappling the gray buildings with the pinks and blues and yellows of their Brooks shirts; the sallow or black faces of the service workers winked past Eric, and the tanned or burned faces of the middle class glanced curiously at his load of investment books. Eric was suddenly apart from them, free from their concerns. With his job on hold, Eric’s dismay at the future shriveled in the sun. He felt excited at the struggle ahead of him, his hands unbound, ready to fight.

Eric hailed a cab and endured the drive impatiently, irritated by what he thought were inept choices by the driver. He dashed into the lobby, got into the elevator, and hopped from one foot to the other at its slow ascent. When the doors opened, he moved out blindly and bumped into Luke’s baby carriage.

“Eric!” Nina said. She looked wan, but peaceful. He had been so distant from her emotionally that her appearance, her drained look, astonished him.

“I got six weeks off. We’ll go to your parents’ place in Maine.”

She stared at him. Not unhappily. Dully.

“Okay?” he asked, and kissed her.

She didn’t move her lips. “Okay,” she said, nodding. “That’s a good idea.”

“The sea air. Maybe that’ll help Luke,” Eric said.

“Maybe,” she said, nodding more vigorously.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” she answered, and put her arms around him. She squeezed herself to him and put her head against his chest.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he promised.

D
IANE AND PETER
entered brian Stoppard’s Park Avenue apartment at five minutes after eight. Diane was astonished that the door was opened by a uniformed man and woman who took their Burberrys and umbrellas and asked if they wanted a cocktail. Astonished because the presence of servants implied a big, formal dinner—after all, Stoppard had invited Diane offhandedly, no embossed card in the mail, just a casual aside at the office: “We’re having some people over for dinner next Saturday, including the unhappy Gedhorn trio. Can you and Peter come?” The Gedhorn suit, insulation manufacturers whose former employees were suing over unhealthy working conditions, had been Diane’s primary assignment for a year, assisting Stoppard on the brief; thus she had assumed dinner would be the two Gedhorn senior vice-presidents and the in-house counsel. And she knew from Betty Winters that she and her husband, Tony, were invited, presumably because Tony, being a playwright and screenwriter, knew Stoppard’s wife, novelist Paula Kramer. Such a disparate combination of people would make Diane and Peter ideal guests, since Diane could chat up the Gedhorn trio, see a friendly face in Betty, while Peter, Tony, and Paula discussed show business.

But this was a much bigger event. At least twenty people were already in the living room. Stoppard should have warned her. Betty definitely should have warned her. Diane looked at the women’s clothes and instantly felt inadequate in her lawyer outfit, worn to soothe the Gedhorn clients. She was in a gray skirt, a white blouse with ruffles at the collar, and a blue blazer. Diane cursed herself for allotting no time to shop since Byron’s birth.

Peter waved to a group by the piano at one end of the living room: Tony and Betty Winters were talking to a cluster of movie stars, William Garth, Delilah, and Amy Howell. The women, even the normally dowdy Betty, were
dressed
. Delilah, with her long black hair draped down her back, was almost naked, swathed from her left shoulder to her groin in skintight white, her nipples darkly oozing through the fabric, her legs snaked by gold lamé, like a Roman soldier. Amy Howell looked like a child wearing a man-sized gangster’s suit, utterly covered by thick, woolly Japanese-designed clothes, her shoulders padded, her waist bound briefly, then billowing out and down to the ground. Normally cautious Betty had on a red jump suit and a short, unevenly cut hairdo; the look, instead of seeming punk to Diane, reminded her of middle-aged Jewish ladies in their weekend stretch pants. But that group, given its bohemian stature, wasn’t Diane’s problem. A glance at the corporate wives and dates truly made Diane feel unequal: they looked like Bendel’s manikins come to life. In her work clothes dress, with her big nose and horn-rimmed glasses, Diane thought she might be mistaken for—for what?
I am a
lawyer. That would be no mistake.

Brian Stoppard and Paula Kramer stood among the corporate people, their son and daughter huddled between the legs of the grown-ups. The boy was six, Diane knew, the girl three. Paula saw Diane and Peter, and came toward them just as they were handed their drink orders. Paula had her children reluctantly in tow. The boy, especially, hung back, his head down, his mouth closed in a sullen, shy pout. “Hi, glad you could make it,” Paula said breathlessly.