14

 

       ERIC

 

    His legs pump in the air like there was a bicycle there, but there isn't.  The skin on his legs is pink and tight like rubber.  His hands grab at nothing but air.

    Janice, don't you want to take him in the house to do that?  Mom asks.

    No thanks, Aunt Lorraine.  He's okay here.  I'll have him all fixed up in a  minute.  She undoes the pins and lays them on the table beside the watermelon.

    Mom makes a face and goes away.

    There we go, she says, That's better, isn't it?  You'll be all better in a minute.  Yes, all better in a minute.  Isn't that right?  Mommy make you all better in a minute.  She looks up and, because I'm watching, smiles.

    Spit runs down his chin.  He starts to cough, and little pieces of macaroni drop from the corner of his mouth.  The cough makes his little belly work in and out, and the smell of the diaper becomes stronger          deeper.

    There, there.  Does you have a cough?  Ahhahh.  There, that's better.  She opens the diaper and lays it flat on the bench.  It's a mess.  He pumps and bangs his knees together, free to kick all he wants.  When he smiles, a bubble comes to his mouth.  He doubles up his fingers and smacks his fists together.  The smile gets wider.

    His little pecker sort of shrinks and goes inside itself when the air hits it .  His belly works again, and more runny green stuff spreads out all over the diaper.  The smell is so thick I can feel it going in my nose.  I can feel it against the roof of my mouth.  For the first time I think I might not be supposed to watch this.  Maybe this should be private.  She looks at me and smiles again.

    Is he all right?  I mean, he's          he acts like he's sick.

    She gives a little laugh and smiles.  No, no, he's fine.  Just a little case of the runs.  Nothing you didn't have a few years ago.  See how his face gets all serious, like he's concentrating?  That's how you can tell.  A mother can tell what's going on down here by what's going on up there.  Every one's different.  Jimmy, you could never be sure.  Like snowflakes, every single one is different.  A mother can tell that.  She takes both feet in one hand and lifts his bottom off the bench, wipes his fat little butt, pulls the diaper out and sticks another one in.  Her hands do it, slick as a whistle, without her eyes.  The eyes never leave his face.

    When she lays his legs down, his pecker pops out, the little pink bunches of skin twitching and letting go.  His fingers go into his mouth and come out with bits of macaroni.  He squeezes his fingers together, and the macaroni, wet and shiny with spit, oozes out between. 

    She pins the flap up over his belly, and the smile on his face goes away.  He looks surprised and confused, his eyes stopping and holding still in his head.  He looks like he's listening.

    How's that?  Huh, how's that?  She says.  How's that?