I must seem stupid to the lay reader, or at least very confused, when I describe what happened next. Despite the surrender of Sandy’s body, despite my own delicious excitement, a cold fact landed on my neck and froze my brain, severing it from the passion of my body. I understood, finally, with all the knowledge and emotional maturity truly necessary to comprehend the fact: I had made love to my mother.
By then, Sandy was no longer touching me to give me pleasure. She clutched me to her, grabbing an anchor as she surrendered to excitement. I increased the pace and penetration of my fingers as I remembered—and this was the most terrible, the most awful of revelations—what my mother had wanted me to do. Several times, on those illegal nights, she had squeezed her legs tight on my hand, urging me to press deeper. The demand had seemed angry and I had resisted, confused and, of course, unwilling. But I understood her request at last. I gave the answer she wanted to Sandy and finished my conversation with my mother as though it had been interrupted only yesterday, although she had been dead for six years and my part of our intimacy had been mute.
Sandy gasped, bucked, and moaned.
In a flash, as she climaxed, the mystery of my personality was solved, laid before me as clearly as in a scientific report: silent and manipulated, I had been my mother’s passive lover, learning that I must please others or they wouldn’t love me, and thereafter I re-created this dynamic with everyone else, massaging their pleasure centers so they would hold me close, mute and dishonest though I might be, because that was love to me.
The force of this revelation, one might suppose, ought to have paralyzed my passion and released rage at my maltreatment. I should have become impotent or violent. Instead, I let Sandy maneuver me on top, take hold of my penis and—a little puzzled by something, probably the fear in my eyes—guide me inside her.
And here was magic: horror was overwhelmed by joy. At last my longing had been embraced by someone other than me. My body was gleeful to find a luxurious home for its most deprived part. The psychological report in my head ignited. Its cold language burned off in a flare, forgotten. Insight and science no longer interested me. I became like any other person feeling utter pleasure, like anyone else enraptured by an embrace that, if it’s a lie, is the most convincing ever devised.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
An Interpretation
BY MONDAY I WAS DESPERATE. WAITING FOR MY SESSION, THE DAY PASSED slowly. Losing my virginity hadn’t chased away the cosmic terror always at my elbow, ready to suffocate me with panic. I composed a sentence that I repeated to myself when I felt it come too close—I am alone, a stranger on a rock spinning in a meaningless universe. Using those inadequate words to describe the awful sensation helped a little, but only as a stopgap until I could turn in all the secrets to my doctor.
“So,” Halston said. “What’s new?”
“I want to tell you the big one.” There were all sorts of odd reactions throughout my body: ears ringing, stomach flopping, throat so tight the words had to be squeezed out.
Halston raised his brows, a vivid expression thanks to his bald head. “Why?”
“Why?” I was astonished.
“What’s happened that makes you want to tell me?”
“I don’t know.” I was annoyed. “I just want to tell you.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t you want me to tell you?”
“This is your time to talk about whatever you want.”
I shut my eyes to dismiss the anger I felt at his game playing. When I opened them, Halston had propped his head on his chin and leaned sideways in his chair, an attitude that seemed to indicate only the mildest curiosity. “So. What’s the big one?”
“I …” The speaking of it was harder than I expected. I mean physically hard. There were all sorts of explosions inside. I could have sworn I heard my heart pop and that my chest filled with blood. “I lied about my father.”
“You lied about your father to whom?”
“To the judge, to the police. I didn’t want to live with him anymore so I told lies.” Now the discomfort left me, perspired away, although there was no sweat. I felt that kind of relief: cooling down to a pleasant exhaustion. “I said he was a Communist, that he treated me badly. Whatever Uncle’s lawyers wanted.”
“And they were all lies?”
“Well … Not the part about the passport.”
“The passport?”
“He used a different kid’s picture to make a passport to get me out of the country. It was against the law, but it wasn’t …”
“Wasn’t what?”
“Well, it wasn’t really a crime. He didn’t have time to get one for me and I knew all about it. I didn’t mind.”
“But he did do it?”
“Yes.”
“And it is illegal?”
“Yeah.”
“So, what did you lie about?”
“Well, I said he was a Communist and …”
“He wasn’t a Communist?”
“No, not really. He had been, but …”
“He had been. How recently? I mean, from the time you said he was a Communist?”
“I don’t know. A few years.”
“I see.”
Silence. Halston kept his casual pose.
“So you’re saying I didn’t lie?” I asked.
“I wasn’t saying anything. I just asked.”
“Oh come on!”
“Oh come on, what?”
“You’re playing word games. I said those things to hurt him, to get away from him. I didn’t really mean them. I said he was mean to me. He wasn’t mean to me.”
“I see. Then why did you say those things about him?”
“Because I was angry at him.”
“About what?”
“About leaving my mother and me.”
“Leaving your mother and you?”
“Yeah, after the attack. You know, he went to Cuba. And that’s when she got sick. You know all about that.”
“You keep saying I know all about that.”
“That’s the first time I’ve said it.”
“You’ve said it before. Why do you think I know all about it?”
“Because my mother must have told you.”
“Why don’t we forget what I know from your mother? You said she got sick after he left?”
“Yeah, that’s when she stopped talking, writing things down on paper—”
“She stopped talking?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“She said everything had to be kept—” I stopped before I said the next word—secret. The revelation felt like a slap. I looked at Halston.
He was still sideways in his chair, only mildly interested. “Yes … ?”
“I see. I was imitating what she did. But she didn’t—I mean, when she started bothering me, she didn’t stop moving.” I laughed. “She kept painting the apartment.”
“Bothering you?”
“Yeah, when she would, you know, in bed …” I gestured, inviting him to supply the proper term. I had no word for it. Incest was wrong, since that implied intercourse and activity on my part.
Halston frowned. He lifted his chin off his hand and straightened. “When she would do what in bed?”
“You know.” I was ashamed. Besides, I thought, he knows; why did I have to spell it out?”
“I don’t think you should assume I know anything. Why don’t you tell me? If I know already, so what? I can stand hearing things twice.”
My irritation at his playacting was strong. I looked away and talked to the floor, both to spare myself embarrassment and to hide my annoyance. “She didn’t talk. She wrote things on paper, tore them up and flushed them down the toilet. And she kept painting—”
Halston interrupted, a very rare occurrence. Also, impatience crept into his usually neutral tone, “Yes, you said that before. But what did you mean, she bothered you?”
“I was getting to that!” I snapped at him. “She kep
t painting my room so I had to sleep with her.”
“You had to sleep with her?”
“Well, I couldn’t sleep in my room.”
“So you had to share her bed?”
“Yeah.”
Silence. Halston stared at me. He adjusted his glasses and nodded for me to continue.
“Well, I didn’t understand what was going on, but, you know, she rubbed up against me and you know …” I trailed off.
“I don’t,” he said and continued to gaze at me with an intense, cold expression.
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“Forget that I knew your mother.”
I smirked. “That’s a little hard.”
“For the purpose of giving me information about her. I’m sure that’s not too difficult. You said she rubbed up against you and …” He gestured for me to continue.
I looked away. “You know … She came.”
“She came?”
“I don’t know what to say!” I was infuriated by his coyness. What was the point of embarrassing me?
“You’re saying that she rubbed up against you until she had an orgasm?”
“Right.” I continued to avert my eyes. I was sad for her and angry that he had needlessly forced me to repeat her sin. “I mean, when I had sex with Sandy—”
“Pardon me?” Halston interrupted. His tone was full of feeling. He sounded outraged.
“I forgot to tell you. I mean, we didn’t get to it.” I looked at him boldly, proud of myself. “I lost my virginity on Saturday.”
“Rafael,” Halston leaned over his desk toward me. He usually called me Rafe. “What kind of game is this?”
“Game?” Now I felt I was in trouble. I hadn’t been quick enough before, but my senses came alive to the fact that something was wrong.
“You come in here and say you’re going to tell me your big secret and that turns out to be something everybody knows.”
“What? What do you mean, everyone?”
“Anyone who knows your story. Your uncle has custody of you. Isn’t it true that your entire family knows this story? Everyone you know is aware that you testified in court about the passport and your father’s politics.”
I was confused. For a moment, I couldn’t see how he was wrong, although I was sure he was, and also I didn’t understand why he was angry. “I guess.”
“And then you casually drop these bombs. That your mother bothered you in bed and that you lost your virginity to your cousin. You say those things as if they aren’t secrets.”
“I didn’t lose my virginity to Julie. I did it with Sandy. Her friend.”
Halston waved his hand, dismissing the fact. “When did your mother bother you?”
“After my father left, before she—you know, before she went crazy and got arrested at the U.N.” I understood now, understood the misunderstanding, and I was frightened. “She never told you?” I asked plaintively. Another blocked memory was unstuck for me: Ruth pretending to be catatonic and whispering to me that Halston was a fool. I was in danger. All my senses told me so: I wanted to run. But where?
“Forget about what you think your mother told me. Let’s pretend I never met her. Tell me what you think she did in the bed with you?”
Think. He used the skeptical word think. “It was nothing.”
“Nothing? You said before she had an orgasm.”
“I don’t know for sure. I was a kid.”
“Why did you say she had an orgasm if you weren’t sure?”
I was exposed. Part of me, the chess player in me, cursed my brain for having left myself so undefended. I couldn’t contest him. We had come so far; and I thought we had made the journey together, abandoning the usual lies and tactics. I appealed to him to stop trying to defeat me. “Look, don’t you understand why what I did to my father is a big secret? I’ve been living with my uncle because he thinks I hate my Dad and that I hate my mother, but I don’t, I just wanted his money. I wanted to live well and I was angry at my Dad. He never did anything bad to me. It’s a secret, a real secret. You can’t tell anyone.”
“Why? What would happen if everyone knew?”
“A son who lies about his father? Who lies to his uncle?”
“What lies?”
“That I want him to be my father. That I love him.”
“You’ve told him that?”
I nodded. Surely he must see, he had to understand. How could he have listened to the story of my life and not comprehend what I had done?
“Did you tell your uncle what your mother did with you in bed?”
“No!” I was appalled.
“No? Not even that night when your mother was arrested and you wanted him to take you with him?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t it have been another reason for him to pity you and rescue you?”
“It isn’t a lie.”
“I didn’t say it was a lie.”
“But you think I’m lying?”
“Why do you think I don’t believe you?”
“I don’t. I don’t think anything. Look, all she did was hug me close and rock back and forth and she … I didn’t really understand until I was with Sandy and I realized what Mom was doing.”
“I see. So you realized only this Saturday what happened years before?”
“No. I just understood it better.”
“If you didn’t think what your mother did was so wrong, why didn’t you tell me about it sooner?”
I held my head in both hands, rubbing my forehead, trying to reason it out. I wasn’t used to talking about the past. Its pictures were clear in my mind. Without words, without their labels and their judgments, what had happened was simple. Only the words changed what they meant, that’s the way it seemed to me: “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
“I thought maybe my uncle found out, maybe he knew from you.” That wasn’t true. The instant I said it, I realized I never had such a thought. I simply didn’t think much about whether anyone else knew. I didn’t want to remember it had happened, and with my mother dead, to speak of it was merely cruel. Cruel and shameful.
“I see.” Halston glanced at the clock, pulled his thick glasses off with his left hand and rubbed his eyes with the right. “Your father had left. Your mother wasn’t talking, writing things on paper and she painted your room.”
He was believing me. I nodded eagerly and helped. “She never finished painting it. That’s why I had to stay in her bed every night.”
Halston put his glasses back on. “How many nights?”
“I don’t know. A month. Two months. I can’t remember.”
“And every night she rubbed against you?”
“No, no. A few times.” I remembered the first time, the gentle passage of air through my room. “Actually the first time was in my bed.”
“She came into your bed. Your father was away—”
“It was the night he sent his letter. I think it was that night.”
“What letter?”
“The letter explaining why he wasn’t coming back to live with us.”
“You slept in your mother’s bed for a month or maybe two and a few times she rubbed up against you and made sounds?”
“She moaned. And moved around. You know, like she was excited.”
“And you understood that she was having an orgasm?”
“I didn’t know what an orgasm was. How could I understand?”
“Then how did you know she wasn’t crying?”
“What are you saying!”
“Calm down. I’m only asking questions. Sit in your chair.”
I hadn’t realized I was out of it. I wasn’t standing, actually. I was perched on the chair’s edge. I sat back, stiff with anger. “What are you trying to tell me? That it didn’t happen?”
“I’m not trying to tell you anything. I don’t know what happened. Only you know. But you don’t seem to be sure. You seem to have made up your mind on Saturday when you had s
ex with this other girl. I just want to help you to be sure. I think it’s important for you to know what you feel and what you think happened.”
I looked at the edge of his desk, at the carved mahogany lip and tried to project the past. What was there? A dark room, waking from sleep, her legs capturing me, rocking, low moans, her trembling. Were they sobs? Had I misunderstood?
“Let’s go back to before your father wrote the letter. You saw your parents being attacked in Tampa. You saw something happen to your mother. What did you see?”
“I saw her naked. I saw a man—” I stopped. A man peed on my mother, that’s what I remembered.
“You saw what? What was the man doing to her?”
“He was peeing.”
“You saw pee come out onto your mother?”
I said nothing. The Gusano had an erection. He pointed his erection at my mother’s face. No. On a city street? Out in the open? How could that be? I gave up, uneasy and angry. “What was he doing? You tell me.”
“I don’t know. You do. You were there.”
“Of course you know. Mom must have told you.”
“Your mother was ill. Very ill. You’re not. It’s possible, even probable, that you can remember better than she could. I know there’s part of you that wants to be ill, but you’re not. You can remember clearly and understand what you remember, especially if you don’t think about how you wished things were, or what your uncle wishes happened, but what actually did happen.”
“But I don’t remember clearly. I was scared. He was doing something, maybe planning to rape her, maybe peeing, I don’t know.”
“I understand. But yet you’re so sure your mother had an orgasm with you in bed?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?”
I wasn’t. I looked down at my lap and wished I could see into myself and know the simple truth, no matter how ugly. “Why would I make it up?” I asked aloud.
“That’s an interesting question,” Halston said, his voice friendly again. He glanced at the clock. “Our time’s almost up. Maybe you should think about that. Did you want your mother to have sex with you?”
I could hardly breathe. Had everything in my head been a lie? Were the secrets not secrets, the lies not lies, the truth a fantasy? Had I been hiding nothing?
Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil Page 26