Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

by Rafael Yglesias

  “No!” he reached toward me with his right hand, reeling in the word. “Not disruptive. You know, just … He’s a cutup in class. He’s a handfull. Like me. I was a handful. I’m gonna talk to him, straighten it out. I’ve been on the road a lot. Haven’t put in the hours at home I should. I’m sorry Amy bothered you. We’ll take care of it. It’s no big deal.”

  “May I speak with her about it?” As far as Jack was concerned I seemed to have switched to a different language. He stared, mouth open. “That’s why I dropped by. I wanted to suggest some tutors. I know a couple of good remedial reading people in this general area. We hired them at my old clinic. Sometimes, a little extra help gives a child confidence. Once you fall behind in school, it’s embarrassing and that makes catching up even harder. But I didn’t want to talk to Amy behind your back. And certainly not without your permission.”

  Jack nodded, this time long and slow movements up and down, as if, as headmaster, I had begun to rave and he was unsure whether to summon the nurse.

  “This has nothing to do with work, Jack,” I continued into his wary silence. “Nothing to do with Stick. There’s no implied threat. I’m only here to help. You see, I know a lot about children, a lot about Ritalin, a lot about cutups in school. I’m sure Billy’s fine and I want to make sure that nobody makes his little problem into a big one by overreacting. I doubt, for example, that he needs to be straightened out. Probably he just needs a little help and reassurance.”

  Jack pushed off from his desk, eyes straying to the bamboo poles, the false good cheer gone. “He hit a couple kids,” he said quietly. “Gave one a real shiner. And he kicked one of his teachers—the dance teacher, for Chrissakes. She was teaching him the polka—” he laughed with resignation, but also from his belly, really amused. He sighed afterwards, rolled in his chair over to the poles, and picked up one. “Beautiful work, huh?” he said, rising. He came near me, turning the bamboo in the air to show off details that I’m afraid I couldn’t appreciate. “I envy those guys. I mean they don’t look like they’ve got much to envy—living in the sticks, cars falling apart in the yard—but it must be peaceful. And great to know that what you make is unique. I’m a salesman. I don’t make anything, so …” He rested the pole across his arm, as if surrendering his sword to me.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  Jack said softly, “Billy’s disruptive.” Jack returned the fishing pole to the corner. He pushed his chair to the desk, continuing in a quiet tone, “The school told us if he doesn’t get under control next year, they can’t—you know, we’ll have to move him.” He sat down heavily. “It’s a private school. Supposed to be the best—”

  “Amy told me the school was good,” I said. “Stick doesn’t have to know anything about my helping out. Would you like me to talk to Amy, maybe have Billy see some of my colleagues? They deal with truly crazy kids—it’d be refreshing for them to see a fine young boy who’s just acting up a bit.”

  “You think that’s all it is?” Jack’s green eyes, small against the puffi-ness of his face, looked openly into mine for the first time. The appeal was sweet. He may not have known how best to defend his son, but he wanted to.

  “Probably,” I said. “You can’t really blame him. I’d kick anybody who tried to teach me how to polka.”

  We parted friends. My childish trick had also worked. As I came out of Jack’s office, Halley nearly bowled me over. She reared back, eyebrows up, her apparently profound surprise expressed so promptly she failed to make it convincing. “Rafe! What are you doing here?” she asked. “Gossiping,” I said with a smile. “And you?”

  She gestured to the same manila envelope she had shown me in Andy’s office. “I was gonna get some feedback from Jack.”

  “Better hurry,” I said, walking away. “He’s going to lunch with a fly fisher.”

  “What?” she called.

  But I didn’t stop. I called Amy Truman that afternoon. We met for coffee in Tarrytown, an hour before she was due to fetch Billy from school. Jack had alerted her about my interest. Feeling she had his permission, she opened up completely. After ten minutes, and one prompt, she widened the discussion from the subject of Billy’s woes. I liked her. She was a Louisiana native whom Jack met on a sales trip and courted for a year before they married. Her father was a doctor, her mother a music teacher. She had a degree in education and was working, when they courted, in the local public school in charge of the reading readiness program for kindergarten. That was part of the reason Billy’s learning problems were especially humiliating and, of course, so apt an arena in which to rebel. Dealing with their two-year-old girl, Billy’s problems and Jack’s heavier travel schedule left her feeling overwhelmed. Naturally, she blamed herself for Billy’s reading problems. “I pushed him too hard, tried to get him to read too early, and now see, I’ve gotten just the opposite of what I bargained for.” With her strawberry blonde hair, her lively blue eyes, her trim figure and generous smile she should be keeping Jack interested but I was no longer in a shrink’s office, blind and deaf to her world. I knew what she was up against. Her essential decency put her at a disadvantage. She mistakenly thought that by taking care of Jack’s children and providing a safe port he would feel love and gratitude. Instead, he felt she was safe. Meanwhile, at Minotaur, Jack was supplied with danger and excitement and triumph too. Not poor grades and messy diapers, not the constricted talk of suburban shopping and PTA meetings, not the same easily conquered body that, to his touch, was probably thicker and flabbier than the one he had wooed on humid bayou nights. Anyway, she was a fish he had already caught.

  Within forty minutes, she returned three times to the theme of how rarely she and Jack were alone together, what with all his traveling and Billy’s troubles and their two-year-old girl. She complained about Jack’s work and then scolded herself for complaining. After all, she mumbled shyly, this coming year was a big opportunity for Jack.

  I took a guess, commenting, as if I knew, “You mean, the big promise Stick made to Jack about the future if Centaur goes well.”

  “So you know.” She smiled and slapped the table. “See that? I told Jack. I told him Stick isn’t blowing smoke. And, of course, you know about it. Jack tells me Stick really leans on you. He’s very jealous. Says you get a private meeting twice a week. He’s only got Mondays.”

  “Jack’s right to be cautious,” I said. “Promises are just promises.” She looked grave. And nodded earnestly. “Right, of course. I just meant, you know, I feel—I mean, Jack’s done wonderful work for—”

  “Jack’s done a superb job. Stick knows that.” I covered her hand with mine. Her pale blue eyes, at that moment washed out by the sunlight falling on them, looked at me without reserve. I let all of myself go out to her, copying my new teacher, beaming love and devotion without fear of embarrassment or rejection—or the scruple that it wasn’t sincere. “Listen. You need to take care of yourself. Jack can handle his job. You need him to help with his children.”

  “Right,” she nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Men have a tendency to think that their work is all-important. That the people who love them should drop everything and help. That the job isn’t just a job, it’s the future, it’s security, it’s love, it’s being a good person. But, you know, in the end, it is just a job and it’s not gonna love him back.” I slipped my fingers under her palm, and held her hand, squeezing a little. She returned the pressure. “If he doesn’t start taking care of you he’s a fool.” I let go. She swallowed, her freckled cheeks flushed pink, and her pupils widened. “I’ll get you a reading tutor and I want you to make an appointment with a family therapist.” I wrote down the name of one I knew well on a napkin. I had confidence that Amy was conscientious enough about her family, and tough enough, to make Jack go with her and Billy for counseling. I suspected that was the only way to get a fly fisher into therapy. I gave her the napkin.

  “Thanks,” Amy said, carefully folding and putting it in her purse.

>   I reached for her hand. She gave it to me willingly. “You and Jack need to take care of your marriage and Billy will be all right. Know what I mean?”

  Amy nodded, her mouth set, ready for a fight. “Yes,” she nodded. “I think I do.”

  I winked. “Okay. I’m single, you know. Tell Jack if he won’t show you a good time, I will.”

  She smiled. “I’ll tell him, Doctor. I’ll be sure to tell him that,” she said and winked back at me.

  After she left, I used the coffee shop’s phone booth to report to Stick that I had recommended a good reading tutor to the Trumans, that their son’s problem was trivial, and that I was impressed by Jack’s loyalty to the company. I emphasized to my boss—because that’s what Theodore Copley had become, I realized, in spite of the fact that I provided less than full disclosure of my actions on his behalf—that he shouldn’t let on to Jack I had performed this service at his prompting. “He would be alarmed,” I said.

  “Well, we don’t want that,” my fearless leader said. “We want Jack to feel relaxed. He’s doing a terrific job. By the way, Rafe, is Thursday night okay for you to play doubles?” I had become his regular partner against a variety of opponents, usually business competitors. “Sure,” I said.

  “Great. Seven at Wall Street. One other thing. I’m sending down the hotel brochure for the fall retreat.”

  “Fall retreat?”

  “Yeah. Did I mention it to you? This is something we tried last year and we’re gonna do it again. Just the top people, the weekend after Labor Day. This is the new hot thing in the corporate culture. Your friend Edgar is a big believer. He got me into it. And he recommended this place in Vermont. Green Mountain? You know it?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know it. Or anything about something called a retreat.”

  “Retreat makes it sound grim. Really we just go to a resort, no families, have bull sessions in the A.M., let people sound off, play a little golf and tennis in the afternoon and kick back in the evenings. I don’t normally include the techies, but I’m considering inviting Andy. Maybe Timmy also. Or is he too weird? Take a look at the brochure. This place has so-called session leaders to get us to open up. But I have an idea and I sounded out Edgar about it. He agrees with me that it would be better if you led our morning meetings. What Green Mountain offers sounds like low-rent group therapy and I can’t believe they’ve got anybody as qualified as you. Also, take a look at the tentative list of invitees. Let me know what you think. Whoops,” he said, “gotta call coming in from my man in Paris—” That would be Didier Lahost, the head of his recently acquired French division.

  “One other thing,” I called desperately into the pay phone. I didn’t continue immediately. I was distracted by the thought that I might be in the same phone booth Gene had used to call me toward the end of his therapy, during those months that he was too busy to see me because of the Black Dragon deadline. Gene claimed calling from his office was dangerous, that he needed to keep his therapy a secret. I remembered what I used to think of his caution: a neurotic’s shame disguised as a paranoia; a self-absorbed man suffering from grandiosity, elevating his banal problems into a state secret. No, this wasn’t the same phone booth, I concluded, remembering that Gene had told me he called from the International House of Pancakes a mile from the labs so he could pretend he was there for a quick lunch if someone spotted him. I remembered because I wondered who would eat pancakes for lunch.

  “Well?” Stick roused me from my long pause. “What is it? I’ve gotta catch Didier before he goes to sleep. It’s almost eleven in Paris.”

  “Your wife. What we discussed briefly at the barbecue? I want to see her and gently recommend she do something about her drinking. I could escort her to an AA meeting. Or perhaps—is she religious at all? Her priest might suggest it.”

  The phone was dead. He’d hung up.

  “Stick?” I cried out. He couldn’t be this cold. He couldn’t want my services for the sole purpose of manipulating employees.

  “Yes?” He was there after all.

  “I mean, even if only for Mary Catharine’s physical health, something should be done. At her age, if she continues at this rate, she won’t live much longer.”

  No sound. No background noise. No breathing. No faint whoosh. Where was he? Had he hit the mute button? Was he typing messages to Laura?

  “Stick?” I called again.

  “That’s not your area,” he said. “I know it’s a little confusing, because of Halley and all that. But your relationship with Halley is personal.”

  “I don’t have a relationship—”

  He talked over me, “That’s your business. As I told you, I don’t believe psychiatry can help everybody—”

  I interrupted, “I’m not proposing psychiatry. AA isn’t—”

  “It’s not your area, Rafe. You do respect my privacy, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’m trying—”

  “I don’t think it’s fair to use your position to intrude on family matters. Not quite ethical, is it?”

  “I’m speaking as a friend.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Rafe. We’re not friends,” he said, his tone stern and grim. Then he chuckled. “We may be great tennis partners, but we’re not friends. See you on the court Thursday.”

  It was hot in the phone booth. Outside, the temperature was nearing a hundred and the humid air not only seemed visible, it felt chewable. Sweat streamed from my forehead. In Tampa, Francisco used to say to me, “That’s our peasant Gallego blood. Our brains boil and makes our heads soft.”

  There were no papers or notes I had left at Minotaur that I would need. I walked to my car, reflecting I could return to Baltimore, ask the institute to say I was away if anyone phoned, and essentially disappear from Stick and Halley.

  Want to run away? I asked myself.

  Time to see Susan and talk it over, I answered. By the time I reached Greenwich Village she should be finished with her last session of the day. Driving to the city, I exited at Riverdale without making a conscious decision. I’ll just drive by, I explained it to myself. But I braked to a full stop at the entrance to my former clinic. Two vans were parked, one from the Bronx shelter, the other from Yonkers. The Yonkers driver, Walter, was looking under the hood of his vehicle. The hedges around the dormitory addition needed to be trimmed. I drove into the lot.

  At the sound of my car door shutting, Walter looked up. I entered too quickly for him to react. Inside the clinic, on the left, Group B’s door was open. I heard the trill of a boy giggling. Downstairs in the basement, the kitchen should be preparing dinner for the resident patients. I sniffed. Nothing. I was disappointed. I would have liked nothing better than to eat with everybody. It was a hot day. Maybe they were planning a barbecue in the backyard. Sometimes, after having ice cream or watermelon for dessert, they would play volleyball until the late summer sun went down. The kids always insisted Diane and I stay for the game.

  I walked into the reception area, Sally’s station, guarding the private offices. I greeted Sally with a question, “Is Diane free for a …”

  I didn’t finish the sentence. Sally scooted out from behind her desk and hugged me. Someone else patted me on the back—that turned out to be Gregory, one of the live-in counselors.

  I tried to say I was just dropping in, but by then, an eleven-year-old girl whom I had treated peeked in and said, “Dr. Rafe’s back!” She called into the hallway and soon three more children I used to treat appeared, smiling, saying things I couldn’t really hear …

  I sat down on a metal chair by the wall, leaned forward, hands covering my face, and cried. Sally seemed more astonished about that than by my sudden appearance. “Shh,” she said to the others, shooing them away. “Give him time,” she whispered. Her hand landed on my shoulder. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Diane. I want to see—” I said and choked on my tears. I rubbed my eyes, feeling foolish. I breathed deeply, trying to calm down. My right hand was trembling.
A cold inner voice told me: you’re hysterical.

  When Diane came in, from somewhere else, not her office, I was still sniffling, looking silly I’m sure. I was amazed by her appearance. She had straightened and dyed her hair a dull red color. She was also very thin, her face pinched. And something else was different, something I couldn’t identify.

  “What’s the matter?” she said, meaning, I think, to sound concerned. Her general anger at me, however, lent it a scolding tone.

  “Will you do me a favor?” I asked. My voice broke, my eyes watered. I stopped talking in order to gain control.

  Sally, hanging in the background, whispered, “Should I leave?”

  “Come to my office,” Diane said, still sounding irritated, although she tugged at my arm gently.

  Ashamed, I kept a hand shielding my eyes while I allowed her to tow me. She parked me in front of a new couch and shut the door. I stood, staring at the fabric. Was the couch new or had she merely re-covered it? I looked around and noticed that the room had been rearranged, the desk reoriented from between the windows to float in the center.

  “Sit,” she said. I didn’t move. “Come on,” she said. “You’re scaring the shit out of me.” I sat. She pulled an armchair, also new, over from near her desk so she would be only a foot away. She sat forward, leaning her elbows on her knees. “If you’re in trouble, I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to see you. I’m not over it, okay? And I don’t want to start up again.” Suddenly, her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m just not made that way. I can take a lot but once I’m gone, I’m gone. You know what I’m saying? I don’t care if you’re sorry. You know, you were wrong. I’m nailing that motherfucker. His research was shit. Even he’s admitting that the Stanford group’s replication of his crappy study was kosher.” She was babbling as far as I was concerned. “Stanford?” I mumbled. “Yes! Haven’t you seen the Stanford data? They replicated Samuel and showed the kids are influenced at less than thirty percent—”

  “Diane, stop—”