Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

Embarrassed, Bartell averted his face from Albert to stare at Torres’s shelves. He had read my report so I assume his reaction was to the spectacle of Albert’s admission of impotence, not to the fact.

Torres, however, reacted well. She was matter-of-fact. “Albert, I see now how I misunderstood you. I don’t think I asked you the right question. Let’s say Dr. Neruda is right. I’m sure we all have confidence he is, and your problem eventually goes away and you can have sex whenever and with whomever you wish. Okay? Can we suppose that?”

“Yes, ma‘am,” Albert said.

“Would you then try to have sex with a child?”

“Course not.” Albert was insulted. I knew because he sucked in his left cheek as if to bite it. “I thought I said that.”

Torres looked down at the papers on her desk. She spoke with a lowered head. “Dr. Neruda, at your clinic there is no security, correct? Any of the young men could simply walk out?”

“Yes.”

“Your Honor,” Stoppard began, “they are supervised at all times—”

“I know, Counselor. I meant, specifically, that they are not locked in at night or during the day for that matter. Their presence and time is accounted for, but they’re on their honor in terms of leaving the grounds, is that correct?”

I answered, “They are not permitted to leave the grounds without us and they are supervised, but there is no physical barrier to escape. Of course, Albert has lived within those rules for the past six months.”

“There was a seven-month gap between Albert’s attack on Shawna and the child at the shelter. What makes you confident that Albert will continue to be responsible?”

“I’ve worked with Albert five days a week and sometimes on weekends for six months. That is the equivalent of years of therapy for most people. I believe I know him well, perhaps better than anyone but Albert himself. His desire to live a productive self-sufficient life, a life where he can be a useful member of our world, is very strong. In fact, I believe his violence against Shawna was a perverted expression of a desire to be helped out of the hopelessness and violence of his family. I don’t think Albert will run from his friendships and his work at our clinic because it’s a safe place for him. As you know, he and the other boys are tutored daily. They have the opportunity to make friends in the local basketball and soccer leagues. He has a life with us that he would miss. That’s the best barrier against violence and escape anyone can create.”

Judge Torres opened a folder and gestured at a paper. “I have an amicus brief filed by the Yonkers Adolescent Center and Metropolitan State. They both endorse your therapy, Doctor, and recommend Albert stay at your clinic. But they also decline to agree with your statement that Albert isn’t dangerous to himself or others. Met State goes so far as to recommend that you install security measures. I’m sure you understand, Doctor, that my concern for Albert’s well-being must be secondary to the well-being of society. Besides what you have already said, what further assurance can you give me that Albert won’t do harm to others?”

“I can’t think of anything, Your Honor, except that I am putting my clinic, both its federal and state funding, as well as my own money, at risk. If Albert runs away or is violent then our work and my reputation will be severely damaged. May I also comment that, in my opinion, the reservations expressed by Yonkers and Met State are a statement for their self-protection, rather than a prediction of Albert’s behavior.”

Torres smiled shyly. “I’m afraid, Doctor, that as a jurist I can’t read beneath the lines as you do in your profession. I must take them, as I take you, at face value.”

“I understand,” I smiled back. “As I say, I’m prepared to stake my reputation and the survival of our clinic on Albert. That’s as much confidence as I’ve got in me.”

Torres said, “And that’s as much confidence as the law has a right to expect.” She opened her hands in a gesture to Albert. “It’s up to you. You have a chance to make a good life for yourself, Albert.”

A WEEK PASSED WITHOUT GENE APPEARING. FINALLY HE LEFT A MESSAGE saying he would come in at his regular time the next day and I should call back if there was a problem. I cleared the hour — Diane and I had planned to have lunch — but didn’t respond, curious to see if he needed reassurance to show up.

He didn’t. He entered with a determined air, a new attitude, striding to his chair, sitting upright, eyes unflinching. “You’re right,” he said. He waved a hand. “I thought about it for days and days. I practically crashed my car into a tree going back to the office — you know, the day I walked out. By the way,” he said, glancing away briefly, then forcing his eyes to me, “I’m not paying for the two sessions I missed. You threw me out. I mean, that’s what seems fair. I know I left, but you pushed me out.”

Gee, that meant I would be out one hundred dollars. “I agree,” I said solemnly. “Does this mean we’re resuming therapy?”

“If you’re willing,” Gene said. “You’re right. I’m weak. I’m scared. I’m chicken. I’m going to start behaving differently, but I could use a friend—” He stopped. “But you’re not a friend, are you?”

“I feel friendly toward you. Friendship is different than being a doctor and a patient, though.”

“I need your help,” Gene said boldly, not sounding as if he needed anyone. “Is that bad? Is that part of what’s wrong with me?”

“In a way.”

“So I shouldn’t be here?”

“If you are going to make a serious effort to change your life, it’s reasonable to want an ally. I’m happy to be in my comfortable boat rowing along while you swim to a new land, Gene. I won’t get wet. I won’t drown. I don’t think you’ll drown either. What I don’t want is to stand beside you on the shore wondering if the water’s safe. It isn’t safe. And I can’t do the swimming for you.”

Gene became thoughtful and silent for a while. He crossed his legs, rubbed his chin, and then commented, “I think I should ask for a raise.”

“So do I.”

“Stick has invited me to his house. I mean Pete and Cathy too. For a barbecue. Black Dragon has a green light. We have to have a prototype in a year. I know what that means. In a month, he’ll cut the deadline to six months. I’m going to be working like a dog. And I’m the project director. He can’t trust me with the company’s biggest new product and pay me fifty thousand.”

“Sounds right.”

Without any transition, Gene said in a rush of words, “I’ve been going to prostitutes.”

I waited for him to elaborate. He shrugged and seemed to wait for me. “This past week?” I asked tentatively, “Or …?”

“No, for the whole time I’ve been seeing you. I’m up to about once a week now. I’ve been seeing this one — uh, she’s a blonde — her name, well, she says her name is Tawny. That’s not her real name.”

“Doesn’t sound it.”

“I’ve lied to you about it.”

“Okay.”

“Ever since that time in Boston, I’ve been going to whores. And I never told you.”

“Gene, that’s your privilege. You want to lie to me, you’re going to succeed.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Not about your going to prostitutes.”

“But you are angry?”

“I’m annoyed you didn’t tell me, because that meant you wasted some of your time here, and that means you wasted some of mine as well.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Okay. Do you want to talk about it now?”

He did, in a detailed narrative, with relief and some enthusiasm in his voice. While still living in Massachusetts, he noticed ads in a giveaway paper at the mall’s drugstore. He called one, telling himself he was curious if it was real, incredulous that an illegal activity could be solicited openly. He hung up on hearing a woman’s voice ask if she could help. That fascinated him, the way the prostitute answered. “Hello? Can I help you?” He phoned four more times, he estimated, cutting the line on her greeting. Eventually he answered, asking for details. She described her body in numbers, said what she would do (some of her offerings were in code words he didn’t understand) and named her price. Her blunt manner wasn’t a turn-off; it was his own reaction that appalled him: he was eager to try her. The only thing about the whore’s sales pitch that daunted him was the cost — one hundred and twenty-five dollars for an hour. There were a few weeks of temptation before he tried one and there was another month or two, when he moved to Westchester, before he found another giveaway paper, made calls, and settled on seeing “Tawny” regularly. I asked if he was concerned about AIDS. “Oh no. They’re clean and also they make you use a condom. Even when they give you head.”