Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“Lets sit down,” I said after some time passed and Clara remained in a sentinel’s pose. I pulled one of the green chairs away from the bench and sat. Albert copied me, moving his seat as close to mine as possible.

I wondered how I would feel if, after my therapy with Susan, I had the chance to see and talk with my mother. Clara unfolded her arms. She moved at us with a slow, long-limbed walk, eyes on the flower beds she passed. Her attitude was so casual it seemed insulting. I reminded myself that Albert was facing a very different woman than my mother, that his scars were not only deeper, his injuries more severe, but they were also visible forever, wounds anyone who tried to cherish him would see and touch in the very act of love. The closer she got, the angrier I felt. My body tensed as if I were threatened — or perhaps, more accurately, as if I were restraining myself from attacking her.

“Hey Al,” she said with a little wave of her fingers, not raising her hand. She sat on the step up from the bricks to the grass, legs together, knees reaching her chin. She smiled at him regretfully. “You look good.”

I watched him react, mostly to take my eyes off the unfathomable mystery of her appearance, a pretty young woman who seemed to know nothing about life, who appeared untouched. Albert is darker than his mother; he shares her dignified features, however. His wide eyes showed a lot of white as he took her in. He didn’t say anything.

She nodded as if he had spoken, and as if she agreed with his comment. “You going to school?”

Albert nodded. Barely.

“Where’s it at?”

“North Carolina,” Albert mumbled.

“Your Grandmas from North Carolina,” she said, looking up at a passing jet. She watched it trail off. “I think,” she added, returning her eyes to Albert.

“I hate you,” he said, gulping on the last word as if he were choking with tears. His eyes were clear, however, head stiff on his long neck.

Clara seemed not to have heard. She looked him up and down, checking his outfit. The survey was leisurely. Abruptly, her eyes came to me. She said, fast, like an ambush, “You gotta be here?”

I didn’t answer, startled by the suddenness.

“They say you gotta be here, that it? I can’t be alone with my boy?” Clara nodded at the house behind us. “She’s there. You gotta be here?”

I turned to see. Our escort stood just inside the glass door, watching.

“She won’t let me do nothing to him,” Clara was saying as I shifted back to face her. “I make a move — I kiss him, I try to shake his fucking hand, she’ll talk me to death. Shit, I’d rather die than have her talk at me. I ain’t gonna touch him.”

Albert said gruffly, “You heard me? I hate you.”

Clara dropped her head, arms drooping, a puppet whose master had let go. She hung there, lifeless. From the street, summer sounds washed over the garden wall. A water pistol fight, the ping of a basketball dribbled fast on pavement, a radio playing rap music. A man shouted, “Hey Tony! Hey Tony! You fuck face. We have to go.” The music shut off. A girl screamed with glee. The basketball rattled on something metallic. Clara came to life. She sat up, stretched, elongating her skinny arms and neck. Under her arms, there were faint white circles, maybe from a deodorant. She slid off the steps onto her knees.

“You’re my baby,” she whispered passionately, arms forward now, fingers calling to Albert. “You always gonna be my sweet baby.”

Involuntarily, I pushed my chair back. I thought I heard the glass doors open, but our escort didn’t appear. Albert, on the other hand, hadn’t moved. His dignified face was set, cheeks puffed, eyes in a rageful stare.

Clara gushed on, low and intense, like a lover. “I know I hurt you, baby, but that was crack, that was the life, that was all the shit happening to me. I love you, baby. That wasn’t me hurt you. I’m your Mama, baby.” She moved herself: eyes brimmed with tears. I noticed her wide full lips, painted vermilion — they were luscious and innocent.

“Who you think you talking to?” Albert said. The words were tough; the sound he made wasn’t.

“I’m talking to my son. You always gonna be my son—”

“You talking trash for the Man?” Albert nodded at me. They both glanced my way, but only briefly. They locked eyes again. “You won’t fool him,” Al continued. “You’ll fool me sooner than you fool him. And that’s hopeless, ’cause you ain’t never gonna get a lie past me.”

Clara’s wide mouth was open, hands extended, fingers calling for him to come to her, tears streaming, “I’m not saying I did nothing. I’m not lying about it. I know what I did. Everybody knows what I did. There’s nothing for me to get out of lying.” Clara seemed to notice she was on her knees and that appeared to surprise her. She reached back to the step, and pulled herself on it. She gave us her profile as she confessed, “I know I’m bad. I know there’s no excuse—”

“You’re making excuses, that’s all you’re doing,” Albert said, again talking tough, but his voice cracked on the last word.

“I’m just saying I love you, that’s all.”

“You’re saying it wasn’t you.”

“Not the real me,” Clara insisted. “I didn’t touch you before I smoked.” She looked past him to me and said, “Explain it to him. I’m not saying I didn’t do it. I’m not saying it ain’t my fault. I’m saying I love him and I wish to God it never happened.” She had moved herself again, fresh tears running over the dried tracks.

“You say it was the drug,” I commented.

“You know it makes you crazy,” she argued with me. “You telling me crack don’t fuck you up? That what you tell him? I’m the same person now? I ain’t the same. That’s a lie too. If you be telling him that, it’s a lie.”

“No!” Albert bellowed. Clara winced. I heard a footstep behind me that I assumed came from the escort. The bass of Albert’s shout reverberated until there was complete silence, except the basketball, whining as it struck the concrete in a pounding rhythm. Only when his yell died away did he continue, in a deep tone of conviction, “You trying to say it was somebody else. That’s all you trying to say. You trying to take away the only thing I got left. People feel sorry for me and they want to help me. That’s the one fucking thing you gave me and now, you greedy bitch, you want that too.” Albert stood up. He was already turning away, obviously scared he was about to lose control. He tossed back at her, “I hope you die.” He walked past me, bumping my chair.

I got up to follow him. As I reached the escort, standing in the patio doorway, I turned back for another look at Clara. Albert’s mother sat up straight on the step, eyes dead, her stained face tranquil. She stared at me as if we had never met.

I got home late. The van leaving for Dorrit House had been delayed. In fact, that was good luck. Obviously, Albert was very troubled by the encounter and, I felt, in grave danger. I had been lax in leaving so little time between these two momentous events in his life. I had misgivings when the shelter gave us Albert’s departure day as his only opportunity to visit Clara; but he insisted he wanted to see her before leaving New York and I decided I couldn’t object to that.

We talked in a coffee shop across the street from where the van was parked. Its driver was checking under the hood for the source of the engine’s cough. Albert sat opposite me, ignoring his slice of cherry pie and glass of milk. He breathed shallowly, his shoulders were hunched, his arms half-raised, like a boxer in a fighting crouch. His barely suppressed rage was electric: the waiter didn’t linger on Albert’s side of the table. I noticed when he returned to the cash register, he kept an eye on us. I tried to get Albert to express himself directly. When that failed, I asked him to describe how he would like to kill his mother.