Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

I asked whether he had helped the defense in the MacPherson case, as Diane’s friend Jonas claimed.

“They saw the mouse study and asked me to testify. Tell you the truth, the case is so bad, I almost did. But I couldn’t do it in good conscience. The mouse study doesn’t prove anything about testimony of sexual abuse. Who told you they contacted me?”

“You did. You told Jonas, and he told a colleague who told me.”

“No kidding. I was only teasing Jonas. I wanted to get under his skin. He attacked the mouse study at the San Francisco conference. Don’t tell me he took me seriously.”

“Apparently.” Gossip among professionals is always suspect and I decided not to press this point. Anyway, I hadn’t trusted Diane’s information.

“I was stunned by the results,” he said when I brought up my reaction to the mouse study and the question at hand — whether I would give him the videotape of Diane’s work with the Peterson girls. I told him no on the phone; I reassured Diane that my purpose in seeing Phil was to sound him out. She hadn’t convinced me that her work with the Peterson girls was her private property and should be withheld from science at her whim. I agreed to see Phil to give him a chance to convince me of his objectivity (relatively speaking, of course); then I could give him the video with a clear conscience, although I would be risking a bitter quarrel with Diane. That was the dare. Could I oppose her when I knew disobedience might destroy our relationship, a relationship I valued more and more every day? The old Rafe (or should I say the young Rafe?) had been roused from his long sleep and now he whispered that the way out was to be secretive, to slip the tape to Phil without telling Diane, and accomplish both objectives, the testing of our methods and the preservation of my love.

“You expected the kids not to make up stories?” I asked.

“No. Kids are always making up stuff. I expected them to be sloppy. You know, not consistent from one account to another. Fantasy becoming reality, or really memory — that I didn’t expect.”

“Maybe they’re just being stubborn.”

Phil frowned and shook his head. “With all us grown-ups telling them it’s okay to admit they made it up? No punishment, no questions asked? What’s to be stubborn about?”

“Perhaps they’re being stubborn about their pride in themselves, in the integrity of their identities. I think children care much more about their dignity than truthfulness. Truth doesn’t count for much in their world. In their world, the hypocrites are in charge.”

“What?” Phil had taken a bite of his croissant. Flakes lingered on his lips. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, swallowed and said, “You’re not going in for that.”

“Going in for what?”

“You know, that old sixties nonsense — the world’s corrupt so no one can make rules. Parents have to set limits. These kids come from good homes. Consistent parenting. Reasons always given. They aren’t being raised by hypocrites.”

“Really? Then they’re truly exceptional. Hypocrisy is the logic of parenthood.”

“Come on. What the hell does that mean? That’s an irresponsible statement.”

“Phil, it’s merely an observation. Adults tell what we call white lies or break trivial rules at least several times a day in front of their children. The phone rings. Don’t say I’m here, you shout to your spouse. You order them not to cross against a red light, but you do it when you’re in a hurry. They overhear you complain bitterly about your in-laws and you don’t let them show even a flicker of irritation at Thanksgiving. You complain your boss is an idiot, but they can’t say a word against their teachers—”

Phil cut me off. “That’s a ridiculous comparison. The lie about the mouse is elaborate and has no value. Children understand the difference between lies of convenience and make-believe.”

“I wasn’t making a comparison, Phil. I was merely saying that truthfulness is not highly valued by children. And there is a motive for the mouse lie. They’re preserving their right to be believed, a very important thing to establish once a child is going to school and has a life outside the home. Very few parents react to controversies over fact between their child and the outside world with complete faith in their child’s version. And yet children want their parents, of all people, to have blind faith in their veracity. Admit you lied about the mouse and you might not be believed ever again.”

Phil frowned, pushed his plate away — there was only a hard nub of croissant left — wiped his mouth, took a sip of coffee, and stared down at the table. He was thinking it over — a hopeful sign. “I don’t know … I’m not sure I buy it. Anyway, it’s not subject to proof. It’s in the realm of speculation and I don’t — I’ve never had much faith in pure theory.”

“It’s no more of a theory, Phil, than your study’s conclusion.”

He sat up straight and stared at the top of my head. “Our conclusion is based on the data.”

“No, there’s a leap of faith, namely that children don’t know the difference between fantasy and reality, that it isn’t a willful lie. And you’re not consistent, Phil. A moment ago you said children know the difference between lies of convenience and make-believe. Your mouse study created an unrealistic situation: there was no penalty for telling a lie. Phil, how many adults do you think would tell the truth if there was no consequence to being caught? Why do we have perjury laws? When you first brought the kids in to be asked questions, were they impressed with the need to be honest? Were they sworn in? No, a friendly stranger was playing a game, the kind of conversational inquisition that children experience every day, that they frequently spice up with their fluid imagination. Then, they’re doubted. Suddenly the rules have changed. Accuracy and truth are paramount.”

“But that’s the point. That’s how we interrogate children about child abuse. We don’t bring them to a police station or make them swear on a Bible.”

“Sure, but we don’t say we’re merely asking some questions to while away an afternoon. Disturbed kids are brought in to see doctors to help make them better: it’s not a casual situation from the start. And we don’t ask questions casually, giving no more weight to whether an adult played with their genitals than to whether they’ve ever been to a baseball game. Children are not that insensitive to their surroundings. They know saying their father sodomized them is of a different order of importance than whether they accuse a make-believe mouse of biting them.”

“That’s exactly why we’re doing the pediatrician study. That’s exactly why I need to copy you technique. I need to test the real situation.”

Now he got me thinking. I looked into his eyes, earnestly searching mine, and felt convinced of his sincerity.

He pressed me. “Look, I haven’t come to any conclusions. It’s easy for a kid to make up a story about a mouse. They’ve got all the information they need for the invention. I don’t see how a kid who’s never been molested could know how to make it up. But we need to do a study to confirm that, or the mouse results will seem to prove kids aren’t reliable.”

“No one’s reliable, Phil. That’s the point. Anyone, at any age, can tell a willful lie.”

“Too unreliable. I think you’re splitting hairs, I really do. Anyway, if we follow your clinic’s technique you should have nothing to be afraid of.”

I stared at the empty chair beside me. On it, inside a manila envelope, was a duplicate of the tape he wanted. I hadn’t brought it prepared to be convinced. At least, I told myself that. I tasted the old fear and weakness in my belly, the suspicious lonely adolescent revisited: unsure of anyone’s version of the truth, frightened to pick a side, wanting to know and yet scared of the answer.