Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

I stared into space for what felt like a long time, but was probably only a moment. I said without thinking, “No, you’re not.”

“Yes. That’s my name. But they call me Cuco. I am your half-brother?”

Then I understood. Embarrassed, I said, “Of course, of course.” And I added, foolishly, “Nice to meet you.” I continued to fumble. “I mean, talk to you. We never met, so …” At last, I stopped the silliness. “Perdóname. I didn’t know your name. In fact, I don’t really know anything about you. I’m sorry, but no one told me. Are you Carmelita’s son? Born in, let’s see—?”

He interrupted. “That is correct. I’m twenty-eight years. No one informed you of anything?”

“Informed me about you?”

“No. Excuse me. I’m not clear. My father — excuse me — our father, he thought … He asked me to call.”

“Is he here? Are you here? Are you calling from the States?”

He told me they were in Tampa. Grandpa Pepín was having trouble with his mind, he said, and they had come to take care of him. I spoke to Pepín every other month and he seemed to be in excellent physical health, except for arthritis in his knees that especially annoyed him because he could no longer garden. He was ninety-two years old, living alone in the same house whose porch and lawn were the scene of my World Series injury. He didn’t like to travel and, for reasons the reader well understands, I didn’t care to visit Tampa. I hadn’t seen him in six years. Listening to my half-brother’s brief explanation, I felt so many different pangs of guilt that I almost laughed. No matter how many psychological textbooks I might consult, here was one situation where I was the bad guy, pure and simple. Three male relatives were down there whom I had neglected or betrayed or pretended didn’t exist. Once I accepted the fact that I was hopelessly and forever in the wrong, I relaxed. Selfjustification may do wonders for the ego, but it’s exhausting and probably bad for the hairline as well. “How can I help?” I asked. “Do you need the names of doctors?”

“No, thank you. Abuelo has a doctor. Dr. Garcia.”

“Yes, I know,” I said, a little peeved. After all, when Pepín outlived two generations’ worth of Latin doctors, I had helped find younger men such as Garcia, each time warning the new doctor to conceal the fact that his parents were anti-Castro refugees from Cuba. Grandpa didn’t trust non-Hispanics or anti-Communists to treat him — the truth is, he wasn’t that happy about putting his health in the care of people a third his age no matter what their ethnicity or politics. Although I had seen Pepín only five times since I was a child, I liked to think I had done my best to stay in touch and help. But who was I kidding? I wasn’t close to him. Pepín had never told me about my half-brother or my father’s whereabouts, claiming he didn’t know, when obviously he did. “Tell me, what’s wrong exactly? You said he’s having trouble with his mind?”

“He can’t help himself. He needs someone to cook and clean.”

“But there’s a woman who comes,” I began, again referring to something I had arranged. There was no shaking off my guilty desire to prove I had made some attempt to be good. I was ashamed that Grandpa Pepín had lapsed into senility and I hadn’t noticed from our phone conversations.

“Yes? A woman comes?” My brother seemed surprised.

I heard someone in the background call out, “Cuco?”

“A moment, please,” he said. He talked to the voice in Spanish.

I held my breath. I became conscious of my heart beating. I swallowed the welling in my throat. I was sure the voice I heard answer faintly was my father’s.

My brother resumed speaking to me. “Understand,” he said, meaning, I think, not that I should understand, but that he understood. “Abuelo needs help twenty-four hours. He’s,” he lowered his voice as if trying not to be overhead, “forgetting. He doesn’t always know you. Excuse me. I don’t mean you. I mean any person.”

“I understand. Are you looking for a full-time nurse or a home? What kind of care are you—”

“Excuse me,” Cuco interrupted. He spoke to the voice in the background. Again, I remained still, straining to hear. There was a distant groan of irritation. Cuco said, “Wait.”

Immediately, a deep resonant voice took over the line. A voice I had known all my life.

“Rafe, it’s me.” The strength and self-assurance was unmistakable, and also unchanged, as though not a day had passed. “Your grandfather insisted I inform you. We have to find him a nursing home. Goddammit,” he mumbled, not to me, presumably about the situation. “He wants you here,” he resumed in a commanding voice. “Come or not as you like. I don’t give a fuck,” he added casually, without the malice his curse implied. “I promised him I would call. I’ve kept my promise.” I heard the hollow noise of the receiver clatter home to its cradle and the connection died.

I felt for a while that I, not Ma Bell, had been silenced. Mine did last longer. The phone rang — actually it doesn’t ring, it coos like an electronic bird. I answered mechanically and made up some excuse, saying I had to call back, instead of finding out what was wanted. I recovered from the shock by thinking about how to go. Straight to the airport? Not bother to pack, just get on the first plane? Should I tell Diane and let her come along? Would she insist? Should I go at all? I have to admit I was tempted to ignore them. If I pretended they were phantoms perhaps I would be guilty of nothing. I knew myself too well to do that; this was one of the times in my life when I wished I had never read a psychology book.

And yet I did behave as if I had never been analyzed or was capable of self-analysis. I called Julie. I had to look up her office number and it turned out to be wrong anyway. The person who answered told me her new one. I got through the area code and the exchange before stopping. What in God’s name could Julie say that would help?

At least I had come out of my paralysis. I phoned several airlines and booked two tickets on a flight in four hours. That should be enough time to go home, pack, and get to the airport. I went down the hall to catch Diane as one of her sessions ended. First, I told her I had to find a nursing home for Grandpa. She asked how long I thought I would be gone. Then I said that my father was down there. She walked to the receptionist and asked her to cancel our appointments for Friday. I guess I was testing her. She passed.

On the flight I told her stories of Tampa. What she knew of my childhood was really the big picture, the lurid highlights, but it wasn’t those things that lived in my head. I ended up talking mostly about Grandmother Jacinta’s indulgences of me: making grilled cheese sandwiches at ten o’clock at night, storing up natillas in the refrigerator, watching me through the screen door while I played on the street, calling out that I should come in for lemonade. I could feel the cool hand of her palm on my forehead as I sat at her yellow Formica table and gulped the drink. I was moved by the memories. Diane held my hand. I stayed quiet after that, surprised by the spreading lights of Tampa at night. I didn’t remember the city being so big. I mentioned that to Diane. She surprised me by saying that she’d read in the Times it was one of the fastest growing cities in America. The airport was certainly large, as if they expected millions to arrive. In fact it was eerily deserted.

When I gave the address to the cab driver, he picked up a book of city street maps, looked in an index, then flipped to a brightly colored page. He said, “What was that address?”