Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

I got through right away. Jeff, her secretary, said with pleasant efficiency, “Good morning, Dr. Neruda. Please hold for Ms. Copley.”

“Hello.” She was on immediately, hurrying to deal with me. “I don’t have any time this week. How about lunch next Tuesday?” I was impressed by the neutrality of her tone. As if relations between us were a perfect blank.

I wanted to know how much pressure they were feeling to accede to Edgar’s request to be helpful. “I’m only in New York until Friday,” I said. “Are you free in the evening? We could have dinner.”

“Dinner,” she repeated dully. I was sure she wished she could complain about my impertinence. “I’ll be at Edgar’s benefit tonight. Are you going?”

I was amused by this probe. “He invited me, but I don’t have a tux.”

“That’s not much of an excuse. Edgar could get one for you.”

“Probably. But we wouldn’t have much time to talk. Besides, your date would be annoyed.”

“Daddy is my date. He wouldn’t care. And we could go for coffee afterwards.” She was almost flirtatious.

“No, I’m really too shy and awkward at big events. How about tomorrow night?”

Her tone shifted, slipping from playful to cool without a lurch. “I’ll have to let you know in the morning. I’m not sure if I’m free.”

“When should I call you tomorrow?”

“Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll call you?”

“I’ll be in and out. Best thing is for me to call you.”

She sighed, exasperated. “All right. Call at eleven. Bye,” she hung up without waiting for my farewell.

The next morning Jeff had instructions for me. “Dr. Neruda, Ms. Copley asked if you could meet her at seven outside her gym. She loves her workouts.” The lilt of his mocking aside suggested he might be gay; and its informality was the first sign something had changed since yesterday. “Then you’ll have dinner. Her gym is on the Upper West Side.”

“In the city?”

“Yes, we’re both reverse commuters.” Jeff’s friendliness was becoming fulsome. “Do you have a favorite restaurant?”

“No, I’ll leave that to you. Why don’t you pick a place?”

“Oh, I think she’ll do the picking,” he commented.

I arrived at her gym forty-five minutes early. The Workout occupies two floors of a five-story office building; tall windows on three sides aren’t dressed, exposing its huffing and puffing clients to Broadway. I didn’t wait on the street. I entered, said I was interested in becoming a member, and asked for a tour. I listened patiently to my guide’s enthusiastic talk about The Workout’s personal trainers, no-nonsense atmosphere (“This isn’t a singles club”), and up-to-date equipment that wouldn’t leave you permanently crippled as other health clubs were liable to. I asked to see these modern marvels. We passed many complicated machines before coming upon Halley at the treadmill. She was listening to a bright yellow Walkman’s earphones, her dark eyes fixed on the scurrying pedestrians below her.

“Oh, there’s someone I know,” I said to my guide, leaving him, and moving beside Halley.

She wore white shorts and a gray T-shirt. Its sleeves were rolled up, exposing her shoulders. I have always found the crook of a woman’s shoulder and the curve that begins the shape of her breast particularly alluring. Hers was completely exposed, olive skin glistening with perspiration. Most of the side of her bra was also visible. I stepped directly in front of her. A dark wedge of sweat bled between her breasts. As I suspected on our first meeting, beneath her business jacket she had concealed an impressive display.

When she recognized me, I waved. She blinked. For a moment, she couldn’t decide whether to allow this interruption. I smiled and crossed my arms, signaling I had no intention of going. She pressed a button on the treadmill. Its motor shifted, and her pace slowed. She removed the earphones with both hands. I enjoyed that sight: her arms raised, holding the black arch aloft as if it were an electronic halo.

“You’re early,” she said, neither playful nor annoyed. Her deep voice wasn’t struggling hard for air.

I turned toward my puzzled guide. “Thank you. I’ll stop by the front desk on the way out.”

“Sure,” he said. “We have a twenty percent discount this month,” he added as he left.

“I told him I was interested in becoming a member.”

“But you don’t live in New York,” she said. She put the black halo around her neck.

I smiled. “That’s true.”

She didn’t return my smile. Her black eyes evaluated me for a moment. Her full lips opened as if to speak. Instead, she released one of her complicated exhalations of feelings and checked her dual-time-zone watch. “I need another ten minutes on this and a half hour to get dressed.” She hit a button on the machine, quickened her pace, and replaced the earphones. She stared through me while she ran, as if I were one of the pedestrians below.

I couldn’t hold that indifferent gaze. I lowered my eyes and noticed her fine legs. Often being short costs elegance. Not for Halley. And she was very fit. There was virtually no jiggle to her shapely thighs. Gene had praised this body to the skies and that was no delusion.

“I’ll wait outside,” I said, although I knew she couldn’t hear me. Walking away, I felt compelled to look back. I did so at the head of the stairs. From that angle, the tall windows were made opaque by the reflection of the ceiling’s light. For her as well: she watched her towering image run at Broadway. I looked at the gleaming glass facing me. I saw a frail picture of myself in retreat.

She took longer than promised, appearing at seven-fifteen. Her hair was damp, combed back and gathered into a ponytail. She wore white jeans and a thin black cotton sweater; her small feet were bare inside black penny loafers. The eyeliner of her work makeup endured; otherwise, her face was unadorned, lips pale, forehead shiny. The message was clear: this is not a date. “There’s a pretty good Japanese restaurant three blocks from here,” she said. “Nothing fancy. After last night, I feel like something light.”

“Good idea.” We began the walk. “I’m sorry to be so nosy, but—”

“You’re thorough and conscientious,” Halley finished my sentence. “I searched for you in Nexis.”

“Nexis?”

She paused. This forced me to stop and look her way. Without makeup or the armor of formal clothing, she was as small and sweet as a little girl. A little girl with large breasts. “You don’t know what Nexis is?”

“No.”

“It’s a database library you can search and retrieve with a modem and computer.” She resumed walking. I followed suit. “It’s got every word in newspapers and magazines going back to the sixties. I read a profile of you in Vanity Fair. Are you doing a book about Gene?”

“I’m considering it.”

“He told me he was seeing a famous psychiatrist, but he never told me your name.”

We had to stop at the corner for the light. I watched her impassive profile. “Did you love him?”

The light turned green. She stepped off the curb. “No,” she said softly and crossed the street.

I was left behind, struck dumb on the corner. I had to trot to catch up. Before I could ask her another question, she said, “You’re a child psychiatrist.”

I nodded.

“How come you were treating Gene?”

“I saw a few adult patients,” I lied.

“Here we are,” she said, gesturing to an open door and passing through a beaded curtain. She couldn’t have known the magic of her choice. I noted the theater a few doors away. It was the same place. I had eaten in this modest Japanese restaurant. Almost fifteen years before, Julie and I had gone there for a late dinner. It was the day I discovered Gene’s mother had lied to me and the night I worked up the courage to tell Julie she was the love of my life. I was embarrassed by the reflection that, in trendy New York, this restaurant had done a better job of maintaining relationships than I.