Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

Stick knew, of course. She annoyed him at one point, interrupting a pompous monologue he was delivering into the cleavage of the pretty wife of his vice-president in charge of domestic sales, Jack Truman. “Stick, honey,” she said, blocking off his view of the Great Divide. “You don’t have to convince Amy you’re a great man. I bet when Jack comes home he neglects her to sing your praises.”

“Thanks for the hint, dear,” he answered. “You know what I need? Another drink. Why don’t you get one for me?” he said, handing her his glass. “If you’ve left any gin for the rest of us,” he added with a pleasant smile.

“Baby, I’ve only been sucking the limes,” she answered, jiggling the yellow expanse of her behind luridly. “Practice makes perfect, right?” She laughed harshly in her husband’s face, although her puzzling remark seemed to wound only herself. I was not surprised that Stick hadn’t divorced this overweight, unhappy, and socially inferior woman for what magazines call a trophy wife. Nor was I surprised by his guests, my introduction to the second-rate men who worked on the business side of Minotaur. They were sycophants, frightened of Stick, intimidated by Halley, and annoyed by their dependence on the engineers working in the labs — a frustrated envy that was expressed as contempt.

While I stood with Jack Truman at the edge of Stick’s flagstone patio, chewing our corn on the cob, he asked me about the nature of my consulting job this way: “So you’re checking out Geek Heaven. I’d love to read your report. Always wanted to know if those guys have personal lives.”

“Geek Heaven?” I asked with a smile.

“Sorry. They’re brilliant. God bless ’em. What would we do without ’em?” Jack lowered his voice. “But they’re weird, right?”

“That’s why Stick’s got me down there,” I winked. “He wants to make sure they aren’t chopping up prostitutes and stuffing them into suitcases.”

Jack threw his head back and cackled. He finished with a sigh, commenting, “That’s funny.” He poked me with his elbow and turned away from the patio toward the pool. I shifted my position as well. He whispered, “Do you know about Gene Kenny? Used to be head of R&D? He seemed like the most normal nerd in Geek Heaven. But he cracked up. You know what he did?”

I recovered quickly from the surprise that neither Stick nor Halley, or any of the engineers, bothered to gossip with the marketers enough for him to know I was Gene’s doctor. That evidently he didn’t know Halley had an affair with Gene wasn’t a surprise; I had discovered only Andy Chen was clever enough to suspect. I shook my head no.

Now I had surprised Jack. “Really? I figured that’s why Stick brought in a head shrinker.” He inclined his head toward the lawn, a signal to move with him. We stepped off the flagstones onto the grass, as if somehow this placed our conversation in a more discreet zone. Not that Jack relied entirely on the lawn’s sound-dampening. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Kenny raped and killed his ex-wife. Then he smothered his baby boy and hung himself.” Jack shuddered. “About two months ago.” He studied me. “Nobody said anything to you?”

“Stick told me Kenny committed suicide, but not Andy or the other nerds, as you call them.”

“They’re okay. I didn’t mean anything. You know, they say,” he dropped his already low voice to a whisper, “that’s why Centaur’s so late. Gene destroyed the prototype when he flipped. We had to start from scratch.”

“What are you boys whispering about?” Halley called, approaching us with a platter of watermelon and cantaloupe.

“You, of course,” I said. “We were wondering why someone so glamorous and intelligent wants to work in a nerdy business like computers.”

“Nerdy business?” Jack repeated with a nervous laugh.

“It’s simple,” Halley said, picking up a piece of cantaloupe with her free hand. “Don’t tell my mother I used my fingers.” She popped the square into her mouth and chewed. Jack and I watched solemnly while she consumed it. “Excuse me,” she mumbled with a full mouth. She swallowed. “Dad’s the only person who’d hire me. It’s shameless nepotism.” She offered the platter to me. “The cantaloupe’s good.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Now, that’s not true, Hal. Don’t give the doctor a wrong impression.” He edged in front of me and used his fork to slide several pieces of watermelon onto his plate. “She had a terrific job at Time-Warner,” he told me. He said to Halley, “And I happen to know it was for double what we pay you.” Back to me. “She’s brought us tons of contacts. We switched agencies ’cause of Hal. Wales & Simpson has been great.” He commented to her, “I think the campaign for Centaur looks fantastic. You’re doing great, Hal.”

“I guess that’s why,” she said to me. “I work here for all the good feedback. But you’re neglecting me, Doctor. Dad brings you on board to study us and I haven’t seen you at all. Aren’t I worth studying?”

“Please, I beg you, call me Rafe.”

“Well, okay, if you’re going to beg me. I haven’t seen you at all, Rafe.”

“That’s right,” Jack moved next to her, bumping her slightly. “We feel neglected,” he said.

“You should be glad,” I answered. “If I show my face in your office, you’re in trouble.” For a moment, they took this hard, mouths open, stupefied. “I’m kidding.” I laughed. Jack tried a smile. Only a corner of his lips cooperated. Halley, however, really did smile appreciatively. “Seriously,” I said. “Stick’s just being nice to me. I’m doing research on the psychodynamics of …” I slapped Jack on the shoulder, rather hard. “Nerds. I’m a child psychologist and those are basically kids down there in Geek Heaven. It’s really got nothing to do with the business. Your father’s being most cooperative.”

“I love my father,” Halley said. “But he’s no Mother Teresa. If he put you down there, he expects to get something out of it.”

“Hal’s right.” Jack was earnest and also bothered by how to dispose of his watermelon pits. He modestly turned his head to spit them into his right hand, but was reluctant to drop them on his plate. He clutched them in his fist. “Stick told me you’re doing wonders for their morale. He said you’ve calmed things down a lot. Efficiency’s way up.”

That was a complete fiction. I had been there for a month. There was no progress on Centaur; the main board continued to slow down when communicating with peripherals. It’s true I had become chummy with the machine makers. I had gathered the basic material of their lives, established trust, and begun some reforms of their work environment. So far, there was no effect. They continued to shriek and pout at each other. Andy’s exercise of his authority was halfhearted; he tended to deal with everything on his own and that wasted resources. At least half of the team was busy with concepts that Andy had privately decided to abandon. “Well,” I said, “efficiency is up and Centaur’s doing great, but I don’t think I had much to do with it.” I indicated my plate’s gnawed cob, an untouched hill of potato salad, and a smear of ketchup — the last, all that remained of a hamburger. “Excuse me, I’m going for seconds.”

In fact, I left my plate near the barbecue and walked into the glassed-in porch, aiming for Mary Catharine, who was at the bar, refreshing someone’s drink and making another for herself. “This is a lovely house,” I said to her back as she rattled ice cubes.

“Thank you,” she said. “Do you need another drink?”

“No, I’m fine. Are there four bedrooms?” I asked.

“Three and a study. Want a tour?”