Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“You didn’t tell me what I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?” she said. For the first time the words were slurred.

“Just how hard did he push?”

“Who?” Her eyes closed halfway.

“Stick. How hard did he push? How hard did Michael have to work for Stick to respect him?”

She shut her eyes and seemed to taste something, her lips moving. She took in a lot of air, opened her eyes wide and sighed. “Stick went down it the day before.”

“He skied the dangerous slope the day before?”

“Yep. You want to let me make you this drink?”

“I don’t want the drink.”

“I do.” She faced the bar and reached for the gin. “Yeah, he tried to get Mikey to go with him. Mikey said he didn’t want to. So Stick went on his own. Afterwards, he bugged Mikey, telling him he was too cautious. All night Stick bragged about the virgin snow. The fucking virgin snow. ‘Should’ve been out there,’ he kept saying.”

“You were there?”

“Sure. Halley was there, too. It was a family trip.” Her drink was fixed. She sipped it and turned to me.

“And Halley teased him also, of course,” I commented. “Big sister and all.”

Mary Catharine waved her hand dismissively, swallowing hard. “She didn’t mean anything. Mikey didn’t care what she said. Yep,” she sipped again. “All night we all sat around the condo listening to Stick talk about pushing the limit or testing the envelope … I can’t remember the goddamn cliché.”

“So he went to prove himself to his father?”

“It’s not Stick’s fault. Mikey knew better. He wasn’t a baby. I told him, ‘Don’t let your father get your goat.’ I was drinking hot toddies. That’s a wicked drink. Gives you a bitch of a hangover. In the morning Mikey was gone.” She pointed toward the patio doors. “I’m going back to the chitchat. You coming?”

“Sure,” I said, walking with her.

“So what do you think?” she asked as the sun shone directly on our faces and the charcoal smoke filled our nostrils. Stick was about three feet to our right, bent over the grill to turn a second round of burgers. “You’re an expert,” she raised her voice a little. “You think maybe I’m a lesbian like my Aunt Gina?” Stick straightened, stepped back from the barbecue, and stared at us. The spatula was poised in midair, a greasy sword. “Just kidding, honey,” she said and laughed. She called to one of the guests, “Jeff, I forgot your drink! Wait there. Don’t move.” She returned to the glassed-in porch.

A couple of Copley’s regional sales managers were beside him at the barbecue grill. Stick moved away from them, stepping over to me, still armed with a spatula, and said quietly, “She’s uncomfortable at parties and drinks too much.”

“She drinks too much all the time,” I said with no energy to the contradiction, as if I were talking about someone he didn’t know.

His stone face didn’t react. He said, “I’ve tried to get her into treatment.”

“Probably better if it comes from someone else. She’s rebelling against you and there are early symptoms of paranoia about you as well.” I leaned closer to his ear. “By the way, I pretended to be ignorant about Gene with Jack Truman. There are wild rumors circulating. Are they deliberate? Did you float the one about Gene destroying a Centaur prototype?”

Stick gave me one of his hard looks, a scrutiny I had become used to during the six meetings we’d had so far about Andy and his team. No matter how many times I showed no disapproval or judgment of his management, he continued to check my reaction, as if he couldn’t believe his good luck. I returned the stare of his dark eyes calmly and added, “It was a clever stroke.” I nodded at the pair of sales directors; they were pretending not to strain to hear our conversation. “Provides a comforting explanation. I didn’t contradict it.”

Stick nodded, eyes still brilliant and unblinking. He asked, “We have a Wednesday meeting, right?” I nodded. “I’d better turn the burgers,” he said, returning to the grill.

I stayed for another hour and a half, long enough to be confident that Mary Catharine’s drinking meant she would remember little of our conversation and to reassure Stick that nothing I had seen or heard altered my loyalty. I evaded Halley, always flirtatious and friendly when I couldn’t avoid contact, but quick to move on pointedly, paying court to the other women. She talked to the men while I gossiped with their wives. I noticed she kept her eye on me, obviously puzzled that I found these suburban women and their ratings of schools, nannies and malls, as well as their worries about aging parents, overworked husbands and fading beauty to be more fascinating than the male talk: golf, off-color jokes, how to make better use of focus groups, and which frequent flyer program is superior. What I hoped she would conclude is that I found the other women more interesting than she, in particular her mother.

When I announced my departure at four-thirty, explaining I wanted to leave early because I was worried about traffic heading into Manhattan to see the fireworks display, it was obvious I had succeeded. Halley said, “Could I get a ride with you?”

“You’re not staying?” her mother asked. “I thought you were sleeping over, honey.”

“I forgot, Mom. I’ve got to write an evaluation of Wales & Simpson’s print campaign.” She looked at me. “I came on the train. Do you mind? I’d like to avoid Grand Central on July 4th. It’s probably a nightmare.”

I frowned, but said, “Not at all.”

“Bet he doesn’t mind,” Jack Truman said and cackled. His wife made a face. I had listened sympathetically to her concern about her eight-year-old son’s reading problems. I urged her not to take the advice of the pediatrician who was pushing Ritalin to treat her boy. He had diagnosed the sort of biochemical attention deficit disorder that afflicted her son only when it came to homework, not when he read hint books on how to improve his score at video games. Before departing, in view of Halley and Jack, I kissed Amy Truman on the lips. Then I hugged Mary Catharine close, whispering, “Thank you for the tour of the house.” She goggled at me. The gin had already erased our talk. All that remained for her was an impression of my friendliness.

“Everybody likes you so much,” Halley said, once we were swaying back and forth on the Saw Mill’s curves, heading for Manhattan.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Oh, I don’t blame them. I mean, you made a great impression. It was sweet of you to talk to my mother and the other ladies.” Halley said “the other ladies” with a trace of sarcasm.

“Tell me something. How come there was no help?”

“Help?”

“Well, your father did the barbecuing and your mother tended bar.”

“It’s what they’re both good at.” Halley laughed to herself. “Dad likes to fry meat and Mom likes to drink.”

I said nothing.

She laughed again, this time self-consciously. “That was mean,” she said. “No, it’s a tradition. When Daddy started with Flashworks and we didn’t have much money to entertain, he’d throw a July 4th party. He could keep it informal. You know, not spend too much money and still have the businesspeople over. A cheap way to network.”

“But today was a small select group, right? Nowhere near all the business executives of the company.”

“Right,” Halley agreed. “Now he only invites his favorites. Getting an invitation is virtually like getting a promotion. That’s why the ladies were all gussied up.”

Halley was dressed for an informal afternoon: white shorts, pale pink polo shirt, and black penny loafers. Of course, she wore makeup and time had been spent to give her long shimmering black hair its elegant shape. Her bare arms and legs were tan. Her narrow feet were pale. Once in my car, she slipped them out of her shoes and raised them to the edge of the seat, hugging her knees.