Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“We made our own fireworks,” I said.

Her arm was still raised. She draped it around my neck and got up on tiptoe. She aimed her mouth at mine. She kissed me quickly, a light touch of her moist lips, and hung there as if contemplating the taste, checking her appetite for more. Her black eyes peered into mine, half her face disappeared by the shadow of the crowd. There was a cheer and muffled boom. “It’s starting,” she whispered. I bent my head and pressed, pushing her full lips apart with mine. She opened wide for me, while all around us the sky blossomed with colors.

The display was going strong when we unlocked. A woman to my left smiled when I met her eyes. As I turned toward the water, a man on my right winked at me. Halley put her arm around my waist and we watched. I was glad we didn’t have to walk just then, pleasantly surprised to find my body reacting to a mere kiss with the enthusiasm of an adolescent.

We stood still until the show was over and left silently with the satisfied crowd. When we reached First Avenue I hailed a cab. As it stopped for us, I said, “Your apartment?”

She nodded. Inside, she twisted away from me to face the window while leaning her head against the crook of my shoulder. Her right arm rested on my thigh. I was wearing beige Bermuda shorts. Her fingers lightly stroked my skin above the knee, playing with the hairs. Against her elbow, she could feel my excitement at her touch.

Going crosstown in the seventies we stopped at a red light. She sat up, turned, held my face with both her hands, and kissed me again, parting her lips slightly. Then she resumed her place, fingers petting me. And it was just like being petted — the languid touch of an owner.

We were crossing Central Park when I said softly, “How long have you been having an affair with Jack?”

Her fingers closed on my thigh, not tight, more like holding on. We were out of the park before she answered with a question. “Do you care?”

“I’m not jealous, if that’s what you mean.”

She sat up and opened her purse. We were half a block from her building. “Sure you are,” she said with good humor.

“I’ll get this,” I said.

“No,” she took out money, told the driver which was her awning, and said to me, “I told you. I don’t fall in love. So there’s nothing to be jealous about.”

I got out first, holding the door while she paid the cabby. At the corner I saw a trio of teenagers scatter. A moment later a trash can blew up. Or at least, it rattled and fell over, a cloud of smoke floating across the pavement.

“What was that?” Halley said, popping out of the taxi.

“A cherry bomb. I hope.”

“Let’s get inside,” she said, taking my arm and pretending to run as we entered the building. We discussed the rowdy gangs of kids with the doorman on our way to the elevator. He was saying something about them losing fingers and hands if they weren’t careful when the doors closed.

“Were you guessing about Jack?” Halley asked with a playful smile. “Or did you really know?”

“You were comfortable with him.” I watched our ascent on the bank of lights. Eleven. Twelve. Fourteen — it was a superstitious building. “You’re not really comfortable with a man unless you’re having sex with him.” At fifteen a faint bell rang and we stopped. The door opened. I put my back against it and made way for her.

Halley stared for a moment. She shook her head, then walked out. As she passed me, she commented, “And you say you’re not jealous.”

“How long?” I asked, following her to the end of the hallway, the corner apartment.

“We’re not having an affair. There was a …” she searched in her purse for a key while also searching for the right word, “… an encounter a few months ago. That’s all.” She found the key and put it in. She asked, “Seriously. How did you know?” She unlocked the door, swung it open, stepped in, then turned back with a sudden worry, “He didn’t tell you?”

“No.” I entered after her, shivering at the refrigerator cold of her air-conditioning. The apartment was a one-bedroom with a sweeping view of Central Park, thanks to the low height of the adjoining building. Two walls of windows, forming the L-shaped living and dining rooms, were unadorned. A round butcher block table stood in the L next to the utility kitchen. A pair of cream-colored couches filled the living area. There was a machine-made Oriental, mostly red, and an old steamer trunk served as a coffee table. Walking around, my sweaty polo shirt chilling me, I was surprised to discover the living room’s rear wall covered by bookcases. There were a few serious works of nonfiction, survivors from college days. Two whole shelves were devoted to plays, from her flirtation with acting. A new group of books on marketing and sales were allotted one shelf, there was a handful of modern novels, as well as a collection of classic and modern romantic fiction, but what fascinated me was that there were three shelves of popular books on self-help and psychology, ranging from New Age inspirationals to my own book on incest. I didn’t have to investigate to find my work. While I answered her question, “I knew because of Jack’s body language. I knew because you used the same nickname for the labs — Geek Heaven. I knew because he pretended in front of his wife that your coming home with me was somehow sexual, which I’m sure he thought was a good cover for him and incidentally gave expression to his genuine jealousy …”

Halley interrupted my monologue by removing a worn edition of my book from the shelves. “It turns out I’ve been a fan of yours for years.” The copy was eight years old, the first paperback edition. “I discovered it after our dinner together. When you told me about your life I had this nagging feeling …” Halley flipped through the pages. “I bought it on an impulse and read it feverishly one weekend. I think I was in college. It’s terrible, isn’t it? You read something you find fascinating and you don’t remember the author’s name.”

My pleasure at her literary praise was almost as keen as from her kiss. I wondered if her aim was also more lethal. “You found the subject of incest fascinating?”

“Well, the way you handled it. I read it again after our dinner. I started it that night and took it with me on a trip. Knowing you were an incest victim yourself, I was really impressed you could come up with those insights.” She wandered away with my book, returning it to the shelves. With her back to me, she continued, “Incredible objectivity. Its truly brilliant,” she said, sliding the book home.

I needed to sit down. I chose the cream-colored couch facing the windows.

“What should I read next?” she asked, moving toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Did Gene notice it?” I asked.

“Gene?” she repeated as if she had never heard of him. “Oh, you mean when he was here … No. And he never told me your name, so …” She entered the kitchen, calling, “I’m getting some Evian. Do you want a glass?”

I was thirsty, very thirsty now that I thought about it. “No thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“I’m going to read everything you’ve written,” she said from the kitchen. “Tell you the truth, I’m a little scared of reading about the child abuse cases. They must be so sad.” She appeared with a tall glass of water. She paused in front of me, kicking off her penny loafers. I watched her pale feet. “My father hit my brother once. Just once.” She sat next to me, pulling her legs under her, angling my way. She sipped from her glass and leaned forward to put it on the steamer trunk. The movement opened her dress enough for me to see she wasn’t wearing a bra. And I noticed as well that her breasts didn’t require support. It had been fourteen years since I had been this close to making love to a twenty-six-year-old body, when I was twenty-six myself. The cliché “Youth is wasted on the young” came to mind. I wanted to laugh. “He slapped Mikey once,” Halley was saying. “No big deal, but I burst into tears. My brother didn’t do anything. He sat still, with his cheek turning red. I was inconsolable. Daddy had to buy me a ice cream cone to calm me down.”