Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“That’s the first time Andy’s sounded like a real manager.” Stick winked at me. “Maybe he’ll come after my job next.”

“No,” I said in a rush. “Not in his personality. As I told you, he’s a prodigy and he’s adjusted by—”

Stick halted me with a raised hand. And with laughter. Deep, self-satisfied laughter. “Okay, okay. I was joking. I know Andy knows his place.” He fixed me with a steady beam from his dark eyes. “And we’ll both have to make sure we keep it that way. We don’t want to repeat our mistakes, right?”

“Right,” I agreed and lowered my eyes. Something was wrong with me. This interview, with a powerful man behind a desk, and me, a supplicant in the chair, insecure, carrying secrets, unable to meet his eyes — I had already lived this chapter in the story of my life and it shouldn’t be happening at my age and with what I had learned. How would you answer your own challenge, Dr. Neruda? I asked myself. Are you happy?

“Rafe?” Stick knocked on the bleached wood of his desk. “Hello? I lost you there.”

“I’m sorry.” Get your head up: hold that gaze. “What were you saying?”

“Did you get a chance to form an opinion of Jack Truman at the barbecue — I saw you talked a little.” Stick smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “You can’t blame me, Rafe. You’ve done such wonders downstairs, I’m tempted to move you to the Glass Tower.”

“His wife is worried about their son,” I said. “She’s getting bad advice from her pediatrician.”

“Really?” Stick lowered his chin, pinched his nose with his fingers, then stroked his eyebrows, finally locking his hands together. He leaned back. “Something you can help with?”

“Um …” I was having trouble concentrating — all the beloved theories were dancing upside down in my head and I found the view of their ungainly thighs and flipped skirts grotesque. “It’s simple really. The boy just needs an adequate reading tutor, mostly to calm the mother down.” I cleared my throat, shifting to the edge of my chair, which was designed to keep the sitter angled slightly back, passive compared to the straight up-and-down look of Stick across the desk. “My guess is Jack’s withdrawing from the family because he’s got a crush on Halley. One possibility is that Amy Truman is blowing this up into a crisis to call her wayward husband back home. Another is that the boy has intuited the marital trouble and this is his distress signal.” I waited for Stick to react. When he failed to, I continued, “But dealing with the child’s reading block directly will suffice. For a family dysfunction, it’s pretty routine. And Jack’s tough. He won’t come apart when Halley dumps him.”

Stick cracked his knuckles. I winced. “She’s close to dumping him?” he asked.

“You tell me,” I said and stood up. I had to gain height on him, and freedom of movement.

“You’re going?” Stick asked.

I moved aimlessly toward his windows. The parking lot was full below. Theodore Copley was in charge of every life down there. Not as a matter of objective fact. But that’s what he must feel as he watched them arrive, docking at his desire, looking up as they entered his house of worship. He was a very little Westchester god to the world, but, all the same, from the perspective of this window he was God. “I feel restless, that’s all.”

“You want to go for a swim?” he asked. “I’m going to the gym after our meeting.”

I watched a Federal Express van pause at the security gate on its way out. “I don’t swim,” I said, a silly lie, a private form of rejection, told because I wanted so badly to disassociate myself from him and everything he did.

“No kidding.” Stick swiveled in my direction. “How did that happen? Didn’t you go to summer camp?”

“I was a poor kid. I grew up in the city.”

“But you were a ward of your uncle, right? He was a friend of Edgar’s father? Wasn’t he—”

I interrupted, “—Not until I was a teenager. Uncle didn’t want me to go to a regular camp. Mostly I took advanced courses offered to bright high school kids during the summer. You know, at colleges.”

“So you never learned?”

“I’m a little frightened of the water,” I said. “Don’t want to go back to the womb, I guess.” I shrugged, smiled at Stick, and returned to my chair.

“You know how my father taught me to swim?” Stick asked. I shook my head. “We vacationed in a cabin in Maine, on a pond. A lake really, at least in size. A large pond. He told me he was going to teach me. He rowed me to the center of Walker Pond, where it was very deep. He took off my little life jacket and threw me in.” Stick watched for my reaction as if he were the shrink and I the patient.

But that makes no sense. I am the doctor, I reminded myself. Perhaps I should look in my wallet, show my identification, call an ambulance, put him in a straitjacket and order electroshock. We could jolt those self-confident brain cells, make them misfire, and cure him of his efficiency.

“Why are you smiling?” Stick asked.

“What happened?” I asked. “When he threw you in, I mean.”

“He rowed away. I don’t know how far. Far enough. He said, ‘You’d better swim, boy, or you’ll drown.’ He didn’t have to say that. It was pretty obvious.”

“What happened?”

“I swam. I started to go under and I gulped some water, but I swam.”

Certainly I could institutionalize him for this. They wouldn’t question my rationale: I’m admitting this patient for his overdeveloped will to live. I covered my face with both hands and rubbed. The skin tingled. I uncovered my face and asked Stick, “Did you believe him?”

“Believe him about what?”

“That he would let you drown?”

“The pond was muddy. If I went under I’m not sure he could have saved me. I remember there was some story about a twelve-year-old kid who got a cramp in deep water and — I think it was his father and his uncle … Anyway, two grown men couldn’t find him, although they were right nearby. We all knew that story.”

“How old were you?”

“I was six.”

“So you believed him?”

Stick laughed. “Hey, I was in a panic. I didn’t think about it. I just swam. He was right. He said I knew how, that I just had to do it.” He watched me and waited. I was silent. Finally, he got to the point. First, however, he moved his eyes away from mine, staring down as he picked off something from his pants. “I guess nowadays that would be called child abuse.”

“Are you asking me if I think it’s child abuse?”

Stick, without raising his eyes, nodded — a remarkably shy and boyish manner for him to display.

I cleared my throat. “Well, my professional opinion is that the risk was out of proportion to the gain.”

Stick didn’t laugh. He spoke softly, “I think he did me a favor. I was a mama’s boy. She let me get away with murder. If I complained about anything, I was given aspirin, tucked into bed, brought hot chocolate, and she’d read me stories—”

I interrupted, “You were an only child, of course.”

“That’s obvious?” he asked.

“Oh sure. Why didn’t she have more children?”

“There were complications at my birth. Cord was around my neck and I was breech. We both almost died. She couldn’t have any more children after me.”

The story of every god: the terrible, unique birth that ravages. And its glorious product: the cherished creature snatched from death and forever invulnerable.

Stick locked his fingers together and flexed out. No cracking sound, thank goodness. “Anyway, she pampered me. I was turning into a little scaredy-cat. Father saved me from what she was doing to me. Who knows? If he didn’t give me a shock, she might have turned me into a fag. Isn’t that what happens to a mama’s boy? He made me strong. I know you don’t approve, but I think throwing me into the water saved my life.”