Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“Well, he certainly put your life at issue.”

Stick leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands out, staring right at me. “Look, I’m not down on what you do. I have to admit I thought it was all bullshit, but you’re no fake. You can help people. I’m really interested in your opinion. Would you call what my father did child abuse?”

“Of course it’s child abuse. That’s not what’s interesting about the story.”

“No kidding.” Stick smiled, delighted. “What’s interesting?”

“Your strength, your will not merely to survive, but to triumph. I don’t mean to offend you, but psychologically, your family dynamic is rather ordinary — and I could have guessed it from your personality. In fact, I’m sure there were many other earlier and probably more damaging incidents with your father that you don’t remember—”

He interrupted, his voice harsh. “Come on. You don’t know that.”

“I know because you didn’t expect him to save you. That’s quite an extraordinary assumption for a six-year-old boy to make.”

Stick’s, brows twitched. I waited for him to dispute me. When he didn’t, I continued, “The reason you remember that story, apart from the fact that you nearly died, of course …” I smiled and Stick chuckled. We were becoming buddies. “The reason you remember is that it was the day you first triumphed over your sadistic father.”

Stick cocked his head, turning an ear to me as if hard of hearing. “Sadistic?”

“Oh yes. You had a pretty clear choice, didn’t you? You could be the sickly incompetent baby to please your weak mother or you could copy your brutal father. You figured out that being your father was a better deal. Tell me, I’m curious, when was the first time you saw him hit your mother?”

Stick didn’t move, not a muscle, head still cocked, ear to the ground, the pose of a waiting hunter. He breathed through his nose. When he spoke, his lips hardly moved. He said, “She told you?”

“Who’s she?”

He made a noise. “My wife, of course.”

“Nobody told me, Stick. You like to hurt people. You think that’s love. You think it toughens people up. You think it’s being a man. That doesn’t come from watching cartoon shows, although there are people who will tell you it does. You may have seen your father hit your mother only once. Maybe the rest of the time all he did was yell or show disdain. Maybe he liked to scold her. Whatever the details, you couldn’t be who you are and not have a cruel father.”

“I’m disappointed.” Stick finally changed position. He leaned back, glancing at his phone, and then came at me, head up, eyes glazed with indifference. “I guess I’m someone who can’t be helped by what you fellows do.”

I answered in a loud, friendly tone. “I’m surprised.”

“Well …” Stick pressed two buttons on his phone, sending a message. “I’ve never been much of a fan of psychiatry.”

“No, no,” I stood up. “I should get going. I’m sure you have calls to make before you go for your daily swim. You enjoy that, don’t you? Swimming two miles a day? What I meant was, I’m surprised you feel you need help.”

I had confused him, made him self-aware. For a moment, he was frozen in my headlights, mouth open, eyes dull. “What?” he said, as if waking from a dream.

“I said, I’m surprised you feel you need help.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I feel good.”

“Do you?” I leaned my hands on his antique table, a lawyer bearing down on the witness. “The son you loved died young, your wife is an alcoholic, your daughter is obsessed with you and can’t make a life for herself, you don’t seem to have friends — just employees and business contacts. No one could blame you for feeling you need to talk about your isolation, about the terribly high price you’ve had to pay for being strong.”

When I began the speech, mentioning Mike’s death, I hit a nerve. His right arm waved, as if brushing a fly off. His eyes changed, lids closing halfway. His thin ungenerous lips, so different from his daughter’s, disappeared altogether. He was seething, although I’m sure a casual observer would have thought it an exaggeration to say so. I straightened when finished with presenting the evidence and said softly, “I can find someone, someone you’ll feel comfortable with, someone discreet, of course, with whom you can talk.”

Here was the test. Surely he would explode. I couldn’t expect him to burst into tears, but its mirror image — rage — was the human reaction. Certainly, now he would let go, and show me the boy’s panic, abandoned in the muddy pond, flailing his little arms to keep his head above water.

Stick rubbed his eyebrows thoughtfully. He inhaled, pinched his nose with two fingers, let out a long stream of air, and then opened a hand to me. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you talk to Jack Truman and help his kid out? Maybe Jack should talk to someone too — I know my daughter can be overpowering. Even to me. I can’t restrain her. Anyway, I’m sure the Trumans will get more out of a therapist than I would.” He pressed the floor button. The door whooshed open. “Thanks, Rafe, for the good work. Oh,” he wagged a finger, “by the way, I read your memo. You can go ahead with the recreation area improvements. As you know, I’m a believer in exercise.” He winked at me, pleased by the ironic follow-up that had occurred to him: “A healthy mind in a healthy body, right Doctor?”

“HELLO!” JEFF, HALLEY’S ASSISTANT, CALLED AS I PASSED HER OFFICE. I waved, but didn’t go in. I had already stopped to chat with Laura, Stick’s secretary, on my way out of that disastrous interview and didn’t feel up to more pleasantries. I did notice, however, that Halley’s inner door was open, so I shouted, “Jack Truman this way?”

“Around the corner,” Jeff answered. “Second door on the right, Dr. Neruda.”

Father and daughter weren’t unsettled, but obviously I was. Why bother to let her know my destination? Playing the part of the jealous lover? What was the point now?

I found Jack standing behind his seated secretary, reading over a letter she had typed. He looked up and grinned at me. “Hi there,” he said. “Slumming?”

“Do you have a few minutes? Stick suggested I see you.”

I might as well have shot him between the eyes. I had forgotten my joke at the barbecue that if I showed my face in his office he was in trouble. He stammered, “You’re here to — you want to see me?”

“Nothing important. I can come back. I need your advice. I’ll call you—”

“No, no. Come in. You got this straight, Kelly?” he mumbled to his secretary, waving me in without listening to her reply. He met me at the door to his inner office, taking my elbow. He maintained the grip all the way to the chair opposite his desk, presumably guiding me, although he seemed to want the physical contact, as if by hanging on he was in control of me. He also put his face too close, smiling so hard I wondered if the lines he was making around his mouth would be permanent. Once he put me where he wanted me, he retraced his steps to shut the door, talking in a loud cheerful tone for the benefit of his assistant, “Well, this is a pleasant surprise. But I’m happy to help. Always wanted to be a doctor myself.” The door was shut and he maneuvered toward the desk. He kept up the noisy banter, “I heard about fixing up a rec area out back. That’ll be terrific—”

I interrupted, “Okay, Jack, she can’t hear us now.” He was halfway down to his chair. He hung in midair for a moment and then fell the rest of the way. Its cushion sighed.

“I apologize for my abrupt entrance. I should have phoned. Stick has nothing to do with my being here. It was my idea. Your wife, Amy — I don’t know if she told you—”