Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

Within forty minutes, she returned three times to the theme of how rarely she and Jack were alone together, what with all his traveling and Billy’s troubles and their two-year-old girl. She complained about Jack’s work and then scolded herself for complaining. After all, she mumbled shyly, this coming year was a big opportunity for Jack.

I took a guess, commenting, as if I knew, “You mean, the big promise Stick made to Jack about the future if Centaur goes well.”

“So you know.” She smiled and slapped the table. “See that? I told Jack. I told him Stick isn’t blowing smoke. And, of course, you know about it. Jack tells me Stick really leans on you. He’s very jealous. Says you get a private meeting twice a week. He’s only got Mondays.”

“Jack’s right to be cautious,” I said. “Promises are just promises.” She looked grave. And nodded earnestly. “Right, of course. I just meant, you know, I feel — I mean, Jack’s done wonderful work for—”

“Jack’s done a superb job. Stick knows that.” I covered her hand with mine. Her pale blue eyes, at that moment washed out by the sunlight falling on them, looked at me without reserve. I let all of myself go out to her, copying my new teacher, beaming love and devotion without fear of embarrassment or rejection — or the scruple that it wasn’t sincere. “Listen. You need to take care of yourself. Jack can handle his job. You need him to help with his children.”

“Right,” she nodded. “That’s right.”

“Men have a tendency to think that their work is all-important. That the people who love them should drop everything and help. That the job isn’t just a job, it’s the future, it’s security, it’s love, it’s being a good person. But, you know, in the end, it is just a job and it’s not gonna love him back.” I slipped my fingers under her palm, and held her hand, squeezing a little. She returned the pressure. “If he doesn’t start taking care of you he’s a fool.” I let go. She swallowed, her freckled cheeks flushed pink, and her pupils widened. “I’ll get you a reading tutor and I want you to make an appointment with a family therapist.” I wrote down the name of one I knew well on a napkin. I had confidence that Amy was conscientious enough about her family, and tough enough, to make Jack go with her and Billy for counseling. I suspected that was the only way to get a fly fisher into therapy. I gave her the napkin.

“Thanks,” Amy said, carefully folding and putting it in her purse.

I reached for her hand. She gave it to me willingly. “You and Jack need to take care of your marriage and Billy will be all right. Know what I mean?”

Amy nodded, her mouth set, ready for a fight. “Yes,” she nodded. “I think I do.”

I winked. “Okay. I’m single, you know. Tell Jack if he won’t show you a good time, I will.”

She smiled. “I’ll tell him, Doctor. I’ll be sure to tell him that,” she said and winked back at me.

After she left, I used the coffee shop’s phone booth to report to Stick that I had recommended a good reading tutor to the Trumans, that their son’s problem was trivial, and that I was impressed by Jack’s loyalty to the company. I emphasized to my boss — because that’s what Theodore Copley had become, I realized, in spite of the fact that I provided less than full disclosure of my actions on his behalf — that he shouldn’t let on to Jack I had performed this service at his prompting. “He would be alarmed,” I said.

“Well, we don’t want that,” my fearless leader said. “We want Jack to feel relaxed. He’s doing a terrific job. By the way, Rafe, is Thursday night okay for you to play doubles?” I had become his regular partner against a variety of opponents, usually business competitors. “Sure,” I said.

“Great. Seven at Wall Street. One other thing. I’m sending down the hotel brochure for the fall retreat.”

“Fall retreat?”

“Yeah. Did I mention it to you? This is something we tried last year and we’re gonna do it again. Just the top people, the weekend after Labor Day. This is the new hot thing in the corporate culture. Your friend Edgar is a big believer. He got me into it. And he recommended this place in Vermont. Green Mountain? You know it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know it. Or anything about something called a retreat.”

“Retreat makes it sound grim. Really we just go to a resort, no families, have bull sessions in the A.M., let people sound off, play a little golf and tennis in the afternoon and kick back in the evenings. I don’t normally include the techies, but I’m considering inviting Andy. Maybe Timmy also. Or is he too weird? Take a look at the brochure. This place has so-called session leaders to get us to open up. But I have an idea and I sounded out Edgar about it. He agrees with me that it would be better if you led our morning meetings. What Green Mountain offers sounds like low-rent group therapy and I can’t believe they’ve got anybody as qualified as you. Also, take a look at the tentative list of invitees. Let me know what you think. Whoops,” he said, “gotta call coming in from my man in Paris—” That would be Didier Lahost, the head of his recently acquired French division.

“One other thing,” I called desperately into the pay phone. I didn’t continue immediately. I was distracted by the thought that I might be in the same phone booth Gene had used to call me toward the end of his therapy, during those months that he was too busy to see me because of the Black Dragon deadline. Gene claimed calling from his office was dangerous, that he needed to keep his therapy a secret. I remembered what I used to think of his caution: a neurotic’s shame disguised as a paranoia; a self-absorbed man suffering from grandiosity, elevating his banal problems into a state secret. No, this wasn’t the same phone booth, I concluded, remembering that Gene had told me he called from the International House of Pancakes a mile from the labs so he could pretend he was there for a quick lunch if someone spotted him. I remembered because I wondered who would eat pancakes for lunch.

“Well?” Stick roused me from my long pause. “What is it? I’ve gotta catch Didier before he goes to sleep. It’s almost eleven in Paris.”

“Your wife. What we discussed briefly at the barbecue? I want to see her and gently recommend she do something about her drinking. I could escort her to an AA meeting. Or perhaps — is she religious at all? Her priest might suggest it.”

The phone was dead. He’d hung up.

“Stick?” I cried out. He couldn’t be this cold. He couldn’t want my services for the sole purpose of manipulating employees.

“Yes?” He was there after all.

“I mean, even if only for Mary Catharine’s physical health, something should be done. At her age, if she continues at this rate, she won’t live much longer.”

No sound. No background noise. No breathing. No faint whoosh. Where was he? Had he hit the mute button? Was he typing messages to Laura?

“Stick?” I called again.

“That’s not your area,” he said. “I know it’s a little confusing, because of Halley and all that. But your relationship with Halley is personal.”

“I don’t have a relationship—”

He talked over me, “That’s your business. As I told you, I don’t believe psychiatry can help everybody—”

I interrupted, “I’m not proposing psychiatry. AA isn’t—”

“It’s not your area, Rafe. You do respect my privacy, don’t you?”

“Yes. Of course. I’m trying—”

“I don’t think it’s fair to use your position to intrude on family matters. Not quite ethical, is it?”

“I’m speaking as a friend.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Rafe. We’re not friends,” he said, his tone stern and grim. Then he chuckled. “We may be great tennis partners, but we’re not friends. See you on the court Thursday.”