Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“I brought him,” Edgar said to her.

She stood up. I had only a moment to see that her hair was cut very short, her skin looked five years younger than when we last saw each other, and that her warm brown eyes, calm before she saw me, were immediately wet. She was in my arms and that’s when I knew something was wrong with me. Julie’s strong back, the feel of her long body in my arms, had always, always and I thought forever, been both a thrill and a comfort. Although my mind told me to embrace her thoroughly, if only to express sympathy, my body revolted. My arms were stiff, my legs tense, and my belly reluctant to be flush with her.

“It’s so good—” she said in my ear and tried to squeeze my unyielding chest. “It’s so good to see you.”

I pulled away as soon as I could, mumbling I was sorry. She wiped away a tear and smiled. “Here are my babies,” she gestured to a handsome eleven-year-old curly-haired boy and a shy nine-year-old girl — my cousins, and I realized in a flash, the only heirs I was likely to have. Was I that alone? Not even to have been introduced to my future?

The listless ceremony began. Her dead father, Harry, was the loved parent; Ceil had been a critical and self-absorbed woman. Probably I was the only one who knew how little Julie liked her and felt loved by her. Not that the loss of her mother left her cold. On the contrary, she wept harder at this funeral than at her father’s, out of guilt and regret.

But I wasn’t the only one who knew what she was feeling, I reflected. I looked around for her husband and only then noticed he wasn’t present.

When we rose to follow the casket to the grave, Julie gathered her children with one arm and reached for my hand with the other. “You’re with us,” she said. Her eyes were red and tears kept flowing, although her voice was strong and clear. As we led the way out with the other Rabinowitzes, between mumbled thanks to mumbled expressions of condolence, Julie whispered asides to me. I didn’t prompt them and they were non sequiturs, as if I were a part of her mind. “I’m thinking of moving to New York,” she said, a moment after being released from a hug by Cousin Aaron. Guiding her boy and girl into the limo parked behind the hearse, she thanked the rabbi for his eulogy, then said to me, “I’m getting a divorce,” and ducked inside.

Confronted by her son’s earnest face, I didn’t feel I could follow up on that news. Julie put her daughter in her lap. Margaret leaned her head on her mother’s breasts and closed her eyes. I looked at her boy, Brian. “He’s very good at math,” Julie told me, another non sequitur.

“And basketball,” he told me.

“I bet,” I said. He was tall. “Do you know why six is afraid of seven?” I asked.

Cousin Margaret lifted her head and giggled. Brian frowned at me. “That’s old,” he said.

“You’re right,” I agreed.

“What’s old?” Julie said.

“Why is six afraid of seven?” I asked Julie.

Brian looked at his mother sideways and smiled. “She doesn’t remember anything,” he told me. “That’s an old joke, Mom.”

Margaret said, “You know why, Mommy.”

“I don’t,” Julie said with a pout.

“Because seven ate nine!” Margaret said and laughed loud, showing a row of big and little teeth.

Following tradition, we buried Aunt Ceil both in symbol and fact, each of us in turn digging a shovelful of earth from a mound to the right of the grave and tossing it on the casket. Julie went first. She stabbed at the dirt and flipped the shovel over casually.

She turned to Brian, doubtful whether to offer him a turn. He had no doubt. He took the shovel confidently. He dropped a heaping load into the grave and whispered, “Goodbye Grandma.” He looked to his little sister, pointing the handle at her. Margaret shrank from it.

“You don’t have to, honey,” Julie said.

“Let’s do it together,” I said. Margaret’s hand seemed very little beside mine as we filled only the tip of the spade. We cleared it with a wave over the open earth. “Bye,” Margaret said low and sadly. She ran into Julie’s arms.

Staring down at the smears of brown on the shining black coffin, I thought — Even you, Ceil, will be missed.

While the rest each took a turn, I walked five feet to the right to stand at my mother’s lonely grave, the sister they had killed, to put it as bluntly as I feel. Another fifteen feet to the left and north, was Papa Sam and his wife. Below them I looked at the other solo placement: Uncle Bernie was positioned at the center of the triangle of dead Rabinowitzes, still dominating them. His first and second wives were buried elsewhere. Only he and my mother would rest alone.

Julie’s hand fell on my back, rubbing. Again, I tensed at her touch. She sensed it and stopped. I looked toward the open grave. Her children weren’t in sight. The line waiting to use the shovel was shrinking.

“I want us to be together,” she said in that oddly calm voice, despite the red eyes and stained face.

“What?” I felt stupid. I knew what she meant. “You mean ride back together?” I said obstinately.

She shook her head and frowned. “You know what I mean. There’s no reason we can’t.”

“When did you—” I stopped because I understood why I didn’t like her touch. I had to think more about the revelation, of course, but the obvious worry had at last penetrated. Perhaps the daily recital of “I love you” to Halley wasn’t all medicine.

Someone called to us. “In a minute,” Julie said. “When did I what? Decide? Always.”

“Always? You said you were over it.”

“You knew I was full of shit when I told you I didn’t love you. You see my kids? Don’t I have great kids?” I nodded. “I have everything but you. And I’m greedy. Rafe, I’m forty-five. I’ve already had my face done. My marriage was …” She reached for me, shyly, fingers lighting on the sleeve of my blue summer suit. “Anyway, why? I heard you don’t — I mean … Are you with someone?”

“You’re upset,” I said.

“Of course I’m upset. My mother’s dead. But I’ve been thinking about it for a … Since I knew my marriage was …” She tugged at my sleeve and looked down.

“When did you break up?”

“In reality a long time ago. You know me. It took four years to get up the nerve to tell him. I did it last January. I was chicken. Hurting the kids, and all that garbage. It’s not garbage, but you know what I mean. It was an okay marriage … But I don’t want okay.” She watched me for a reaction and answered what she thought she saw in my face. “I didn’t just think of this!” Julie looked away at someone whose approach I hadn’t heard. She said, “Sit with them in the car. Rafe and I need a moment.” She turned to me and rubbed at the short cropped hairs above her temple. “What do you think this is? ‘Oh gee whiz, I’ll be in New York, so I’ll come on to Rafe?’”

“You have to give me some time, Julie. I’m in the middle of something important … Important work—”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with your work. I’m sorry. I’ve gotten rude in my old age. You can do your work. I don’t care. I’ll move to New York or wherever you want. I can fail to get my movies made in Indiana just as well as in Hollywood.”

I felt ashamed and nervous. Had I lost control with Halley? The thought of never seeing her smooth white breasts again, of never hearing her naughty girl’s voice asking, “Do you love me?” seemed impossible. And to join Julie in middle age, growing old with a woman whose prime I had missed, seemed grotesque.

“Is it them?” Julie gestured contemptuously to the graves. “They don’t care anymore.” She leaned forward, mouth set angrily, and whispered, “They’re dead.”