Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

There was an embarrassed silence. I allowed it to settle until we could all hear Tim’s noisy breathing and the soft lapping of the pond against the rowboats docked outside our cabin. “Make a new line. You’re at the head since you’ve had the courage to name yourself.” I walked over and touched him on both shoulders as if I were knighting him. He straightened. “You are the Hunter.”

Thus, I said, inspired by Tim’s example, we would rechristen the tribe. Jonathan, stung by Tim’s attack, immediately argued that he was the Scout, since he checked the proposed machine designs by running simulations on Black Dragon. The others, without much enthusiasm, nodded. Tim, his face returning to his usual florid color instead of cardiac arrest red, said nothing.

I announced that a new title had to be accepted by the previously named, and in turn, by each of the newly baptized. “So it’s up to you,” I said to Tim. “Is Jonathan the Scout?”

Emboldened by his triumph, Tim said, “No. Andy’s the Scout. He sees what’s ahead and I go and get it.”

I ordered Tim and Jonathan into one of the boats. I told them to row to the east shore, sit in the meadow and discuss it. We would wait for them on our shore and think about what we thought our names should be.

We followed them outside and watched as they traveled across. There was some snickering because they weren’t very good at it, moving in a zigzag. Gould called, “If you don’t row together, you’ll sink together.”

Martha arranged herself on the ground to be in the sun. Jack asked if he could fetch a rod from the hotel and do some casting. “No,” I said. Andy asked if he was the Scout, as Tim had said. “No,” I said. “He doesn’t get to name you.”

“Who does?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I answered.

Stick maneuvered by my side and mumbled, “This could take all day.”

“And all night,” I said.

“Really we’re here to relax,” he continued in a whisper.

“You asked me to do this. You and Edgar said you were interested in what I would come up with. Have you changed your mind?”

“Well …” He gestured for me to walk with him, away from the others. Although pretending not to be, they were aware of us.

I raised my voice. “If you have something to say, Prince, say it so everybody can hear.”

Halley and Martha twisted to look. Jack, standing under a broad maple for shade, turned our way. Andy was on the cabin porch, behind Stick, but listening. Gould and Hanson were over by the rowboats, holding oars; they weren’t facing us, but their backs were stiff and they were quiet.

Stick snorted. The sun was on his lined gaunt face, his prominent forehead shadowing his eyes. He put his hands in the same Bermuda shorts he had worn yesterday to the pool. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Forget it.”

“No,” I persisted in a loud annoyed tone. “Everybody here has been told you put me in authority. If that’s not true, then this is even more of a farce than you say it is—”

“I didn’t say it was a farce,” he complained. He raised his hand. “Enough. I made a mistake.”

“I want you to tell everyone what’s on your mind. Do you think I’m wasting your time?”

“I’m disappointed,” he said, taking his hands out of his pockets, turning away to the porch. He noticed Andy staring at him. Stick frowned, put a sandal on the cabin’s granite step, and rocked on the foot. “Disappointed by what?”

Stick took a long breath. He exhaled it as a sigh. “Doesn’t seem very original, that’s all.” He kicked the step with his heel, walked up to the porch, and sat on its banister.

“Original?” I was openly scornful. “What do you know about psychology? Your idea of psychology is to promise people raises.”

It was Hanson (I think, my back was to him) who couldn’t help but laugh — a very abbreviated laugh to be sure.

“I can cancel this,” Stick said, not in a threatening tone, an idle comment.

“Then we can name you Quitter,” I said. “Or maybe Welcher. How about Indian Giver?”

“I don’t believe in it, that’s all.”

“Oh!” I opened my arms and swiveled a half turn as I spoke each sentence, eventually taking them all in. “You don’t believe in it. So it must be worthless. There’s no doubt! If you don’t believe it, who will?” I appeared to have lost control.

“Nobody believes in it.” Stick got calmer in answer to my show of temper. He swung a leg, his leather sandal brushing the porch deck. He nodded toward the far shore. “We can humor poor Tim and call him Hunter, but we all know he’s …” Stick paused. He turned from the meadow to look at us. He saw me, of course, arms still out, sneering at him, but-he also realized the group was listening.

“He’s what?” I demanded. “Garbage? Something you can throw out whenever you want?”

“No, of course not. Don’t play games. I never said anything like that.” Stick stood up, stretched. “As long as we’re waiting by the pond, let’s take advantage of it. Jack, go ahead and get a rod. I’ll get towels and—”

“Scared to finish the conversation, aren’t you?” I asked. Stick’s thin lips disappeared altogether. He had come down to the granite step to give his orders and got stuck there.

“Make up your mind, Prince,” I said. “Who’s in charge? You told them I was. You promised them I was. Are you taking it back? Were you lying?”

Abruptly, Stick dropped his head in mock surrender and laughed. “Okay, you’re right. In for a penny, in for a pound.” He sat down on the step. “I apologize, Witch Doctor.” He was positively charming. “You’re in charge.”

“Good. Then finish your sentence. Tim is … what? If he’s not the Hunter, what is he?”

That sustained the tension he wanted to slacken. Stick glanced at Halley, saw only an impassive young woman, squinted at the sky and appeared to think. “He’s a nerd,” he said at last. No one laughed. Stick was surprised. After a moment of awkward silence, he tried a laugh, but it was more of a cackle. “I’m joking,” he added, lamely.

“Maybe that’s what we’ll call you,” I answered. “The Joker.”

A heavy silence followed. Human silence, that is. A loon called across the pond. Breezes rustled the maple above Jack’s head and rippled the water. I moved to the step, used it to help stretch my tight hamstring, and then sat down next to Stick. He stared at his sandals, smoothing his slick hair with both hands. I kept my eyes on him until he met them. His were dead, to prove to me that I hadn’t hurt him. Eventually, Gould and Hanson resumed their discussion of proper rowing technique in low voices. Martha groaned, rolled on her side, and said to Halley, “I know what I want my name to be.”

Halley smiled. She appeared completely at ease. “What’s that?”

“Mama Cass.”

“Oh, Martha—”

“Leech.”

“Sorry. You’re not fat, Leech.”

“I wasn’t talking about being fat, Miss — excuse it, I mean Prince Hal. I was talking about my beautiful singing voice.”

Meanwhile, Jack had idly strolled toward the porch. He asked Andy, who was backed against the cabin’s door, “Do you fish?”

“No.”

“You’d like it. Great for thinking through a problem …”

With three conversations going, I whispered into Stick’s ear in a rush, “I have to be the one to attack you. I’m acting out their secret resentments.” I looked at the others to check if anyone heard or noticed. They hadn’t.

Stick whispered, “You’re doing too good a job.”

I squeezed his shoulder. He suffered the contact, although he had to purse his lips to endure it. “Okay,” I called. “Everybody back in the cabin while we’re waiting.” There were protests — the day was sunny and mild, couldn’t we stay outside? I was stern and herded them in.