Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“No,” he said with the bluntness of a child.

“Hmmm,” Martha made that noise without knowing.

“I took a week off,” he said, apparently apologizing.

“Was it a comfort to go back to work?”

Stick nodded gratefully. “Right.”

“Who’s going to succeed you?”

“Pardon me?”

“When you decide to retire, or, I guess with all the expansion, you might hire someone to run the day-to-day operations—”

“No,” Stick interrupted. I waited. He glanced at Jack. “I’m not—”

I interrupted. “Remember the rules. If you don’t want to answer just say ‘Fuck you.’”

“I’m happy to answer. There’s no plan for that. The company’s bigger, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you couldn’t handle it. I meant, at your age, don’t you think about taking more time for yourself and your family?”

“Really, Rafe—”

“Witch Doctor.”

“Really, Witch Doctor, I’m a little young to be thinking about retirement.”

“So you have no plans for a successor. No one you’re grooming to take your place?”

He chuckled. “No.”

“I was talking about it with Edgar,” I said. “You know, what he would do if you dropped dead—” Someone made a noise at this phrase. I repeated it, “If you dropped dead, you know, who was qualified to take over?”

“Probably lots of people,” Stick said. He tried a smile at his employees. “Probably everybody in this room.”

He was lying, of course, and they knew it, but I doubt they cared. They weren’t my target, anyway. I had accomplished what I wanted and shifted to questions he was glad to answer, namely how he got started as a salesman for Flashworks and moved up the ladder. By the time we heard the creaky noise of oars rowing, signaling that Andy and Halley were coming back, everyone was stupefied, the fatigue of the day showing, especially on Stick. His voice was hoarse, his eyes rheumy.

We gathered on the porch. All of the cabin was in shadow and most of the pond as well. The sun had disappeared behind the banks of pines screening us from the hotel. Above our heads the sky was tinged red and the eastern horizon showed the black edge of night.

Halley and Andy rowed in silently. No one spoke until the boat scraped to a stop on our side.

“Well?” Martha demanded, hands on her wide hips.

Halley peered at her father, her tanned face dappled by red light filtered through the evergreens. Her expression was unreadable. I was behind everyone, standing on the porch. Andy looked at me, a silent question. I nodded for him to proceed.

“We had a disagreement,” Andy said.

“I don’t like my name,” Halley explained quietly.

“What is it?” Tim asked. He had been bold and sure of himself since being renamed.

“Peacemaker,” Andy said.

“Well, that’s nice,” Jonathan said.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed. “I like it.”

“I don’t know what it means,” Halley said.

“When there’s fighting inside the tribe, you make the peace,” Andy said.

I clapped my hands. “Okay. It’s almost dinnertime. Stick, I want you to row to the other side and wait for me. I’m going to talk to the others about your name and I’ll come over to tell you.”

Stick actually said, “Huh?” He was exhausted. He rubbed his forehead as if his head hurt. I know mine did.

“Well, no single person can be expected to name you. And if I ask people to discuss it in front of you they’ll be self-conscious.”

“It’s late,” Stick said, dropping the hand, palm turned out to me in a plea for reason.

“Won’t take long, Prince.”

For a moment, I thought he would balk. Or rather, turn on his sandals and make for the hotel. I could hardly have tackled him. But he had endured so much, ten hours of my nonsense to prove to them he was a good sport, how could he blow it now with only one more inning of my silly game to be played?

“Better not,” he grumbled, unable to resist making a threat. He pushed the boat off land, got in nimbly, and rowed with power and grace. He must have crossed the pond twice as fast as anyone else.

I watched him all the way. The others waited with me. Once on the far shore, Stick stared at us, as if annoyed we hadn’t moved. Finally, he disappeared into the trees. I waved them into the cabin.

“Well?” I asked immediately, before they settled on the floor. They looked bedraggled, their rumps dirty from sitting on grass and the pine floor, hair askew, eyes bleary, shirts wrinkled and hanging out. Halley stood with her arms crossed, rubbing herself, as if she felt chilled. With the sun down, the air had the bite of fall. Mosquitoes were appearing in greater numbers. Tim slapped at his legs and arms to kill them, hitting himself so hard it made me wince.

“I have a can of OFF in my room,” Martha commented wistfully.

“Well?” I repeated. “Any suggestions?”

“He’s the Chief, right?” Jack asked.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “You think up a name privately and come and whisper it in my ear. I’ll sit here by the door. Then you can go to your rooms, relax, get drunk, have dinner, whatever. If there’s a common theme I’ll tell Stick. Otherwise I’ll tell him he’s the Chief.”

“Then I’m done,” Jack said brightly.

“If that’s really your suggestion and not just public relations,” I said.

“It’s easy for me,” Halley said. She came over, hands lightly gripping my arms, and got up on tiptoe. She whispered, “I’m going to my room to take a bubble bath.”

“Thank you,” I said, straightening. “You’re dismissed.”

“No fair,” Jonathan complained, although he hadn’t heard. He meant that she was done so quickly.

“Bye,” Halley said and left.

“How come we don’t get to give you a new name, Witch Doctor?” Martha asked.

“Come on, no fooling around,” I said. “It’s late.”

“Well, I’m staying with Chief,” Jack said.

“Okay,” I said casually and dismissed him. This cued them not to work at it and they didn’t. I could feel their disappointment that I was abandoning the game when it could be most challenging. Tim tried a little by whispering, “Sitting Bull,” but Gould and Hanson both copied Jack, saying, “Chief.” Martha was sarcastic, offering, “Geronimo,” and Jonathan, embarrassed to be last, said, “I don’t have anything.”

“Okay,” I told him gently. “I’ve got it. You can go.”

A half moon appeared in the deep blue, almost black sky as I walked around the perimeter of the pond. My sore hamstring could use the exercise and walking would give Stick more time to think, more time to be tired and worried and angry. Besides, I wanted to return in the row-boat with him. A fly circled my head, following me as I followed the shore. Once in the woods, I lost him. The lower branches of the evergreens that segregated pond from meadow were trimmed up to the height of my head; the bed of dark pink needles crunched underfoot. I pushed away a gray limb the groundskeepers had missed and emerged into the clearing. The noise of my approach, in the quiet of the evening, had Stick on his feet to greet me. I stopped and listened to a bird call, in a low guttural note, for a mate.

“So?” Stick asked, walking up to me.

“Let’s sit down,” I said.

“You can tell me in the boat,” he said with a laugh that was more of a groan. He passed me, heading for the pines.

“I’m afraid I have no choice, Stick,” I said and wandered farther out into the meadow. Tall wild flowers, their colors dimmed to gray by nightfall, brushed against my bare legs. I itched all over. I imagined that I must have a dozen bites by now. “After today …” I said loud, voice ringing, thanks to the acoustics of the surrounding trees. I had silenced the lonely bird. “… After the exhibition you put on today I have no choice but to recommend to Edgar that he protect his investment by firing you.” My back was to him. For all I knew, he had ducked into the tunnel of pines and departed in his rowboat.