Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

A violent rustle of feet trampling flowers warned me. I had turned halfway when I felt his cold fingers on my forearm. “What the fuck are you talking about? I put up with this shit all day—”

I interrupted, “Edgar can replace you with Andy and Halley. Jack will accept being passed over for her.” I pulled my arm free. In the bowl of the clearing, no light reached his face. All I could see was a shadow breathing rapidly and shallowly. “You’re not a leader, Stick. And they don’t need you for anything else. If you can’t supply leadership, you’re just a leech. That’s the name they gave you, by the way. They didn’t expect me to tell it to you, of course. Halley suggested I give you the name ‘Chief’ so your feelings wouldn’t be hurt. She said that, after all, they owe you for giving them their start.”

“You idiot.” The shadow’s head bobbed, arms moving up and down, as if he were trying to fly. “I control the company. You don’t know shit about business.” He laughed scornfully. “You’re really a fool. You don’t know anything about the real world.” I reached for his shoulder.

He ducked away and growled, “You touch me and I’ll punch your fucking face in.”

“But you want me to touch you, Theodore,” I said softly and then raised my voice to a neutral matter-of-fact level — a doctor giving him the bad news as coolly as possible. “I know all about the shadow agreement with Edgar. I admit he had to explain it twice. It was hard for an academic like me to understand. But I know that you don’t control Minotaur. You shouldn’t be too upset. The settlement of your shares will leave you a rich man. You get five million. Isn’t that right? And three years of nominal consulting at three hundred and fifty thousand a year. By then you’ll be old enough to retire.”

He backed away. “He can’t … I’ll sue. It’s not—”

“Legal?” I picked up his train of thought. “Well, I gather that’s a gray area. And if you do prove the secret clause about your shares is illegal then, of course, you go to jail also.” I moved close to the dark of his shape, close enough to see his mouth was open. I added, quietly, “I think you should accept the money without a fuss and take time to explore your homosexuality.” I patted his rigid arm. “For your sake, I’ll keep that part to myself. Edgar is a fag-hater.”

For a while, I don’t know how long, perhaps thirty seconds, perhaps ten — it felt like a lifetime — there was no talk. There were sounds: the high whine of crickets, the bird resuming its call for love, a breeze infiltrating the woods so the trees leaned against the dark sky. And Stick’s breathing, too, as he stood, a scarecrow in the field, stiff and still. I smelled a sweet musty odor — was that his fear or the pine floor only ten feet away?

“I’m not gay myself,” I said with regret. “Or I’d explore it with you. I know you have fantasies about me.”

At last, he moved. He shook his head and there was a long hiss of exhaled air.

“I can reassure you about one thing,” I said before he spoke. “Halley will understand.”

Now there was laughter, deep and scornful. Stick turned and walked into the woods, heading for the rowboat, apparently unimpressed.

I had lost. I couldn’t believe it. There was always the chance of failure, of course, but evidently I had felt supremely confident. I was beaten and I was amazed.

I rubbed my face. The skin felt rough and hot. I licked my lips. They tasted salty. My legs were cold and stiff. And once Stick was gone, I felt uneasy. It was so dark I could no longer see through the black trees to the gray water.

I rushed through the woods to the pond shore. The rowboat was still beached. I hurried over and stared into it, wondering if he was lying down. I jumped when Stick’s voice came at me, deep and amused, from behind. “Where’s yours?”

“What?” was all I could manage out of the shock.

He had been standing against one of the tree trunks. He moved beside me. “Your rowboat. Where is it?”

“I walked.”

“Get in,” he said. “I’ll take you across.”

I looked at the pond, black on our side, gray in the middle thanks to a slight shimmer of silver from the half moon. You couldn’t see the green cabin on the far shore, only a black mass. In the distance, stars shone through the trees — but they were really lights from the hotel.

“Since Hal is part of your recommendation to Edgar,” Stick continued in a confident voice, “I thought we’d have dinner with her and discuss your evaluation of my leadership abilities.”

Was there any point in going on with the charade? I didn’t think so. A mosquito buzzed right into my ear, as loud as a helicopter. I slapped at it and succeeded only in deafening myself.

“She told me your little secret, you know,” he said, a whisper in my ringing ear.

That was a crushing blow. So Halley had reported my suggestion at the pool. I had not only failed with him, I had failed with her. I looked at Stick, not bothering to conceal my despair. But he probably couldn’t see it anyway. To me, he was only a shape, no features.

“She told me about your sick little sex game,” he continued. “How would you like that to get out?”

I was surprised again. My relief came out undisguised, “That’s it ?”

“How do you think it would look for everybody to know that the great child psychiatrist likes to play Daddy gives his little girl a bath?”

I laughed with real pleasure. “That’s really it, Stick?”

“That’s it, Doctor. So maybe you’d better rethink what you tell Edgar.”

“Oh, we play many more sick games than just Daddy gives his little girl a bath. Hasn’t she told you? Don’t you have all the details, or is she starting to hold out on you?”

“She’s …” He paused, then he snorted. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I chuckled. “Nothing. You go ahead. You tell the world about my sick games and I’ll tell Edgar about your management. It’s a fair trade, Stick. My so-called reputation for your career. I accept.”

Stick moved close. At that range, I could see the grooves of his stern face, his thin lips hardly moving as he mumbled, “I’m not kidding, Rafe.”

I leaned in, breathing on his mouth. “Nor am I, Stick. If that’s the best you can do, you’re finished.”

I held my ground. He was the one to step back. “I don’t believe—” he began and shook his head, dismissing that thought.

“I’m going back,” I said. I moved as if I planned to return along the shore.

“Wait—” he called.

“I’m tired and I’m cold and we’re finished, Leech.” Again, I moved as if to walk.

“Okay!” he cried. It was a cry. “What do you want? What do I have to do?”

I faced the pond and stared out, pensively. “There’s a lot of work for you to do. You’ve got to deal with your personal problems, your fears, your family life. I suppose if you went into therapy …” I kicked at the pond’s fringe of muddy sand. “It’s hard to believe you’d really work at it, Stick. If I could—”

“Look—” he stepped forward, then stopped as if he didn’t have a right to approach me. “Are they expecting us?”

“Not really. I told them to go back to their rooms, have dinner and relax.”

“Can we—?” He gestured, hands out, pleading, “How about we have dinner in my room? We’ll talk and work something out. I know you’re right. I—” he lowered his head, ashamed. “I need help.”

I said nothing. The bird no longer called, but an owl asked the world to identify itself. It was cold and the mosquitoes were feasting on my bare legs. I slapped at one on my thigh, scratched, and said with a sigh, “Well, I’m willing to talk about it.”