Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“Great. Thanks.” He nodded at the boat. “I’ll row you across.”

“I’d rather walk,” I said and slapped the back of my neck.

“You’ll get eaten alive.” He bent over, both hands on the rowboat. “Get in. I’ll push off.” He shifted it from side to side, loosening the sand’s grip.

I shrugged, took a step, and said loud, over the scraping noise, “Is there a lifejacket in there?”

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I mumbled. I stepped into the boat, stumbling on its first bench. I lost my balance.

“Whoa,” he said. I caught myself by grabbing hold of the side, twisted and flopped onto the second bench.

He pushed. The boat floated out onto the water, turning aimlessly. Stick didn’t move.

“Aren’t you getting in?” I asked plaintively.

He strolled casually into the pond, in no hurry, although the water had been chilly even during the height of the day. “I was thinking of swimming across,” he said.

I rose partway, as if to stand. “Then I’m getting out.” The boat rocked, turning so I was horizontal to the shore, and continued to drift farther out onto the water. “Oh …” came out of me. I remained stuck in a crouch, desperately holding the sides of the boat.

He laughed and sloshed toward the boat. “Take it easy. Can’t you row across?”

“I don’t want to,” I whined.

“Okay, okay,” he said, a hand catching the prow. The water was up to his waist. “Sit down. Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to rock the boat?”

“Are you getting in?”

“Yes,” he hissed, annoyed. “Sit down.”

I did, my hands gripping the sides, arms rigid. The boat tipped violently as he put his right foot in. I moaned. He took his time bringing up the left foot and steadying the boat. He sat facing me. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll have you across in no time.”

“Good,” I said.

“You can relax,” he said, unlocking the oars. He used one to straighten us and then rowed gracefully twice. We were immediately twenty feet from shore. The pond was silver-black, its border of trees swaying shadows. Some moonlight reached his face, enough for me to see a crescent of his features: hooded eyes, long nose, thin lips. “Really, you can relax,” he said, slowing down, rowing, pausing to let us drift, dragging an oar to keep us straight, then using both for one powerful row. We were well into deep water. “Let go of the sides,” he said.

“I don’t want to,” I complained in a little voice, but I obeyed.

He nodded his approval. “Why did you walk?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. “Urn. What sort of therapy would you be comfortable with? A group or private?”

“You’re afraid of the water,” he said, raising the oars. The boat drifted, circling gradually in the stirred pond.

I said, “Everybody’s afraid of something, Stick.”

“Yes, you proved that.” He rested the oars on the side, fitting them into hooks. “But some things it’s silly to be afraid of.” He stood up and rocked the boat gently.

I shut my eyes. “Cut it out.”

He shifted his weight from side to side more violently. Water lapped in. “I’ll do what you want, Rafe. I’ll go into therapy. Really.” He rocked us again. Water soaked my sneakers. “But first I want to see you swim.” He stopped, standing over me. “Get out of the boat.”

I said firmly, “No.”

He rocked us again, the angle steeper. For a second, my face was perpendicular to the black water. I held on tight and screamed, “Stop it!”

He sat. The water covered my feet. “Get out or I’ll swamp us.” He slipped forward, capturing my legs between his knees. “I’m going to teach you how to swim.”

I shook my head.

“Yes,” he insisted. “You hang on to the side and kick your legs. Then, when you tell me you’re ready, you’ll let go and swim.” He parted his knees, freeing my legs. A cold hand gripped my upper arm and urged me out. “Come on. You’re better off doing it that way than if I dumped us both into the water.”

I turned my head toward the far shore and called desperately, “Halley!”

He slapped me. Slapped me so hard, my head rang and the skin burned.

“Don’t …” I mumbled.

He yanked my arm and I tipped over. I grabbed the oar locked onto the side. My face was pointed at the water. In a calm even voice, he said, “Get out or I’ll hit you again.”

I shifted my legs past his, moving to the edge in a crouch, hands gripping the boat. “I can’t …”

He put a hand on my back and urged. “Put your legs over the side.” I put my right leg over, my left braced against the oar, my ass half on the bench, half on the side. The black water was cold. At its touch, my sore hamstring seized. “My leg feels tight,” I said, felt his hand on my back again, and my world spun over.

There were several rapid impressions: my left leg burned, scraping wood as it went into the air, my face was suffocated, my heart stopped at the shock of icy submersion and then beat wildly.

You’re in the water, my head informed me, while my body panicked, struggling to orient itself. Don’t breathe, I reminded myself, as I somersaulted underwater and came up, gasping.

Stick grabbed my right forearm and pulled me to the boat. “Help,” I gurgled.

“Take it easy,” Stick’s irritated voice told me. I gripped the side with both hands. My left leg felt hot, bleeding in the water I was sure. My right leg was taut, warning it might cramp. I pulled on the boat with my fingers, raising my chest free of the pond. The boat swayed.

Stick banged my hands with his fist and I let go, sinking. He grabbed me by the hair to raise my head. I yelled and swallowed some water. My right leg contracted — pain drew it up and then pain forced it open, only to be greeted by more pain. I was cramping. “Don’t do that!” he shouted. “Just hold on.”

My fingers desperately grabbed the side of the boat, barely keeping my head above water. I couldn’t straighten my right leg and I couldn’t not straighten it — it hurt too much either way. “Okay,” I gasped. “Experiment’s over. I’ve got a cramp. I can’t do this.” I found an angle, knee bent halfway, where the muscle’s contraction didn’t cause agony.

“Start kicking,” Stick said.

“I know how to swim,” I told him. “I was tricking you — my leg’s cramping. I can’t — Let me in.” I pulled to raise myself and he banged my left hand against the wood. I yelped, let go. That stretched me to my full length, reduced to the anchor of my right hand. I yelped again because my thigh felt as if it was tearing in half. “Let me up, Stick! I wanted to see how far you’d go. I can swim, but I’ve got a cramp.”

He snorted. “That’s a pretty stupid lie for a Ph.D.”

I reached for the boat with my left hand and took hold with my fingers. Bending it gradually, I tried to relax the right leg. The severe pain was gone — it felt numb. But there was no strength and I knew if I tried to flex it the agony would return.

“Listen,” I said in a rushed gasp. “I knew — so I lied. I can. Really. I can swim. But I’ve got a cramp. You have to let me up.”

“Un huh.” Stick leaned back, his cruel face dissolving into a shadow. “Now you just kick nice and easy and get used to the water. When you’re relaxed, you let go and swim. The most important thing is not to be afraid to put your face in the water. If you need to breathe, you just turn your head to the side.” He pantomimed the actions, a shadow turning its head to the side. He brought an arm up and said, “You bring your arm through the water, keeping your fingers cupped … All the way through and back. Try to keep your elbow high.” He stopped the demonstration, sat facing me, and leaned toward me. He pulled gently, teasing me, lifting the index finger of my right hand. “Why don’t you let go with one hand?”