Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

They were showing file footage (I guess) of Fidel’s troops taking Havana. The report (which turned out to be false) was that the Cuban air force had revolted against Fidel and bombed the capital. In fact, U.S. planes had dropped some bombs and a lot of leaflets to weaken morale in preparation for the invasion of CIA-trained Cubans at the Bay of Pigs. That was not what my mother knew, however. She heard that Havana was under attack from a Cuban counterrevolution. She knelt before the news bulletin, but her hands weren’t in a prayerful pose; they were clenched fists poised to strike at the image.

The phone rang.

“Oh, my God,” Ruth said. She stood up. She was still in the clothes she had put on to take me out for my birthday, a cheerful yellow and white dress that billowed prettily when she walked. She was forty-five years old but looked younger. Her eyes were bright, a pale green at that moment, although they could look darker, almost brown. Her brows were black, hardly plucked, expressive arches that emphasized her alert eyes. “You answer. Say I’m not here.” She covered her mouth and stared at the ceiling as if someone were hanging from it. “Shit. Of course they know.”

The phone continued to ring, insisting on our attention. “I’ll get it,” I said. Ruth called out for me not to, but I was in the kitchen and had lifted the phone from its cradle before she could countermand me.

Grandma Jacinta was on, talking in rapid Spanish, almost hysterical. We had spoken earlier, when she called to wish me a happy birthday. This time I couldn’t understand her. In the background I heard a relative of mine shout: “They say it’s an invasion!” Jacinta calmed herself enough to say, “Listen, honey, don’t worry about a thing. Put your Mama on, okay?”

Talking with Grandma, Ruth sounded tough. She said, “Those bastards.” A long pause. “It’s all a pack of lies. I’m sure they aren’t Cuban. There is no Cuban air force — they only have six planes. They must be ours.” Another pause. “No. We’re fine,” she said. And again, “Fine. No. We’re okay.” She sounded angrier and angrier.

I wandered into the kitchen. I wished I were anywhere but home. Our kitchen had one large window which was half open. Its view was of the narrow courtyard, a tunnel of windows that revealed identical structural interiors but surprisingly different interior decorations on every floor. I leaned out and glanced down two levels to what I knew was Joseph’s room.

He was there! Looking right up at me. He smiled and waved. I called down, “Thanks for the book! Now I can beat you.”

He said something.

“What?” I yelled.

Joseph raised his window higher and stuck his head out. “I know a way we can play like this.” He produced a flashlight, turning it on and off. “Morse code and chess notation.” He abruptly attempted to pull his head in, whacking it against the window. He shouted, “I’m coming,” back into his apartment. “I’ll show you in school,” he called. “Gotta go.” He withdrew into his shell.

I was smiling when I turned around and discovered my mother confronting me, smelling sweet, but staring with rage. “They can put me in jail.” My throat went dry. I don’t think I could have talked if I knew what to say. “They killed Ethel. They electrocuted her. They didn’t care that she had two beautiful little boys. Do you understand? You’re killing me.” She said this in a calm sane voice: the steadiness was unnatural and all the more terrifying. “You talk to people and you’re killing me.” I expected her to hit me. She had never done so; but I heard it in her tone, like a hard slap across my cheeks. Instead, she turned on her heels — her dress billowed as if she were dancing — and walked out.

I cried. I cried hard, hysterically.

Ruth appeared when I was winding down, or when I had run out of tears might be a more accurate description. She had tissues in her hand. She wiped my nose. She had changed into slacks and had her raincoat on. Her head was covered by a scarf. She certainly looked surreptitious, if not subversive. “I’m going out, honey,” she said in a gentle whisper. “This is Aunt Sadie’s number. Call her if there’s an emergency. But there won’t be. I’ll be home by the morning. There’s milk and cookies and peanut butter and bread if you get hungry. You can watch TV past your bedtime.” She had finished wiping my nose. She kissed my eyes one at a time, then my forehead and said softly, without irony, “Happy Birthday.” She left. I listened to her retreating footsteps all the way to the firestairs. I could make out the sound of her going down and then she was gone.

I was excited to be able to watch television at late as I wanted. But when it grew dark the big apartment sounded empty and vulnerable as I listened to New York’s night music: sirens, the raucous shout of a drunk, the taunts of a gang of teenagers. They were noises I had heard all my life, but they used to be a harmless background, the churning surf of a tempest whose waves couldn’t reach me. I tried to fall asleep in my parents’ king-sized bed with no success. I was too little and the sounds crept closer and closer: ambulances coming to pick up dead bodies; killers shouting they were looking for little boys to stab.

Don’t be weak, I told myself. If you get scared and call for help, you’ll have failed her. Use your peasant brain, my father reminded me. I hunched my shoulders, stuck my tongue over my upper teeth, and grunted like an ape. I did feel stronger as a brute; as a thoughtless animal, I wasn’t frightened.

I lay sideways in a fetal posture on the huge bed, with all the lights on, held my penis and made savage noises. They would have seemed silly and pathetic to an observer, but for me it was salvation. I escaped into a fantasy of power and fell asleep.

Ruth wasn’t there in the morning. I felt confident at first. The sun was out, there were Cheerios for nourishment, the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon hour for entertainment, and later, when I heard the noise of the weekly adult fast-pitch softball game across the street in my schoolyard, I got up my courage, dressed and went outside. I remember the day was clear, sunny and cool; and the game was thrilling, especially because I was able to get close, perched on the ledge behind the fence. I had been limited to watching from the more distant view of my bedroom window since I had been forbidden to go out on weekends for a year. Some of the men, flattered by my attention and applause, talked to me. I felt heartbroken when the game ended.

I was hungry. I returned to the apartment intending to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. That was when I discovered my error. I had no key to get back in. I guess I expected my mother to be home by late morning. She wasn’t. I rang and rang until a neighbor appeared. She asked if anything was wrong. No, no, I insisted, horrified at the thought that I might have revealed Ruth was away, information which could lead to her imprisonment and electrocution.

I ran off to the stairs, down a flight or two, sat on a step and wept. I had made a bad mistake. I couldn’t figure out how to correct it. A different neighbor appeared to see who was crying. I fled to another landing. That scare got me thinking long enough to make a decision.

I would ignore my hunger and wait outside until Ruth returned. I stood near the building entrance, trying to appear casual and not let on that I was expecting someone.

An eternity seemed to pass. Probably no more than a few hours, but while enduring them I felt more and more abandoned and helpless. I had vivid fantasies. I imagined my father dead in the rubble of Havana. I pictured a malicious laughing Cuban pilot as he landed at an airport in New York to celebrate his destruction of Fidel’s revolution. I saw Ruth step forward in her James Bond outfit, pull out a Walther PPK and shoot him.