Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“Sorry for what?” his voice asked after me as I swept away Capablanca’s army. “You said you were sorry. Sorry for what?”

I had to think. I had forgotten what we were talking about. Remembering, I explained, “I’m sorry you had to take care of everybody when you were so little.” I finished putting the chess set away. I turned back to Uncle. His round infant’s head was cocked, curious and somewhat timid.

“I didn’t mind taking care of them,” he said. “I’ll tell you something.” Bernie sat in the child-size folding chair at the pine desk near the window. It had a view of the tennis court. Beyond there was a slice of the circular driveway. The headlights of one of our relative’s cars bounced as it swung toward the main road. Uncle looked huge in the small seat. I sat on my bed, attentive. “I’m still taking care of them. I’m still tucking them in and checking their homework.” There was a note of discovery in his voice. He raised his eyebrows and grinned with regret.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. I was sincere, although not honest. I felt sorry for him. What else did he know but control? He was obliged to be in charge from when he was my age. I knew how hard that was: I remembered the loneliness and fear of being on my own for just two nights and days. I admired my uncle, despite the dubious morality of his success. I understood that the survival of his family had depended on his ability to harness capitalism’s power.

He woke up from his contemplation. “Why are you sorry? I liked being in charge.”

“I’m sorry ’cause you didn’t have a choice,” I said.

He bowed at that, as if I had produced an idol he was obliged to worship. He twisted his wedding ring again and again, eyes fixed on its gold. “Are you happy here?” he asked and looked up at me.

I was afraid of his question. Was it a prelude to bad news? I didn’t believe for one moment that I could allow myself to express any ambivalence. “It’s great here!” I said with a piercing note of enthusiasm worthy of the Broadway stage.

Bernie straightened. His worried grin opened to a smile.

“Thank you so much, Uncle,” said Little Orphan Rafe. I rushed toward him, partly to hide my face from the pressure of his gaze, as well as to let go of the real gratitude I didn’t want to feel. What an alloy of manipulation and reality I was. (At the time, I believed I was a total liar.) I hugged him with abandon, pushing my face into his blue silk tie and Turnbull & Asser white shirt.

“Oh, that’s okay, boy,” his cello rumbled with regret. He squeezed me tight. “You’re such a polite and good boy. You don’t have to thank me. I didn’t mean that.” Gently, he urged me off from the finery of his clothes. I was crying. From stress more than anything else: the dread that yet another horror was about to happen. “You’re welcome to stay here no matter what, until Ruthie — until your Mom gets well — or even longer if she likes. Maybe she’ll come and live here too. But is there anything wrong? Anything you want to be different?”

I moved away from Uncle with my face averted. I controlled the tears, relieved there was no bad news. The emotional release and his kind reaction encouraged me, but only some. To repeat: I couldn’t be sure that I could afford to admit to a single genuine desire.

“You can tell me,” he played low. “I won’t get angry.”

“Can I see my Mom?” I asked fast, as if the speed would somehow make the request less of a risk. It had been more than a month. I wondered sometimes if she was still alive. They talked about her as if she were, but that hardly reassured me. I knew that grown-ups lied, especially about important things.

“Well, she’s at the hospital and I don’t think they allow children to—”

“Okay, forget it,” I said fast, hurrying to reel in my request. I yanked hard, hoping a quick retraction might also remove the memory of its existence. I knew he wasn’t telling the truth. There was no obstacle capitalism could put in place that my uncle couldn’t have removed for his convenience.

“You miss her,” he said as if this were a surprise. Was he surprised that he couldn’t completely replace her for me? Or was he surprised that he didn’t miss her? I think his lack of feeling for her, and the enjoyment of raising her child, was a mystery to his conscious mind. Although only nine years old, thanks to a boy’s understanding of competition, more intimate and honest than any adult’s, I understood there was some pleasure for my uncle in my mother’s psychotic breakdown: the pleasure of winning, a clear confirmation of his superiority. Of all the siblings only Ruth had spurned his help and now she had to accept it, to submit her most precious possession to his control.

“Not too much,” I said and almost believed the lie.

“What about your father? Do you want to see him?”

I was on full alert now. In the primary imagery of the paranoid and apocalyptic sixties, my bombers flew to their fail-safe positions and prepared for nuclear conflict. “No,” I said.

“Why not?”

Why not? My God, I hadn’t thought up a why not. I used the child’s best defense. “I dunno,” I mumbled. “I’m tired,” I said.

“Think about it. You can go to sleep in a minute. Don’t you want to see your father?”

I shrugged again and fell onto my bed. There was an unquiet silence, the false stillness of an ambush. From my sideways view of Uncle he remained in a fixed position on the child’s chair, elbows resting on his legs, his Buddha head in his hands, contemplating me. I wasn’t going to stop his interrogation that easily. “Am I going to visit Grandma and Grandpa this summer?” I asked in an innocent tone.

I was a good tactician. Bernie’s focus was disrupted by my introduction of Jacinta and Pepín. He sat up and released me from his stare. “Your father’s parents,” he said and paused at the fact, as if it had a significance he understood only then.

“I always visit them in the summer.” Whenever I re-read my father’s letter, I wondered if something that he alluded to — a secret method for my mother to get a message to him — might be known to Jacinta and Pepín. But I didn’t have the nerve to ask Bernie to allow me to phone them. Besides, I was discouraged by the fact that they hadn’t called or written me.

“I thought you wanted to go to summer camp,” Uncle said. We both knew that was an evasion. He was embarrassed by it himself. He stood up, went over to the window and pulled the cream-colored drapes closed.

“Does camp go the whole summer?” I prodded.

“Well, well figure this all out. Hey, it’s very late. Hurry up and get into your pajamas.”

I rushed to do so. I picked out light blue cotton Brooks Brothers pajamas. Of course, the store label had resonance for me, sending out a strong vibration of both my parents. Holding the fabric, I could hear the voices in lively argument — funny, passionate, and clearly audible above the hubbub of their communist friends. I remembered the surf of New York City’s traffic and I felt their breath on my cheeks as they dispensed good-night kisses.

While I stepped into the bottoms, Aunt Charlotte walked in. I hurried to cover up. It seemed to me she looked at my penis with an almost scientific dispassion, but I’m confident this is a notion of my premature sexualization. It’s fair to say that I had little more than the status of a servant in her eyes, only I was extra trouble since I took up more time and energy than the lazy cook or incompetent maid. I don’t think she really noticed my nakedness. But she did have a male member in mind.

“It’s late,” she said to her husband in a scolding and suggestive tone. “I’m going to bed now. Aren’t you coming up?”