Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“Okay,” I said.

“I called Professor Jericho,” Uncle said. “He said he was disappointed, but he understood.”

“Who’s that?” my aunt asked.

Uncle glanced at her disdainfully. “You know who he is.”

“No, I don’t.” She lifted an asparagus to her lips and bit off its tip.

“You should.”

There was a silence.

Aunt took another bite, chewed it thoughtfully, sipped from her gold-rimmed water glass. I thought she had dropped the subject when she asked, “So. Who is he?”

“God damn it,” Uncle said softly.

“He’s the head of the program at Columbia I’ve been going to,” I said. That was so many words, spoken so normally, they both looked surprised.

“Thank you,” she said. Aunt usually ignored me, but she was never mean when I did come into her vision. “Funny name for a professor. What does he teach?”

“You really don’t remember,” my uncle said. It wasn’t a question. “My God, it was in the New York Times !” he said, as if that were something greater than reality itself.

“Oh, yes,” Aunt smiled. “The genius program. You’re not going anymore?” she asked me, pleased by this news, although I didn’t feel her smugness was directed at me.

“Halston doesn’t want him to go.” That happened to be true, but as far as Uncle knew, he was lying — he had been told it was my choice. “His schedule is too tight.”

“Rafael works hard,” Aunt agreed.

“Can I still visit Cousin Julie?” I asked. Uncle frowned. “She’s expecting me this weekend anyway.”

“You’ve been staying with Julie?” Aunt asked.

“This is ridiculous!” Uncle turned from Aunt and pushed his plate from him, although he had eaten little. “What is the point of this game? You think hurting him,” Uncle pointed to me with a sweeping gesture, the way a scantily clad model shows off a prize on a TV quiz show, “is a way to hurt me?”

“Well, isn’t it?” Aunt asked. “I thought you loved Rafael. If I love someone, then when they’re hurt, so am I.”

What a day for revelations. Aunt wants to hurt me; and apparently she’s been trying to do it all along. How did I miss that?

Uncle still had his arm extended toward me. He left it there and stared at his wife. “You admit it? You have the nerve to admit it.” He got up now. His round face was ominous, his voice husky.

My aunt didn’t seem frightened, although I was, for her. “Admit what? I’m not trying to hurt Rafael. That’s something you made up. I was just saying that if someone hurts a person I love, then they’re hurting me. You didn’t seem to understand that basic fact of life.”

As Dr. Halston might comment, it didn’t take a genius to know she was talking about their disinherited son.

Bernie turned his back on the table, as if something had called to him. His face cleared of the threatening anger. He squinted into the darkened living room. I followed his eyes. The wall of leaded glass windows shimmered with dozens of small reddish circles, imitating their parent, the setting sun. He was looking for something else to do: prey to kill, a kingdom to conquer. I imagined that this was what sent him into the world to make millions; not the rigid logic of the materialism my parents believed ruled him, but his inability to win with the women in his life — my mother, his wife, perhaps even his mother, whom I never met. Women — they were the answer. Without their love, “chaos has come again.”

“Rafe,” he said softly. “Come with me.”

I looked at my aunt. She was dressed in a black turtleneck, covering the wrinkles there that had been smoothed off her face by a surgeon. Her dyed blonde hair was combed up and back, stiffly puffed off her scalp by more than six inches, a passive and slightly bizarre leonine appearance, although it was presumably fashionable. I felt sorry for her. Her pretense of indifference to her husband’s anger was unconvincing and pathetic.

Uncle patted the side of my shoulder, urging his reluctant thoroughbred to his feet. “We don’t have a home here,” he said with the smooth, resonant music of his cello.

Aunt raised her napkin to her lips and dabbed them. She ignored Bernie and looked boldly into my eyes. “God help you,” she said softly.

“Come on,” Uncle tugged at me. I got up. He said to her, “You’re the one who needs to see a psychiatrist.”

Embarrassed, I averted my eyes. Uncle turned me away and we walked out together. I heard Aunt laugh. A bitter sarcastic laugh, but full of real amusement nevertheless, not forced. “That’s beautiful,” she said to our backs, although not especially to us. She laughed again. Its mockery followed us through the house. I fancied I could still hear it long after we were shut up in Uncle’s study.

He pointed for me to sit in one of his red leather chairs. He settled behind his desk and phoned someone. “Fred? Yeah it’s me. I can’t take it anymore,” he said. “I want to do it now, no matter what it costs. Rafe is the only complication. I don’t want to move him out of this school until the term ends. But he can’t stay here in this—” he gathered energy to put his anger into it, “freezer with a witch. Yes,” he glanced at me, “I think she has done harm. I don’t see how it couldn’t—” he looked away, “be very discouraging. It’s as though he’s invisible. God, what a bitch.” He listened patiently to the man on the phone make a speech. I could hear the imploring tone of the voice on the other end but not the specific words. “I can’t,” Bernie finally answered. “I don’t care if it costs me. Anyway, we’ll see. We’ll see if she really wants to roll in the mud. I can’t wait to see how she feels being stripped in public. See how she likes having her heart cut open.” He laughed crudely at something the other man said. “Yeah, right. If we can find it. Well, then her liver.” He hung up eventually. I stopped listening; Uncle’s talk was too ugly. He made other calls. I dozed off repeatedly, my head lolling forward and jerking me awake each time, only to go back to sleep and dream of Grandma Jacinta’s natillas, her plátanos maduros, the hot sand of nearby Clearwater Beach and the endless Florida sky I watched while floating on my back in the Gulf’s bathtub-warm water — blue burning into white at the horizon, majestic and empty.

I hadn’t heard from the Tampa Nerudas since the catastrophic journey to Spain. After my testimony against my father, I made no attempt to communicate with them, nor, so far as I knew, had they. It might be that Uncle intercepted their attempts. It hurt that there were no more Christmas and birthday packages. But I couldn’t blame them, considering what I had done to their son. I rubbed my face to wake up. Uncle finished yet another conversation. This last talk was with a female voice. He told her he was leaving his wife that night. This meant the will would change totally to my favor. Someday the power of his money would be mine and I could afford to heal everybody’s wounds. Even his son Aaron’s, I told myself to assuage the guilt I felt at the wreck I had made of Bernie’s home life. After compensating my father and helping the poor, I could return what was left to Aaron, restoring his birthright. I felt better about the whole situation until I remembered that if it weren’t for me, healing Aaron wouldn’t be necessary.

We spent the night at a motel in adjoining rooms. Bernie said he would rent a house in Great Neck until the end of the term and then we would move to the city and I would go to a private school next year. Before falling asleep, I asked again if I could spend Friday night at Julie’s and he frowned again. He considered for a moment and decided to agree with an engaging smile. “Okay. But watch yourself. The women in our family are not to be trusted.” He laughed as if this were a pleasant joke.