Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

Although his face was still full, Uncle had already lost fifty pounds. His hair had receded halfway back and was all gray, but the skin had amazing youthfulness — few lines and the translucent glow of a newborn. He sat in a chair by the windows, wearing a long navy blue robe, a glass of water beside him. There were piles of legal documents on a table. He stood up and that’s when the frailty of his torso became obvious. His head was too big for his skinny neck and wasted chest. I hugged him. He patted my back tentatively. “You look great,” he said and pushed away. He seemed unsteady. I took his left hand and held it while he carefully settled back into the chair. My eyes fell on his knuckles. The tufts of hair were white now, still seemingly brushed into an elegant knot, but looking sparser because of their color. There were several liver spots, a big one under his thumb, another beneath his pinky. There was a persistent tremor in the wrist that vibrated to his fingers and kept them perpetually animated. He gestured for me to pull up a chair opposite him.

When I did, he handed me a letter. “Read it.”

It was from Aaron, his son, now forty-six years old. They hadn’t seen each other for twenty years. He wrote he had heard about Bernie’s illness, that he was sorry and hoped he improved. He wanted his father to know that after many years of drug addiction, five years ago he had at last found help and kicked the habit. He had a job he enjoyed, was living in Iowa with a woman he loved and got to spend summers with his teenage son, Isaac, from a previous marriage. He didn’t want anything from Bernie, although he would like to come see him, but he hoped Bernie would pay for Isaac’s college education, since he was a bright boy and deserved a future. Aaron doubted that his salary as a teaching assistant would be enough or was likely to change. “I’m not an ambitious man,” he added. He was being frank, he wrote, because he knew Bernie didn’t like people asking him for money and he thought if he were indirect that would only make the request more irritating. He wasn’t asking anything for himself. He was sorry that he had been such a disappointment, that although he felt he had reasons for the hard times he’d gone through, he understood he was responsible for his estrangement from Bernie, his divorce, and his limited career prospects. Nevertheless, he didn’t think it was fair for his son to be punished for his own fuck-ups. Believe it or not, the letter ended, “I love you.”

I read the letter twice. I wasn’t happy about it. I felt Aaron was unnecessarily guilty and brusque and pathetic. His current life wasn’t that limited. He enjoyed teaching, was writing short stories, and had had three published. He loved his second wife very much. She was pregnant, a fact he omitted. And I felt he should have bragged more about Isaac, a delightful, intelligent young man. Bernie would have been proud, if the presentation had been more realistic, less manipulative, less ashamed. Obviously, I had been in touch with Aaron for many years, although Bernie didn’t know. That had been Aaron’s wish and I kept the secret. Secrets follow me everywhere, I thought. “Did you know about this?” Uncle asked.

“The letter? No.”

“How about Aaron?”

“Yes.”

Bernie took the letter. He shook his head at me, smiling wanly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was none of your business.”

Bernie grunted, amused. He put the letter on the pile of documents. “You helped him, right? That’s how he got treatment.”

“I gave him a phone number. That’s all. He did it, Uncle. Don’t turn it into that.”

“So you want me to do what he asks?”

“Isaac’s a bright boy. He should be able to go to college and not have to worry about tuition and living expenses and so on.”

“What’s he want to be? Aaron doesn’t say.”

“Musician. Plays the trumpet. Wants to go to Oberlin. He has a lot of talent.”

“Another artist.” Bernie gingerly lifted his glass of water to his lips and sipped. He smacked them afterwards, just a little, yet there was something infantile about it. “What a creative family I have. I’m so lucky.”

“You are lucky.”

“Oh? I spent my whole life, every fucking minute, doing things for my family. They’re ungrateful and they’re a mess. Can you explain that to me?”

I didn’t answer.

“I bet you can. I bet you can explain so my hair would stand on end.”

“You’re angry at me?”

“You should have told me. Not telling me means you think I’m a child. Or a bully. Is Aaron my fault? Was that my fault, his blowing his mind on drugs, was that my fault?”

“I’m a head shrinker, Uncle. Not a rabbi. I’m not an expert in blame.”

“A lot you know. Rabbis are experts at fund-raising. No.” Uncle pushed Aaron’s letter away. It fell off the pile on its end, like a car that had been pushed off a cliff. “Nobody’s to blame for anything,” he said bitterly.

“Why are you angry at me, Uncle?”

“You should be my doctor,” he said casually. He looked at Manhattan. The sun was going down, casting a slanting light on the glass towers of Midtown. “I told you I wanted you to cure cancer.” He smiled slyly. “I knew this day would come.”

“I’m …” I was about to say, I’m sorry, but that was foolish and untrue. I had what many might feel is a harsh point of view toward this situation. Uncle was over eighty years old. The belief that facing death in old age should be to struggle wildly is too immature and unrealistic for me to accept. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light” is a failure to understand nature. Bernie was used to controlling events, but that had also done great harm to his relationships. I had hoped he would face his end with more grace. That was childish of me, as well. But, for better or worse, he had become my father and I wished he would set a better example for me. The last gift a parent can give is the lesson of how to die.

Bernie waited for me to elaborate. When I kept silent, he continued, “You didn’t say on the phone what you think of this treatment.”

“Treatment?”

“Yes, treatment. What is it, if it isn’t a treatment?”

“There are other options. Options that would be less painful, less—”

“But I’d die. No question, they tell me.”

I said nothing.

“I’m going to die anyway, that’s what you think.”

“You’re forty years older than the other test cases. The only reason they approved you for this is because of your money.”

“You think you’re telling me something I don’t know?”

“You might live for up to a year, relatively comfortably, with normal treatment.”

“Relatively comfortably,” he repeated and shook his head.

“There would be time to see Aaron, to meet your grandson, to say your goodbyes to everyone who’s important to you.”

“The people who are important to me are here.”

“But no one says goodbye, right? That would be unsupportive.”

Bernie smiled at me. He slapped my knee. “Only you. You’re the only one who has the balls to tell me I can’t make it.”

“Maybe you can make it. But maybe it isn’t worth it.”

“To live another five, ten years?” He stared at me. I nodded. “That isn’t worth it?” he asked, incredulous.

“Maybe not.”

“You’re crazy.’

“You don’t know what crazy is, Uncle,” I said.

We both laughed. Uncle took another sip of water. When he replaced the glass, he raised Aaron’s letter from its wrecked position and restored it to the top of the pile. “Is this grandson of mine, this paragon Isaac, is he white?”

I was surprised. I thought for a moment. “You’ve checked up on him.”