Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

Gene’s eyes went to the tapes. And stayed on them.

“But if you want to continue, I need them. You’re a very clever man, even when you don’t want to be, and I need all the help I can get.”

I waited. He took his time deciding. When he left, the tapes were still on my desk.

I HAVE REVIEWED MY DECISION TO CONFRONT GENE MANY TIMES. I WAS physically and mentally exhausted that day. My empathy for him, thanks to my distress over the fate of Albert and other abused children, was at an all-time low. And yet I still find many objective reasons for my open declaration of war on Gene’s character. I can’t say that the attack, although my motives were compromised, was poor technique.

For three months I had listened to a passive, unhappy life: a man who hadn’t had regular sex with his wife since the birth of their son; a man working overtime for a boss who was seductive in his verbal flattery, but unrewarding financially; a man who, when he managed to sip joy, immediately poisoned it with his dismal self-valuation.

Gene had been instrumental in the creation of a machine — Flash II — with worldwide sales of eight hundred million dollars; he received a Christmas bonus of fifteen hundred and didn’t complain, although the fact roiled. When Stick Copley lured Gene to move to Minotaur he was promised a six-figure salary. After Gene accepted the new job, resigned from Flashworks, and bid on a house in Westchester, Copley informed him that for the first two years his salary would be merely fifty thousand, promising, without offering a contractual guarantee, to double Gene’s income when Black Dragon was finished successfully. This time (unlike the bonus incident) Cathy made life so uncomfortable for Gene that he did protest to Stick. Copley soothed the Kennys with an offer of a no-interest loan from Minotaur to buy their Westchester ranch house. Gene did not perceive that this perk was, in a sense, as dangerous as a coal miner buying groceries on credit at the company store. I goaded him into checking the promissory note; sure enough, the no-interest loan could be called if he left Minotaur or was fired. Of course, Gene hadn’t bothered to have the agreement looked at by an attorney because Stick advised him not to, saying Gene would save a small fortune in legal fees. To be blunt, my patient was a sap: more eunuch than husband; more slave than employee.

The one light of his life — his six-year-old boy, Pete — was nevertheless a guilt-ridden and debilitating relationship. At least it wasn’t one-sided. Pete adored Gene. And why not? He was a generous gift giver; he was a consistent and reasonable disciplinarian; he provided unconditional love. Gene felt guilty that he had spent many evenings at the office while on deadline for Flash II, thus he volunteered to be the night nurse when Pete responded to the move from Massachusetts to Westchester with a series of ear infections and attacks of strep. At his new job, Gene was often distracted, worrying over Pete’s desires, his feelings, his struggles at school; Gene was as preoccupied by pleasing his son as a prince courting a beautiful maiden. Gene bought Pete favorite desserts on the way home; he dreamed up and programmed games on their home computer to help Pete make friends. Gene attended all school events, despite Stick Copley’s thinly disguised contempt for the absences that resulted. Gene worked through lunch and on weekends to be let out to hear Pete play four notes on a recorder in his school assembly. Did he resent his son’s neediness? No. Did he feel his boss was unfair? No. Did he dispute Cathy’s repeated intimations that Pete’s illnesses (she assumed they were psychosomatic, although I didn’t) were really Gene’s fault, since he had forced them to move? No. Gene did not defend himself when he shouldn’t, as most do; and he did not defend himself when he should, as all must.

How did he describe himself? “I’m a lousy father. I’m not helping on Black Dragon. I’m a lousy lover. I’m selfish. I’m lazy. I’m inconsiderate.”

After I confronted him about his dream, I made a rule for our future sessions that turned Freudian-based psychology on its head. I refused to discuss past events. By the past, I mean his mother and father. We stayed with his contemporary relationships, only going as far back as his courtship and marriage to Cathy. This raised, with an intensity that was remarkable compared to our previous work together, the subject of Gene’s sexual life.

“I was a virgin when I met Cathy,” Gene said.

“No you weren’t,” I replied with my new attitude: direct, almost impatient.

“Well …” Gene’s problem of eye contact became hilariously exaggerated whenever sex came up. Typically, he looked at a point near my body or at least in my general direction. Now he turned to the Venetian blinds. But he couldn’t face them either. Gene lowered his head to stare at the gray industrial carpet. “Practically.”

“You slept with your girlfriend in high school.”

“Only twice.”

“Still, Gene. There’s no such thing as being practically a virgin. What are you saying? That other than your first two times, the only woman you’ve made love to is Cathy?”

He was thoroughly embarrassed. And humiliated. He grunted, covered his eyes with a hand. Usually, I would work to deal with that emotion first. But, and I’m sorry if this makes the lay reader dislike me, I persisted heartlessly: “Is that correct, Gene? Or have you slept with anyone else?”

“I can’t …” Hand still over his eyes, he shook his head.

“Sure you can,” I said.

Long silence. The hand dropped. In a low, shamed voice, he said, “Remember when I saw you in Boston?”

“Of course.”

Gene looked up boldly — right at the Venetian blinds. “I went to a prostitute.”

I didn’t react to what he thought was significant. “And that’s it?” I asked. “Your high school girlfriend twice. Cathy, I don’t know how many times. Not very often from your hints. And one visit to a prostitute.”

Gene’s mouth pursed angrily. He breathed through his nose. He sat still, fuming.

“I bet you’ve counted them up, Gene. Have you? Do you know how many times in your life you’ve had sex?”

A wonderful thing happened. Gene rotated his head — only his head — to look right at me. He delivered his line with a sarcastic smile, “Counting masturbation?”

He was fighting me. The flag of his manhood might be tattered and absurd, even to him, but he had raised it anyway.

“No,” I said. “Not counting masturbation.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you have counted?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“You have a mathematical mind, Gene. Do you have an exact number, or an estimate?”

“A very close estimate.”

“I’d love to hear how you made it.”

“Well, we need to establish criteria,” Gene said. “Are we talking about intercourse?”

“Intercourse?”

“Yeah.” Gene was having fun now. He shifted his body to face me, leaned forward, head up, eyes shining. “Do I leave out blowjobs?”

“The prostitute was a blowjob?” His face fell. I cursed myself silently. That was a mistake. I meant to goad him a little: to rouse his pride, not rout it. I did my best to recover. “Yes, all sexual encounters meet the criteria. Mutual masturbation, oral sex, anything that involves someone else and results in a climax.”

Gene’s stricken look was erased. But the gleam didn’t return to his eyes. “A climax for one or both parties?”

“Just you. Only you count as far as I’m concerned.”

“You’re a sexist, Dr. Neruda,” Gene said. He was valiant, after all, striding on the deck of his new boat, brandishing a sword at the guns of my battleship.