Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (92 page)

“Great. Seven at Wall Street. One other thing. I’m sending down the hotel brochure for the fall retreat.”

“Fall retreat?”

“Yeah. Did I mention it to you? This is something we tried last year and we’re gonna do it again. Just the top people, the weekend after Labor Day. This is the new hot thing in the corporate culture. Your friend Edgar is a big believer. He got me into it. And he recommended this place in Vermont. Green Mountain? You know it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know it. Or anything about something called a retreat.”

“Retreat makes it sound grim. Really we just go to a resort, no families, have bull sessions in the A.M., let people sound off, play a little golf and tennis in the afternoon and kick back in the evenings. I don’t normally include the techies, but I’m considering inviting Andy. Maybe Timmy also. Or is he too weird? Take a look at the brochure. This place has so-called session leaders to
get
us to open up. But I have an idea and I sounded out Edgar about it. He agrees with me that it would be better if you led our morning meetings. What Green Mountain offers sounds like low-rent group therapy and I can’t believe they’ve got anybody as qualified as you. Also, take a look at the tentative list of invitees. Let me know what you think. Whoops,” he said, “gotta call coming in from my man in Paris—” That would be Didier Lahost, the head of his recently acquired French division.

“One other thing,” I called desperately into the pay phone. I didn’t continue immediately. I was distracted by the thought that I might be in the same phone booth Gene had used to call me toward the end of his therapy, during those months that he was too busy to see me because of the Black Dragon deadline. Gene claimed calling from his office was dangerous, that he needed to keep his therapy a secret. I remembered what I used to think of his caution: a neurotic’s shame disguised as a paranoia; a self-absorbed man suffering from grandiosity, elevating his banal problems into a state secret. No, this wasn’t the same phone booth, I concluded, remembering that Gene had told me he called from the International House of Pancakes a mile from the labs so he could pretend he was there for a quick lunch if someone spotted him. I remembered because I wondered who would eat pancakes for lunch.

“Well?” Stick roused me from my long pause. “What is it? I’ve gotta catch Didier before he goes to sleep. It’s almost eleven in Paris.”

“Your wife. What we discussed briefly at the barbecue? I want to see her and gently recommend she do something about her drinking. I could escort her to an AA meeting. Or perhaps—is she religious at all? Her priest might suggest it.”

The phone was dead. He’d hung up.

“Stick?” I cried out. He couldn’t be this cold. He couldn’t want my services for the sole purpose of manipulating employees.

“Yes?” He was there after all.

“I mean, even if only for Mary Catharine’s physical health, something should be done. At her age, if she continues at this rate, she won’t live much longer.”

No sound. No background noise. No breathing. No faint whoosh. Where was he? Had he hit the mute button? Was he typing messages to Laura?

“Stick?” I called again.

“That’s not your area,” he said. “I know it’s a little confusing, because of Halley and all that. But your relationship with Halley is personal.”

“I don’t have a relationship—”

He talked over me, “That’s your business. As I told you, I don’t believe psychiatry can help everybody—”

I interrupted, “I’m not proposing psychiatry. AA isn’t—”

“It’s not your area, Rafe. You do respect my privacy, don’t you?”

“Yes. Of course. I’m trying—”

“I don’t think it’s fair to use your position to intrude on family matters. Not quite ethical, is it?”

“I’m speaking as a friend.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Rafe. We’re not friends,” he said, his tone stern and grim. Then he chuckled. “We may be great tennis partners, but we’re not friends. See you on the court Thursday.”

It was hot in the phone booth. Outside, the temperature was nearing a hundred and the humid air not only seemed visible, it felt chewable. Sweat streamed from my forehead. In Tampa, Francisco used to say to me, “That’s our peasant Gallego blood. Our brains boil and makes our heads soft.”

There were no papers or notes I had left at Minotaur that I would need. I walked to my car, reflecting I could return to Baltimore, ask the institute to say I was away if anyone phoned, and essentially disappear from Stick and Halley.

Want to run away? I asked myself.

Time to see Susan and talk it over, I answered. By the time I reached Greenwich Village she should be finished with her last session of the day. Driving to the city, I exited at Riverdale without making a conscious decision. I’ll just drive by, I explained it to myself. But I braked to a full stop at the entrance to my former clinic. Two vans were parked, one from the Bronx shelter, the other from Yonkers. The Yonkers driver, Walter, was looking under the hood of his vehicle. The hedges around the dormitory addition needed to be trimmed. I drove into the lot.

At the sound of my car door shutting, Walter looked up. I entered too quickly for him to react. Inside the clinic, on the left, Group B’s door was open. I heard the trill of a boy giggling. Downstairs in the basement, the kitchen should be preparing dinner for the resident patients. I sniffed. Nothing. I was disappointed. I would have liked nothing better than to eat with everybody. It was a hot day. Maybe they were planning a barbecue in the backyard. Sometimes, after having ice cream or watermelon for dessert, they would play volleyball until the late summer sun went down. The kids always insisted Diane and I stay for the game.

I walked into the reception area, Sally’s station, guarding the private offices. I greeted Sally with a question, “Is Diane free for a …”

I didn’t finish the sentence. Sally scooted out from behind her desk and hugged me. Someone else patted me on the back—that turned out to be Gregory, one of the live-in counselors.

I tried to say I was just dropping in, but by then, an eleven-year-old girl whom I had treated peeked in and said, “Dr. Rafe’s back!” She called into the hallway and soon three more children I used to treat appeared, smiling, saying things I couldn’t really hear …

I sat down on a metal chair by the wall, leaned forward, hands covering my face, and cried. Sally seemed more astonished about that than by my sudden appearance. “Shh,” she said to the others, shooing them away. “Give him time,” she whispered. Her hand landed on my shoulder. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Diane. I want to see—” I said and choked on my tears. I rubbed my eyes, feeling foolish. I breathed deeply, trying to calm down. My right hand was trembling. A cold inner voice told me: you’re hysterical.

When Diane came in, from somewhere else, not her office, I was still sniffling, looking silly I’m sure. I was amazed by her appearance. She had straightened and dyed her hair a dull red color. She was also very thin, her face pinched. And something else was different, something I couldn’t identify.

“What’s the matter?” she said, meaning, I think, to sound concerned. Her general anger at me, however, lent it a scolding tone.

“Will you do me a favor?” I asked. My voice broke, my eyes watered. I stopped talking in order to gain control.

Sally, hanging in the background, whispered, “Should I leave?”

“Come to my office,” Diane said, still sounding irritated, although she tugged at my arm gently.

Ashamed, I kept a hand shielding my eyes while I allowed her to tow me. She parked me in front of a new couch and shut the door. I stood, staring at the fabric. Was the couch new or had she merely re-covered it? I looked around and noticed that the room had been rearranged, the desk reoriented from between the windows to float in the center.

“Sit,” she said. I didn’t move. “Come on,” she said. “You’re scaring the shit out of me.” I sat. She pulled an armchair, also new, over from near her desk so she would be only a foot away. She sat forward, leaning her elbows on her knees. “If you’re in trouble, I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to see you. I’m not over it, okay? And I don’t want to start up again.” Suddenly, her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m just not made that way. I can take a lot but once I’m gone, I’m gone. You know what I’m saying? I don’t care if you’re sorry. You know, you were wrong. I’m nailing that motherfucker. His research was shit. Even he’s admitting that the Stanford group’s replication of his crappy study was kosher.” She was babbling as far as I was concerned. “Stanford?” I mumbled. “Yes! Haven’t you seen the Stanford data? They replicated Samuel and showed the kids are influenced at less than thirty percent—”

“Diane, stop—”

“No, I can’t stop. That’s why I don’t want to see you, because I know I can’t stop. These last four months have been like death. I really feel—I mean really feel—like you stepped on my heart. I know, I know. In two years I’ll be laughing about you. But I won’t take the chance of you hurting me again. Fuck love.” She brushed away a flip of hair that wasn’t there. Her new style was straight back. She sighed. “I’m sorry. Okay,” she sighed. “What do you want?”

“What is that color?” I asked. “What color?”

“Your hair? That’s not a real color.”

For a moment she stared. “Get the fuck out of here,” she said and stood up.

I keened, head in my hands, and begged, “Don’t do this to me, please.” I was blubbering again. “Just let me talk. You’re my colleague, you’re my friend, you’re the only one—” I breathed fast to stop the tears and then took one sustained inhalation to make more words, “You’re the only one I can talk this out with. Okay? Susan can’t help me—she’s, she’s …”

“Second-rate?” Diane said. “When did you find that out?” I looked up, wiping my eyes. Diane had sat down again, only sideways, her legs over the armrest. She muttered to the window, “Listen to me. Now I’m pissed off at poor Susan. She did her best with you. You’re just a hard case. A hard-ass motherfucker who has the gall to come in here and cry.” She turned to me. “Where do you get off crying?”

“You won’t help me,” I said.

She swung her legs to the floor and slapped her newly skinny thigh. “Help you with what!”

“I’ve met two people who are sick.” I took a breath, relaxing a little as I began my report. Talking would help. “One of them is at ease only if he’s putting people under stress. He promises rewards for loyalty and sacrifice, finds a weakness, and when the person is no longer useful, even if they’re not a real threat, he hurts them as badly as he can. He tries to break anyone he can unless they’re totally passive—”

Diane, nodding wearily as if she were bored, interrupted, “It’s called sadism. What is this? A quiz?”

“Right. He’s a sadist. A psychological sadist. Nothing overt. Nothing illegal. He’s not a crude torturer—he doesn’t use his fists, or his cock, or a belt. Every family member has been affected. His son was goaded into a thinly disguised suicide. His wife is alcoholic. His daughter is—”

Diane interrupted, “A sexless, passive—”

I stopped her. “No.”

“Okay, she’s a prostitute. She’s a drug addict who flicks abusive men. Do I
get
the dishwasher and the trip to Hawaii?”

“No. She’s a narcissist. She’s strong. She has great inner strength. So she found a defense against him by murdering her real self before he could. She’s become a heartless mirage. She transforms herself into a dream figure for every man she encounters who seems worth the trouble to have them fall in love with her. She wins them like trophies and presents them to Daddy in a bizarre symbolic act of incest.”

Diane smirked. “Was she foolish enough to go after you?”

I nodded. “She even bothered to pretend to have bought my book on incest and read it years ago—”

“Is that an assumption? Your book was a bestseller.”

“Not an assumption. I fell for it at first. But later, I had a moment alone to check. On the back page I saw the remnant of a new sticker from a second-hand bookstore.”

“Which one?”

“The Strand.”

“Kind of ironic, no?”

“Ironic?” I asked.

“We used to go there. Remember, Rafe? On Sundays we’d have bagels in bed and walk in the Village?” Diane turned her head and frowned at the door. “So how was she? A true narcissist should be a great lover—at least in the beginning. Totally devoted to your pleasure, huh? Must have been the blowjob of your life.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t admit what I had done, that I had played an unscrupulous trick to confirm my diagnosis. Diane, of all people, would have had reason to be appalled.

“That good, eh?” Diane got up, walked to her desk, and opened a drawer. “Okay, here’s your moment of triumph.” She came out with a pack of Camel Lights, removing one and lighting it. “Yes, you’ve got me smoking again. You not only broke my heart, you’ve got my lungs.” She took a long drag. “The worst thing is, you can’t smoke anywhere in this fucking self-righteous world. Every asshole on earth thinks they have the right to live forever.” She exhaled a foul cloud toward me. “God. I had an interview with Lisa Dorfman’s father—a court-ordered interview to determine if he was rehabilitated enough to have visitation. Remember what he did to her? Fucked her up the ass in front of her baby sister and then put her in a tub of scalding water? So I light up a cigarette and Mr. Dorfman asks me to put it out. Second-hand smoke is dangerous, he says, I’m putting his health at risk. I should have put it out in his eye.” She took another drag, lids shutting halfway with pleasure. “What do you want?” she asked and exhaled another cloud.

“They’re happy.”

“Who’s happy? Oh. You mean the sadist and the narcissist? You know that would make a good name for a heavy metal group.” She picked up a square glass ashtray, returned to the chair, and balanced the ashtray on her knee. She tapped it with her cigarette. “They’re happy? What do you mean—happy ?”

“I mean, they have all the symptoms of their diseases, except one. They’re not unhappy. They function well. They don’t mind the emptiness of their emotional lives. They see everyone else as weak. They are content. They are in homeostasis.”

“God bless us, every one,” Diane said, taking another drag. She squinted at the window, chin up, and blew out a long thin stream. “So? Mazel tov, they’re happy. Who are they, anyway? How do you know them?”