Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (104 page)

“Why don’t you?”

She raised her head, slowly, eyes clearing. She pursed her lips, stretched her legs, and thought for a while. When she settled her gaze on me, she had regained her self-possession: a pretty young woman taking a break from the office to flirt casually with a co-worker. “The Great White Father says I’m in love with you,” she smiled at me sweetly.

“But we know that’s impossible, right?”

Her innocent, charming smile didn’t fade when she answered, “I told him he’s scared of you.”

“That was probably the most provocative thing you could say to him.”

Her smile disappeared. “He hates me,” she commented. She leaned back on her hands, looking up at the sky.

“No,” I said. “He just doesn’t love you. He’s not capable of love.”

She called to the blue air, “It’s the same thing.”

“Where would you like to work?” I asked.

She coughed. “I—uh—” She coughed again and then couldn’t stop. I suspected her suppressed tears were the cause. She leaned forward and I pounded her back twice. She got them under control. “You know Mom’s quit drinking before,” she gasped out as they ended.

“Not the same,” I said.

“Why?” she asked, elongating the word like a child playing at keeping a conversation going.

“I bet she never admitted she was an alcoholic. She just did it on her own, right? For a week or two? This time she’s been on the wagon for four months.”

Halley didn’t answer. She watched me, her black eyes big and solemn.

“She has your father’s support—instead of teasing her, undermining her resolve,” I continued.

“I called Edgar,” she blurted out.

“Good,” I said. “He’ll help you find work that’s worthy of your talents.”

“I’m going to fuck him,” she informed me without rancor or challenge, merely a promise.

“From what I know of men like Edgar that’ll probably speed up the process. Although he’d help you anyway.”

“I don’t want a job. He’s worth, what? Six hundred million? He can keep me until I get pregnant. Then he’ll leave his wife.”

I nodded and waited.

She rotated on her behind, legs under her, elbows on her knees, and faced me. “I was glad Mikey died.” She rocked back and watched me.

I nodded.

“That’s what you want me to say,” she told me.

“If it’s the truth.”

Her eyes strayed up to the volleyball net. “I felt like shit for a while, but then I realized I was glad. That’s why I told Gene I loved him.”

I nodded. “Because you wanted to be able to love.”

“Right,” she agreed.

“So really you were just trying to be a better person when you told him you loved him?”

“It made him happy and I … I believed it, too. Even
I
believed it for a while.” She tilted her head and she regarded me, waiting.

“Bullshit,” I said.

“No,” she shook her head.

“All of it. Pure bullshit,” I said. “What’s bothering you is that your father is paying attention to your mother instead of you.”

Halley smiled. Head tilted, arms hugging her knees, eyes bright, she smiled as if I had just complimented her. The roller reached the border of the court and started beeping, a steady insistent noise to warn that it was moving backwards. She held my attempt at an impassive gaze while her eyes were lively and interested. When the roller stopped beeping and turned to press another section flat, she asked, “Do you love me?”

“More than ever,” I said.

She rocked forward, patted my arm, then reached for her shoes. I watched her small feet fit into them. I knew the details of every pore of her body and all its incarnations: the birthmark above her left hip, the puffed look of her belly bloated by menstruation, the quizzical stare of her wet knees breaking the water of her bath, her hair down and long to play the cool adventuress, her hair bound in a pony tail for girlish comfort. I knew, as well, every turn of her quick competitive mind, furiously constructing disguises. She stood up and nothing remained of the pain she had brought to show me. She stared at the roller squeezing moisture from the black ground. “Dr. Neruda’s playground for gifted children,” she said and laughed.

She left. I waited until the layer was finished. I checked my watch, saw that it was almost ten-thirty, and walked to the parking lot. Stick appeared. It was time for him to take Mary Catharine to her AA meeting. Afterwards they would have lunch. He flipped the keys to his Lexus back and forth while he walked my way, not surprised by my presence. “She told you,” he said, not a question.

“Was it difficult?”

“It was my fault,” he said, stating a fact. His gaunt face stared at the low gray body of his car.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“I encouraged her.”

“Yes,” I said.

“She’s done great work. The whole 800 scheme was really … She put it together.” He looked at me, smiling slightly. “They’re all copying it. Including Big Blue. With all those fucking salesmen.”

“Are you proud of her?”

He stared down at the keys and flipped them over. They struck his knuckles. “Yep,” he said and flipped them back against his palm. “She deserves to be promoted more than Jack.”

“That’s true.”

“Is she going to leave?” he mumbled.

“My guess is, she’s calling Edgar now. She claims she’s going to be his second wife.”

He nodded and opened his door. He moved between it and the car, one foot inside, ready to mount his horse. “She’s trying to piss you off.”

“Predictable,” I said. “So you told her you were promoting Jack?”

“That’s what we agreed, right?”

I nodded.

He got himself in, and looked through the windshield. He didn’t close the door. “I thought you said she told you.”

“In her way. She complained about your asking her to keep her love life to herself.”

He reached for the door. “She’s a real loss to the company.”

I helped shut it while saying, “But you’ll get a daughter back.”

I turned to leave. He started the car and lowered his window to say, “Rafe?” I faced him. He frowned and stared ahead. I leaned on the door and waited. The stone face didn’t move.

“What is it, Stick?”

His lips barely moved. “You don’t love her?” he asked and looked at me.

“No. If I did, it would be a disaster for her.”

“Poor Hal,” he said. He pressed a button and his window rolled up. I backed away and he drove off. He was hurting his daughter, hurting her more keenly than anyone else could, and, although he hadn’t hesitated to do the deed, he didn’t seem to get much pleasure from it. We
had
made progress.

Halley resigned a week later to work for Edgar in his recently formed media subsidiary, Levin Entertainment, which included his brother’s production company, Channel 8—the independent New York broadcast station that he was transforming into a cable superstation—and the Catalogue Channel, a slightly upscale copy of the Home Shopping Network. During our seven-thirty-in-the-morning phone calls, I heard how thrilled she was by the day-to-day progress of her new career. For her, the job was really centered around captivating Edgar, the target I (her new father) had set for her.

Edgar took Halley’s job inquiry seriously right from the start. Stick had recommended her highly and confirmed her story that she was the one who wanted to leave Minotaur. Nevertheless, Halley insisted Edgar was only interested in her sexually. “He’s got very few women working for him and I bet he’s fucked all of them.”

“Could be,” I conceded. “But he wants you for a job that you’re qualified for anyway—mass media marketing.”

“He should be hiring someone from the Home Shopping Network. That would kill two birds with one stone—hurting them while getting himself started.”

“Did you suggest that to him?” I asked.

“Yes.” She didn’t linger in her bed these days for our talks. She roved while dressing. There was a rush of water, followed by the sound of pouring. “Was that a mistake?”

“Are you making coffee?”

“Yes. Did I make a mistake?”

“It was good advice. That should prove to him you’re the right choice.”

“Good,” she said. Over the next month I was introduced each morning, by phone, to her new world. Our night sessions continued, on Monday and Thursday. They were strictly ritualized with no variation: a bath on Monday, a bedtime story on Thursday. Only during the throes of orgasm did she complain that she couldn’t touch me and she was obviously insincere. She was convinced that I was what I seemed to be: a loving mirror in which she could see a true reflection. My headaches, of course, grew worse. No matter what I tried—long walks; midnight exercise at, ironically, The Workout; or, to be blunt, masturbation—nothing relieved my frustration. I wondered about an absurdity: if I had a real relationship going that I could return to after my sessions with Halley, would that be easier? My guess was yes—except for the minor detail that no healthy woman would accept my behavior.

I had a more immediate problem. By May, Halley was settled at Levin Entertainment. My presence at Minotaur was no longer required—Stick had gone too far in relinquishing power and he showed no sign of wishing to return to his former behavior. Besides, a weekly phone call kept him satisfied and well-monitored. I had even found him a doubles partner who relished winning as much as he. It was time to terminate—allow Andy, Jack, Tim, Jonathan and Stick to function on their own. If I returned to Baltimore, however, I couldn’t maintain my sessions with Halley and that would be disastrous. In a year, all I had accomplished with her was a transference of her fixation from Stick. Where could I go in New York, be useful, and still available to Halley? There seemed to be only one choice.

Since it might not be easy to pull off, I waited until Halley left on a week-long trip to the West Coast—a key experience since Edgar was going along and she expected to begin their affair. “He wants me,” she told me during a morning phone session two days before they left. “He booked us onto the same floor of the Four Seasons.” She confessed to some nervousness about having sex with Edgar.

“Why?” I asked innocently, hoping she would make the leap without a push.

“I haven’t had sex—” she laughed. “Real sex, I mean, since Jack. That’s almost six months.” She crunched toast.

“You forgot Didier.”

“Oh Didier, right.” She swallowed. “That’s still almost six months. But you’re right.” She sipped coffee. There was a pause, then the test. “Do you love me?”

Once again, no progress. “I love you,” I said and noted with grim amusement that my temples had begun to throb.

They left for California Sunday night. We would miss our morning call for the first time in eight months, since by eight A.M. New York time, I drove to Riverdale, and I expected to be busy by ten-thirty when she woke up in L.A. The clinics lot was filled. Four shelter vans occupied all the visitor spots. I parked on the street. Naturally, I didn’t recognize most of the kids gathered in the hall. One of the full-time counselors saw me and blurted out, “Rafe?”

I nodded and hurried into Sally’s room. She had a phone halfway to her ear, a finger poised to hit buttons. She stared at me, frozen in position.

“Hello,” I said and pointed to my old office. The door was ajar. I could see my desk, but the rest of the furniture was different. “Does anyone work in there?”

Sally followed my hand, peering as if she had just noticed that office existed. “Uh …” Sally glanced at Diane’s office. The door was shut. She hung up and said, “Um …”

“It’s good to see you, Sally,” I said and smiled.

“Good to see you, Rafe,” she answered softly.

I nodded at my old office. “What’s it being used for?”

“A spare interview room. Vaughn uses it sometimes to talk with kids alone—but he prefers to write up reports in his dorm bedroom.”

“Who’s Vaughn?”

She seemed embarrassed by my ignorance. “One of—a new counselor.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be using it from now on. I’ll tell Vaughn to kick me out when he needs it. Do you have a schedule sheet and the Child Welfare waiting list?” Sally glanced at Diane’s closed door again before she handed me the schedule and list in slow motion.

“Thanks,” I said and entered my old office. Diane had removed all my books. I knew that—they were stored in boxes in the basement. My personal things—photographs, degrees—were in Baltimore. I shut the door and sighed with relief.

It was annoying that my Knoll desk chair was gone, that my supply of blank lined notebooks had also been confiscated, but the view of the clinic’s backyard was a comfort. I looked over the new requests from Child Welfare, checked the schedule and noted that, as usual, the clinic was overloaded. Twelve kids from the Bronx would have to be rejected for outpatient care. The previous week I had spoken with the Prager Institute director, promising him a major work for their money, warning that it might not be available for publication and would have to be sealed and stored in their archives. Actually, that detail seemed to please him. I told him I would need to remain in New York for further research. He agreed to extend my grant for another year. Diane wouldn’t have to compensate me; I could see patients all day at no cost to her.

I read the preliminary interviews of kids on the waiting list and, using a felt-tip pen—my Mont Blanc was still at Hyperion—checked off the most urgent cases.

Diane opened my door at eight twenty-five. She must have left her office to head to Group Room A for her eight-thirty and heard the news from Sally. She stood on the sill. I didn’t look up.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

I raised my head and offered the circled list of children I wanted to see. Her hair was still that odd red color, only longer, another new style, this one combed back on the left side and flipped to the right. She seemed lopsided to me. She was still wearing contacts, but she had gained her weight back. “I want to work,” I answered. “You don’t need to pay me. Here are the kids I think you should schedule for me.” I stood up and extended the sheet. “With your approval, of course.”

Diane stepped in. She hooked the door with her foot and kicked it shut. “What?” she complained.

“You need another therapist. A utility shrink.” I tried a smile but received no encouragement. “I don’t expect any authority. Use me to fill in the gaps.” I shook the paper.