Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (62 page)

“I don’t believe it,” I said.

“Jonas wouldn’t make it up.”

“The person who told Jonas might be mistaken.”

“Samuel told Jonas himself!” Diane smiled. She was pleased, I suspected, because, in her mind, this relegated the mouse study to the enemy camp. “He bragged about it at a conference,” Diane continued. “He told Jonas he knew the MacPherson case was crap and he wanted to help the defense.”

“I’ll call Phil tomorrow and ask.”

“Why bother? If I were you, I wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

“Because I want to know for myself.” I took a breath before taking this leap, “And because I still want to send him the Peterson tapes.”

Surprised, Diane turned to stare at me. She forgot she was driving, I guess, because she went through a red light; immediately there were screeching brakes, horns honking. She stopped short and we were stuck in the middle of the intersection, surrounded by bumpers and furious drivers. It took a minute to untangle the mess. No one had collided with us. We ignored the various raised middle fingers and shouting faces. Diane turned onto West End and pulled over next to a hydrant. She was breathing fast, frightened by the near collisions.

“You okay?” I asked.

She put a hand on her chest and took a deep breath. “You’re not serious,” she said after a while.

“Serious?”

“About sending the tapes?”

“I’ll talk to Phil. If it’s true that he’s taking sides now, I won’t send them, but if not, then I want him to have the Peterson tapes. I reviewed them—”

“You reviewed them!” Diane said, shocked.

“Yes. I looked at them and your technique was flawless. I’m proud of it, and if he’s going to imitate anyone’s procedures, I’d like it to be yours.”

“My God,” she whispered. Diane shook her head, removed her glasses, shut her eyes, rubbed them with her fingers, and finally put the wire-rimmed frames back on. She looked at me as if she might have something new to see. When it was still me, she shrugged her shoulders and sighed.

“What?” I asked.

“I can’t get over how naive you are. It’s—well, there’s something charming about it. I guess it’s part of why I love you, but, at the same time, I’m appalled. And a little scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“I think it’s dangerous to our work.”

“Do you want me to drive?” I asked. “Excuse me?”

“Well, if we’re going to meet Joe and Harlan for dinner at seven, we’d better get moving. It could take half an hour to find a parking spot.”

“We’ll park in a lot. Okay?” Her irritation was escalating to anger.

“Okay.” She sighed again, again shrugged her shoulders, and again shook her head in disapproval. I waited a moment, trying to sort out my feelings. Finally I said, “I don’t think I’m naive. And, to be honest with you, I’d rather you didn’t mix praise with insults.”

“Huh?” Diane shifted to face me. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t tell me I’m appallingly naive and that’s part of my charm, but it’s dangerous. If you’re going to attack, at least have the guts to attack openly.”

“You think I’m attacking you?” She was open-mouthed with shock. “What I just said, you consider an
attack?”

“I apologize. My mistake. But you called me naive about a professional matter and that is, at the very least, a disparaging remark.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. You’re not naive. But I think you’re crossing a line. You’re definitely not respecting me as a professional.”

“How?”

“It’s my work. I don’t want you to send tapes of my work to be used in any research.”

“Even if that research is impartial?”

“I don’t believe there’s any way you can know that. And even if you find out he’s open-minded right now, I don’t believe there’s any way you can predict how Samuel will eventually use those tapes. He might not be impartial six months from now. And also,” she raised a finger to indicate this last item was crucial, “I don’t believe any study of the fantasizing of normal children says a thing about the veracity of abused children. You know perfectly well we don’t investigate charges of abuse without some sort of corroboration, either physical or emotional. We’d have ruled out all those kids in the mouse study after observing that their behavior was otherwise normal. And you also know—” she pointed at me as if I were a misbehaving toddler, “you, of all people, know that abused children fantasize in the opposite direction, not imagining worse abuse, but imagining love.”

I looked at her scolding finger and waited until she noticed and lowered it. “Diane,” I said quietly, “if you review what you just said carefully, I really believe you’ll see a contradiction. If healthy children are shown to fantasize abuse easily then any accusation is suspect. The distinction you just drew actually makes Phil’s study more urgent, not less so. Also, if he can prove that children easily fantasize non-sexual events, but can’t so easily fantasize sexual abuse, then he’ll strengthen the credibility of abused kids when they testify. You’re also ignoring the fact that he will go forward with the pediatrician study whether we cooperate or not. Pretending he doesn’t exist won’t make him go away.”

“You’re not listening to me!”

During my long speech I allowed my eyes to drift away from her, watching the evening bustle of pedestrians on West End: going home with briefcases or groceries; children in disheveled school clothes, lugging backpacks; exhausted joggers returning from the park; the homeless standing at each corner, cups out, like toll booths. When I looked back to Diane at the noise of her distress, I was surprised to see just how upset she was. She scrunched up her freckled nose, lifting her glasses above the eyebrows, squinting at me, her mouth in a grimace of pain.

“What’s wrong?” I said, meaning the pain.

“You’re not listening to
me,”
she pointed at her chest. “You’re acting as if I’m some kind of employee, like I’m your graduate student. That’s my work, goddammit! You have no right to make decisions about it. You have no right to give it away without my consent.”

I hadn’t looked at it in this light. Mostly because I didn’t think of the tapes as belonging to either of us; rather, they belonged to the clinic, to our work; they should serve our colleagues, to help them help the children.

While I absorbed the difference in our perceptions, Diane faced forward and added to the windshield, “And I’m pissed off that you looked at them without asking me. It’s like you opened my mail or something. Or read my diary. No.” she looked at me again. “It’s like you checked up on me. ‘I’m very proud of your work,’” she quoted my compliment as if it were an insult. “Like you’re my teacher giving me a grade.”

“Okay,” I said, more to myself than her. “Okay, I understand now. We’re really not getting each other. I’m sorry that’s the impression I gave you. Believe me, it’s the opposite. At first I assumed you’d have no objection. When I found out you did, I held them back. And if you don’t want me to send them, I won’t. I don’t think it’s your work, however, any more than the tapes of Albert are my work. Our tapes belong to all of us and they belong to our profession.”

“That’s naive, Rafe,” Diane said in a new tone. Solemn and blunt without an edge of hysteria and wounded feeling. “I know you’re not naive, but to expect people not to feel proprietary and protective of their work is naive. I’m willing to believe you would react differently if I gave away your tapes, but then you’re exceptional. Most people would feel what I’m feeling.”

“Okay,” I said. “All I want to say right now, what’s really important right now, is for you to understand that I have nothing but the greatest respect for you and the work you’ve done and that I will never release your work, or even my work for that matter, without your blessing.”

Diane smiled. “Now you’re going too far.” She leaned over and kissed me. “You can do what you like with your work.” She settled back, obviously relieved, pleased with me. “But I don’t think you should give anything to that snake. He’s a liar and you can’t trust him.”

“I’m going to talk to him,” I said. “Now, we’d better get going. We’re late.”

We arrived at a quarter after seven, fifteen minutes late. Joseph and Harlan weren’t there, although they had picked the place—a chic, expensive and loud restaurant called Cafe Luxembourg. By then Diane and I had made up. I still didn’t know what I should do about Phil. I was disturbed by the gossip Diane had told me and I was considering whether I ought to go to Webster University and talk to him face-to-face. If he had drifted into the child-can’t-be-believed camp, then I wanted to remonstrate: the mouse scenario was significant, but inconclusive; should he proceed to the pediatrician test prejudging it, that could pollute the results, just as a therapist’s prejudices might elicit false stories. At the same time, although I had resolved the misunderstanding between Diane and me, I was disturbed by an aspect of her behavior that I hadn’t yet challenged, mostly because I didn’t have the facts to do so. Since refusing to deal in any way with Samuel, she had been on the phone to others checking up on him. I worried this indicated that she had drifted into the child-must-be-believed camp. All accusations of child abuse can’t be true, any more than the reverse. Part of our work, unfortunately, was mixed up with the law’s tedious need to pretend there are immutable facts and just punishments. Diane, it seemed to me, was too defensive. No technique is perfect. As a scientist, her first reaction should have been more curiosity about Phil’s work and less energy for debasing him.

At seven forty-five, Diane and I were still waiting at the bar when Harlan rushed in, pushing roughly through the crush of people between us. But upon arrival he stared as if we were a disappointment. “He’s not here,” he said, not a question.

“Joseph?” Diane asked.

“Shit,” Harlan said. He had cut off his ponytail since we’d last seen him, and cut off most of his blond hair as well, so that it seemed to be a flat top, although it was too long to qualify in some places, and the sides were slicked down, not shortened. He wore his usual tight black jeans with no belt, a black silk shirt buttoned to the collar with no tie, and old-fashioned black high-top Converse sneakers—at least they had laces. He hadn’t shaved in several days, but I could tell he wasn’t starting a beard. His light blue eyes were so young and troubled they undercut the tough style of his outfit and grooming.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t know where he is,” Harlan said, not angry, with resignation.

“You had a fight?” Diane asked.

Harlan looked around. “Is there a phone?” He made a move to push back toward the maitre d’.

I grabbed his arm. “What’s happened, Harlan? Tell me.”

“I don’t know.” He lowered his head as if shamed.

“You mean, you’re not supposed to say?”

“I don’t know!” he complained. “I gotta go. Gotta find him.” He pulled away, or tried to.

I held on to his arm. “Harlan, you know Joseph and I are old friends.”

“I’m sorry. Go ahead and have dinner. If I find him, we’ll—”

“Harlan, tell me what’s going on. I want to help.”

A woman beside us at the bar was listening. In those cramped quarters, she had little choice except to pretend deafness. Harlan glanced at her. Diane suggested we step outside.

The street was lively. We walked toward West End, into a warm September breeze blowing from the river. The strip of sky visible between its tall apartment buildings showed a brilliant sunset, the variety of color enhanced by the haze of pollution hanging over Jersey. Harlan told the story in a jumble, making it more complicated and longer than its simple facts. In June, he and Joseph had agreed to be tested for AIDS. Both had practiced safe sex for years, but they knew they were vulnerable anyway, given the long incubation period. Harlan kept his promise and his result was negative. Joseph, however, canceled his appointment and postponed several more. Harlan was amazed that a scientist could be so superstitious about knowledge when it came to his own body. “It’s not like the test is gonna give you AIDS,” Harlan argued. Finally, Harlan presented Joe with an unspecified ultimatum that succeeded. Joe had gone for the test three days ago. He was supposed to get the results that morning; he promised to call Harlan at home as soon as he heard. He hadn’t phoned. When Harlan tried to reach him, he discovered Joseph had canceled a lecture, failed to show at his office at Columbia, and hadn’t appeared in his lab all afternoon. He was supposed to come home to change to meet us for dinner and Joseph had failed to do that as well. Harlan took for granted that Joseph had been told he was HIV positive. That wasn’t his immediate concern. He was scared Joseph had killed himself. He said they knew two men who committed suicide within a short time of hearing the news; Joseph, contrary to Harlan and their gay friends, had approved of their action, at least in casual conversation. “It’s not suicide,” Harlan remembered Joseph saying. “It’s just a very effective painkiller.”

That sounded like my mad, rational friend.

I asked about the hours of each canceled event and when his office or lab would be empty. Once it was clear that Joseph couldn’t be alone in either place until now, I suggested Harlan call the office and lab again. He reached an answering machine at the office; no answer at the lab. He said a machine usually picked up at the lab.

“Can we get in?”

“Not if the door’s locked.”

“No, I mean the building.”

“The guard knows me.”

I said we should go there. Neither Harlan nor Diane questioned my choice. I told Diane she could go home. She said, “Are you crazy?”

She drove us to Columbia. Not to the scene of the demonstrations of the sixties (I was reminded of them anyway) but to an old building on Amsterdam and 118th. The floors aboveground were faculty housing, a normal apartment building. Through a side entrance, manned by a sleepy guard behind a folding bridge table, we took an elevator to three subterranean levels where there were laboratories and also, Harlan explained, the university’s furniture storage.

The elevator was wide, an open cage, and moved slowly to gain power for hauling. We passed two landings lit by yellowing fluorescent bulbs.