Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (91 page)

I found Jack standing behind his seated secretary, reading over a letter she had typed. He looked up and grinned at me. “Hi there,” he said. “Slumming?”

“Do you have a few minutes? Stick suggested I see you.”

I might as well have shot him between the eyes. I had forgotten my joke at the barbecue that if I showed my face in his office he was in trouble. He stammered, “You’re here to—you want to see me?”

“Nothing important. I can come back. I need your advice. I’ll call you—”

“No, no. Come in. You got this straight, Kelly?” he mumbled to his secretary, waving me in without listening to her reply. He met me at the door to his inner office, taking my elbow. He maintained the grip all the way to the chair opposite his desk, presumably guiding me, although he seemed to want the physical contact, as if by hanging on he was in control of me. He also put his face too close, smiling so hard I wondered if the lines he was making around his mouth would be permanent. Once he put me where he wanted me, he retraced his steps to shut the door, talking in a loud cheerful tone for the benefit of his assistant, “Well, this is a pleasant surprise. But I’m happy to help. Always wanted to be a doctor myself.” The door was shut and he maneuvered toward the desk. He kept up the noisy banter, “I heard about fixing up a rec area out back. That’ll be terrific—”

I interrupted, “Okay, Jack, she can’t hear us now.” He was halfway down to his chair. He hung in midair for a moment and then fell the rest of the way. Its cushion sighed.

“I apologize for my abrupt entrance. I should have phoned. Stick has nothing to do with my being here. It was my idea. Your wife, Amy—I don’t know if she told you—”

“She thought you were great!” Jack eagerly leaned toward me, stomach pressed against the edge of his desk, chest arched over the top. He framed my face with his large hands, centering it as the target for his praise. He had the build of a football player—chunky legs, thick neck—and the jowls of a man who enjoys beer and red meat. “She said she bugged you for advice about little Billy’s reading problem—I guess that happens to doctors all the time, right? You’re trying to relax on a holiday and people want free advice. Seriously, she was grateful. Said you were really helpful. But it’s nothing. I keep telling her, Billy’s got my lousy genes. I was the last in my class to read.”

I noticed a pair of bamboo fishing poles resting in the corner. On a shelf nearby there was a teak wood box with brass fittings that I guessed housed lures. “Fly-fishing?” I asked, gesturing to the wall. “Yeah … You fly-fish?” he asked hopefully.

“No, but I know someone who does. Those are handcrafted rods, right? Very expensive?”

“Yeah, I splurged …” He was embarrassed. “They’re collectibles, actually. Hand-made by these great characters. Weird old guys. Cost a bundle. Amy might want to talk to you about how I prioritize my spending.” He winked at me. We were also becoming buddies. “I brought them in to show off to a client who’s a fly fisher. Great guy. I’m seeing him for lunch.”

“Ever take Billy along on a fishing trip?”

Jack swallowed. “Guess I should, huh?” he asked meekly. “I was waiting until he was a little older. That wrong?”

Is this what it’s like for Dr. Joyce Brothers? I wondered. Everywhere she goes, she’s the maven, no topic beyond her expert generalization. “I was just curious,” I said.

“No, seriously, what do you think? I feel guilty when I take off for the weekend and leave him behind.”

“Take him when you think he’d enjoy it, I guess. I don’t know. Seems like a good bonding thing for a father and son. Just don’t throw him in the river for bait.”

Jack’s wide nose twitched. “We don’t use live bait. That’s why it’s called fly-fishing.”

“I was joking,” I said.

“I knew that,” he said, nodding.

“Amy told me your pediatrician has recommended Ritalin for Billy. That seems excessive for a reading problem.”

“Un huh,” he nodded vigorously.

I waited for him to add something. His nods slowed. He remained silent and showily attentive, like a prep school boy in the headmaster’s office, waiting for advice he intended to agree to enthusiastically and then ignore. I noticed a plastic name plate resting against the back of his phone. MR. TRUMAN was in white letters against a black background and below it the joke—The Jack Stops Here. I pointed to it. “That’s cute.”

“Salesman humor,” he said. He shrugged.

“So … ?” I smiled. “Is that all there is to it? He’s not reading at age eight?”

“He reads a little. But he’s way behind the other kids. He’s lazy. That’s all I think it is. Doesn’t like reading, so he doesn’t work at it. Our doctor didn’t say he definitely needed this, uh …”

“Ritalin.”

“Right. He just said it was an option if Billy’s problem was, you know, that he couldn’t pay attention. That’s what the school says. He’s disruptive—”

“Disruptive?” I said, straightening with a start, as if he had sent an electric shock through my chair.

“No!” he reached toward me with his right hand, reeling in the word. “Not disruptive. You know, just … He’s a cutup in class. He’s a handfull. Like me. I was a handful. I’m gonna talk to him, straighten it out. I’ve been on the road a lot. Haven’t put in the hours at home I should. I’m sorry Amy bothered you. We’ll take care of it. It’s no big deal.”

“May I speak with her about it?” As far as Jack was concerned I seemed to have switched to a different language. He stared, mouth open. “That’s why I dropped by. I wanted to suggest some tutors. I know a couple of good remedial reading people in this general area. We hired them at my old clinic. Sometimes, a little extra help gives a child confidence. Once you fall behind in school, it’s embarrassing and that makes catching up even harder. But I didn’t want to talk to Amy behind your back. And certainly not without your permission.”

Jack nodded, this time long and slow movements up and down, as if, as headmaster, I had begun to rave and he was unsure whether to summon the nurse.

“This has nothing to do with work, Jack,” I continued into his wary silence. “Nothing to do with Stick. There’s no implied threat. I’m only here to help. You see, I know a lot about children, a lot about Ritalin, a lot about cutups in school. I’m sure Billy’s fine and I want to make sure that nobody makes his little problem into a big one by overreacting. I doubt, for example, that he needs to be straightened out. Probably he just needs a little help and reassurance.”

Jack pushed off from his desk, eyes straying to the bamboo poles, the false good cheer gone. “He hit a couple kids,” he said quietly. “Gave one a real shiner. And he kicked one of his teachers—the dance teacher, for Chrissakes. She was teaching him the polka—” he laughed with resignation, but also from his belly, really amused. He sighed afterwards, rolled in his chair over to the poles, and picked up one. “Beautiful work, huh?” he said, rising. He came near me, turning the bamboo in the air to show off details that I’m afraid I couldn’t appreciate. “I envy those guys. I mean they don’t look like they’ve got much to envy—living in the sticks, cars falling apart in the yard—but it must be peaceful. And great to know that what you make is unique. I’m a salesman. I don’t make anything, so …” He rested the pole across his arm, as if surrendering his sword to me.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

Jack said softly, “Billy’s disruptive.” Jack returned the fishing pole to the corner. He pushed his chair to the desk, continuing in a quiet tone, “The school told us if he doesn’t
get
under control next year, they can’t—you know, we’ll have to move him.” He sat down heavily. “It’s a private school. Supposed to be the best—”

“Amy told me the school was good,” I said. “Stick doesn’t have to know anything about my helping out. Would you like me to talk to Amy, maybe have Billy see some of my colleagues? They deal with truly crazy kids—it’d be refreshing for them to see a fine young boy who’s just acting up a bit.”

“You think that’s all it is?” Jack’s green eyes, small against the puffi-ness of his face, looked openly into mine for the first time. The appeal was sweet. He may not have known how best to defend his son, but he wanted to.

“Probably,” I said. “You can’t really blame him. I’d kick anybody who tried to teach me how to polka.”

We parted friends. My childish trick had also worked. As I came out of Jack’s office, Halley nearly bowled me over. She reared back, eyebrows up, her apparently profound surprise expressed so promptly she failed to make it convincing. “Rafe! What are you doing here?” she asked. “Gossiping,” I said with a smile. “And you?”

She gestured to the same manila envelope she had shown me in Andy’s office. “I was gonna get some feedback from Jack.”

“Better hurry,” I said, walking away. “He’s going to lunch with a fly fisher.”

“What?” she called.

But I didn’t stop. I called Amy Truman that afternoon. We met for coffee in Tarrytown, an hour before she was due to fetch Billy from school. Jack had alerted her about my interest. Feeling she had his permission, she opened up completely. After ten minutes, and one prompt, she widened the discussion from the subject of Billy’s woes. I liked her. She was a Louisiana native whom Jack met on a sales trip and courted for a year before they married. Her father was a doctor, her mother a music teacher. She had a degree in education and was working, when they courted, in the local public school in charge of the reading readiness program for kindergarten. That was part of the reason Billy’s learning problems were especially humiliating and, of course, so apt an arena in which to rebel. Dealing with their two-year-old girl, Billy’s problems and Jack’s heavier travel schedule left her feeling overwhelmed. Naturally, she blamed herself for Billy’s reading problems. “I pushed him too hard, tried to get him to read too early, and now see, I’ve gotten just the opposite of what I bargained for.” With her strawberry blonde hair, her lively blue eyes, her trim figure and generous smile she should be keeping Jack interested but I was no longer in a shrink’s office, blind and deaf to her world. I knew what she was up against. Her essential decency put her at a disadvantage. She mistakenly thought that by taking care of Jack’s children and providing a safe port he would feel love and gratitude. Instead, he felt she was safe. Meanwhile, at Minotaur, Jack was supplied with danger and excitement and triumph too. Not poor grades and messy diapers, not the constricted talk of suburban shopping and PTA meetings, not the same easily conquered body that, to his touch, was probably thicker and flabbier than the one he had wooed on humid bayou nights. Anyway, she was a fish he had already caught.

Within forty minutes, she returned three times to the theme of how rarely she and Jack were alone together, what with all his traveling and Billy’s troubles and their two-year-old girl. She complained about Jack’s work and then scolded herself for complaining. After all, she mumbled shyly, this coming year was a big opportunity for Jack.

I took a guess, commenting, as if I knew, “You mean, the big promise Stick made to Jack about the future if Centaur goes well.”

“So you know.” She smiled and slapped the table. “See that? I told Jack. I told him Stick isn’t blowing smoke. And, of course, you know about it. Jack tells me Stick really leans on you. He’s very jealous. Says you get a private meeting twice a week. He’s only got Mondays.”

“Jack’s right to be cautious,” I said. “Promises are just promises.” She looked grave. And nodded earnestly. “Right, of course. I just meant, you know, I feel—I mean, Jack’s done wonderful work for—”

“Jack’s done a superb job. Stick knows that.” I covered her hand with mine. Her pale blue eyes, at that moment washed out by the sunlight falling on them, looked at me without reserve. I let all of myself go out to her, copying my new teacher, beaming love and devotion without fear of embarrassment or rejection—or the scruple that it wasn’t sincere. “Listen. You need to take care of yourself. Jack can handle his job. You need him to help with his children.”

“Right,” she nodded. “That’s right.”

“Men have a tendency to think that their work is all-important. That the people who love them should drop everything and help. That the job isn’t just a job, it’s the future, it’s security, it’s love, it’s being a good person. But, you know, in the end, it
is
just a job and it’s not gonna love him back.” I slipped my fingers under her palm, and held her hand, squeezing a little. She returned the pressure. “If he doesn’t start taking care of you he’s a fool.” I let go. She swallowed, her freckled cheeks flushed pink, and her pupils widened. “I’ll
get
you a reading tutor and I want you to make an appointment with a family therapist.” I wrote down the name of one I knew well on a napkin. I had confidence that Amy was conscientious enough about her family, and tough enough, to make Jack go with her and Billy for counseling. I suspected that was the only way to
get
a fly fisher into therapy. I gave her the napkin.

“Thanks,” Amy said, carefully folding and putting it in her purse.

I reached for her hand. She gave it to me willingly. “You and Jack need to take care of your marriage and Billy will be all right. Know what I mean?”

Amy nodded, her mouth set, ready for a fight. “Yes,” she nodded. “I think I do.”

I winked. “Okay. I’m single, you know. Tell Jack if he won’t show you a good time, I will.”

She smiled. “I’ll tell him, Doctor. I’ll be sure to tell him that,” she said and winked back at me.

After she left, I used the coffee shop’s phone booth to report to Stick that I had recommended a good reading tutor to the Trumans, that their son’s problem was trivial, and that I was impressed by Jack’s loyalty to the company. I emphasized to my boss—because that’s what Theodore Copley had become, I realized, in spite of the fact that I provided less than full disclosure of my actions on his behalf—that he shouldn’t let on to Jack I had performed this service at his prompting. “He would be alarmed,” I said.

“Well, we don’t want that,” my fearless leader said. “We want Jack to feel relaxed. He’s doing a terrific job. By the way, Rafe, is Thursday night okay for you to play doubles?” I had become his regular partner against a variety of opponents, usually business competitors. “Sure,” I said.