Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (100 page)

“Miss Halley?” I nodded sagely. “You mean you’re her slave?”

Martha laughed, a good incautious laugh, from the belly. “I sure am.”

“And she’s just the useless self-centered daughter of the plantation owner?”

Martha frowned. She put her hands on her hips and stared down at the small dark girl on the floor. “No,” she admitted.

“Maybe you’re a sexist, Leech,” I said, touching Martha on the shoulder to make it clear that I wasn’t really scolding her. I addressed the others. “Let’s pretend Halley is the Prince’s son, not a daughter. I know that’s hard with Halley, but let’s say she were just as attractive, only she was a handsome young son. What would you call her?”

Jonathan Stivik said, “That’s easy. Prince Hal.”

Andy and Gould laughed appreciatively—presumably fans of Shakespeare. “Prince Hal?” I asked the group. Everyone but Stick and Halley nodded.

“Sure,” Andy said. “They’re family.”

“Stand up, Prince Hal,” I said. “I want you to form a line in this way. From right to left, arrange yourselves according to how insulting, how personally degrading, is your nickname. The most despised on the right, the most honored on the left.”

This caused some hilarity. Martha (Leech) and Carl Hanson (Beer Brains) kept circling each other, fighting to be the low person. Stick helped by immediately taking the top spot and so did Halley, standing beside him at number two, although according to business title she was below Jack, Joe Gould and Hanson. Tim and Andy were confused. Jack watched them hesitate and then steered Andy (Geek Genius) by the arm next to Halley at the number three position and moved himself to fourth. Jonathan (Softhead) revealed his high self-esteem by taking number five. Gould (Cash Cretin), although he was presumably the equal of Hanson, took number six.

Martha grabbed Hanson to stop him from getting below her one more time and called to me, “Will you tell him a leech is the lowest form of life?”

“At least you are a form of life,” Hanson argued. “I’m a fermented potato.”

“Martha’s right,” I said. “But she’s not low man.” I looked at Tim, bewildered now that his colleague Andy was in the line and he couldn’t stand beside him. “You are, Nerd.” I grabbed his chunky arm and moved him toward Martha.

This was my first break. Tim jerked his arm out of my grasp, stepped back, shoulders hunched and head down like an angry bull. “No,” was all he said, but it was definite.

“Think about it, Nerd. All the others have something good in their names. Two of them are Princes. I’m a Doctor. He’s a Genius, even if he’s a Geek. Jack has glass in his name. That ties him to the Glass Tower, which is the seat of power. Jonathan’s Softhead, but at least he’s got a head. Gould is the Cash Cretin, but he’s got money. Carl not only has Brains, he has Beer and Martha is a Leech, but that means she gets blood out of people. You’re just Nerd. You’re harmless. In fact, they don’t even single you out. You’re just one of dozens of nerds. You don’t really have a name all to yourself.”

Tim backed away another step. His face was redder, his jaw out, and he breathed fast, through his nose. Someone mumbled, “Take it easy.” I think that was Jack.

“Get at the end of the line,” I said sternly.

“They’re nothing,” Tim answered in a rush and then shut up.

“They don’t think so. They think you’re nothing.”

Tim pointed a thick finger at Jack. “Everybody in the Glass Tower is a Glasshole. Not just him. He doesn’t have his own name.” He pointed to Jonathan. “All the programmers are Softheads.”

“He’s
The
Glasshole. He’s
The
Softhead. Are you
The
Nerd?”

Tim’s jaw trembled. “Yes,” he stammered.

“No,” I was sorrowful. “
The
Nerd is Andy. He’s the Geek Genius, the head nerd. The Nerd of nerds. You’re replaceable. You’re a worker bee, a nothing.”

Tim spoke very very softly—a hunted whisper. “They need me.”

“They don’t think so.”

From behind me, Andy said, “Yes, we do.” Jack also said something encouraging.

“Shut up,” I told them without looking. I advanced on Tim. He was a few inches shorter than me and much wider. We were almost nose-to-nose. His frantic, noisy breathing sounded like the sniffling of a weepy child. There was a streak of red in his left eye, a burst blood vessel. A drop of sweat from his receding hairline trailed down, heading for his nose. “They’re being kind,” I told him. “Kind to the nerd. Kind to the big baby nerd.”

Tim put his fat palms on my chest and shoved me. Martha, I think, gasped. I stumbled back. Tim shouted, “They’re nothing!” He shuffled sideways, almost as if he were dancing, and screamed, “I make the machines! They’re nothing! They got nothing without me. Me! I’m the one! He’s—” Tim, his face bright red, slid and hopped up to Andy. “He’s not a genius! Without me, he’s a retard!” He skipped down the startled line and stuck a finger at Jonathan. “Softhead!” he tried to laugh scornfully, but the sound was more like a choke. “If he was any good he’d be at Nintendo! I cleaned up the protocols for him. You dumb fuck,” he added and then skipped backwards.

“So the tribe dies without you,” I said.

“I’m the flicking hunter. I get the meat.” Tim banged his thick hands together. They made a shattering sound, like the report of a gun. “They die without me.”

There was an embarrassed silence. I allowed it to settle until we could all hear Tim’s noisy breathing and the soft lapping of the pond against the rowboats docked outside our cabin. “Make a new line. You’re at the head since you’ve had the courage to name yourself.” I walked over and touched him on both shoulders as if I were knighting him. He straightened. “You are the Hunter.”

Thus, I said, inspired by Tim’s example, we would rechristen the tribe. Jonathan, stung by Tim’s attack, immediately argued that he was the Scout, since he checked the proposed machine designs by running simulations on Black Dragon. The others, without much enthusiasm, nodded. Tim, his face returning to his usual florid color instead of cardiac arrest red, said nothing.

I announced that a new title had to be accepted by the previously named, and in turn, by each of the newly baptized. “So it’s up to you,” I said to Tim. “Is Jonathan the Scout?”

Emboldened by his triumph, Tim said, “No. Andy’s the Scout. He sees what’s ahead and I go and get it.”

I ordered Tim and Jonathan into one of the boats. I told them to row to the east shore, sit in the meadow and discuss it. We would wait for them on our shore and think about what we thought our names should be.

We followed them outside and watched as they traveled across. There was some snickering because they weren’t very good at it, moving in a zigzag. Gould called, “If you don’t row together, you’ll sink together.”

Martha arranged herself on the ground to be in the sun. Jack asked if he could fetch a rod from the hotel and do some casting. “No,” I said. Andy asked if he was the Scout, as Tim had said. “No,” I said. “He doesn’t get to name you.”

“Who does?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I answered.

Stick maneuvered by my side and mumbled, “This could take all day.”

“And all night,” I said.

“Really we’re here to relax,” he continued in a whisper.

“You asked me to do this. You and Edgar said you were interested in what I would come up with. Have you changed your mind?”

“Well …” He gestured for me to walk with him, away from the others. Although pretending not to be, they were aware of us.

I raised my voice. “If you have something to say, Prince, say it so everybody can hear.”

Halley and Martha twisted to look. Jack, standing under a broad maple for shade, turned our way. Andy was on the cabin porch, behind Stick, but listening. Gould and Hanson were over by the rowboats, holding oars; they weren’t facing us, but their backs were stiff and they were quiet.

Stick snorted. The sun was on his lined gaunt face, his prominent forehead shadowing his eyes. He put his hands in the same Bermuda shorts he had worn yesterday to the pool. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Forget it.”

“No,” I persisted in a loud annoyed tone. “Everybody here has been told you put me in authority. If that’s not true, then this is even more of a farce than you say it is—”

“I didn’t say it was a farce,” he complained. He raised his hand. “Enough. I made a mistake.”

“I want you to tell everyone what’s on your mind. Do you think I’m wasting your time?”

“I’m disappointed,” he said, taking his hands out of his pockets, turning away to the porch. He noticed Andy staring at him. Stick frowned, put a sandal on the cabin’s granite step, and rocked on the foot. “Disappointed by what?”

Stick took a long breath. He exhaled it as a sigh. “Doesn’t seem very original, that’s all.” He kicked the step with his heel, walked up to the porch, and sat on its banister.

“Original?” I was openly scornful. “What do you know about psychology? Your idea of psychology is to promise people raises.”

It was Hanson (I think, my back was to him) who couldn’t help but laugh—a very abbreviated laugh to be sure.

“I can cancel this,” Stick said, not in a threatening tone, an idle comment.

“Then we can name you Quitter,” I said. “Or maybe Welcher. How about Indian Giver?”

“I don’t believe in it, that’s all.”

“Oh!” I opened my arms and swiveled a half turn as I spoke each sentence, eventually taking them all in. “You don’t believe in it. So it must be worthless. There’s no doubt! If you don’t believe it, who will?” I appeared to have lost control.

“Nobody believes in it.” Stick got calmer in answer to my show of temper. He swung a leg, his leather sandal brushing the porch deck. He nodded toward the far shore. “We can humor poor Tim and call him Hunter, but we all know he’s …” Stick paused. He turned from the meadow to look at us. He saw me, of course, arms still out, sneering at him, but-he also realized the group was listening.

“He’s what?” I demanded. “Garbage? Something you can throw out whenever you want?”

“No, of course not. Don’t play games. I never said anything like that.” Stick stood up, stretched. “As long as we’re waiting by the pond, let’s take advantage of it. Jack, go ahead and
get
a rod. I’ll
get
towels and—”

“Scared to finish the conversation, aren’t you?” I asked. Stick’s thin lips disappeared altogether. He had come down to the granite step to give his orders and got stuck there.

“Make up your mind, Prince,” I said. “Who’s in charge? You told them I was. You promised them I was. Are you taking it back? Were you lying?”

Abruptly, Stick dropped his head in mock surrender and laughed. “Okay, you’re right. In for a penny, in for a pound.” He sat down on the step. “I apologize, Witch Doctor.” He was positively charming. “You’re in charge.”

“Good. Then finish your sentence. Tim is … what? If he’s not the Hunter, what is he?”

That sustained the tension he wanted to slacken. Stick glanced at Halley, saw only an impassive young woman, squinted at the sky and appeared to think. “He’s a nerd,” he said at last. No one laughed. Stick was surprised. After a moment of awkward silence,
he
tried a laugh, but it was more of a cackle. “I’m joking,” he added, lamely.

“Maybe that’s what we’ll call you,” I answered. “The Joker.”

A heavy silence followed. Human silence, that is. A loon called across the pond. Breezes rustled the maple above Jack’s head and rippled the water. I moved to the step, used it to help stretch my tight hamstring, and then sat down next to Stick. He stared at his sandals, smoothing his slick hair with both hands. I kept my eyes on him until he met them. His were dead, to prove to me that I hadn’t hurt him. Eventually, Gould and Hanson resumed their discussion of proper rowing technique in low voices. Martha groaned, rolled on her side, and said to Halley, “I know what I want my name to be.”

Halley smiled. She appeared completely at ease. “What’s that?”

“Mama Cass.”

“Oh, Martha—”

“Leech.”

“Sorry. You’re not fat, Leech.”

“I wasn’t talking about being fat, Miss—excuse it, I mean Prince Hal. I was talking about my beautiful singing voice.”

Meanwhile, Jack had idly strolled toward the porch. He asked Andy, who was backed against the cabin’s door, “Do you fish?”

“No.”

“You’d like it. Great for thinking through a problem …”

With three conversations going, I whispered into Stick’s ear in a rush, “I have to be the one to attack you. I’m acting out their secret resentments.” I looked at the others to check if anyone heard or noticed. They hadn’t.

Stick whispered, “You’re doing too good a job.”

I squeezed his shoulder. He suffered the contact, although he had to purse his lips to endure it. “Okay,” I called. “Everybody back in the cabin while we’re waiting.” There were protests—the day was sunny and mild, couldn’t we stay outside? I was stern and herded them in.

I told Martha to sit in front of the blackboard and ordered the others to face her.

“Since we’re going to have to rename everyone, maybe we’d better learn more about each other. I’m going to ask you questions, Martha. If you don’t want to answer a question, just say, ‘No,’ or, ‘No Comment,’ or, ‘Tuck off.’ If you want to answer partially, then answer partially. Understood?”

“Fuck off,” Martha said and there was long sustained laughter from everyone, including Stick.

“Okay, you’ve got the idea. How many diets have you tried, Martha?”

I had picked her because I was sure she would be facile at intimacies, even if they were mostly banal. She was. My questions merely asked for the surface of personal truth, convinced the core would be exposed anyway because of the earlier flexing of emotion. I had misbehaved, so had Tim. Our extravagance would encourage them to spend more of themselves than was typical. Martha, in fact, eventually made a deeply felt speech about the death of her father. By then, all of them had asked her questions, except, of course, for Stick.

I had moved Gould to the inquisition spot when we heard a voice calling from the pond. We rushed out to the cabin porch. Jonathan and Tim were in the rowboat, going in a circle for the most part, since Jonathan kept abandoning his oar to call, “I’m Trans …” and the rest was too faint to understand.