Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (102 page)

I interrupted, “Edgar can replace you with Andy and Halley. Jack will accept being passed over for her.” I pulled my arm free. In the bowl of the clearing, no light reached his face. All I could see was a shadow breathing rapidly and shallowly. “You’re not a leader, Stick. And they don’t need you for anything else. If you can’t supply leadership, you’re just a leech. That’s the name they gave you, by the way. They didn’t expect me to tell it to you, of course. Halley suggested I give you the name ‘Chief’ so your feelings wouldn’t be hurt. She said that, after all, they owe you for giving them their start.”

“You idiot.” The shadow’s head bobbed, arms moving up and down, as if he were trying to fly. “I control the company. You don’t know shit about business.” He laughed scornfully. “You’re really a fool. You don’t know anything about the real world.” I reached for his shoulder.

He ducked away and growled, “You touch me and I’ll punch your fucking face in.”

“But you want me to touch you, Theodore,” I said softly and then raised my voice to a neutral matter-of-fact level—a doctor giving him the bad news as coolly as possible. “I know all about the shadow agreement with Edgar. I admit he had to explain it twice. It was hard for an academic like me to understand. But I know that you don’t control Minotaur. You shouldn’t be too upset. The settlement of your shares will leave you a rich man. You get five million. Isn’t that right? And three years of nominal consulting at three hundred and fifty thousand a year. By then you’ll be old enough to retire.”

He backed away. “He can’t … I’ll sue. It’s not—”

“Legal?” I picked up his train of thought. “Well, I gather that’s a gray area. And if you do prove the secret clause about your shares is illegal then, of course, you go to jail also.” I moved close to the dark of his shape, close enough to see his mouth was open. I added, quietly, “I think you should accept the money without a fuss and take time to explore your homosexuality.” I patted his rigid arm. “For your sake, I’ll keep that part to myself. Edgar is a fag-hater.”

For a while, I don’t know how long, perhaps thirty seconds, perhaps ten—it felt like a lifetime—there was no talk. There were sounds: the high whine of crickets, the bird resuming its call for love, a breeze infiltrating the woods so the trees leaned against the dark sky. And Stick’s breathing, too, as he stood, a scarecrow in the field, stiff and still. I smelled a sweet musty odor—was that his fear or the pine floor only ten feet away?

“I’m not gay myself,” I said with regret. “Or I’d explore it with you. I know you have fantasies about me.”

At last, he moved. He shook his head and there was a long hiss of exhaled air.

“I can reassure you about one thing,” I said before he spoke. “Halley will understand.”

Now there was laughter, deep and scornful. Stick turned and walked into the woods, heading for the rowboat, apparently unimpressed.

I had lost. I couldn’t believe it. There was always the chance of failure, of course, but evidently I had felt supremely confident. I was beaten and I was amazed.

I rubbed my face. The skin felt rough and hot. I licked my lips. They tasted salty. My legs were cold and stiff. And once Stick was gone, I felt uneasy. It was so dark I could no longer see through the black trees to the gray water.

I rushed through the woods to the pond shore. The rowboat was still beached. I hurried over and stared into it, wondering if he was lying down. I jumped when Stick’s voice came at me, deep and amused, from behind. “Where’s yours?”

“What?” was all I could manage out of the shock.

He had been standing against one of the tree trunks. He moved beside me. “Your rowboat. Where is it?”

“I walked.”

“Get in,” he said. “I’ll take you across.”

I looked at the pond, black on our side, gray in the middle thanks to a slight shimmer of silver from the half moon. You couldn’t see the green cabin on the far shore, only a black mass. In the distance, stars shone through the trees—but they were really lights from the hotel.

“Since Hal is part of your recommendation to Edgar,” Stick continued in a confident voice, “I thought we’d have dinner with her and discuss your evaluation of my leadership abilities.”

Was there any point in going on with the charade? I didn’t think so. A mosquito buzzed right into my ear, as loud as a helicopter. I slapped at it and succeeded only in deafening myself.

“She told me your little secret, you know,” he said, a whisper in my ringing ear.

That was a crushing blow. So Halley had reported my suggestion at the pool. I had not only failed with him, I had failed with her. I looked at Stick, not bothering to conceal my despair. But he probably couldn’t see it anyway. To me, he was only a shape, no features.

“She told me about your sick little sex game,” he continued. “How would you like that to get out?”

I was surprised again. My relief came out undisguised, “That’s
it
?”

“How do you think it would look for everybody to know that the great child psychiatrist likes to play Daddy gives his little girl a bath?”

I laughed with real pleasure. “That’s really it, Stick?”

“That’s it, Doctor. So maybe you’d better rethink what you tell Edgar.”

“Oh, we play many more sick games than just Daddy gives his little girl a bath. Hasn’t she told you? Don’t you have all the details, or is she starting to hold out on you?”

“She’s …” He paused, then he snorted. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I chuckled. “Nothing. You go ahead. You tell the world about my sick games and I’ll tell Edgar about your management. It’s a fair trade, Stick. My so-called reputation for your career. I accept.”

Stick moved close. At that range, I could see the grooves of his stern face, his thin lips hardly moving as he mumbled, “I’m not kidding, Rafe.”

I leaned in, breathing on his mouth. “Nor am I, Stick. If that’s the best you can do, you’re finished.”

I held my ground. He was the one to step back. “I don’t believe—” he began and shook his head, dismissing that thought.

“I’m going back,” I said. I moved as if I planned to return along the shore.

“Wait—” he called.

“I’m tired and I’m cold and we’re finished, Leech.” Again, I moved as if to walk.

“Okay!” he cried. It
was
a cry. “What do you want? What do I have to do?”

I faced the pond and stared out, pensively. “There’s a lot of work for you to do. You’ve got to deal with your personal problems, your fears, your family life. I suppose if you went into therapy …” I kicked at the pond’s fringe of muddy sand. “It’s hard to believe you’d really work at it, Stick. If I could—”

“Look—” he stepped forward, then stopped as if he didn’t have a right to approach me. “Are they expecting us?”

“Not really. I told them to go back to their rooms, have dinner and relax.”

“Can we—?” He gestured, hands out, pleading, “How about we have dinner in my room? We’ll talk and work something out. I know you’re right. I—” he lowered his head, ashamed. “I need help.”

I said nothing. The bird no longer called, but an owl asked the world to identify itself. It was cold and the mosquitoes were feasting on my bare legs. I slapped at one on my thigh, scratched, and said with a sigh, “Well, I’m willing to talk about it.”

“Great. Thanks.” He nodded at the boat. “I’ll row you across.”

“I’d rather walk,” I said and slapped the back of my neck.

“You’ll get eaten alive.” He bent over, both hands on the rowboat. “Get in. I’ll push off.” He shifted it from side to side, loosening the sand’s grip.

I shrugged, took a step, and said loud, over the scraping noise, “Is there a lifejacket in there?”

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I mumbled. I stepped into the boat, stumbling on its first bench. I lost my balance.

“Whoa,” he said. I caught myself by grabbing hold of the side, twisted and flopped onto the second bench.

He pushed. The boat floated out onto the water, turning aimlessly. Stick didn’t move.

“Aren’t you getting in?” I asked plaintively.

He strolled casually into the pond, in no hurry, although the water had been chilly even during the height of the day. “I was thinking of swimming across,” he said.

I rose partway, as if to stand. “Then I’m getting out.” The boat rocked, turning so I was horizontal to the shore, and continued to drift farther out onto the water. “Oh …” came out of me. I remained stuck in a crouch, desperately holding the sides of the boat.

He laughed and sloshed toward the boat. “Take it easy. Can’t you row across?”

“I don’t want to,” I whined.

“Okay, okay,” he said, a hand catching the prow. The water was up to his waist. “Sit down. Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to rock the boat?”

“Are you getting in?”

“Yes,” he hissed, annoyed. “Sit down.”

I did, my hands gripping the sides, arms rigid. The boat tipped violently as he put his right foot in. I moaned. He took his time bringing up the left foot and steadying the boat. He sat facing me. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll have you across in no time.”

“Good,” I said.

“You can relax,” he said, unlocking the oars. He used one to straighten us and then rowed gracefully twice. We were immediately twenty feet from shore. The pond was silver-black, its border of trees swaying shadows. Some moonlight reached his face, enough for me to see a crescent of his features: hooded eyes, long nose, thin lips. “Really, you can relax,” he said, slowing down, rowing, pausing to let us drift, dragging an oar to keep us straight, then using both for one powerful row. We were well into deep water. “Let go of the sides,” he said.

“I don’t want to,” I complained in a little voice, but I obeyed.

He nodded his approval. “Why did you walk?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. “Urn. What sort of therapy would you be comfortable with? A group or private?”

“You’re afraid of the water,” he said, raising the oars. The boat drifted, circling gradually in the stirred pond.

I said, “Everybody’s afraid of something, Stick.”

“Yes, you proved that.” He rested the oars on the side, fitting them into hooks. “But some things it’s silly to be afraid of.” He stood up and rocked the boat gently.

I shut my eyes. “Cut it out.”

He shifted his weight from side to side more violently. Water lapped in. “I’ll do what you want, Rafe. I’ll go into therapy. Really.” He rocked us again. Water soaked my sneakers. “But first I want to see you swim.” He stopped, standing over me. “Get out of the boat.”

I said firmly, “No.”

He rocked us again, the angle steeper. For a second, my face was perpendicular to the black water. I held on tight and screamed, “Stop it!”

He sat. The water covered my feet. “Get out or I’ll swamp us.” He slipped forward, capturing my legs between his knees. “I’m going to teach you how to swim.”

I shook my head.

“Yes,” he insisted. “You hang on to the side and kick your legs. Then, when you tell me you’re ready, you’ll let go and swim.” He parted his knees, freeing my legs. A cold hand gripped my upper arm and urged me out. “Come on. You’re better off doing it that way than if I dumped us both into the water.”

I turned my head toward the far shore and called desperately, “Halley!”

He slapped me. Slapped me so hard, my head rang and the skin burned.

“Don’t …” I mumbled.

He yanked my arm and I tipped over. I grabbed the oar locked onto the side. My face was pointed at the water. In a calm even voice, he said, “Get out or I’ll hit you again.”

I shifted my legs past his, moving to the edge in a crouch, hands gripping the boat. “I can’t …”

He put a hand on my back and urged. “Put your legs over the side.” I put my right leg over, my left braced against the oar, my ass half on the bench, half on the side. The black water was cold. At its touch, my sore hamstring seized. “My leg feels tight,” I said, felt his hand on my back again, and my world spun over.

There were several rapid impressions: my left leg burned, scraping wood as it went into the air, my face was suffocated, my heart stopped at the shock of icy submersion and then beat wildly.

You’re in the water, my head informed me, while my body panicked, struggling to orient itself. Don’t breathe, I reminded myself, as I somersaulted underwater and came up, gasping.

Stick grabbed my right forearm and pulled me to the boat. “Help,” I gurgled.

“Take it easy,” Stick’s irritated voice told me. I gripped the side with both hands. My left leg felt hot, bleeding in the water I was sure. My right leg was taut, warning it might cramp. I pulled on the boat with my fingers, raising my chest free of the pond. The boat swayed.

Stick banged my hands with his fist and I let go, sinking. He grabbed me by the hair to raise my head. I yelled and swallowed some water. My right leg contracted—pain drew it up and then pain forced it open, only to be greeted by more pain. I
was
cramping. “Don’t do that!” he shouted. “Just hold on.”

My fingers desperately grabbed the side of the boat, barely keeping my head above water. I couldn’t straighten my right leg and I couldn’t not straighten it—it hurt too much either way. “Okay,” I gasped. “Experiment’s over. I’ve got a cramp. I can’t do this.” I found an angle, knee bent halfway, where the muscle’s contraction didn’t cause agony.

“Start kicking,” Stick said.

“I know how to swim,” I told him. “I was tricking you—my leg’s cramping. I can’t—Let me in.” I pulled to raise myself and he banged my left hand against the wood. I yelped, let go. That stretched me to my full length, reduced to the anchor of my right hand. I yelped again because my thigh felt as if it was tearing in half. “Let me up, Stick! I wanted to see how far you’d go. I can swim, but I’ve got a cramp.”

He snorted. “That’s a pretty stupid lie for a Ph.D.”

I reached for the boat with my left hand and took hold with my fingers. Bending it gradually, I tried to relax the right leg. The severe pain was gone—it felt numb. But there was no strength and I knew if I tried to flex it the agony would return.

“Listen,” I said in a rushed gasp. “I knew—so I lied. I can. Really. I can swim. But I’ve got a cramp. You have to let me up.”