Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (22 page)

Eileen’s monologue came to an end with a dramatic exit, accompanied by this closing line: “And that’s all I can say as a God-fearing Catholic!” She came back in a minute wearing her winter coat and carrying mine. “Come on,” she said, shaking my jacket at me as if taunting a bull. “We’re going to church.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Your grandparents want you to.”

“Uncle won’t like it.”

Eileen nodded, moving her red mass of hair with emphatic agreement. “That’s the truth. If he finds out I’ll lose my job.”

This threat made the excursion attractive. I liked secrets between a man and woman: they betokened love.

Eileen owned a beat-up Plymouth, possibly the same make and model Grandpa Pepín drove. His was kept in immaculate condition, despite the role he played as chauffeur for an extended family that included many young grandnieces and grandnephews. By contrast, Eileen was single. Her unsteady romance with the Irish immigrant carpenter was often rocked by violent changes of mood about his drinking, flirtations with other girls and reluctance to marry. She slept at Uncle Bernie’s six nights a week, spending her night off with an aunt. Thus her car was rarely used. And yet its interior resembled that of a suburban mother of five—litter covered most of the floor and every inch of the back seat.

We drove off to church without leaving a note for Bernie or Charlotte. Both were still in the city. Eileen was confident we’d be back before they arrived. It was a Friday afternoon in December, freezing and gray. There was no snow on the ground, but the black road was streaked white by frost. We were only a short distance out of Uncle’s driveway before we had to stop at a light. A car pulled up beside us and a tanned handsome man beamed across Eileen at me. It was my father.

The sight was electrifying. It felt as if his smile surged through my chest. I called out joyfully: “Daddy!”

Eileen was confused at first. She stared at me as if I had lost my mind. Francisco honked to get her attention. She shifted her stunned look to him while he got out of his car and came around to my side. I rolled the window down, using both hands to do it faster. I don’t know why I didn’t simply open the door. Dad did. Because of my fierce grip on the window handle I fell out. My father lifted me up into his arms. I had forgotten how tall he was. I was five feet myself, only seven inches shorter than my powerful uncle. Francisco, although leaner and much less threatening than Bernie in his manner, was a comparative giant at six feet three. His hug lifted me off the ground effortlessly. All that grace and strength was thrilling. And no one, no one on earth has ever said Rafael so musically. He pronounced it several times while squeezing me tight. He rolled the “R” and separated the “fie” and “el” long enough so that it sounded like the drumroll for the main attraction, the summoning of a magical being, at once heroic and mysterious. If only I could be the Rafael my father called for. I felt no regret that I wasn’t, simply fascination with his desire. I listened for myself in Francisco’s song of my name, ready to accept the role if I could find the necessary talent.

Eileen’s half-a-year-long disapproval of my father was defeated in seconds by his charm. “What a beautiful accent,” he said when she demanded to know who he was, although I had made that apparent. “I’m Rafael’s father,” he said. “Are you from Dublin?”

Soon he had Eileen blushing as he admired her fair complexion and red hair. He praised Guinness and Irish sweaters, gave credit to the wet climate for her beautiful skin and to Irish poets for her musical voice. As is true of any charming person, his flattery was so bold she had to conclude that either he was sincere or the most monstrous liar on earth. I could see from the shimmer in her light blue eyes that she had decided my father was as innocent as a newborn. “Latin men, you know,” my father said, “go wild for redheads. Just ask Desi Arnaz. I was feeling sorry for Rafe. Now I see he’s been having the time of his life.”

He told her, not me, that he had come over from Cuba to get me. We were going to Europe, he said, Spain first and then maybe Paris. I revealed no excitement, although my heart beat fast. I felt it going madly underneath my winter coat, wool sweater and white school shirt.

“Spain?” said Eileen. “With that fascist general?” I don’t like to make myself out to be a snob (or perhaps a sexist), but I was surprised that Eileen was sufficiently quick-witted to know it was surprising that my father was willing to have anything to do with Franco’s Spain.

“Ah.” My father was appreciative. At this point we were talking in the frigid air by the side of the road. Francisco had pulled his car over to the shoulder; Eileen had left hers blocking the way. Occasionally cars went around, passengers and drivers peering at us curiously. “You know international politics. But why I am surprised? The Irish are not only the most literate people on earth, they’re the most political. I’m sure there’s a Provo in your kin.”

“No sir,” Eileen blushed again. “Thank goodness,” she mumbled.

“Well, it’s a terrible thing to admit, but Spain is more friendly to Cuba right now than we are and things there are loosening up. Everyone is optimistic that when Franco dies … When he dies—” Francisco crossed his fingers on both hands and begged the sky for a long moment before returning his attention to us. “Then maybe Fidel will have an ally besides Russia.” Francisco put his arm around my head—I was right at the level of his shoulder—and squeezed. “I thought we’d go back to the home country and look for our people in Galicia. They must be there, you know. I’m sure you’ve got dozens of cousins just waiting to meet their American counterpart. And besides, you’re at the age that James said should be every boy’s first view of the Continent. Although I don’t think he had fascist Spain in mind.”

Francisco seemed relaxed and extremely happy. His deep tan certainly made us look pale and drab. He talked and talked—a free-ranging banter about Sean O‘Casey, the cold, my height, Eileen’s red hair—until I was shivering. “Drive him back to the house,” my father said. “I’ll follow you.”

Eileen was silent for the ride until we pulled into the driveway. She said, “He’s a charming man,” in a serious tone as if she had discovered something very important and confusing.

My father parked opposite the front door and greeted us as we got out of Eileen’s Plymouth with, “I don’t see any cars. I take it Bernie’s not home yet. Well, Rafael and I have a plane to catch at Idlewild, so could you help me get him packed?”

“Packed?” Eileen said. “You’re taking him away now?”

“It’s madness, isn’t it? I flew in, bought Rafael’s ticket, rented the car and drove here. We have to be on a plane in a few hours.” Francisco moved closer to her and reached for her right hand. She gave it to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He squeezed it fervently while he made his plea, although he sounded casual. “I heard the news just three days ago. All this time I thought—” He let go of Eileen’s hand to tousle my hair. “I didn’t know anything about what’s been going on. I have to have my son with me. He’s my good luck.” He gathered me to him again and squeezed my head with his powerful arm. “And my future. You understand. I couldn’t wait another week, or another day and yet I have to be in Spain tomorrow. I have a very important, really crucial dinner with a Spanish publisher in Madrid tomorrow night. Rafael and I are on a nine-thirty-five flight. Someone’s going to meet us at Idlewild at seven who’s done me a great favor and gotten a passport for Rafe fast. There’s no time. We should be there early since I can’t afford to miss him. We don’t have to pack a lot. I’ll buy Rafe any other clothes he needs over there.”

Looking back on it I have to admire the presumption of my father’s request. He was asking Eileen not only to make no fuss about ending her employment, but to help him pack up her income and send it off as quickly as possible.

He won half the battle. She took us in, showed Francisco where my clothes were and even found us an overnight bag. (My father hadn’t thought to bring one. “Men,” Eileen commented with a satisfied smile.) Then she disappeared. During her absence, while casually picking out clothes, my father continued his gay inventory of Europe, of how we would see bullfights, Flamenco dancers, the armor of Granada, the Ramblas of Barcelona—a complete tour of the country where Hemingway and Orwell had found both bravery and cowardice, enchantment and disillusion. I didn’t know what he was talking about; I strained to understand. But that was home to me: walking the narrow ledge of precocity to get a view of my Daddy’s passions. My beautiful father was back and I was ready to follow him anywhere. He made no mention of the revolution or my mother—to maintain security, I was sure. We were, after all, still in the enemy’s hands.

Eileen returned with a grim and wary expression. We were almost done packing. She stood in the doorway and looked dismayed by the full overnight bag. “Urn, I was just speaking with Mr. Rabinowitz—”

“Is he here?” my father seemed alarmed. I worried at that—was he frightened? No, I decided, he was merely startled.

“He’s still in town, but he’ll hurry over in his car. He said you’re to wait—he’ll arrange for transportation to the airport so you won’t miss your plane. He’s definite about it. Doesn’t want Rafael to go without him having a chance to say goodbye—and he wants to talk to you right away. He’s on the line. There’s a telephone in his study. I’ll take you there.”

My father smiled. He was relaxed and confident again. “Oh, I don’t think so. There isn’t enough time. I can’t take a chance.” He turned back to the overnight bag, pressed in one more sweater and zipped it up. “Say goodbye to your beautiful nanny, Rafe. We’re off to our homeland.”

“Oh, he’s waiting on the phone. You have to at least talk to Mr. Rabinowitz.”

My father said nothing to that. He picked up the bag and gestured for me to take his hand. I did. We moved to the door. Eileen stepped in our way. She was very nervous. I don’t know if she was actually trembling, but she could have been.

“I can’t let you go without talking to him,” she said, voice low, eyes on the floor.

“He’s just a bully,” my father said. “He won’t hold you responsible.” He pushed me forward around her.

She gave way, at least physically. She called to my father as we entered the hall. “You have to talk to him. He took care of your son! You owe him a few words for that alone.”

My father’s hand tightened on mine. His cheeks sucked in—that was his private look of anger, a look I had never seen him show to a stranger. Indeed, by the time he turned back to Eileen it was gone. But there was rage, operatic and inspiring, in his voice: “If Bernie gave me every penny he has, he would still owe me. Took care of Rafael!” Francisco gestured to the heavens with his right hand to show the preposterousness of this claim and moved away from Eileen, apparently ready for us to leave, only he paused again to add this final thought: “You tell your boss to steer clear of me. If I get my hands on him I’ll kill him.”

He
was
brave, after all. I knew it. Hadn’t he stood beside Fidel while the most powerful nation on earth blockaded and invaded poor Cuba? No one else—except for my weak mother—would have had the courage to defy Bernie.

Despite the blast of his threat to Eileen, my father continued to huff and puff with anger after we drove off. I watched his lips move: tiny eruptions of the furious interior monologue.

Let me hear you, I wished silently. Let me know your thoughts. But I didn’t have the courage to ask. Besides, I knew the gist of his mute tirade. He was indicting Bernie: damning him for being a capitalist, for taking me away from my mother and for being friends with a president who had tried to destroy Fidel.

“I’m sorry,” my father said on the Cross Island Parkway. We had been on it for a while and these were his first words to me since we drove away from my uncle’s. I had given up on his talking to me by then and was startled by the sudden and unasked for apology. “What?” I said, confused.

He glanced my way. His eyes glowed: the tanned face made their whites bright and lightened the brown of his pupils to a shimmering amber. He had lost weight, I noticed from this view of his profile. The tan disguised his gaunt condition. Francisco’s cheerful cheeks were gone. I didn’t like this look. I associated weight loss with the last few visits I had with my mother. Each time I saw her she had shrunk, each time a little bit more diminished by her illness, the institutionalization and the electroshock.

“Don’t be sorry,” I said and felt confused and sad. I wanted to cry, but I wasn’t aware of why. I thought I ought to feel glad: I had been rescued.

“I know your uncle was good to you. Or tried to be. I promised myself I wouldn’t talk like that in front of you. But she provoked me.” He glanced at me again. “My God, you’ve grown! I’m lucky to have a son who’s so handsome and so smart.” Francisco returned his attention to the road, putting on his signal, moving into another lane and accelerating to pass. He talked to the world that rushed up to our windshield. “I have nothing to worry about. The future holds no terrors for me.” My father glanced at me again and winked. “Not when I’ve got you to take care of me in my old age. I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

At Idlewild Francisco was nervous. He leaned against the car rental counter sideways and kept an eye on the doors behind us. Once that paperwork was finished he rushed us to another building away from the terminal. It was a warehouse of some kind and we entered a small waiting room, bare of furniture. A sleepy clerk manned the only counter. Above it was a sign that said something about picking up international packages. The people who appeared to get slips of paper from the clerk seemed to be truckers or delivery men. Our wait felt interminable. I whined about being tired, thirsty, hungry and so on. Eventually my complaints wakened the attention of the clerk. “There’s a coffee shop over there,” he volunteered. “You can get him a doughnut or something.”

“I’m waiting for someone,” my father answered. “I can’t afford to miss him.”

“Oh yeah … ?” The clerk was interested. “Bringing a package?”

“No, we just agreed to meet here.”