Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (36 page)

I spotted Sandy in a third-floor window. I called to her. She shouted back, “Join us!” The others with her at the window misunderstood slightly, thought she was referring to everyone, and took up her phrase, chanting to the crowd on the street, “Join us! Join us!”

I didn’t move. Not frightened; thinking I didn’t deserve to. From somewhere to my left came a negative answer. I looked that way. There was a trio who were obviously—given their white shirts, ties and blazers—from the “Majority Coalition,” the conservative students. They shouted back, something about the right to go to class. They couldn’t manage to make that thought into a chant; without rhythm and unity their words were lost on the air.

Sandy and her buddies answered: “Join us! Join us!”

Below her, on the second floor, a window was jammed with five blacks. They harmonized with another chant in between each “Join us!” I knew its correct spelling from the earlier demonstration. “No Gym Crow! No Gym Crow!”

All along the street the chants were taken up, drowning out the “Majority Coalition.” Exhilarated, I crossed toward the rather forbidding pair of black students who seemed to be guarding the main doors to Hamilton Hall.

From above and behind, my approach was greeted with applause and cheers.

I noticed a pair of Columbia Security cops to my right. They stared at me as I passed. I reached the entrance. The taller of the blacks said to me, “Hey, brother,” and opened the door to me. I felt a surge of relief, a feeling that, at last, I was home.

For about seven hours, life was vivid, fascinating, dangerous and fun. There were meetings, votes, discussions, tomfoolery on every floor, in every room. They aren’t pertinent to my narrow, self-absorbed narrative except to say they delighted me, that all thoughts of self-destruction were forgotten.

Votes were taken on whether marijuana or liquor should be allowed. Both lost for obvious reasons of security and publicity. (However, I shared a joint with a black freshman, Billy MacFarland, in a broom closet—outlaws hiding from the outlaws.) Most of the discussions were preoccupied by the desire of the blacks to be alone in the occupation of Hamilton Hall. There were all sorts of abstract arguments brought to bear on this, but the most compelling, including for me, was the notion that they shouldn’t seem to be acting under the leadership of white radicals, shouldn’t allow the situation to appear as if they were merely followers. Of course, it hurt the feelings of the whites. (Especially mine; that transporting moment of being ushered in by a black who called me brother was spoiled.)

Around midnight, Sandy told me she was going to the apartment to
get
supplies. She kissed me, working her way to my ear, and whispered, “We don’t have to rush back.” I said no, mumbling I had promised somebody to help them watch the rear doors for a shift. That was an obvious lie, but Sandy didn’t challenge it. She asked Julie to go with her instead. Probably that had some significance; I didn’t think about it.

Half an hour later, I was on my haunches in a corner of the dean’s office listening to the white and black leaders debate tactics when Gus called me to the phone. “It’s Julie,” he said, with a puzzled look. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Listen, Rafe, we’re at the apartment.” Julie’s voice made a nervous whoosh in my ear. She was rattled, although she tried to sound valiant. “There were detectives waiting for us when we got here—”

The phone was taken from her and I heard a smooth, almost amused, male voice say, “Rafael? My name is Gunther. Your uncle hired me. We’ve got your cousin and her friend here. They’re fine. Nothing’s going to happen to them. But they’re gonna stay here with us until you come out. If you leave the building and the campus, you’ll find your uncle in a car right across the street from the gate. Once you’re with him, we’ll let Julie and her girlfriend go. I’ll put your cousin back on for a second.”

Julie’s trembling voice returned. “You have to come out, Rafe. You’re a minor. They can use this against us.”

Gus was next to me, smoking a cigar, wearing sunglasses, lounging in the dean’s chair. “What’s up, man?” he asked, seeing the stricken look on my face.

Someone turned up the volume on a transistor radio to hear a Stones song and I had to shout, “It’s Julie. My uncle’s outside. He’s got detectives holding Julie!”

This public announcement brought the attention of the student leaders. Once they understood who my uncle was, they were furious. Gus took the phone. He told Julie to run from the detectives. She explained that wasn’t possible. “We’ll call back,” he said.

“I’m going out,” I announced. I couldn’t allow my final day on earth to be another betrayal of people’s dreams, no matter how hopeless.

Most of the radicals were against that, black and white. Some thought it was a distraction. They argued back and forth. The majority didn’t believe my uncle would dare to continue to hold Julie and Sandy if they exposed him to the press.

“They’ll say it’s no different than what we’re doing,” I said and the whole room looked at me as if they had just noticed my existence. I had offered nothing to any of the discussions so far. I was happy to be a child among them, sharing their risks without fussing. I continued, “It’s my decision. I don’t want to fuck up what you’re doing.”

“That’s cool,” one the blacks said.

Gus called Julie to insist the detectives let them go before I walked out to Uncle. Predictably, they refused until I left the building. Julie told Gus not to worry, that they had no legal way of keeping her and Sandy and, without the threat of doing something about my “kidnapping,” she would be fearless.

Billy MacFarland, whom I had known for only five hours, accompanied me down the stairs and hugged me before I went out. “Tell the truth about us,” he said. He had confessed in the closet while we shared a joint, that he was sure this confrontation would end only with their deaths.

“Remember me,”
came into my head and, foolishly, but ardently, I said it to him.

On the street there were lots of people milling about, mostly supporters, and only one police car, although it was unmarked, parked behind my uncle’s limousine. The door was opened by his driver and I ducked into its dark interior. The leather seat didn’t give in to my body. I seemed to float on it.

“Don’t lie,” he said. “Did you go there to see if Julie was okay or join those hoodlums?”

“I went to join them,” I said.

He shifted in the seat, turning all the way to face me. “Why?” he said.

“Why not?” I said.

He slapped me. The blow was unrestrained, with none of my father’s embarrassment at losing control. My head hit the backrest and I let it remain there, sullenly. While the sting on my cheeks faded, I thought—nothing he does can hurt me anymore.

“Don’t talk to me like that. I don’t deserve that tone from you.” The car was on the move, carrying me away from the island of revolt, back to Uncle’s sleek city. “Do you know what Dr. Halston said to me?”

I shook my head, unconcerned. My secrets didn’t have to be kept anymore.

“He said this was a good sign.” Uncle made a noise. “The world’s crazy.”

“Did you let Julie and Sandy go?”

“That’s none of your business. You’re a child, do you understand? You’re a minor. You’re my ward. You don’t have anything to say about where you go and what you do. They think they understand the world. What a joke. They’re gonna get their heads broken and it’ll do them good.”

We were sweeping through Central Park, crossing to the East Side. I shifted to the door, pulled the handle, and it swung open. The black road moved like a swift river. I crouched on the car floor and hung my right foot out over its blurred surface. I shouted, “Let them go!”

“Sir,” The driver called.

On my haunches, I shifted my left foot closer, inches from diving off.

Uncle was still in his seat.

“Sir … ?” The driver slowed.

“Don’t stop,” Bernie said in a calm tone.

“Let them go!” I was screaming. I realized I sounded demented, although I felt fine. I felt good, in a way.

The river resumed being pavement when the limousine braked.

“Don’t slow down,” Bernie said to the driver in a casual tone.

The road became swirling black again. “I’ll do it!” I screeched. I think I was crying.

Bernie leaned forward and shouted, “For what? For two stupid girls? You’re worth a thousand of them.” He was almost face-to-face with me. “I was ready to give you the world! The whole fucking world.” In the odd light of the limousine, created by a band of floor bulbs and strobed by the rapid passing of the park’s street lamps, Uncle’s head was hideous and bloated, bigger than me, bigger than the car. “Everything else is just crap! There’s you!” He poked me, hard, on my forehead. “And nothing else! Just you! Nothing else!”

I couldn’t jump. I stayed halfway in, halfway out. Uncle settled back in his seat and looked out the window on his side. Eventually, we slowed down and stopped at a red light on the east side of the park.

The driver got out. He looked at me. “Could you put your foot inside, sir?” he asked.

I did.

“I’m locking the doors from the panel,” the driver said to Uncle. “Let me know when you want me to give you control.”

He shut my door.

I slumped onto the car floor, leaning against the seat. “I hate you,” I said without much energy or conviction.

“Who cares,” Uncle said with a similar lack of passion.

We stopped at his city apartment for twenty minutes. I was left in the locked car with the driver. Uncle went up, presumably to talk to Tracy, and returned with a suitcase. We drove to the Great Neck apartment in silence. It was almost three in the morning when we arrived.

“You’ll stay here tomorrow,” Uncle said, leading me to my room. “I’m going to see Halston in the morning. Obviously, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Uncle looked at my bed thoughtfully. “I should have known. Years ago.” Uncle left, saying, “Don’t even think of sneaking out.”

I opened the window. The air was mild, scented, alive. I tuned to WINS, the volume low, and listened to its hysterical, disapproving account of my friends in Hamilton Hall. There was no news. There would be soon, I knew, knew better than the grown-up world did. The whites would leave Hamilton and take over the other buildings, one by one, until the whole campus was shut down. I was sure, in my heart, they would be defeated, driven mad like my mother, cast out like my father, but I would not betray them. I would end my weakness, my greed, and my lying fantasies.

I took off my clothes and swallowed the whole bottle of pills. Across my body the spring air was delicious, a caress. The radio’s voice was ugly and strained. I couldn’t be a part of either the world’s fragile beauty or its persistent terror. And so, Rafael Neruda, traitor and coward, was put to death.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
Healing

A
FTER MY STOMACH WAS PUMPED AT
L
ONG
I
SLAND
J
EWISH,
U
NCLE
arranged for me to be admitted to the Turson Child/Adolescent Psychiatric Hospital on Manhattan’s Upper East Side to cover the ninety-day observation period required by law. A psychiatric resident, Dr. Susan Bracken, was assigned to my case. My life had been saved thanks to the conscientiousness of Uncle’s butler, Richard. Alerted by my uncle that we were coming home in the middle of the night, he tried to wait up, only to doze off. Starting awake at four A.M. and finding that he had missed our entrance, Richard crept up to my door, heard the radio playing faintly and looked in to ask if I wanted something. He noticed the open window and my nakedness. Deciding I would catch a chill, he fetched a blanket and, while covering me, saw my note and the bottle of pills.

Susan Bracken is nearly six feet tall and has strong features as well as a deep voice, but she speaks mildly, probably an old habit from adolescent self-consciousness about her size. She came to interview me in my private room the following evening. She pulled the shades on my barred window, depriving me of a gloomy view of the East River shrouded by rain.

She startled me right away. “You really wanted to do away with yourself, didn’t you?” she said, pulling a metal folding chair next to my bed. My legs and arms were in restraints. My mouth was perpetually dry and my head throbbed. I watched her cross those long legs, her white doctor’s smock swishing noisily. She glanced at the folder she had opened, propped by a knee. “You took so many Seconals that even getting to you so fast one of the emergency team was sure you’d be a vegetable.” She smiled. “Actually, if my memory of the ER guys is right, they don’t say vegetable, they say zucchini.”

I didn’t think her funny. I stared through the stabbing pain in my temples, wishing I could fire them out and disintegrate her.

“Lookit,” she said. “I’m gonna lay my cards on the table. I know a lot about you already. I’ve got your—” she held up my farewell letter “—what do I call it? A suicide note? I mean, it’s eight pages long. It’s almost a short story.” She lowered her flat wide brow, like an ape’s I thought at the time, and studied my document. Thanks to her heavy forehead and deep-set eyes I couldn’t see their color or expression.

“You’re ugly,” I said to her.

“The way I’m talking? Or the way I look?” She untangled her legs, leaving my folder on her thighs, and comically spread her arms as if displaying herself.

“Both.” My voice, from disuse and the hangover, was a croak.

“Really? Everyone tells me I’m a,” she put a sarcastic emphasis on the word,
“handsome
woman.” She smiled at me. “I think I prefer being called ugly. Anyway, it’s rather unusual for a suicide as determined as you to survive. I would say the chances you’ll try it again are excellent. Oh, maybe not right away. You’ll be too depressed for a while. Funny thing, but killing oneself seems to take a certain amount of effort. Real depression is just too overwhelming even to plan a suicide. Anyway, I’ve also, thanks to your uncle, got all of Dr. Halston’s private notes. That’s quite unusual as well, but I guess your uncle can make unusual things happen.”