Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (63 page)

“This is spooky,” Diane said.

“I always say to Joey,” Harlan commented in a wistful tone, as if he were talking about the very distant past, “this is where they keep Kennedy’s brain.”

I smiled. Diane said, “I feel dumb. What do you mean?”

The elevator shuddered as it stopped. “It’s missing,” Harlan said grimly.

I pulled the elevator gate open. “We’ll find Joe and Kennedy’s brain.”

Harlan nodded, trying to smile. He moved on, turning to the right. The hall was gloomy, although wide. He passed two dented gray metal doors, stopping at the third.

I touched his shoulder as he reached for the knob. “Wait,” I said. Maneuvering around Harlan, I put my ear to the door. I heard something, too faint a noise to identify.

“Somebody’s in there,” I whispered. “Would you pretend not to be here?”

“What?” Harlan was outraged.

“I think it’s possible he’ll answer if only
I
call out, as if I’m alone.”

Harlan looked at Diane. She nodded encouragingly. He looked back at me. “That sucks,” he said.

“Because I’m less important to him, I’m easier to face.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

I knocked. Not loudly or insistently. Casual. I waited. No response from inside. “Joseph,” I called out, loud, but only to be heard. “It’s Rafe. I took a wild guess you’d be here.”

I thought I heard a cough. Then nothing.

“Come on, Joe, it’s spooky out here. You know me, I’m not gonna bug you. Just want to talk.”

Nothing.

Harlan whispered, “Maybe the guard has a key.”

I heard something shatter. Glass, I thought. Harlan reached for the knob. I caught his hand and shouted, “Joe! It’s Rafe. I’m alone. Don’t leave me out here. It’s too fucking scary.” I motioned for Harlan and Diane to move away. Diane urged Harlan down the hall and he allowed himself to be towed away.

I knocked again. “Come on, Joe, or I’m gonna get really scared.”

Without a warning sound of feet or a lock turning, the door opened. Joseph faced me, bare-chested under a partially unzipped black nylon warm-up jacket. He stared at me through smudged eyeglasses as if I were an intrusive door-to-door salesman. “How did you get here?”

“Harlan brought me.”

Alarm. The door began to close. “He’s here?”

“No.” I stepped in, forcing Joe to move back. “Just me.” I shut the door without locking it. I blinked at the bright, expensively furnished place, as different from the gloomy hall as possible. It consisted of two large rooms, the first an office, jammed with desks, computers, printers, file cabinets and, I noticed, an elaborate stereo system. Everything was well-ordered, the kind of neatness I associated with Joseph’s mother’s housekeeping. The partition to the other room was mostly glass, as was the door. There light also flooded a big room, dominated by row after row of chemistry tables, covered by microscopes and big machines I couldn’t recognize, as well as racks of beakers. In the lab, things were jammed together and, although it might be as organized as the first room, my eye couldn’t tell if that were so—it appeared as a jumble of incomprehensible technology.

“I don’t have to explain?” Joe said quietly.

“It’s definite?” I asked.

“Oh, he’ll do another, just for form’s sake. They’re pretty sloppy sometimes, but,” Joe grinned, “what would you think if I told you I expected a different result? Denial, denial, denial.” The grin disappeared. “You want to see something funny?” Joe opened a filing cabinet, flipped confidently through it, came out with a folder, and removed a letter. He gave it to me.

I sat on a desk and read. The letter was from a prominent AIDS researcher, apparently also an acquaintance, upbraiding Joseph for ignoring AIDS in his work. He pleaded with him at least to help raise money, if not devote himself to the search for a cure. The letter wasn’t formal: he accused Joseph of being a self-hating gay man, frightened of exposure if he associated himself with AIDS; he begged Joseph to accept his identity and become an inspiring scientific gay leader. I checked the date: two years ago.

“Such bullshit,” Joseph said when I finished. “I was scared, that’s all. Like a superstitious Jew from the shtetel. Close your eyes and it’ll go away.”

“I thought you didn’t want to come out because of your mother.”

“That’s everybody’s excuse.” I gave him the letter back. He made sure it lay flat in the folder. He returned the document to its rightful place solemnly, pushing the cabinet shut slowly. “He wouldn’t respect that. And, tell you the truth, even if Mom died I don’t think I’d,” he added mockingly, “‘come out.’” He pushed the cabinet flush with a bang of emphasis. “Why the fuck should I have to announce my sexuality? Do you have to announce you’re heterosexual? Do you come with any warning labels? Do you tell your patients your mother committed suicide?” I must have shown a pained reaction. He put his small hands out, saying, “I’m sorry. There’s no comparison.” Joseph lowered his head. I noticed his baldness had progressed a lot, leaving him little more than a laurel. He raised his head abruptly and squealed, “I just don’t care about viruses! They’re not interesting. Not compared to the brain.” He wandered away from me, pleading to his file, “I wanted to find out how
we
work, all of us, how we’re different from the animals, not how a fucking disease works. Who wants to study the Nazis when you can study Einstein?” Joseph walked into the second room and talked to the lab. “What kind of scientist drops everything because something is killing the people he wants to fuck?” He passed down a row of tables, turned and sat at a corner. My vision was partially blocked by a row of big white machines. I heard something crunch and wondered if he were eating potato chips.

I followed him in, stopping a few feet from his seat. The area around him was covered with glass shards, apparently from broken beakers. There was a tart odor I worried about, being ignorant. Had he allowed something toxic free?

“Why am I gay?” Joseph asked me with the innocence of a child.

I smiled.

“No, I’m serious. What’s the current psychobabble? You know where we’re at—is the hypothalamus smaller, is it bigger, is it pink? Are we genetically encoded? Can we find the address? I never really gave a shit. Small potatoes. If I found the answer to how this works,” he jabbed at his head, “then we know everything.” He reached into one of the white machines and came out with a beaker, holding it gingerly by its curved lips. He let go. It smashed on the floor. I winced, afraid of flying glass. “I’m not gonna know now, even if it’s possible to know. Maybe it’s not for us to see. Maybe the brain is the face of God. So, tell me, please tell me, why am I a faggot?”

“Are you destroying important work?” I asked.

“Of course not. This is childish,” he gestured to the circle of broken glass. “There are records of everything. It can all be done again. I’m being a great big baby.” He lifted another beaker and released. After the crash, he insisted, “Tell me. You’ve always been real polite about it. Why do I like men? ’Cause Mom is so anal? ’Cause Dad used to kiss me on the lips? ’Cause she used a rectal thermometer until I was thirteen?”

I laughed. “Well, they’re more accurate, aren’t they?”

“I really don’t want to die,” Joseph said, eyes filling suddenly. “You know, I thought I was gonna be the exception.”

“Harlan said you were both careful.”

“No, not the exception to AIDS. I thought I was going to be the first person to live forever.” He reached under his glasses to wipe away tears, although none had fallen.

“Joe, just so that I’m sure of what’s going on, you don’t have fullblown AIDS, do you?”

“Ain’t I lucky?”

“You could live for a very long time. They might find a maintenance cure, like insulin. Supposedly—”

Joseph pushed the white machine off the table. I think it sparked when it hit. Many beakers fell and the noise was terrific. A small cloud of smoke rose and dissipated quickly.

“Denial, denial, denial!” Joseph shouted. Screamed actually, out of control.

I let the noise settle. When Joe was finished yelling, he became transfixed by something behind me. I glanced back. Harlan stood at the entrance to the lab. Diane lingered in the office. The lovers looked deeply at each other: Harlan’s light blue eyes sweet and pleading; Joseph’s small and dark behind his dirty glasses; they seemed cold and unsympathetic. Did he blame Harlan? How could he? Was he angry that Harlan had tested negative? Was the rage general and merely being displayed? After a long moment of this mute exchange, Joseph returned to me and asked, “Come on. Enough politeness. Tell me why. For once, I won’t give you an argument.”

I stood up. “I’ll let you two—”

“No!” Joseph banged the table with his fist. It made no sound and must have hurt. “Tell me. I really want to hear.” His eyes had welled up again. “Come on, Rafe. It’s a simple question. I’m gonna die ’cause I like it up the ass. I deserve some kind of answer, don’t I?”

“There are a lot of different ideas—”

“I want
your
answer. Don’t bullshit me. I don’t give a fuck about other people’s theories.” Joseph lowered his head again, as if he were praying to Mecca. “Please,” he whispered. “Say something I can think about. Something I can believe. Something I can make fun of.” He seemed to be crying, although when he raised his head, no tears had dropped from his full eyes. “Give me something to think about, Rafe.”

“I think it’s very specific, Joe. I don’t believe in general theories.” Harlan had gradually moved closer, only a foot or so behind me. I turned to go; allow him to take my place.

“Well, you know a lot about my fucking specifics,” Joe said. “Don’t turn away from me.” I faced him, side by side with Harlan. “So why me?” Joe insisted. “I never wanted women. Not once. I was born this way. I don’t remember ever having a choice. That’s the way it feels for me. But you think that’s crap, right? It’s ’cause Mom didn’t let me sit on the furniture, ’cause she wouldn’t let me have sleepovers with my buddies, ’cause she wouldn’t leave me alone, not for one fucking minute.” He really began crying now, head forward, propped up by his fingers, speaking to the hard surface of the lab table. Harlan pushed past me and bent over Joe, rubbing his back and shoulders tenderly, kissing his neck, his cheek, his temple.

I turned to go.

“No!” Joe shouted. Looking back, I saw Harlan had stepped away, off to the left. My friend was on his feet, yelling at me. “Come on! Give me something.”

Harlan, Diane and Joseph were positioned on three sides of me, a triangle that felt like an ambush. I couldn’t hold down my sadness at my friend’s condition much longer. I knew right away what his death would mean to me. He was, the last connection to my childhood, the last person who knew me when I felt normal: the son of loving, energetic parents, part of a world that made sense.

“Remember
Portnoy’s Complaint?”
I said and giggled nervously. I had lost control.

Joseph lifted his glasses to wipe his wet face. “What?” he mumbled.

“Remember how much you liked it? You said it was your autobiography.”

Joe’s mouth hung open stupidly as he nodded.

“Philip Roth fucks women. He
loves
fucking women. Maybe he’s really gay and you’re really heterosexual. It doesn’t matter, Joseph. Theory is garbage. Ideas are white noise.” I smiled and opened my hands to the triangle of questions, gesturing to each, showing them that’s all I had to offer. They didn’t seem satisfied. I let my arms go wide and then slapped my chest hard with my palms, shouting, “We live here! Here! In our bodies.”

Harlan returned to Joseph’s side, putting an arm around his small lover’s shoulders. They looked at me as if I were a performer and they hadn’t made up their minds if they were enjoying the show.

“You’re not dying because you’re gay. And I won’t tell you why you’re gay. I know, but I’m not gonna tell you. Why not? Because you’re happy about it. You’ve always been happy about it. We’re not supposed to look at happiness, Joseph. It’s the face of God.”

He said something. So did Diane. I don’t remember what. I think I ended up crying more than Joseph, I’m not sure. I do remember that he teased me about it.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
Adjustment

P
HIL
S
AMUEL CAME TO
N
EW
Y
ORK ON OTHER BUSINESS.
H
E SUGGESTED
we meet for breakfast in Greenwich Village at Elephant & Castle, a restaurant whose clientele, wobbly wood tables, piped-in classical music, and menu of spinach omelets, croissants, and espresso provides the sort of atmosphere a tourist would expect from the neighborhood’s bohemian reputation. Actually, it’s a dowdy relic of the sixties, a haven for the now decidedly bourgeois population of aging gays, radicals and artists who live in the expensive town houses nearby. Phil beamed at our surroundings. He was dressed in a white Brooks Brothers button-down shirt, a single-breasted blue blazer that was an inch too short in the sleeves and beige corduroys smoothed at the knees.

After we ordered, he said, “I love New York. My wife and I came here for breakfast on our honeymoon.” He leaned forward to ask in a whisper about our waitress, “Is that a woman?” Her skinny body was covered in black, her head shaved to the nubs of a crew cut, and a diamond was embedded in her right nostril.

“Yes,” I said.

“Lesbian?” he asked, eyes restless, scanning the patrons.

“Maybe,” I said. “But not necessarily. Fifteen years from now she could be living in Scarsdale raising three kids.”

He laughed heartily.

“Although,” I added, “even raising kids in Scarsdale, she might still be a lesbian.”

“Right!” he said and laughed again. Our waitress reappeared. She plunked our coffees down with a sullen attitude, as if we were her boring male relatives and Mom had nagged her into helping out. “Thank you,” he said, trying to be friendly.

“Un huh,” she said and wandered off.

“Don’t the kids at Webster dress like that?” I asked.