Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil Read Free Page A

real one—”
    “Call it what it is,” my mother interrupted. “A door prize.”
    She was shushed by the grown-ups. The children, including me, ignored her. But my uncle didn’t. He flicked a glance in her direction and the emotion in his eyes amazed me. It was contempt and hatred. But only a flash. Immediately, his eyes were friendly again and he continued in his smooth deep voice, a resonant cello, “I hid the real one while you were playing outside. The child who finds that Afikomen will find it not only because of his intelligence and his perseverance but because of the strength of his character.”
    My mother made a rude sound with her lips. Daniel got out of his chair to leave the table. His father restrained him; Uncle Bernie hadn’t signaled us to begin our search.
    Bernie ignored my mother’s contemptuous noise. Instead, he smiled generously at Daniel. “You stand like greyhounds in the slips,” his cello vibrated. “Straining upon the start.” Bernie raised his right hand, decorated with tufts above the knuckles. “The game’s afoot,” he said and waved his arm like a racing flag.
    Daniel and the others bolted. I made my move as well, running behind Uncle’s chair and passing four or five other adult relatives, until I was caught up short. A hand had taken hold of my left arm. The sudden yank caused me to stumble. I fell against the chair of the person who had stopped me. It was my mother.
    “You stay here,” she said and she sounded angry. I assumed she was angry at me. “You’re not playing this stupid game.”
    “Mom,” I complained and tried to wriggle out of her grasp. My struggle for freedom proved how much I wanted to win that contest. I was not a bold child. In fact I suffered from acute shyness, especially in front of adults, and although these grown-ups were my people, some were totally unknown to me, thanks to my mother’s role as the family black sheep. I was shy and I was not defiant of my parents. Normally, if my mother grabbed me in public and forbade me from something in an angry tone I would obey her injunction silently, if unhappily. Indeed, my attempt to get away so surprised her that I easily freed my wrist from her loose grip. For a moment we exchanged a look of mutual shock at my action—and then I ran.
    Uncle’s formal dining room had a wall of glass, allowing a panoramic view of his unblemished lawn sloping to the water—the pool and tennis court were placed discreetly on the ground’s perimeter. I ran from there into a huge living room, itself the length of most people’s homes. It too had a view of Long Island Sound; only here it was provided by four windows with small panes of leaded glass, a kind of latticework that distorted the manicured lawn and tranquil water into a moody Impressionist painting. Two cousins were in there, one on his knees checking the wall cabinets, another on his belly peering under the sofas and love seats.
    My mother pursued me. She caught me as I reached the large central hall, painted a light yellow color, and dominated by a sweeping dark mahogany staircase. My cousins’ feet thudded and trampled on the second floor; occasionally they raced across the landing in their movement from one bedroom to another. They were having their chance at glory while I was under arrest. This time Ruth’s grip on my arm was tight and painful. She was incensed. Today, I suspect she was more humiliated that I had defied her in front of her siblings than infuriated by my contrariness. At the time I was baffled by her. “Don’t ever run from me like that again!” she shouted. Her words hurt, too. The violence of her tone hurt. “You’re not going to play this ridiculous game! You’re not a performing monkey!”
    “I wanna!” I protested and pulled at her grip. This confrontation changed my understanding of myself and her. I was shy, I was obedient, yet I was willing to fight her. And, although I was not to understand why for many years to come, I