“But bad memories can be… helped. Cured.” Using the C-word they’d tried to drum out of me in grad school. Linda said, “Mejor. Curado.”
Several of the women leaned forward.
“Mothers,” I said, “are a child’s best helpers- the best teachers of their children. Better than doctors. Better than anyone else. Because a mother knows her child better than anyone. That’s why the best way to cure a bad memory is for the mother to help the child.”
“What can we do?” said a girlish-looking woman with thick black eyebrows and long coarse black hair. She wore a pink dress and sandals. Her English was barely accented.
“You can let your children know it’s okay to talk about being afraid.”
She said, “Gilberto, when he talks he gets more afraid.”
“Yes, that’s true. In the beginning. Fear is like a wave.”
The long-haired woman translated.
Puzzled looks all around.
I said, “At first, when a child meets something that scares him, the fear grows, like a wave. But when he goes into the water and swims- gets used to the water- the wave grows small. If we pull the child away when the wave is high, he never sees that, never learns how to swim and remains afraid. If he gets a chance to feel strong, in control, that’s called coping. When he copes, he feels better.”
More translation.
“Of course,” I said, “we have to protect our children. We never throw them right into the water. We stay with them. Hold them. Wait until they are ready. Teach them to conquer the wave, to be stronger than the wave. With love, and talk, and playing games- giving permission to the child to swim. Teaching him to swim first in the small waves, then the bigger ones. Moving slowly, so the child is not frightened.”
“Sometimes,” said the long-haired woman, “it’s not good to swim. It’s dangerous.” To the others: “Muy peligroso. Sometimes you can drown.”
“That’s true. The thing is-”
“El mundo es peligroso,” said another woman.
The world is dangerous.
“Yes, it can be,” I said. “But do we want our children afraid all the time? Never swimming?”
A few headshakes. Doubtful looks.
“How?” said a woman who looked old enough to be a grandmother. “How can we make it not be dangerous?”
All of them looking at me, waiting. For my next words of wisdom. A cure.
Fighting back feelings of impotence, I said the things I’d planned to say. Offered small remedies, situational tinkering. Baby steps across a vast, cruel wasteland.
Afterward, when Linda and I were alone in her office, I said, “What do you think?”
“I think it went fine.”
I was sitting on the L-shaped sofa and she was picking dead leaves off a potted devil ivy.
“The thing that bugs me,” I said, “is that basically they’re right. The world they live in is dangerous. What could I tell them? Pretend it’s Dick-and-Jane territory and go merrily skipping along?”
“You do what you can, Alex.”
“Sometimes that doesn’t seem like much.”
“Hey,” she said, “what is this, role reversal? When I told you the same thing, you gave me a nice little speech about making a difference on an individual level.”
I shrugged.
She said, “C’mon, Doctor. Moping doesn’t become you.”
She came around behind me and placed her hand on the back of my neck. Her touch was cool and soothing. “Why so low all of a sudden, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Probably a combination of things.” Things that seemed out of context but had stuck in my mind. Snapshots in a homicide file, a little boy who’d be college-age by now. Things I didn’t want to talk about.
I said, “One thing that gets to me is knowing Latch will come out of this smelling sweet. He buttonholed me after the show, trying to play Mr. Sensitive Guy in front of his wife. I let it ride for a while, tried to get through to him that this impulsiveness isn’t what the kids need. That some of them had actually gotten scared by the concert. He couldn’t have cared less. I half-expected him to rip open his shirt and have on one of those you’ve-obviously-mistaken-me-for-someone-who-give-a-shit T-shirts underneath. So I lost my cool, let on that I knew all he cared about was making political points. That got a rise out of him. So now I’m a bipartisan loudmouth. I’ve made fast friends on both sides.”
She began massaging my neck. “So you’re not a politician. Good for you. He’s slime. He deserved it.”
“His wife just might agree with you. I got the distinct impression theirs isn’t the ultimate love match.”
“Know what you mean,” she said. “He introduced me to her, and I did pick up on a certain lack of warmth on her part. Maybe she’s got on one of those T-shirts herself. Under the designer duds. Did you see that rock?”
“Power to the people,” I said.
“Serves him right if she hates him- for marrying money. Serves both of them right. Darned Cadillac Commies.” She laughed. “I just hate it when Daddy’s correct.”
A moment of silence while her fingers kneaded my neck. Then she said, “Daddy. He’s my wave, you know. I’m still figuring out what to do about him: Can I ever forgive him? Can there ever be anything good again- any family?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“You’re pretty sure about that, huh?”
“Sure I’m sure. You’re a smart kid. Your instincts are good.”
“Smart kid. That so?” She put her face next to mine. “My instinct, right now, is to do something lewd in this office.”
“Like I said…”
“However,” she said, standing, “my better judgment- my superego- reminds me I’ve got work to do and a faculty meeting in twenty minutes.”
I said, “Aw, shucks,” and got up.
She pulled me to her and we embraced.
“You’re a sweet, sweet man,” she said. “And I’m glad you let me see you in a down mood, that you trusted me enough not to be Mr. Perfect.”
I kissed her neck.
She said, “Whatshername was crazy to let you go.” Then she tightened in my arms. “God, what a stupid thing to say. My mouth is really running-”
I silenced her with another kiss. When we broke apart, I said, “I want to see you tonight.”
“I’ve got homework.”
“Skip it. I’ll write you a note.”
“Bad influence.”
“I certainly hope so.”
23
I was home by four and picked up three messages. None from Howard Burden, one from his father inquiring whether Howard and I had connected yet, and a couple of throwaways from people wanting to sell me things I didn’t need. I put those aside and returned the last one- from a Superior Court judge named Steve Hupp, with whom I’d worked on several child-custody cases. I reached him in chambers. He wanted me to consult on a custody battle between a famous entrepreneur and a famous actress.
“I do all the famous ones, Alex,” he said. “Particularly wonderful people, these two. She claims he’s a psychopathic coke-sniffing pederast; he claims she’s a psychopathic coke-sniffing nymphomaniac. For all I know they’re both right. She’s got the kid in Switzerland. They’ll pay your expenses to fly over there and evaluate. You can work in some skiing while you’re over there.”
“Don’t ski.”
“Buy a watch, then. Or start a bank account. You’ll earn plenty on this one.”
“Attorneys on retainer?”
“Both sides. It’s been going on for over a year.”
“Sounds like a real mess.”
“Truthfully? It is.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass, Your Honor.”
“Thought you would. But if you have a change of heart, let me know. You can change the names, write a screenplay, and get rich.”
“So can you, Steve.”