Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil by Rafael Yglesias Read Free Book Online Page B

step squarely. It produced a powerful drive, a deep fly ball over my head, well beyond the curb to the house across the street, sure to reach its small lawn, a hit that, if it landed safely, would count as a grand-slam home run for the Dodgers and give them a formidable seven-to-four lead.
    I got a great jump on the ball because I had become so attuned to the sound it made on the steps. I ran sideways, watching it over my shoulder. The ball soared in the air, into that endless tropical blue sky, a sky so high it seemed to whiten out at its peak from proximity to the sun. Up there the ball appeared to float, hardly moving. I felt I had all the time in the world to catch up to it. Nothing existed but its flight and my pursuit. What a happy moment of absolute concentration! That is the immortality of athletics: in its sensual freedom there is no ego and no death.
    Unfortunately, in my case, in this athletic moment of absolute concentration, there was misjudgment and a hard surface. On the downward arc the ball picked up speed. I wasn’t gaining on its forward movement as readily as I thought. I leaped, without any conscious decision to do so, my left arm fully extended. When I landed I was surprised. I caught the ball all right, a brilliant diving save for the Yankees, but my right arm hadn’t hit the soft grass. It flopped against the paved walkway to the neighbor’s door. I heard a bone snap; the sound was as loud and clear as if I had stepped on a stick in the woods.
    I didn’t feel any pain at first, but my stomach contracted and I was nauseated. I was humiliated also. I had made the catch, but who would believe me? Only the clumsy injury would be remembered. Then the pain started—a stabbing inside my right forearm. And yet I didn’t let go of the glove and ball in my left hand. I wanted to prove that I had in fact made the catch and saved the Yankees.
    I pulled up my knees and rolled a bit onto my side. Moving my broken arm scared me. I imagined the loose bone would poke out through my skin into the air. I threw up.
    At the end of my grandparents’ street you could turn right or left—but straight ahead stood a large church. Lying on my side, askew on the neighbor’s lawn, I saw a pastel blue car parked by the church’s curbside. Three men were seated in it. The two in front, both wearing hats, didn’t see me. But the man in back looked right at me. He had on a baseball cap and aviator sunglasses. The roof of their car was white, a satin white that made a brilliant contrast with the car body’s pale color. It looked to me as if the vehicle was also wearing a hat, a broad panama like the one my Grandpa put on when we went out to a restaurant.
    I called to the man in the back. I was scared to move my arm and anyway I had no energy left: no water in my body, no food in my belly. I doubt that I managed to shout loudly or say much more than a feeble, “Help.” Evidently he didn’t care I was hurt. My mother and father were atheists and at eight I had a suspicion of churches and the people who liked to go to them. The indifference of these parishioners didn’t surprise me. In fact I gave up on them, suddenly afraid to accept their help.
    I removed my hand from the glove. Although scared to touch it, I put my left hand underneath my broken right arm and raised it gingerly. The block of small houses and palm trees blurred as I sat up. For a moment I thought I would retch again.
    “Rafael … ?” My grandmother had noticed the cessation of my ball throwing. She appeared on the interior side of the screen door. Because of her position, I saw only her white hair floating, a disembodied wig. “I broke it,” I croaked.
    She didn’t hear me. She opened the screen door and came out onto the porch, carrying her dust mop. I called to her again, but a nearby car started up and drowned out my plea.
    I struggled to my feet. My legs were wobbly; holding my arm across my stomach also defeated an attempt to balance. I managed