Free Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil by Rafael Yglesias Page A

children receiving medicine at no charge, but the spread of the parasites had been stopped. How? Simply by handing out free shoes to each and every Cuban child. Evidently the worms entered through cuts on their feet. “You know how we’ve all seen pictures of happy children in tropical countries, running barefoot?” my father said. “It isn’t because they’re so carefree. It’s because their parents have no money to give them shoes.”
    That wasn’t his last anecdote, despite the promise to my mother. But I didn’t hear the next one. I dozed off, thinking of those insidious worms, picturing them crawling into my feet. I didn’t know they got in as microscopic eggs; I imagined fully developed creatures puncturing my skin. I saw them slither up into my stomach, winding around and around, ropes of quivering slimy robbers, eating me alive.
    There was one sitting on my chest as I slept, crawling toward my face.
    I woke up screaming.
    Once my mother calmed me, I was hungry. My arm didn’t hurt at all. Grandma cooked biftec palomillo and plátanos for my father and me. We ate dinner side by side at the yellow kitchen Formica table. Grandma, Grandpa and Mom watched us. Grandpa was full from snacking on the Cuban sandwiches he had bought coming back from the airport; Grandma ate at the counter while cooking; and my mother refused any food. She touched her flat stomach and insisted she had gained too much weight.
    “You’re very beautiful,” Grandma answered. “But you’re too skinny,” she added in a friendly tone.
    “I love you Mama,” my mother said to her. They hugged at Grandma’s post by the stove with as much feeling as if they were saying goodbye for a long time. “I need to have you with me all the time,” Ruth said as they let go of each other.
    The fried bananas were sweet and, thanks to my Grandmas technique, weren’t greasy. I ate as many as my father did. He was silent. His eyes were alive with internal conversation and speeches. I understood that he was rehearsing for the radio program. I could see his lips occasionally part and seem to whisper something. When his mother touched the back of his head lovingly he didn’t react. After he finished his dinner and was waiting for his espresso, my mother reached over and took his hand. He squeezed it but still looked through and beyond her.
    Outside, the sky—blue all day—was now being churned by black clouds. I saw lightning flash, cutting across one of the dark masses in the sky. Huge drops of rain followed. They splattered noisily against the windows. Thunder cracked above us. The noise was clear and terrible: as if God had broken the sky across His knee.
    I wanted to run and hide in the bedroom. I was too embarrassed for that. But I did slide off my chair and hide under the table.
    The grown-ups laughed good-naturedly. The room had darkened so much from the black rain clouds that Pepín turned on the kitchen light. I stayed under the table. I took hold of my cast with my free hand; for the first time I was glad to feel my new armor.
    “No Pepito,” Grandma protested about the light. She believed it was dangerous to use electricity while there was a lightning storm.
    There was a clap right above us, ear-splitting and awful. All the lights went out. My mother shrieked in surprise. I must have screamed. The next thing I knew my father was beside me. He had folded up his tall body and crawled under the table. He winked at me. I was so scared by the thunder that at first I didn’t get his joke of a performance of boyish fear. I thought he was as scared as me.
    “Mira, Francisco!” my grandmother said, chuckling.
    Again the sky split open. This time Grandma exclaimed at the boom.
    “I’m getting under there with you,” my mother said. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes (she was dressed up for the radio show) and scrambled next to my father and me. She gathered me in her arms and snuggled Francisco. I smelled his aftershave and her perfume. The