The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  “She sounds wonderful.”

  “Well, I’m glad you think so, because she’s gonna get all up in your face with her wonderfulness very soon.”

  I guess I didn’t really have a mental image of what the farm would look like. Based on the way Bernadette has described her parents, I expected it to be dilapidated in a bohemian sort of way, with a lot of homemade garden art and stoned hippies wandering around. I was right about one thing. There’s a lot of handmade garden art. It’s a working farm, and it’s quaint and pretty well-maintained and gorgeous. It’s less than ten acres from the look of it—maybe half of it’s vegetable and flower crops, and the rest is pasture and woods.

  As we drive up the gravel road to the big farmhouse, I see a few goats and chickens roaming around, and so does Daisy. She makes a noise I’ve never heard her make before. She’s so excited that Bernadette doesn’t even notice her mother and father have come out to greet us. I park and turn off the engine, waiting for Bernadette to get out first.

  Again, her parents are not at all what I expected. Leslie is beautiful but in a very different way from her daughter. Her hair is lighter and curlier. She’s thin and tan and fit, from working outside I suppose, but she does have a bit of a hippie thing going on with her long skirt and crystal pendants hanging everywhere. Steve looks more like a hip professor of art than a farmer/artist, with his round eyeglasses and black jeans. His arm is in a sling, but he looks healthy as a horse to me.

  It’s not until they descend upon their daughter that I get a hint of why she’s so hesitant to interface with them. She looks like she’s drowning in hugs and questions and positivity. I hear the words “reconnect” and “plug into nature” and “meditate on what it really means to create” thrown around before I even hear them say “hello” to her. They do an actual group hug. Bernadette is the first to pull away, of course. She turns to me. I’m holding on to Daisy so she doesn’t run off and attack a chicken.

  “Guys, this is Matt McGovern and Daisy.”

  “Welcome to Good Culture Farm, Matt and Daisy!” Steve says. “I’m Steve.” He holds out his good hand to shake mine and pats Daisy on the head. “Thanks for driving our baby all this way.”

  “Dad.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  Leslie’s laughing so hard she doesn’t seem to be able to speak. She holds her stomach. “Oh my God! Bernie! He’s so handsome! It’s just stupid!”

  “I know.”

  Bernadette’s mother just stands there, head tilted, regarding me. “I mean, how do you even paint this face?”

  “I know!”

  “You just have to sculpt him, right?”

  “I guess,” Bernadette says, “but there’s kind of a softness underneath the sculpted features that demands a nice sharp soft pencil, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes,” her mother says. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  “Black ink,” Steve says, like that’s a complete sentence and the end of the discussion.

  Mother and daughter both stare at me, and it’s not awkward at all.

  I’m kidding. It’s totally awkward.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Leslie.” I offer my hand to shake.

  “Oh, Matt! Look at us, just staring at you. This must happen to you all the time.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “It’s so good to meet a friend of Bernie’s—and a boyfriend, no less.”

  “Mom.” Bernadette goes to grab our bags from the trunk, reprimanding her dad when he tries to help.

  “Ohhh, and look at this little cutie! Hi Daisy! Hello little puppy dog! We should put the chickens away so she can run around.”

  I get the leash on Daisy and put her down on the ground. “It’s okay. I’ll hang on to her for now.”

  Leslie Farmer shakes her head and touches her heart as she leads us up the stairs to the wraparound front porch and inside their house. “This is such a wonderful surprise. After the morning we had here, what a beautiful thing to have you three visiting us. I can’t wait to connect over dinner. We’ll let you get settled in Bernie’s room upstairs, and just so you know, Matt…we are very open about sex in this house.”

  “Mom!”

  “I don’t mean open like an open relationship. I mean if you want to have sex with our daughter while you’re here, you go right ahead.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “We’re the opposite of cockblockers!”

  “Don’t be so sure, Mom.”

  “Don’t listen to Negative Nelly over there. We let her have boys sleep over when she was in high school.”

  Wow.

  “Oh my God, Mom! Zip it!”

  “We taught her to be free and open about her sexuality, very early on.”

  “Again, I appreciate that.”

  Leslie Farmer winks at me and nudges my arm.

  “You take the kids upstairs, Les, I’m gonna take a nap on the sofa down here. I’m beat,” Steve says as he ducks into the living room.

  “Aww, Dad, you get some rest. Don’t worry about us. But tell Mom to take it down a notch, will you?”

  “Not on yer life.”

  I notice a big painting over the fireplace and know immediately who painted it. It’s somehow earthy and ethereal at the same time. A vibrant fall landscape with gold tones that you just want to reach out and touch and stare at for hours. “Is that one of yours, Bernadette?”

  “Yeah.” She glances at it uncomfortably.

  “Isn’t it just fantastic? Our pride and joy.”

  “She painted this when she was sixteen,” her dad marvels. “I wish I had half her talent. You know she’s actually an artist, not just an assistant, right, Matt?”

  “I sure do.”

  Bernadette rolls her eyes. “Here we go. Go to sleep, Dad.”

  We go up the creaky pine wood stairs to the second floor. The hallways are wide, the ceilings high. There are books and candles and mason jars filled with wildflowers and herbs on every horizontal surface and paintings and framed photos on every vertical one. This house is rustic and warm and lived-in. I look back at Bernadette, who has the strangest expression on her face. Like someone who’s about to break a long fast by chowing down on everything that she knows will make her fat.

  “Not much has changed inside the house since you were last here, I think, Bern. Just a little more dust perhaps.”

  “The house looks great, Mom.”

  Leslie holds up both arms to present Bernadette’s room. It’s awash in filtered golden light streaming in from the windows. I let Daisy down when we step inside, and I don’t even notice the furniture. The first thing I see is the view from the picture window.

  It’s the forest’s edge from the painting of hers, the one that I want.

  19

  Bernadette

  “Was this the view you looked at every day when you were growing up?” Matt asks me once my mom finally leaves us alone in my room.

  “Yes.”

  “You really captured it.”

  “Thanks. Obviously it looks very different in the winter.”

  He chuckles. “Well, yeah.”

  Having Matt McGovern in my childhood bedroom is totally surreal, but he seems to feel quite at home here.

  I pick Daisy up so she can look out the window too, but all I can think about is my dad.

  “You don’t have to entertain us,” Matt says. “Go be with your dad.”

  Stop reading my mind!

  He takes Daisy from me. “We’ll go for a walk or something.”

  “Yeah, take her out to the pasture so she can run around. The bathroom across the hall is for us. My parents have their own. And I don’t know where their resident artist is staying, but probably downstairs.”

  “Resident artist?”

  “Yeah, they always have at least one Artist in Residence who’s supposed to help out with chores, in exchange for room and board. This guy sounds like a massive tool. Anyway…you guys get settled. I’ll go hang out with my dad for a bit.
Dinner here is usually pretty early.”

  “Cool,” he says, putting Daisy down. “We’ll be around.”

  I suddenly grab him and hug him tight. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  He strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head. “Where else would I be?”

  I swallow hard. The tip of my nose tingles. Damn him. Why’s he gotta be so damn perfect?

  My dad is lying on one of the deep cozy sofas with his head propped up on several pillows, while I sit on a leather pouf next to him. At fifty-seven, he’s still a striking and fit man, perfectly capable of handling the day-to-day running of a small subsistence farm with my mom—on top of teaching art to locals and painting for himself and hosting a summer art camp for kids. But he started complaining about aching joints and a sore back and neck a while ago. The complaining has since stopped as his recreational use of marijuana has started up again—for medicinal purposes. It’s not like my parents are potheads—not at all. But they’ve been casual users off and on for as long as I can remember, especially when they’re hosting other artists. Needless to say, it hasn’t exactly improved their organizational skills.

  I pick my dad’s eyeglasses up from the side table and clean them with my T-shirt. He always looks older and more vulnerable to me when he’s not wearing glasses, for some reason. “Are you in pain right now?”

  He smiles. “I’m fine, pumpkin. Honest. I mean, it’s a dull pain. They gave me an extra-strength Tylenol at the hospital. Fortunately, I didn’t mess up my dominant hand.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t do most of the things that you have to do around the farm with one hand!”

  “Yeah, well… We won’t be able to do the farmer’s market for a while. Unless we hire someone to help out.”

  “What about your resident artist? That’s the kind of thing he’s supposed to help you with.”

  “We’ll see. His stay here is almost up, actually. We’ve got a poet coming in next.”

  “Well, I hope he knows his way around a hoe.”

  “Actually, she’s in her seventies.”

  “Dad! You’re supposed to choose people who can help out around here!”

  “Her poetry is beautiful and she’s recently widowed. She needs a change of scenery.”

  “Well, then, how much money do you need in order to hire someone?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll talk to Bill. I’m sure we can find someone in town to come around a few times a week.”

  “Daddy. This is why I worry about you guys. What if something happens and you have really big medical bills?”

  He shrugs. “We’ll sell the farm.”

  “But the farm is your life.”

  “You and your mom are my life. And my art. But I can do that anywhere. You need to find something else to worry your pretty head about, kid. We’ll get by. We always have. You gotta trust that.”

  I look out the window and see Matt on an A-frame ladder, changing an outdoor lightbulb. My mom is nearby, playing with Daisy.

  “Seriously. Isn’t your Artist in Residence supposed to be helping you with things like lightbulbs? At the very least? I mean, where is this guy?”

  “Elijah? He’s probably in the barn, working on his project. He’s a very talented sculptor. You should see his stuff. He’s just a bit of a flake.”

  “Great. That’s exactly what you need around here.”

  “Hey. I’m serious. We’re fine. If you want a reason to keep your high-paying secretary job, we aren’t it. Why don’t we talk about what you’re really worried about?”

  I push myself up off the pouf. “Fantastic idea. I’ll go see if Mom needs help with dinner.”

  When I was little, I was happiest when I was in the kitchen with my mom, helping her make dinner. Surrounded by the scent of herbs and spices and fresh-baked bread, the only thing I had to worry about was whether or not the food would taste as good as it smelled. Now, as I stand here slicing freshly harvested organic potatoes, I am seriously considering hacking off my own hand just to get out of this conversation.

  “I just don’t understand why you’re so reluctant to give yourself to him completely,” she says as we look out the window, watching Matt run around with Daisy in the warm golden hour light that’s refracted through the trees. “You’re a couple. I see it—it’s so obvious. You’re a couple. You’re a little family with him and that dog.”

  “We just started dating a couple of weeks ago!”

  “Pssh! Your father and I got married after knowing each other for two weeks. When you know, you know. And I can see that you know, you just don’t want anyone else—including Matt—to know. What I don’t understand is—why? If we dig deep, we can get to the bottom of this before we sit down for dinner.”

  I put down the knife. “There’s nothing to dig, Mom. I mean, we have nothing in common. He’s a lawyer. I’m an artist. He’s stoic, and I feel like a spaz around him. He’s settled into his career, and I’m…let’s not talk about that. Anyway, we never even would have met if he weren’t staying next door to me. We’re very different.”

  “Different!” My mother coughs out the word while laughing. “You’re different from everyone on earth, Bernie! If that’s your excuse, then you’ll be alone forever.”

  “Well, maybe I should be.”

  “Shhh!” She immediately drops what she was doing to grab a dried sage wand (they’re literally all over the house), lights it, and waves it around in front of me to clear the air. “Never say things like that—don’t even think them!”

  I stand still, waiting for her to calm down. She places the sage back in its bowl and gets back to making dinner. “I know you didn’t mean that.”

  “No. I didn’t.” Please, let that be the end of it.

  She smiles, all dreamy-eyed, and says, “Wasn’t it Marc Chagall who said, ‘All colors are the friends of their neighbors and the lovers of their opposites.’?”

  Fuck, I love that quote.

  “Yes. Wasn’t it me who said, ‘Can we please talk about something else?’ Why can’t we just make awkward small talk or gossip about the people I grew up with like normal mothers and daughters?”

  “Because it’s a waste of time, and every minute we have together is precious.”

  “Geez, Mom. Are you a hippie or a Hallmark card?”

  “Are you an artist or a cynic? Honestly, Bernadette. Lately, I have to wonder.”

  This chills me to my bones. In Manhattan I’m considered a quirky nerd. In Vermont I’m a cynic. “I don’t want to be a cynic,” I whisper, grabbing at my mother’s arm like I need her to help me up.

  She immediately drops the asparagus she was rinsing in the sink and hugs me.

  “I like him so much, it scares me,” I whisper into her neck.

  “I know, sweet girl. He likes you too. I can tell.”

  “I’m just trying to enjoy the moment, because when I think about where this could be heading, I want to throw up.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” She cups my face with her damp hands. “You were always a such hopeless romantic growing up, and you’ve always been so afraid of that. I don’t know why. If it’s got something to do with your dad and me—well, let’s face it… It always comes down to the parents, doesn’t it? I’m sorry. It’s the opposite of what we want for you. We’ve been trying so hard to keep you open, but you just snap shut like a virgin’s knees at a frat party.”

  As much as I fear my mother’s words, she really does have a way with them.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of. Connecting at the soul level is not meant to be a frightening exercise, my dear. Between two people who love each other, it can be the lube that keeps things running smoothly, if you know what I mean.”

  “I always know what you mean, Mother.” Even when I don’t want to hear it.

  At dinner, we’re joined by the talented and completely useless Elijah, who is almost as bad at conveying information in person as he is on the phone. My parents regale Matt with stories of how they met and fell in love i
n NYC in the eighties. Their version makes them sound much more romantic and rebellious and like they deliberately chose to turn their backs on the New York commercial art world. Maybe they did. Maybe I really am a cynic.

  I am very grateful that both my parents managed to wait all the way until the fresh rhubarb and strawberry pie is served before bringing up the idea of me quitting my job so I can devote myself to my own art. They ask Matt for his opinion on the matter. He looks at me before answering.

  I know perfectly well that he feels the same way. He said so almost as soon as we met. But what he says is: “I think she’s really smart and knows what’s what, and she’ll do what’s right for her when it feels right.” He offers me a little smile, but what he’s just given me is something so big and lovely that I don’t know where to put it.

  My body tries to make room for it by squirting water out from the corners of my eyes.

  It’s humiliating.

  This happens every damn time I come home to visit. I’m always so vigilant, trying to hold everything together when I’m in New York, and when I get here I usually just cry and sleep.

  “Umm. I just… I need to be excused. I have to lie down for a minute,” I whimper as I run out of the dining room and upstairs. The tears are just pouring down my face, and I feel like a total freakshow.

  “Let her go, Matt. She’s just opening up the channels,” I hear my mom say. “It’s a good thing. We’ll let her be alone with her emotions.”

  Fuck these fucking emotions.

  I just cried into my pie, in front of the best guy I could ever hope for.

  I shut my bedroom door and dive into my bed, burying my face in the pillow that smells like lavender and fresh air and youthful romantic hopes and wishes. I let go of everything that I try to hold together when I’m marching through life in New York. I sob and I shiver because I am so in love with Matt McGovern, and I want to be and do so much more so I can have more to share with him. I want to be bold enough to tell the world that I want to be a famous painter, even if I might fail, and I want to be brave enough to look the man I love in the eye and tell him that I want to be with him even if it’s not fun and easy.