Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  As I rush down the hallway, my other roommates, Suzy and Robin, emerge from their small dark cave in the back like crustaceans crawling out of their shells. With eyes half closed they stumble toward the kitchen and the aroma of a real breakfast.

  By the time I return, an overly wound Bernard is recounting the Gil saga to them, starting at the beginning.

  As I race out the door Bernard interrupts himself to ask me, “Uh, Hallie, that was Steve in your bed with you, wasn’t it? But I didn’t recognize the woman.”

  “Actually that was Ray, my latest boyfriend of two weeks. And on the other side was Vanessa. She stayed over last night.”

  He gives me a curious look. “A ménage à trois. Mother would be so proud!”

  “Oh my gosh, no! Vanessa is Ray’s neighbor. She’s planning on going to school here next year. We ran out of beds.”

  “Of course. I’ve forgotten how loose everything is at college,” says Bernard. “I suppose all that’s missing is Toulouse-Lautrec sitting over in a corner painting away and immortalizing us for posterity.”

  Chapter Three

  TAKING AS MANY SHORTCUTS AS POSSIBLE, I JOG OVER WET LAWNS and across streets until I reach the edge of campus. Fortunately the Cleveland Art Institute doesn’t have the same bomb shelter décor as my high school. Ivy twines down the pale cement arches in front of reddish-brown brick buildings with large windows and elegant statuary tucked into the cornices. The library looks like a domed cathedral, with stained-glass windows and a cupola that is home to a nest of storks. And there’s plenty of space between the buildings for pedestrian paths, the edges dotted with pretty bluish-gray juniper trees, grassy patches where you can relax or study outside, and strategically placed wrought-iron benches on which to sit while sipping coffee and catching up with friends. It’s really wonderful. Though I suppose it wouldn’t be a very good marketing strategy to have an ugly art school.

  I slump into one of the last seats in the lecture hall just as the test books are being passed out. The tension is so palpable that if you close your eyes for a minute it’s actually possible to smell the coffee coming out of students’ pores and hear the prayers being sent heavenward to the Grade Gods.

  The exam isn’t too bad, though mostly because I met someone in a mechanical drawing class who took the course last semester and told me exactly what to study. However, a stop in Career Services afterward doesn’t turn out to be as big a success. All the salaried internships were snatched up a month ago and the only jobs left are either in warehouses or as data clerks and receptionists, paying $6.50 an hour.

  When I reach the apartment the windows are wide open and it smells as fresh as spring. Bernard has straightened up the kitchen and somehow organized the heaps of junk all over the living room into neat stacks. He appears pale but composed.

  “How was the test?” he asks.

  “Not nearly as good as your breakfast,” I say.

  “Now Hallie, I’ve been afraid to inquire, but what’s happening with your summer internship at that art gallery in Buffalo?”

  “Oh, I got it, all right. The only problem is that at the last minute I found out they don’t pay anything. The woman claims that it’s a ‘résumé builder.’ Sounds more like ‘slave labor’ to me. And I need to make some serious money this summer. Otherwise I’m going to be living in a tent next year and I’ll be paying off student loans from my nursing home.”

  “So I assume that you’re declining the position.” Bernard appears more relieved than disappointed.

  I scowl in the affirmative.

  “Thank heavens. Because you must come home ASAP. Brandt’s busy working on some laboratory project with a professor over at the community college. Apparently the high school ran out of experiments for him to do.”

  When I left for college, sixteen-year-old Brandt had taken my place as the local adolescent in distress and live-in gardener.

  “Quite the budding scientist, that boy,” Bernard continues, “but absolutely useless in the garden and the kitchen. Anyway, you simply must resume your role as yard person this summer. The grounds will not survive another season of Brandt!”

  Only I get the feeling Bernard has something other than just yard work in mind for me. But at least he seems to have regained a bit of his old enthusiasm.

  “And . . . ,” I prompt him.

  “It will be just like old times,” Bernard claims a shade too cheerfully.

  “And . . . ,” I say again as I watch him grow suddenly grim.

  “I need your help getting Gil back.” He sounds desperate. “Mother is no use at all with her live and let live nonsense. Whereas you’re clever about things like this. I need you!” he implores.

  And now I begin to understand why he’s shown up in the middle of the week.

  “Of course, you’ll receive a raise,” says Bernard. “How’s fifteen dollars an hour?”

  When you’re talking about tuition, rent, books, and art supplies, even fifteen dollars an hour doesn’t go very far. However, it’s not as if I have another job lined up. And there is a one-year scholarship being offered to the winner of the annual design competition sponsored by an advertising agency here in Cleveland. Only the entries are due at the end of June and I haven’t even begun to think about it.

  “All right. But on weekends I have to work on winning this stupid contest. And I’m not doing anything illegal. I want to get a fresh start back home.” After dropping out of high school, getting kicked out of the local casino for underage gambling, and then the bum rap over some stolen money, I’ve had enough of being the town miscreant.

  “Of course; you’ll become a model citizen, earn a plaque, and run for town council—I’ll throw wonderful tea parties with cucumber sandwiches like the Kennedy women used to do—and then you’ll go on to prosecute all of your old cronies and become the first woman President. Now, when can we leave?”

  “This horrible cat food campaign is due at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And I haven’t even started it yet.” How did I get so behind? A string of ill-fated romances is how. This is another good thing about college: It teaches you to answer your own questions.

  “Perhaps I can help,” offers Bernard. “I could think up a jingle, or rather, a little kitty ditty.”

  “Thanks. But it’s computer stuff. And it’s going to take all night.” This deadline crunch is my own fault. There’d been plenty of time to do the damn thing. My mind has just been elsewhere. On how to lose my virginity in two semesters or less, to be specific.

  “Very well, then I’ll prepare a fortifying repast for everyone,” says Bernard. “You’ve all been working much too hard. For dinner we need comfort food—meatloaf, garlic mashed potatoes, an enormous spinach salad with hot dressing, macaroni and cheese, creamed corn, and Bernard’s Very Berry Crumble for dessert.”

  “Anything but pizza sounds good to me.”

  “How many gourmands do you think we can expect?”

  “If kids find out that you’re cooking, probably around twelve.”

  Bernard heads out to the grocery store and I hit the books—or rather, the keyboard.

  Debbie invites her drawing professor to dinner, who she suspects has a crush on Bernard. A few months ago he drove all the way to Bernard’s antiques shop supposedly to see some Victorian pencil sketches. And then he stayed for over three hours.

  By the time we all reconvene, everyone appears to be in good spirits. The two men indeed seem to get on well at dinner. The wine flows, the food is delicious, and we stuff ourselves into carbohydrate comas.

  Bernard says not to worry about the messy kitchen and waves us students off to finish our projects while he and Professor Harris clean up and then sit around the kitchen talking. The first time I go for coffee I’m actually encouraged. Not only have the men created a tasteful study-break buffet of highly caffeinated beverages, Power-Bars, and Bernard’s chocolate chunk cookies, but they’re enjoying glasses of sherry and animatedly discussing Victorian wallpaper. From what I can gath
er, they’re both fond of “tripartite treatment with geometric patterns” and believe that “imitation High Style plasterwork is a sacrilege.”

  However, when I go for a refill, Bernard is tearfully telling the professor about Gil’s recent departure. I end up ushering out a flummoxed Professor Harris while making excuses for Bernard. Then I pack him off to the back bedroom, since Suzy left for home after finishing her last exam this afternoon and Robin is having a final fling over at her boyfriend’s dormitory.

  One thing is certain: Bernard is as theatrical in his sorrow as he previously was in his exuberance. As I settle down to work I can hear him singing “It Ain’t Necessarily So” from Porgy and Bess, complete with dialect and low rolling bass notes.

  Chapter Four

  AS THE PINK GLOW OF EARLY MORNING CREEPS ACROSS MY DESK I put the finishing touches on the campaign to launch a high-performance cat food, a product for which your “feline will make a beeline.” Where is Olivia when I need a decent rhyme?

  Bernard is busy in the kitchen whipping up what he calls a “brain breakfast” of strong Chilean coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, fried bananas, and scrambled eggs with red peppers and hot sausage.

  After handing in the cat food assignment I pack my bags and call Ray on his cell phone to say good-bye, but his voicemail answers. I hang up since there’s really nothing to say. We’ve made plans to get together in a week, right before he leaves for New York City. And we both know what’s supposed to happen then, since Ray’s given me the “fish or cut bait” ultimatum about sleeping with him. Which I want to do. At least I think I do.

  Finally I climb into the secondhand green Cabriolet I purchased last spring and follow Bernard back to the Stockton homestead in Cosgrove County. He makes no secret of the fact that he’s been waiting for me because he’s afraid to confront Olivia without backup. Apparently she’s threatening to ship him off to Dalewood, the local booby hatch.

  In the sky above flocks of geese honk as they make their return, the soft spring sunshine silvering their wings. The light falls in great sheets between the trees along the highway, transforming them into bright green parasols of new leaves as I speed past. It’s good to be heading east, toward home. I hadn’t been back since the middle of winter. While my roommates spent spring break in Key West, lying on the beach all day and sneaking into bars with fake ID at night, I’d remained at school. The entire two weeks were spent drafting an album cover and T-shirts for an imaginary rock band, and making up three overdue papers for freshman composition. By that point I’d fallen far enough behind to briefly qualify for academic probation.

  The problem isn’t the work, or even the freewheeling schedule of college life. College itself is terrific. No more bells. No alarm clocks, at least if you don’t sign up for morning classes. I was finally free. No Attendance Nazi scouring the student lounge for wayward youth. No dress code. No curfew. No students making out in every hallway and around every corner. Heck, if you ask they’ll assign you a bed in a co-ed dorm, to sleep in, or to do whatever else you want in it.

  However, what college administrators don’t tell you in the acceptance letter is that the first year is entirely about sex. It bubbles through every aspect of campus life like an underground stream. I’m positive that this is the sole reason they give us through second semester of sophomore year to declare a major. Since it’s not until then that students start to recover from the initial fornication rampage. And that’s just the Baptists, Jews, Lutherans, and so forth. Some of the Roman Catholic and Fundamentalist Christian girls never made it past the first six weeks and had to be taken home, pregnant or else headed for a folding chair in a church basement to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. When I lived on campus the first semester, my resident adviser basically ran a twenty-four-hour Planned Parenthood office, complete with relationship counseling, STD pamphlets, and home pregnancy tests.

  There were a few exceptions—those who arrived bohemian, agnostic, or just plain lonely, and through the Soldiers for Christ campus ministry or some other religious organization, found Jesus. But more often than not they lost him again by homecoming weekend.

  On the other hand, the sex scene isn’t entirely the result of the students’ inclinations. The school gives you a list of classes to choose from and tells you to “get involved,” which I suppose the parents assume means extracurricular activities. But they may as well just say “sex.” Going out for coffee or a drink in the student union is usually a vague, “Will you sleep with me?” A frat guy sidling up to a girl at a party with an extra beer means “Will you sleep with me?” More often than not “What are you doing this Friday night?” translates to “Will you sleep with me?”

  College is not at all like high school when it comes to dating. This is the fast track, courtship on crack cocaine. Two meetings, three at the most, people jump into bed together. None of that high school test-driving by going to a dance or kicking the tires with a kissing and fondling session at a make-out party.

  Sex is in the air like sweet perfume and freshmen are the bumblebees. You arrive in class the first day and the professor stands at the front of the room discussing the syllabus. Only instead of deciding whether the teacher is any good or the workload is too much, you look around at everyone and make a candidate list. Then you either ask the other person out “for coffee” or else organize to meet at a party. A party is best because kegs can crush nerves and embolden a person to move at an even faster clip. Keg parties also provide a built-in clause to eject after a one-night stand, pretending not to remember the encounter, or in cases of extreme alcohol consumption, not remember it for real.

  Then there’s the handful of sophomores who were too grade-conscious the first year and decide not to make the same mistake twice. So they’re like freshmen emeriti who jump into the fray as enablers by planning parties and E-mailing all the frosh girls. Now add in the sophomore guys who already ran through their entire class and are hitting on the new crop of girls, and you have a seven-day-a-week orgy.

  Also belatedly diving in are sophomore girls who were faithful to their high school boyfriends throughout freshman year. Week-nights were spent crying on the phone and as soon as classes finished on Friday, they dashed off to catch a train or bus, just when the real fun was starting on campus. Those relationships had mostly gone up in flames after one drunken evening of confessions, usually the result of a female spy reporting illicit activities back to her high school girlfriend.

  My high school boyfriend, Craig, and I attempted to avoid that trap by agreeing to see other people when we left for schools eleven hundred miles apart. Everyone we talked to at our respective orientations said the same thing: “Don’t come to college with a boyfriend or girlfriend at a different school, especially one more than two hours away.” They told stories of promising young lives ruined by long-distance relationships. Even suicides. Plus, with my spending so much time in the art rooms and Craig taking the bus all over the Midwest for lacrosse games, there wasn’t any chance we’d be able to visit each other. Best I could tell, he’d ended up playing lacrosse well and playing the field, too, casually mentioning the names of different women friends almost every time we spoke.

  The college juniors are mostly in one-on-ones, or else some sensible dating pattern, focused more on pulling their academics together so they don’t need a victory lap to make up for lost credits. Basically they’ve just come off a two-year roller coaster of sex and binge drinking and suddenly realized that a major is exactly that, requiring a concentration of courses, and as of now, they have one from every department.

  Meantime the seniors are like old married couples, mostly paired off, having at some point worked out a verbal contract with a significant other. A number of them are engaged and a few have already married. The seniors bear a striking resemblance to grown-ups and it’s easy to mistake them for professors or administrative staff. They don’t appear to have time-management problems the way the rest of us do—flying across campus at 9 A.M., barefoot
and wearing the ketchup-stained sweats we slept in. They can often be seen in dress clothes since they’re interviewing for jobs. And some even carry briefcases because they’re already working in real offices.

  It’s a relief to leave the gray slab and brown brick buildings of Cleveland behind and once again see the Ohio countryside with its white clapboard houses and front lawns littered with kids’ toys and garden hoses. Spring is everywhere, from the restlessness of birds and squirrels as they dart across the road to the mashed banana sunlight creating dark shadows alongside anything blocking its determined path. The warm winds cause the young leaves in the trees above to flutter, while down below clouds of feathery white Queen Anne’s Lace appear to drift through the gullies adjacent to the highway. All that’s missing is a soundtrack.

  When we reach the sign for Timpany it means that home is just ten minutes away. Only I’m amazed how it’s gone from being a town twice the size of Cosgrove to The Town That Charm Forgot, a cement industrial park with sprawling office buildings and factory malls. However, I soon discover a circuit board of new housing developments and plazas on the outskirts of my own town, replacing what was all farmland when I returned to school just five months ago.

  Before pulling into the neighborhood I pass the old maximum-security high school, where my younger sister Louise is now finishing her sophomore year. The teachers must be starting to wonder exactly how many of us Palmer children there are. And the answer is, to quote from the SAT study guide, myriad, translate: a vast number—or in this case, eight! Next fall the school gets Teddy, and after he graduates there will be the twins, Darlene and Davy. Francie will eventually follow, if the administration hasn’t installed a Palmer family quota by then, and in a few years baby Lillian will be of legal torture age. We were fast becoming a public education dynasty. At least budget-conscious Dad must be happy that he’s getting his money’s worth when it comes to paying local property taxes.