Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  “Oh my gosh!” Auggie reaches across a metal filing cabinet to shake my hand. “You’re the famous Calculator Kid—my grandpa talks about you all the time and how you can do probabilities in your head on the spot!”

  Wow. A person forgets how nice a little flattery feels after living as a constantly broke B-student for a year. “It’s not that I really do them all in my head,” I modestly explain. “In most games there are a certain number of combinations that regularly come up and after a while you simply start to remember them all.”

  He flashes me a metal-free smile and I decide that Cappy indeed got his money’s worth on the braces. “I wish that I could do all that stuff in my head. I can’t even do it with the help of an adding machine.” He nods unhappily toward The Daily Racing Form spread out on the desktop, which is all marked up with a pencil and the red rubber flecks of countless erasures. “I’m supposed to figure out the payoffs on a hundred-dollar bet for all of these horses.”

  Moving closer to the track newspaper, not unlike a moth being drawn toward an old flame, I look to see if there’s anything tricky about the project. Maybe Cappy has asked him to do hypothetical odds based on practice runs. But no, it appears to be a straightforward case of dividing the numerator by the denominator and then multiplying by a hundred. Picking up the pencil I quickly perform one calculation for him.

  “Way cool, thanks,” Auggie says and studies my notation. “The ones with plain numbers, like odds of two-to-one made sense, but I couldn’t figure out what to do with six-fifths and the one and one-eighths. Sounds like an amount of scotch or something, huh?” He laughs good-heartedly at his own misunderstanding.

  Meantime, I’m thinking that a person unable to do basic math cannot possibly be any grandson of Cappy’s. He must be adopted. This is further evidenced by the stack of books on the desk that are definitely not Cappy’s—F. Scott Fitzgerald, Eudora Welty, Truman Capote, and Carson McCullers. But no, there’s too big a family resemblance, especially around the forehead, and I notice that he’s also left-handed like Cappy.

  “You like to read?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “And write, too. There’s not a lot to do until the local track opens next week so I’ve been catching up on my American authors.”

  “What do you write?”

  “Short stories, mostly about death. And I’m outlining this novel about a young guy who goes to work for a relative, like an uncle or something, who’s involved in gambling. I guess it sounds autobiographical but it really wouldn’t be.”

  “No, of course not,” I say.

  Auggie points down to a horse on the list named Prairie Gary and says with all the innocence of a happy novice set to lose his entire purse, “Look, Hallie, if that horse had won with those odds of twenty-to-one, you would have made two thousand dollars on a hundred-dollar bet!”

  “Huh?” I don’t know what it is but I keep losing my train of thought. The necklace crosses his Adam’s apple and a large red bead bounces up and down when he talks. Perhaps I’m being hypnotized.

  “If Prairie Gary won, he’d have paid out two grand!” exclaims Auggie.

  I quickly scan the page to see what kind of race it was and the other horses running. “But there really wasn’t any way he could win, because Prairie Gary is a turf horse and it was a dirt track. Ever hear the expression horses for courses? Well, that’s where it comes from.”

  “Wow.” He looks at me with the kind of admiration that parents and teachers and pastors, especially pastors, rarely employ when they discover that you have more than a passing familiarity with gambling. “You really do know your stuff!”

  Yeah, but is this what I want—to sit in some airless cave in the back of a grungy pool hall, multiplying and dividing all day long, waiting for the results to come in and figuring payouts? Then there are the occasional out-of-towners asking where they can find poker games and call girls, and not always in that order.

  “So I guess you came here to see Cappy,” says Auggie.

  “If he’s around,” I reply. “But it’s nothing urgent.” Cappy had apparently just hired Auggie and so it’s doubtful that he needs two assistants.

  “He took a ride up to Great Lakes Downs in Michigan to talk with some of the trainers and jockeys. You know Cappy, he doesn’t trust anyone until he looks them in the eye, including the horses.” Auggie gives me a knowing wink and from the way he grins it’s obvious that he idolizes his streetwise and well-connected grandfather. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Oh no, I—I just stopped by to say hello.” I start to back out of the room, because it’s getting awfully hot in here, or else I’m having my own personal summer. The place never felt quite this cramped or crowded before. “Did Cappy change the office around?”

  Auggie nods toward the gray metal filing cabinets precariously stacked on top of each other against the far wall. “I cleaned out the storeroom last month so Grandpa can sell seats to a Friday night poker game.”

  “Cappy’s running a game right here? On Friday nights?”

  “Yeah, that’s one of the reasons he hired me to help out. A bunch of rich guys want to play this new kind of poker from Tennessee or somewhere.”

  “Texas Hold ’Em?” I don’t bother trying to hide my excitement. It’s a game where knowing the odds and how to play them can make or break a person.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” says Auggie. “I even bought some really cool black-and-white-checked cards. But Grandpa said we couldn’t use them.” His frown indicates bruised feelings as he points to a deck that looks like a stack of miniature M. C. Escher paintings.

  “You really want to use red diamondbacks in a clean game or everyone will think it’s a marked deck,” I say.

  “That’s exactly what Grandpa said!” Auggie appears briefly mystified.

  “Did Cappy say anything else about the game?” I ask.

  Auggie thinks for a moment, apparently sorting through all the new terminology he’s been hearing. “Oh yeah, that it’s nickel-and-dime poker.”

  “Wow!” I say. “He must be attracting some out-of-towners.”

  “Who doesn’t have fifteen cents to bet?” asks Auggie.

  “Nickel means five hundred and dime means a thousand,” I explain in a nice way.

  “Oh right—high-rollers.” Auggie demonstrates that he is indeed working on his lingo. “Anyway, if you want to place a bet or something, Cappy’s going to phone in soon and—”

  “Thanks, but actually no.” I unconsciously wince at the idea of going to a bookmaker to place a bet. I mean, hitting the racetrack or playing in a friendly game of poker is one thing, but being one of those people constantly on their cell phones laying action and then more often than not trying to hide losses from their families isn’t exactly the life I’ve envisioned for myself. Because if you’re on the betting end, and not the booking end, eventually the percentages are going to get the best of you. Or as Cappy likes to say in private, “You may as well waste your time voting.”

  “Over the winter Cappy called me about setting up a shop to offer rebates on bets,” I explain. “But I’ll catch up with him when he gets back.”

  “Okay,” says Auggie. “He’s coming home tomorrow night. But maybe you want to leave me some digits in the meantime.”

  Digits? As in a finger or two? Certainly Cappy hasn’t gone into that end of the business? And besides, I certainly don’t owe him any money.

  Auggie quickly notices my confusion. “You know, a phone number.”

  “Oh right, digits!” I can’t tell if I’ve been away from the pool hall too long, or more likely, that Auggie doesn’t sound very convincing slinging his grandfather’s slang.

  “Cappy’s got my digits,” I say. “Tell him that I’m back staying with the Addams Family.” At least that’s how Cappy refers to the crazy assemblage at the Stockton place.

  Auggie moves a step closer and says, “Uh, well maybe I could have ’em, too.” He flashes that stellar and completely paid-
for grin and his brown eyes sparkle. “I’d love to take you to dinner some night.”

  “Oh! Sure then, okay.” I write the Stocktons’ number down on his scratch pad and head back out through the poolroom a little lighter on my feet. A man in a cowboy hat practices alone at a table near the door and it’s pleasant to hear the solid crack of a good break followed by the low thunk of balls dropping into pockets.

  And why not go out with Auggie? Ray and I never said anything about not seeing other people. In fact, I’m pretty sure that Ray does date other women. He always made it clear that some Saturday nights he had “business” to attend to and wasn’t interested in being asked to elaborate on what exactly that might entail. And since I hadn’t yet decided to sleep with him I didn’t exactly feel that I had a right to request monogamy.

  Besides, Auggie is cute. And he can’t be stupid if he’s reading those books. Not everyone is good at math. Yet he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be threatened by a woman figuring out the gratuity in a restaurant. Macho Ray can never work out the correct tip without a calculator and so he just leaves way too much, in cash. Of course, this also serves to make him look like a big shot, which I think he rather enjoys.

  Chapter Twelve

  I TAKE OFF FOR CLEVELAND TO VISIT GIL JUST AS DUSK IS falling. The mellow sunlight casts a honeyed glow over the houses in the neighborhood and the breeze sinks to stillness. A few days of hot weather has hurried the tulips, violets, marigolds, and cherry blossoms into bloom, and under the pink tissue-paper sky it appears as if rainbows quiver on the front lawns.

  Gil throws open the door like he’s been waiting for my knock. “It’s great to see you!” He puts his arms around me before I’m even inside the door. Though he’s careful not to clunk me with what appears to be a fresh white plaster cast on his right wrist.

  “It’s terrific to see you too,” I say, and hug him back.

  “Come on in!” He waves toward the tiny entry hall. “Of course, I haven’t finished settling in yet.”

  Aside from the busted-up wrist Gil looks pretty much the same. Though in his mid-thirties, of medium height and weight, and now slightly disabled, he still moves with the ease and grace of an athlete. Otherwise the only difference seems to be that his hairline has receded perhaps just a bit farther back than I remember it, as if it’s currently at low tide.

  We move into the cramped hallway and I’m careful to wipe my feet on the mat. The new apartment is shaped like a railroad car, with a long corridor down the middle and four small square rooms going off to the sides. There are still boxes lining the walls and I can only hope the nubby yellow couch and director’s chairs of blond wood and maroon canvas came with the rental.

  Gil stares at me for a moment and says, “You look so . . . so grown up!” However, he seems slightly preoccupied and doesn’t bother to ask how I’m doing, same as everyone else these days. A year and a half ago all people did was chase after me asking, “What’s wrong?” A few even managed to make it into a full-time job. And to think I actually resented them for it. Now nobody asks. Not Mom, Dad, Louise, not even Bernard. It makes me suddenly realize that even though I’m only three months shy of eighteen, they must all figure that I’ve had my crisis. One per customer.

  So this is what it’s like to be an adult—if you look okay and don’t have a bag of stolen money in your hand then people automatically assume everything is hunky-dory. Of course, there’s plenty to ask Gil, since he’s the one who has moved into a new place and also the one whose arm is in a cast. I find myself hoping the injury didn’t have anything to do with Bernard. Especially since it would be just like him to leave out a minor detail such as a recent brawl.

  “Looks as if I’m just in time to sign your cast,” I say.

  Gil glances down at the wrist as if he’d forgotten all about it. “Oh that. I was demonstrating a trust exercise at a training seminar and they didn’t catch me.”

  “That’s not very nice,” I say.

  “They thought demonstration meant that they weren’t supposed to do anything. I guess I didn’t explain it very clearly.”

  Gil organizes seminars that are supposed to help employees work together in teams and be more productive. At least that’s what the companies claim. Gil says that in actuality it’s supposed to make them feel better about doing more work for less pay. It’s no secret to me that he hates his job, but it pays the bills and they like him, so he must be pretty good at it.

  We navigate our way around towers of unpacked boxes and he offers me a glass of milk or water. “Sorry, I meant to stop and pick up some Yoo-hoo. Maybe you’d like wine or a beer.”

  “Coffee is great if you have any. I’ve become a caffeine fiend at college.” Also, my power nap wore off about four hours ago. And a holiday from alcohol may not be a bad idea for the summer. Getting drunk at keg parties almost every weekend obviously hadn’t achieved the desired effect of making me irresistible to Mr. Right.

  Gil rinses out two mugs and heats up water in the microwave for instant coffee. Then he takes a bag of Milano cookies off the countertop and places it on the table between us. Bernard would die if he knew about the instant coffee and store-bought cookies. Which reminds me of the box I’ve set down in the front hall. “There’s a casserole and some other stuff in that box I brought up.”

  “Oh Hallie, that was very sweet of you. But I’m doing just fine as a bachelor.” He toasts me with a mug of watery coffee.

  “Actually, it was Bernard’s idea.”

  From the pinched look on Gil’s face I gather that he now has mixed feelings about the offering. “I see,” he says.

  We make small talk about work and school but the conversation feels forced, like talking to your parents from your college dorm room while just two feet away some kids are getting stoned. It’s as if neither of us wants to mention it.

  He finally breaks the ice. “So how is Bernard?”

  Bernard has of course coached me for at least an hour on exactly how to answer this question. And though I hadn’t promised to stick to the script, which is basically to say how fabulous he is, I really do feel a loyalty to Bernard, at least in so far as omitting how upset he’s been.

  “Oh, fine. You know, listening to opera, buying Egyptian cotton sheets. And the antiques business is going gangbusters now that the economy has picked up again. He’s selling old-fashioned Coke signs and soda-fountain stools to some retro diner chain.”

  Gil doesn’t appear disappointed but he doesn’t look thrilled, either. Like he would have been happier if I’d worked in at least one negative.

  “And what about you?” I ask. “I was sort of surprised . . . you know . . . kind of sad that the two of you . . .”

  “Yes, I meant to phone you.” He stares down at the tangerine-colored Formica tabletop, which I will not be telling Bernard about. “But it was hard to find the right words. And I guess . . . I guess you sort of belong over there, with them. I—I didn’t know if you’d want to see me. . . .”

  “Of course I want to see you! We’ll get together and do stuff.” Only it sounds like a lame plan made by friends moving to opposite coasts.

  “Yes, of course we will.”

  It suddenly dawns on me that I’m not even exactly sure why they broke up. “I didn’t ask Bernard, but, I mean, I’m not sure exactly why . . .”

  “Oh!” Gil looks surprised. “I thought he explained.”

  “No, not really.” I don’t want to say how Bernard implied that Gil had a nervous breakdown or a midlife crisis.

  “My brother died very suddenly last month. A heart attack.”

  “Yeah, Bernard told me that. I’m sorry I didn’t hear sooner. I’d have called or something. I mean, actually I didn’t remember that you had a brother. . . .”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’re aware that my family disowned me when I came out of the closet. I hadn’t spoken with Clifton in years. I wouldn’t have even known about the funeral if Aunt Theodora hadn’t called. Anyw
ay, I saw the family. My dad’s grown so old. And my sister, Kathleen, and her husband don’t have any children. I went back to the house afterward. It was nice to be with them again. And I felt sorry that I hadn’t seen my mother before she died, and didn’t go to her funeral.”

  Gil looks morose and stares at the bank calendar tacked onto the wall with a pushpin. “We’re all getting older,” he continues. “I just started to think about changing my lifestyle.”

  “Do you mean that you’re tired of living in a small town, with people scrutinizing your every move?” I ask. “Or with your job?” I nod toward his broken wrist. It’s a known fact that Gil would like to be a full-time director, or at least do something that involves theater.

  “No . . . I think I’d like to get married.”

  “You mean, to a woman?”

  “Well, yes, when you put it that way.”

  Damn Bernard! He knew this and he didn’t tell me.

  “I see. I mean, I didn’t know. Because I just thought . . .” But I don’t know what I thought, unless it was that once you declared yourself gay it’s illegal to switch sides. All I can think to say is, “Do you . . . do you have someone in mind?”

  “As a matter of fact, I ran into an old high school friend at Clifton’s funeral. Her name is Doris. She’s divorced, no children. We’ve sort of started dating.” Only he says this more as a question than a statement of fact and doesn’t smile or look well pleased by this turn of events.

  Oh gosh, it suddenly flashes into my mind what Bernard might say if he’d just heard that last line, and as a result I accidentally laugh out loud. But I quickly cough to cover it up.

  “What’s wrong?” Gil asks, not sure if I’m laughing at him or truly hacking.

  Obviously I have only a split second to convince him of the latter. “Coffee went down the wrong way.” For additional emphasis I stand and pound my chest while coughing some more.

  Gil appears relieved. Only I can’t control my laughter at the “What’s wrong with this picture?” absurdity of it all—Gil dating a woman! So the scene becomes a bit like the funeral of Bernard’s father, when we couldn’t stop laughing because Bernard made me check to see if there was really a body in the casket, after Olivia had secretly donated it to science, and the lid slammed down on my head.