Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  Every time I stop laughing I imagine Bernard sitting here while Gil, with the same incredibly bewildered look on his face, announces that he has a girlfriend. And the second I do, I burst into giggles again and have to immediately fake more coughing. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that Bernard would correct him and say that “having a girlfriend” is another one of Gil’s management euphemisms, and what he’s really trying to describe is a hostage situation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ON THE DRIVE BACK FROM CLEVELAND A LIGHT RAIN FALLS, making the night cool and filling the air with the blended sweetness of flowers, trees, and damp earth. Despite the fresh scent of spring rushing in through the car window my mind is stuffy, like an overly warm house in wintertime, and my body is anxious, straining forward in the driver’s seat. I try to relax and breathe more slowly but every nerve is quivering with restlessness. Ray and his ultimatum, Louise going berserk, the cash crunch, Bernard stalking Gil, Gil dating a woman—what will happen next? Watch, it will turn out that my father is a cross-dresser. Actually, that’s impossible. His knees are so bad from playing football when he was younger that he can barely walk in loafers. High heels would be suicide.

  I do the HALT self-therapy that Debbie learned in her group for children of bipolar parents. It supposedly enables you to focus on exactly what’s bothering you rather than succumbing to a general nervousness or rage. In H-A-L-T, H stand for hungry, A equals angry, L means lonely, and T is for tired. I race through the list and decide that I qualify for all but hungry. Every time there was an uneasy pause in my conversation with Gil I ate another cookie and now feel as if I should be heading to some sort of Pepperidge Farm detox facility.

  In an attempt to take my mind off the letters A, L, and T, I consider the design competition, which is for a dishwashing detergent. If I could just be certain that I’d win the full-year scholarship, there’d be no reason to offer to freelance for Cappy in his bookmaking business. And the guidelines sound simple enough. Contestants need to create a state-of-the-art, computer-generated storyboard for a sixty-second television ad. But in my current state of mindless-ness all I can think of are those stupid commercials where a well-meaning neighbor comes to your home for a party, discovers spots on the glasses, and rushes you into the kitchen for a serious chat.

  When I finally pull into the driveway it’s almost midnight and all the downstairs lights are still on. Bernard has obviously been waiting by the window, because the front door swings open the second I turn off the engine.

  “Tell me about his appearance,” Bernard demands before I’ve even closed the car door behind me.

  “His wrist is broken,” I say angrily.

  “Oh horrors!” But Bernard appears almost giddy. “I should have sent vichyssoise. Surely he needs someone to come help keep up with the cooking and cleaning.”

  “I can’t believe you set me up like this!” I burst out. “You lied to me!”

  “What?” He is a study in wide-eyed innocence.

  I storm right past Bernard and on into the house. “Women! He said he wants to date women!” Even if Gil didn’t seem altogether convincing on the subject, this appears to be his intention.

  “That’s absolutely ludicrous!” insists Bernard. “Anyway, I told you he had a crisis after his brother died.”

  “Bernard, the man wants to get married and have children. You call that a crisis?”

  “All right then, it’s a phase.”

  “You’d better tell that to Doris.”

  “Doris?” His jaw goes slack and he looks stunned, as if he’s just taken a blow to the head. “Who is Doris?”

  “His girlfriend.” I don’t say this in a mean way, but more like Hello!

  Bernard crumples into the chair in the hallway as if he would have fallen directly onto the floor without it.

  But by now I’m so exhausted I could cry. Ignoring Bernard’s latest scene I head for the kitchen and pour a glass of water to take with me out to the summerhouse.

  “Wait! Come back here!” He leaps up and chases after me.

  “What?” Now I’m feeling cranky and a little bit mean, too, after being deceived and made to look like a complete idiot in front of Gil. “I’m going to bed!”

  “Oh Hallie, this is terrible! What am I going to do?” Bernard isn’t being melodramatic now. I can see the fear and loss in his eyes.

  Only I’m too worn out to be properly sympathetic. Not to mention that I’m currently the last person on earth who should be giving relationship advice. “You want my honest opinion? I think you’re going to have to get over him and find a new boyfriend.”

  Bernard props himself up against the kitchen counter, still looking shell-shocked. “Doris?” he hisses, as if the very name is an evil incantation.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I promise.” But I feel guilty leaving him in such a state. “In fact, we’ll do an Internet search on her and find out about any bad debts or if she’s done time in jail.” My roommate Robin had succeeded in ruining the life of a stepfather she despised by discovering that he was wanted for child support and back taxes in Maryland.

  Bernard doesn’t rise to the bait, though. He stumbles into a chair at the kitchen table and lets his head fall onto his arms.

  “Gil served Pepperidge Farm cookies and instant coffee,” I say, trying to cheer him up. “And the tabletop is tangerine-colored Formica.”

  “Do me a favor and get the aspirin from the bathroom.” Bernard mumbles something about getting a tension headache worse than Bette Davis had in the movie Dark Victory.

  I retrieve a bottle of Bayer out of the medicine cabinet and hand him the last two capsules. The Stocktons aren’t exactly pill poppers, and so a bottle of anything lasts a long time around here, at least since Olivia’s husband, who everyone simply called the Judge, passed away. I fill a glass with water, leave it in on the table, and then kiss Bernard good night on the cheek. His face resembles a great empty fireplace, where all the warmth and light has died out.

  For so long I’ve wanted to be in love. The kind of love that Olivia’s poets write about, involving melodious lutes, sunsets that streak the horizon with red flame, and the watery brilliance of the moon. Only now I’m not so sure it’s possible in real life. Though I have certainly become clear on one point. The saddest thing in the world must be to fall out of love.

  Chapter Fourteen

  BLARING SIRENS AWAKEN ME IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. MY first thought is that there’s a fire. I hurry outside and around to the front door of the main house to find Olivia on the porch exchanging hurried talk with paramedics, though there isn’t a stretcher being hauled out of the back of their emergency vehicle, and no fire trucks have arrived on the scene.

  Inside the house Ottavio is pacing the front hall drinking coffee, and a distressed Rocky is hopping from room to room with his hands covering his ears. Through the archway I can see Bernard sitting at the kitchen table exactly where I left him, arguing with a tired-looking Officer Rich.

  Because Officer Rich is one of a few African Americans in an otherwise mostly white town, people might think it’s hard for him to command the necessary respect to succeed in law enforcement. The truth is just the opposite, however. Perhaps it’s in part because he’s so tall and large, though in a pillowy sort of way. But I believe it’s mostly due to the fact that Officer Rich’s reassuring presence combined with his easygoing manner serves to make a person feel that everything is going to be okay. And also, you want your police to stand out a bit, like an orange cone in the middle of the highway, reminding folks to be careful and not go too fast.

  A woman wearing a yellow vest and carrying a walkie-talkie prevents me from entering the kitchen, but when Bernard hears my voice he shouts for me to come through. “Hallie, thank goodness. Now, will you please tell Officer Rich exactly how many aspirin I consumed.”

  I learned a long time ago never to answer any questions without first assessing the lay of the land, so you don’t accidentally incrimin
ate anyone, particularly yourself. Thus I take a quick look around before replying. An empty bottle of bourbon that wasn’t there when I left sits on the table, along with a cocktail glass.

  Officer Rich becomes suspicious when I hesitate. “It’s okay, Hallie,” he says. “Just tell the truth. Rocky found Bernard passed out here at the table and Olivia believes he may have tried to overdose. She wants us to drive him over to Dalewood for a psychiatric evaluation. Olivia claims that lately he’s been . . . well—”

  “Stop talking as if I’m not here,” interjects Bernard. “Hallie, please tell him that all you gave me was aspirin—two aspirin. That’s all that were left in the bottle.” His voice is hoarse and hollow with despair.

  When I nod my head in agreement, Officer Rich studies us both to see if there’s a conspiracy a foot.

  “Okay,” confesses Bernard, “I probably shouldn’t have had a bottle of Wild Turkey as a chaser, but I did not attempt to kill myself !”

  They both turn toward me as if I’m the tiebreaker on whether Bernard was trying to off himself. “There were only two aspirin left,” I say. “He had a headache.” I don’t think it’s necessary to include the fact that as I left I could hear Bernard singing, “Make It Another Old-Fashioned, Please,” the torch song lament Ethel Merman sang after losing the love of her life in the musical Panama Hattie.

  “Thank you!” barks an irritated Bernard. “Now please tell that to Mother and have her show the bandage brigade to the door.”

  When I go into the living room Brandt has by this time joined the nocturnal throng, wearing a Star Trek T-shirt and boxer shorts. He’s sitting on the couch next to Rocky, using his hands to communicate. Rocky is enthusiastically responding and occasionally jumping up and down on the cushions, which I assume is his version of an exclamation point.

  I take Olivia aside and tell her about Doris.

  “Oh,” she says, and then whispers back, “The name Doris is from the Greek language and means ‘a sacrificial knife.’ ”

  Meanwhile, Ottavio goes around the room offering coffee to everyone. Only I’m sick of coffee and return to the kitchen for a chocolate Yoo-hoo, since I’d noticed that Bernard had put in a good supply as part of my sign-on bonus.

  Unfortunately the scene I come across now is exactly like the one with Professor Harris at college. Bernard is giving the unabridged version of the breakup to Officer Rich, who is nodding his head sympathetically. Only, with his large hands and bowling-pin body, Officer Rich appears uncomfortable in the role of confidant for a failed romance, especially one that involves two men.

  “Uh, Officer Rich,” I say, “Olivia wants to see you in the living room.”

  Officer Rich knows that I’m lying but he appears relieved. Normally when he has to pay an official visit to the Stockton house it’s because Olivia has been causing some sort of public disturbance as a result of her many protests. And on those occasions, Bernard is the one who undertakes the role of the voice of reason, usually employing checkbook diplomacy to keep his mother out of the hoosegow.

  “I did not attempt to take the swim that needs no towel,” a depressed Bernard says with all the indignation he can muster.

  “Whether you did or didn’t,” I say, “you’d better pull yourself together, because Olivia is threatening to rent you a rubber room over at Dalewood so you can write recipes on the walls with a purple marker between your toes!”

  “What difference does it make?” he says with enough doom to qualify as one of Shakespeare’s tragic heroes in his final scene.

  “It makes a big difference,” I answer. “The yard looks like a hurricane swept through it. When was the last time anyone pulled a weed around here? The flower beds haven’t been turned, there are mulch piles of last year’s leaves everywhere, and no one has placed an order at the garden center.”

  “I’ve been preoccupied,” he says.

  “Yeah, well I got preoccupied with a few guys at school and yet I somehow managed to pass all my classes.”

  “Please, Hallie.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to be unkind, I know, but that’s how it sounds. “Gil and I were together for twelve years. This wasn’t some little college fling.”

  “What does that mean?” I say angrily. “That I don’t have a heart or feelings? That I don’t fall in love and wonder and worry whether he’s the person I want to spend the rest of my life with?”

  “I simply meant that you have no idea—”

  “Bertie,” Olivia calls as she enters the kitchen. She’s never been one to eavesdrop on other people’s arguments and always gives warning before entering a room of raised voices. “They’ve gone.”

  “I don’t know why you had to call them in the first place!” he snarls, still fuming at her.

  “Because Rocky woke me up and I found you slumped over the kitchen table next to an empty pill bottle!”

  “I was resting,” insists Bernard. “And it was aspirin.”

  “Can you blame me for worrying that you’ve not been drawing a clear distinction between letting go and giving up.” Olivia turns to me. “Hallie, it’s not even five o’clock. Everyone else has gone back to bed. Why don’t you do the same and I’ll sit up with Bertie.” She goes over to the stove and turns on the gas for the teakettle.

  I’m surprised Bernard doesn’t stop her from touching the stove, because she’s always forgetting to fill the kettle with water or else leaving the house without remembering to switch off the gas. But he just slouches in his chair, wearing the ravaged expression of an earthquake survivor. I add some water to the kettle just to be safe.

  “I don’t need anyone to sit with me, Mother,” says Bernard.

  “Well I do,” replies Olivia with the sweetest of smiles.

  Bernard puts on his theatrical declamation voice, lifts his chin, and quotes Bette Davis. “What we had can’t be destroyed. That’s our victory—our victory over the dark. It is a victory because we’re not afraid.”

  Olivia interrupts him by declaring, “Dark Victory goes back to the video store the minute it opens, and I’m canceling the subscription to cable TV! You’re self-prescribed cinema therapy sessions have officially come to an end, as of this minute.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  SO MUCH FOR GETTING AN EARLY START ON THE GARDENS. WHEN my eyes open, the sun is high above the treetops and it must be close to eleven o’clock. I stumble into the yard wearing the shorts and tank top I slept in. The air looks warm, but isn’t yet, though it’s hectic with birdsong and the soil is full of sunlight. Thick white clouds laze about in the distance and a scrim of pollen drifts through the air.

  It feels good not to wake up to tests and overdue projects. Now I can finally concentrate on my two remaining problems, starting with the one that doesn’t involve making money. Only for that I need Olivia.

  When I enter the main house the scent of flowers is overwhelming, almost annihilating. Further inspection reveals that great big vases of white calla lilies have been placed all throughout the house. If it were a frame out of a “Batman & Robin” comic, the bold-faced zigzag letters overhead would shout, Kabloom!

  From the living room I can see Olivia in her den, quietly checking over something she’s written. When at peace she looks like a dove with its wings folded.

  The aroma from the flowers is so pungent and perfumy that it makes me start to cough, or more accurately, gag.

  “Oh, good morning, Hallie.” Olivia’s voice is light and confidential. “I know. These flowers have to go. But with Bernard working his last nerve I thought we’d just leave them until tomorrow. Perhaps we can open all the windows, switch on the overhead fan, and provide complimentary fragrance for the entire neighborhood.” She goes over to the window and raises it the rest of the way.

  “But where did they all come from?” I ask. I’ve never seen so many flowers in one place outside of a florist, not even at a funeral home.

  “Bernard must have been standing outside the flower wholesaler in Timpany when they opened this morn
ing and then proceeded to purchase every white calla lily in stock. They were all here when I came down at nine and he was already gone.”

  “But why are they all the same?”

  Olivia sets down her papers and invites me to sit down next to her on the love seat. “Flowers are very symbolic. For instance, orchids tend to be viewed as a symbol of lust. Its botanical name is the Latin orchis, from the Greek orkhis, meaning “testicle,” which is what the slope of its root resembles. It’s also said that orchids go to extreme measures to propagate themselves. And then you have zempasuchil, the yellow marigold, which was the flower of death to the Aztecs.”

  “Oh,” I say. “So what do white calla lilies mean?”

  “To tell you the truth, I have no idea.”

  A nearby urn of the enormous snowy flowers catches my eye in addition to my nostrils. Arcs of bright orange pollen practically erupt from their centers like fireworks.

  “Though I could take a guess,” she says. The soft lines around her eyes crinkle slightly with mischief. “The white calla lily happens to be the flower they put in Mr. Doolittle’s hand as he was carried out of the chapel.”

  “My Fair Lady?” I ask. Because there aren’t any Mr. Doolittles in town, at least that I know of.

  She nods, then shrugs her shoulders and raises her hands, as if to indicate that it’s not for us to determine how others should grieve.

  It’s then that I notice Olivia is wearing a WWJD bracelet on the wrist of her right hand—white beads with black lettering followed by a question mark, connected by bright pink and blue silk thread. Last time I was in a church pew, which, admittedly, was a while ago, these things meant “What would Jesus do?” Yet it seems hard to believe that Olivia, the devout Unitarian, of all people, would be sporting such a message.